James Clemens - Book 2 of the Banned and the Banished saga - Witch Storm

 
FOREWORD TO WITCH STORM
by Salazar Mat, novelist and playwright
(NOTE: Here follow the exact words written on the eve of Salazar Muts 
execution for crimes against the Commonwealth)
First and foremost, I am a writer.
As a writer, I have come to believe that words should always be written in ones 
own blood. Then one would be careful what he or she chooses to write. Who would 
dare waste their limited quantity of vital fluid on mere flippancy and fictions? 
If words were pumped forth from ones heart, would they not always speak with 
the truth of that persons soul?
So though I write this with a cheap ink that clots upon my paper like the 
spittle from a dying mans throat, let me imagine it to be my lifes blood that 
inks this parchment. And in some ways, it truly is for from my cell, I can hear 
the executioner sharpening his knives upon his stone, a noise that slices as 
sharp as the edge he grinds. When I am done with these words, he will open up my 
belly so all can read what the gods have written inside me. I will become an 
open book. So let these words be both a foreword to this next translation of the 
Kelvish Scrolls and a foreword to the open volume my corpse will become when the 
sun next rises.
I am forced this night to write my story so that my dear wife, Delli, may die 
quickly under the axmans blade, rather than suffer and writhe upon the Stone of 
Justice. I write so she might die in peace. But as I told you before, I must be 
truthful with my final words. And the truth is that whether or not the quality 
of my wifes death hung on my actions, I would still write this foreword. For 
you see, writing is not only my craft but my life. True, writing earned bread 
for my children and a roof over my familys heads, but it also nourished my 
soul. Words sustained me. Words were my heart. So how could I refuse one last 
time to tell a storyeven if its the story of my own damnation, a story to be 
used to frighten you away from the wonders inherent in the Scrolls.
I know I am to be an example to you students who hope to become Scholars of the 
Commonwealth. My death is to be a testimonial to the perversity and damnation 
that can lie within the text of the Scrolls. So be it.
Here is my tale:
Among the dank alleys of Gelph, I chanced upon a black market dealer in items 
arcane who offered that which was forbidden. He stank of spiced sweetmeats and 
sour ale, and I was apt to shove him aside. But the scoundrel must have spied 
into my soul, for he whispered an offer I could not refuse: a chance to peruse 
words forbidden from ages past. He offered me a copy of the Scrolls, preserved 
on the flayed skin of a dead zealot. As a writer, I had heard rumors of such a 
text and suspected I would pay any price for the chance to read its words. And I 
was rightit cost me dearly to wrangle the copy from the foul-toothed alley man.
By candlelight, I read the entire text over the course of four sleepless days 
and nights. I feared someone interrupting and snatching the copy from before my 
eyes, so I read without stopping. My beard grew stubbled upon my cheek, but I 
did not cease until the last word reached my tired eyes.
The first of the Scrolls seemed so innocuous I could not understand why it was 
banned. I raved that such a benign work should be kept from the people, but by 
the end of the last Scroll, I knew I knew why the Scrolls were kept locked away 
from the eyes of the populace. This made me more than just raveI raged against 
the injustice! And with the words of the Scrolls giving me power, I sought to 
bring the story to the people. So I devised a plan.
I thought I could convert the Scrolls into a playchange a few names and places, 
twist the story a bitand still bring its hidden
magick to the people. But a cast member betrayed me. On the opening night of my 
play, I was arrested along with my troupe and the entire audience in attendance.
Of the two hundred people hauled away that rainy night, except for my wife, I am 
the last still breathing but their wails yet echo in my head. Over the five 
winters of my imprisonment, I have shed so many tears that thirst is always on 
my tongue. Even as I write these words, tears smear the wet ink in black trails 
across the tan parchment.
Yet as much sorrow as the perusal of the Scrolls has cost my family and many 
others, in my heart I still cannot regret reading them. The Scrolls changed me 
with their words. I now know the truth! And that knowledge cant be cut from me 
by the executioners knives. I will die with the final words of the Scrolls on 
my lips and die content.
As a writer, I always suspected that words held a certain magick. But upon 
reading the Scrolls, I now understand just how powerful the written word can be.
Words can be the blood of a people.
POSTSCRIPT TO THE FOREWORD
by Jirrob Sordun, profeddor of University Studied
(U.D.B.)
Welcome back to the Scrolls.
Why, you might wonder, do we waste the first few pages with the dying words of a 
blaspheming man? Salazar Mut was executed by public torture and slow 
decapitation at New Welk Prison in Sant Sibaro on the morning after he wrote 
the preceding foreword.
His death, dear students, is the first lesson to be pondered before one should 
continue through the Scrolls.
Did you believe Muts words? Did you believe that words can be the blood of a 
people? That words can have some arcane power? Do not be ashamed if you did, for 
Salazar Mut was a skilled writer.
But let this be a lesson to you Do not trust words.
Mut was under a delusion, a weakness of the mind caused by the untutored reading 
of the Scrolls.
Let his death be the lesson herenot his words. Words did not save his life.
So, before you open the first page of this second book, you must know the 
following truth and harden your heart by reciting it one hundred times before 
the sun sets today:
Words do riot have power.
The Scrolls do not have power.
Only the Council has power.
Assignation of Responsibility for the second Scroll
This copy is being assigned to you and is your sole responsibility. Its loss, 
alteration, or destruction wilt result in severe penalties (as stated in your 
local ordinances). Any transmission, copying, or even oral reading in the 
presence of a nonclassmate is strictly forbidden. By signing below and placing 
your fingerprint, you accept all responsibility and release the university from 
any damage it may cause you (or those aroundyou) by its perusal.
Signature
Date
Place inked print of your right index finger here:
*** WARNING ***
If you should-perchance come, upon this text outside of proper
university channels, please close this book now and alert the
 proper authorities for soft retrieval. Failure to do so can. lead to your
immediate arrest and incarceration.
TOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
WITCH STOR
Birthed in fire and shadowed by the wings of dragon 

Outside my window, a winters sun prepares to set into the blue of the Great 
Western Ocean. The sky above is not the rosy glow of spring, but a bruised 
jumble of purples, reds, and yellows. I sit at my desk and wait, as I have done 
every night since finishing the first part of her story last year. For the past 
hundred nights, I have watched the moon wax full and wane to a sliver several 
times from this very seat, a pen poised above parchment, unable to write.
Why? Why do I delay in continuing her tale? I know it is the only way to free me 
of the witchs wicked spell. Only by writing her entire tale in truthful words 
can I lift her curse and finally die. So am I dragging my feet in a secret 
attempt to extend my interminable existence? Perhaps to live another century, or 
two, or maybe three?
No. Time destroys all illusions about oneself. Like water flowing through a 
chasm, digging an ever deeper channel, the passing of years has worn away the 
layers of my self-deception. This is the only reward her damnable curse has 
granted me: a heart that can now see clearly.
These days and nights of empty pages are not sprung from a desire to continue 
with my life, but simply from dread, a paralyzing fear for what I must write 
next. Some things even the tincture of time cannot soothe.
I know next I must tell the tale of her dark journey, a road blackened by the 
long shadow of the witch. Yet I fear to put this story on paper. Not only will 
writing this account require unlocking and star-mg full in the face again the 
horrors that lay along the road, but also
yli UJH
by placing ink to paper, it will make the legend more real, give substance and 
form to what is now only memory.
Still I must
So, as the bright days and rosy sunsets of spring and summer fade behind me, I 
find within the icy breezes and bruised skies of winter the will once again to 
write. This is the season in which I can tell her tale.
It is not, however, the same season in which her story begins.
Listen Can you hear the ice breaking in the mountain passes as spring finally 
releases winters hold upon the peaks of the Teeth, opening the way to the 
valleys below? Listen as the ice moans and cracks like thunder heralding the 
beginning of her travels.
And like all journeys, foul or fair, it starts with a single step
DARK ROADS

Elena stepped from the cave, pushing aside the leather hanging that kept the 
warmth of the mountain folks morning fires snug within the cavern. Even though 
spring was already a moon old, here among the peaks the early morning hours were 
still laced with whispers of ice from the mountaintops. Free of the caves, the 
air smelled crisp, scented with pine and highland poppy, and this morning, a 
breath of warmth even hinted at the summer to come.
A sigh on her lips, Elena shook back the hood of her green woolen jacket and 
raised her eyes toward the mountains. Still tipped with heavy snow, they seemed 
to lean over her as if threatening to topple, and the roars from a hundred 
waterfalls echoed through the valley from the torrents of snowmelt. After a long 
winter, where both water and time itself had seemed frozen forever, the spring 
thaw was like a new birth.
Smiling, she took a step forwardbut, as if to remind her that winter had not 
yet completely given up its grasp on the highlands, her heel slipped on a patch 
of black ice.
She cartwheeled her arms to no avail and landed on her backside upon the rocky 
trail.
Behind her, Elena heard the rasp of leather on stone as Erril pushed aside the 
caverns apron to join her. Girl, we cant have you breaking your neck before 
we even leave the Teeth. He reached a hand to help her up. Are you hurt?
No, Im fine. With her face burning hot enough to thaw the ice under her rump, 
Elena ignored his hand and struggled to her feet on
WIT CH S>TORM
her own. I didnt see I slipped She sighed and turned away from his stern 
expression. Under black brows, his gray eyes always seemed to be weighing her, 
judging her every action. And why was it that he only seemed to acknowledge her 
when she was burning a finger on a flame or snagging a toe on an unseen rocky 
outcropping? She wiped a palm over her gray trousers, searching for her dignity 
but finding only a sodden spot on her backside.
The others have been waiting a long time, he said as he slid past her, leading 
the way up the three hundred steps toward the pass where the rest of the party 
had gathered. Even the wolf should be back by now.
Fardale, in his wolf form, had left at daybreak to survey the trails that led to 
the distant valleys. Meanwhile, Neelahn and Meric had been assigned to tack the 
horses and ready the wagon, while Tolchuk and Mogweed hauled and inventoried 
their supplies. Only Krai still remained below, saying his final farewells to 
his mountain clan.
If we hope to clear the pass by nightfall, Erril said as he climbed, we must 
be off quickly. So keep your eyes on the stairs, rather than on the clouds. As 
if mocking his warning, a patch of ice betrayed Errils own feet. His one arm 
shot out, and he had to hop two steps to keep his balance. Afterward, as he 
glanced back at her, his face was a shade darker than before.
Ill make sure I watch where Im going, Elena said, her eyes bowed meeklybut 
she couldnt keep a grin from her lips.
Erril grumbled something under his breath and continued forward.
They managed the remainder of the stairs with care, each in a cocoon of silence. 
Elena, though, imagined both their minds dwelt on the same worrythe journey 
ahead, the long trek across the many lands of Alasea to the lost city of Aloa 
Glen. Somewhere in the sunken city lay the Blood Diary, hidden there by Erril 
centuries ago: a tome prophesied to contain the key to saving their lands from 
the black corruption of the Gulgothal lord. But could they reach it, a band of 
travelers from different lands, each with his own reasons for pursuing this 
journey?
With much of the last several weeks spent plotting, planning, and outfitting the 
band of travelers, a mixture of relief at finally being under way and dread at 
leaving the security of the frozen passes swirled in each members breast. A 
heavy silence, like now, hung around the shoulders of everyone, except for
Ho! The call from behind them stopped both Erril and Elena near the head of 
the trail. Elena twisted around to see Krai squeeze his huge frame through what 
now seemed a tiny opening in the granite cliff face far below. He waved an arm 
the size of a tree trunk at them, his voice rolling like a boulder through the 
canyon. Hold up there. Ill join you.
With his back bent under a heavy pack, he bounded up the steps, taking three 
stairs with every stride. Elena held her breath and winced. She was amazed that 
more of the mountain folk didnt break their necks upon the icy trail. But Krai 
seemed hardly to notice the slick stairs, his feet finding firm purchase with 
each step. Was it just luck or skill, she wondered, that kept the huge man from 
a deadly fall?
He soon drew abreast of them. Its a good day to be off, he said, not even 
winded by the thin mountain air. He seemed to be the only member of the party to 
have no doubts about their journey. While the others had grown more silent with 
the approaching day of departure, Krai had swelled with nervous energy, anxious 
to leave. He was always rechecking their supplies, honing weapons, trimming the 
horses hooves, measuring the ice melt, or satisfying some other need for their 
departure.
Noting Krais wide-toothed grin as he joined them on the stair, Elena asked the 
question that had been nagging her. You dont seem at all bothered to abandon 
your home. Arent you a little sad to leave ?
Krai rubbed a hand through his thick black beard while his expression softened 
to amusement. Spring is the usual time of our Scattering. With the winter 
passes now open, our people split into separate Fires and hike the trading 
routes. The clan will not unite again until the end of autumn. In truth, we call 
no place home. As long as there is rock under our boots and a heart in our 
chest, we are home. He nodded them forward to the head of the trail.
Erril refused to move, though. Krai, you speak the truth, as all your people 
do, but you leave much unsaid. From his higher vantage on the hewn stairs, 
Erril stared the mountain man straight in the eyes. I suspect I know better 
what spurs your hurried desire to depart.
And what might that be, man of the plains? Krais eyes narrowed slightly, the 
amusement on his lips fading to a hard line.
i
Wit ch Storm
When we first met back in Winterfells inn, you mentioned a prophecy of doom 
heralded by my reappearance among your tribe.
Krais gaze darted away; he seemed to study the cracked ice on the stair.
Its not the journey ahead that excites your heart, Erril continued, but 
simply relief that I am leaving your peopleand your clan yet survives.
You shame me with your words, Krai mumbled to the cold stone.
I dont mean to. Thats not why I stopped you here.
Then why? he asked sourly.
To thank you. Erril took a step closer and reached up to grasp the mans 
shoulder as Krais eyes grew wide. Ive already thanked you for sheltering us 
and healing me of the goblins poison, but I never thanked you for the risk your 
tribe took in taking me in. You knew the prophecy, yet took me into your home.
You owe us no thanks, Krai said, stumbling with his tongue. We could do no 
other. We are bound to the Rock and will not shirk our dutyor its burden of 
prophecy.
Still I owe you a debt, friend. Erril squeezed Krais shoulder a final time, 
then turned around to lead the way up to the Pass of Spirits. And we of the 
plains, too, know something of honor.
Elena followed Erril, but not before noting the shine of respect in the 
mountain mans eyes.
As they continued higher, toward the pass, Erril began to limp slightly on his 
right leg, the climb obviously worrying the bone struck with the goblins knife 
last autumn. The daggers poison had wasted the Standi plainsman to a hollow 
figure. Though he had quickly regained his muscle and form afterward, echoes of 
his injuries still persisted, especially with exertion. And Erril wasnt the 
only member of the party bearing scars. Each member carried woundsnot all of 
them visiblefrom their first confrontation with the Dark Lord. And who knew 
what other battles were yet to be fought before the party reached the lost city?
Erril reached the top of the trail and stopped. His eyes were toward the open 
pass. I still think the plan is foolhardy, he mumbled.
Elena and Krai joined him.
The Pass of Spirits spread in meadows and gentle slopes away
JAMES CLEMENS /
from them. Here spring had truly reached the highlands. Blooming crocuses spread 
in splashes of blues and whites, and at the edges of the pass, some flowers were 
even pushing right out of patches of persistent snow, as if spring itself were 
trying to shake its shoulders free of winters mantle. Besides the flowers, the 
pass teemed with life. At the fringes of budding birch trees, the spotted red 
flanks of a family of deer could be seen, slowly working up the pass. Overhead a 
circling hawk screeched and dove into the green sea of meadow grass then sprang 
back out, something small and furred wriggling in its
talons.
Errils eyes obviously saw none of this. Look at that wagon, he said. It 
looks like a cheap tavern whore, painted and draped in bells to attract every 
eye and ear.
Near a small creek that murmured among mossy boulders, Elena spotted the herd of 
tethered horses grazing by a large covered wagon. The wagons wooden sides were 
painted a burnt orange, and its canvas covering, stretched taut over a frame of 
bent maple saplings, had been stained dark blue with hand-stenciled white stars. 
Cowbells ringed its flanks, each painted a different color.
I sort of like it, Krai said beside her.
Scowling, Erril marched toward the milling horses and people waiting nearby. I 
shouldve just taken Elena by myself. Then we would not have needed this 
foolishness.
Its been long decided. We all cast our stones, Krai said. Besides the elvin 
Mericwho wanted to abandon the entire journeyyou were the only one who wanted 
to split up the group.
We are too many. A smaller party could move more swiftly and attract fewer 
eyes.
Perhaps, but if you should attract an enemys eyes, youll need the strengths 
and skills of all to keep the girl from the Black Hearts grasp. It is not just 
brigands and thieves we must protect her against.
Ive heard the arguments.
Elena had to half run to keep up with the bigger men. She spoke between gulps of 
air. Uncle Bol warned us that we must stay together.
I know, Elena, Erril said, slowing slightly to allow her to keep abreast of 
him. I dont mean to disparage your uncle. He was a brave man. But the portents 
he attempted to decipher are tricky to interpret with accuracy. He might have 
been mistaken.
Witch Storm
He wasnt, she said firmly, and in her heart, she truly did sense the 
importance of keeping the group intact. Maybe in part because she had already 
lost her entire family: her parents burned to death by her own hand, her aunt 
and uncle slain by beasts of the Gulgotha, and her brother Joach stolen from 
her by black magicks. So much loss would have been inconsolable without the 
support of those around her. After six moons together, this group had become a 
second family, united not by the blood of birth but the blood of battle and she 
did not want to see this family sundered. We must stay together.
So we will, Erril said, but doubt rang in his voice.
Its a sound plan, Krai argued. He pointed at the gaily painted wagon. There 
stands our banner. Disguised as a small circus, one among many plying the warm 
roads of spring and summer, we will hide in the open. While searching eyes will 
seek for us along back roads, we will travel open and free, loud and noisy. Not 
only will this keep furtive eyes from looking too closely at us, it will also 
earn us coppers and gold to replenish our supplies. I say it is a sound plan.
Yes, Erril said with sarcasm. And you mountain folk only speak the truth.
Krai harrumphed and patted Erril good-naturedly on his shoulder. Ahh I see 
your time among the clans has taught you a bit of wisdom.
Close to the wagon now, Krais loud voice drew the attention of the others away 
from their final preparations. Neelahn turned her head from where she had been 
cinching a saddle atop a roan stallion. She raised a hand in greeting, then 
froze as her eyes settled on Elena. Blinking a few times, she dropped the 
currybrush she had in her other hand and crossed closer to them.
As she approached, Neelahn wiped a smudge of mud from her cheek while speaking: 
Sweet Mother, Erril, what have you done to the poor child? Her hair!
Elena, suddenly self-conscious, raised a hand to her shorn hair. Where once long 
auburn curls had draped past her shoulders, now only a coarse crop of hair that 
barely covered her ears remained. And that hair was no longer auburn, but dyed 
as black as Errils own locks.
If we are to hide Elena within this daft circus, Erril said, what better way 
than to mask the girl herself? So meet my new son.
Erril watched the others gather around Elena.
Amongst the thronging party, Tolchuks bulk was like a boulder in a stream. 
Twice the weight of even the huge mountain man, the ogre did not crowd too 
closely, seeming to sense that his massive form still unnerved the much smaller 
girl. Even though the creature was foul to the eyewith his leathered skin, 
fanged teeth, and hulking massErril had grown to respect and admire the ogre 
for his calmness and intelligence. It was Tolchuks quiet words during the 
oft-heated discussion of their plans that had finally persuaded Erril to their 
present course.
In contrast, dwarfed in the ogres shadow hid the quiet Mogweed. To Erril, the 
shape-shifter remained a blank slate. The skinny man with mousy hair and nervous 
movements hardly spoke a word, and when he did, he talked so softly he could 
hardly be heard. Yet, as little as the siluran man revealed through his manner 
and speech, Erril felt something oily and slippery about him. Even now, as 
Mogweed studied Elena, darting quick glances from a few paces away, he struck 
Erril as being like a hungry bird studying a squirming worm. Erril could 
practically see Mogweeds mind swirling with thoughts and plans he never voiced.
Whereas Meric, dressed in his usual white linen and billowy green pants, never 
kept his opinions to himself. The tall, silver-haired elvin leaned closer to 
Elena, reaching a narrow finger to raise her chin, but his words flew to Erril. 
How dare you touch her? You had no right to mar the beauty of our royal line in 
such a manner.
It was necessary, Erril answered coldly. Her disguise might just very well 
keep that precious royal line of yours still breathing.
Meric released her chin and turned hard eyes on Erril. And what of her mark? 
He pointed to Elenas hand, where shades of ruby whorled in languid swirls. How 
do you propose to hide her witchs blaze?
My son will earn his keep at the circus by hauling and sweeping. And for these 
chores, hell need a good pair of work gloves. Erril tapped his belt, from 
which hung a set of plain leather gloves.
You propose to have elvin royalty sweep and handle filth? Merics white skin 
darkened. Youve already made her a sorry enough figure with your ridiculous 
shearing.
Elenas face had by now flushed to match her ruby hand. Meric knelt down by the 
girl. Listen, Elena, you dont have to do this. You are the last of the elvin 
kings royal line. In your veins flows the blood of lost dynasties. You must not 
ignore your birthright. He took her hand. Give up this foolish quest and 
return with me to the wind ships and seas of your true home.
The lands of Alasea are my home, she answered, slipping her hand free of his. 
I may be descended from some lost king of yours, but Im also the daughter of 
these lands, and I wont abandon them to the Gulgothal lord. You are free to 
leave and return to your home, but I will stay.
Meric stood back up. You know I cant returnnot without you. And my mother, 
the queen, would not tolerate any harm coming to you. So if you persist in this 
foolish pursuit, I will be at your side to protect you.
Erril tired of this man. The child is my charge, he finally said, guiding 
Elena away by the shoulder. She has no need of your protections.
The wasp-thin elvin ran a disdainful eye up and down Erril, then waved an arm 
around the pass. Yes, I see how you protect her. Just look at the wagon in 
which you propose to lead her. You would have her travel like a vagabond.
Erril inwardly winced at the words, recognizing his own complaint from earlier. 
He hated to hear the same sentiment on the elvins lips. Its not an unsound 
plan, he mumbled, knowing he was contradicting his previous words. For 
centuries, I have traveled the roads myself as a juggler and showman to earn my 
keep. Its gaudiness will hide one plain girl.
But just look at her hair, Meric moaned. Was that necessary? Before either 
could speak again, Tolchuk interrupted, his voice a rattle of rocks in his 
throat. Hair grows back, the ogre said simply. Krai grunted his amusement and 
turned to Neelahn, who stood at the mountain mans side. Well, its settled 
then, lass. With Elena disguised, I guess youll be the only woman traveling 
with this troupe Of course, if you feel outnumbered, we could always pop a 
mummers wig on the ogre and call him Mogweeds sweetheart.
The petite nyphai woman swept back her long blond hair. I dont think thatll 
be necessary. Now if youre all done gawking at the poor girl, maybe we can 
finish hitching the horses and be under way.
JAMES l^LEMKNS
Neelahns right, Erril said, turning his back on the elvin. The wet passes 
will be ice by nightfall and
Look! Elena said, pointing past everyones shoulders.
A huge black treewolf could be seen at the head of the pass, loping across the 
meadow toward them, a dark shadow in the grass.
Its about time, Fardale, Mogweed mumbled under his breath. Erril heard the 
distaste in the mans voice and sensed there was much unspoken between these 
shape-shifting brothers.
The wolf swept up beside Mogweed, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. 
With his amber eyes aglow in the sunlight, Far-dale fixed his brother with an 
intent stare. After several silent breaths, the wolf nodded his head slightly, 
breaking contact, then crossed to the nearby creek to slake his thirst.
Well? Krai asked Mogweed. What did your dog say?
Before Mogweed could answer, Elena scolded the mountain man in hushed tones. 
Hes not a dog. You shouldnt call him that.
Hes just teasing, child, Erril said and joined Krai at Mogweeds side. Now 
what did your brother discover about the condition of the passes?
Mogweed edged away from Erril, deeper into the ogres shadow. He says many of 
the ways are blocked by fast and deep waters. Impassable. But the northernmost 
trail is clear of all but a few swollen streams.
Erril nodded. Good. Then we have an opening to the valley and plains.
Except Mogweed seemed to shrink in on himself.
What is it, man?
He says that it smells wrong.
Elena moved closer to them, a seed of worry growing in her eyes. What does that 
mean?
Erril rubbed at a throb that had developed in his temple during the hard climb 
here. Yes, what does that mean? he repeated sourly.
Mogweed studied the flowers crushed under his boots. Its not clear. Something 
something Mogweed shook his head.
Tolchuk shifted his large bulk and cleared his throat. The wolf speaks in 
pictures, he attempted to explain further. The siluran half of my blood 
caught some of Fardales images, too: A wolf with raised hackles. An empty path 
that smells of rotten carrion.
What do you think that means? Elena asked in a tiny voice.
n J1URM
He warns that the way may be open, but something struck his wolf senses as 
false. So he warns caution.
In the resulting silence, Fardale trotted over from the creek to sit at Elenas 
side, nudging her hand with his wet nose. She absently scratched him behind his 
ear as he squatted on his haunches.
So much for not treating Fardale like a dog, Erril thought, but he kept his 
silence. The intimacy shared between the wolf and the girl seemed to calm the 
growing unease in her expression, and the youngster needed as much resolve as 
she could muster for the long journey ahead.
So we go, Erril said. But we keep our eyes and ears alert.
As THE OTHERS BUSIED THEMSELVES WITH FINAL PREPARATIONS, MoG-
weed hung around the far side of the wagon. He had his own preparations. He 
spotted the bent-backed crone among the small crowd of Krais people that had 
gathered to wave them all off. Nodding his head at the old woman, he slipped 
into the shade of the wagon. He shuffled three coppers in his palm, then 
returned one to his pocket. Two should be enough.
He listened as the others of his party called orders to one another. All busy. 
Good. Soon, he heard the wheezing breath of the ancient mountain woman as she 
hobbled toward the lee of the wagon. He bit at his lower lip, hating his 
dependence on anyone else. But the task he had requested of the old crone was 
one he could not accomplish alone. He juggled the coins, clinking them together. 
Luckily, shiny coppers bought other hands to do the work his own could not.
The old gray-haired woman, leaning on a crooked branch of polished hickory, 
lurched into the shade beside Mogweed. She must have once stood taller than 
Mogweed, but time had bent her back so cruelly that now she had to roll her eyes 
up to stare Mogweed full in the face. With eyes the color of black granite, she 
studied Mogweed silently. As sorely as the passage of countless winters had 
ravaged her body, he sensed a core of ice in her as hard as the eternal snow 
atop the windswept peaks.
Suddenly he regretted his choice of accomplices in this task.
Glancing away from her flinty eyes, he cleared his dry throat. Were you able 
to get what I asked of you?
She stared, still silent for several heartbeats, then slowly nodded and reached 
into the folds of her battered fox-fur cloak. We mountain folk are traders, 
aint we? she replied with a throaty cackle. She pulled out a small satchel 
made from cured goatskin and began to hold it out to him. But when he reached 
for it, the old woman pulled it back. Whatcha want with this stuff anyways? 
she asked.
He was prepared for this question. A keepsake, he said as guilelessly as he 
could manage.
The crones eyes narrowed with his words. Youre a sly one, she hissed. 
Perhaps too sly for your own good.
I dont know what youre She spat at his boots. You stink of lies.
Mogweed backed a step. Would the woman expose him? He
found his left palm slipping toward the hilt of the dagger at his waist.
But your fate is not mine to judge, and a deal is a deal, she said
and tossed him the stuffed satchel. The Rock will weigh your worth
and carve your path.
Caught off guard, Mogweed struggled to catch the little bag, fumbling it in his 
fingers until he pinned it to his chest. Unable to find his tongue, he slipped 
his other hand, which still palmed two coppers, back into his pocket and 
retrieved the third coin. He sensed he had better be more generous with his 
payment to this old crone. Offering all the coppers in his open palm, he finally 
muttered, For your troubles.
The old crone suddenly lashed out with her hickory staff and struck his hand, 
scattering the trio of coins into the mud. Only silver will cleanse your lies 
from my ears.
Mogweed rubbed his injured hand, then quickly fished the rare silver from among 
his small cache of coins. He cautiously passed her the payment, eyeing her staff 
warily.
The coin disappeared among the folds of her cloak. With a grunt of effort, she 
turned from him, but not before sharing a final warning. Beware what you buy 
with lies, sly fox. You might discover the prize is not worth the price. With 
that, she slipped from shadows into sunlight and vanished beyond the corner of 
the wagon.
Not worth the price? Mogweed fingered open the goatskin satchel and stared at 
its contents. A smile without humor etched his face. This prize could very well 
prove to be worth any price.
JAMtS
Tucked within the shadowed interior lay several of the sheared locks of Elenas 
auburn hair. Proof of a witch.
Under the shadowed tangle of oak branches, a hush had fallen over the copse. Not 
a bird sang; not an insect whirred. Virani listened for any sound. Naked, her 
skin the color of the softest moonlight, clothed only in the folds of her long 
black hair, she knelt by the rotted stump of a pine, its sides charred by old 
fires. She held her breath. Even a single noise could disrupt the spell.
Her children, though, had done their job well. Nothing still lived within a 
quarter league of the glade. From here, she could see the ground littered with 
the small bodies of the dead woodland creatures tufted squirrels, birds of 
every feather, even a red doe lay sprawled at the edge of the copse, its neck 
contorted from the poisons. Satisfied, she bowed her head in preparation.
Before her, atop the worm-eaten wood of the stump, rested a palm-size bowl of 
carved ebonstone. Its basin glowed blacker than the richest obsidian, while 
jagged veins of silver quartz etched its dark surface like forked lightning at 
midnight. She allowed a finger to trace its edge.
Here lay wealthand within its basin lay power.
Using a bone dagger, she sliced her thumb and dripped the blood into the basin. 
Fat droplets rolled like quicksilver to the bottom of the bowl, then quickly 
vanishedthe stone was always thirsty.
Reciting the words taught her, Viranis tongue grew colder with each utterance. 
Without halting, for that meant death, she forced her tongue to keep moving. 
Thankfully it was a short litany. Tears squeezing between her clenched lids, she 
spat the last word through her blue, frozen lips.
Finally done, she sat back upon her heels and raised her injured thumb to her 
mouth, licking gently at the cut. The blood was like fire in her frozen mouth.
Now, though, came the hardest part of the spellwaiting.
As she sucked at her wounded finger, her children must have sensed her distress 
and approached tentatively. Virani allowed them to climb up her legs and nest 
where they had been birthed. An espe-
cially concerned child even crawled up her belly to gently rub its furred legs 
against her nipple. She ignored the young one, dismissing its impetuousness.
In her mind, she went over the ritual. Had she made a mistake?
Perhaps more blood
Black flames suddenly erupted from the ebonstone bowl, flickering like a 
hundred serpents tongues above the basin.
Darkfire, she whispered, naming the flames with lips still blue from the cold. 
But these flames offered no warmth. Instead the small glade grew colder for 
their presence. Where normal fire shed light into darkness, this flame drank the 
late-afternoon sunlight that dappled through the branches overhead. The wood 
grew gloomy as a fog of cold darkness flowed out from the flame.
The child at her breast, frightened by the darkfires blaze, bit her teat, but 
Virani dismissed the pain. Poison or not, the spiders bite was but a small 
nuisance compared to the menace that lurked within the black flame.
She bowed her head to the stump. Master, your servant awaits. The flames 
swelled. Darkness swallowed the bowl and the stump. A faint scream echoed up 
from the flames. Even this whisper of pain brought a shiver to her skin. Virani 
recognized the music of Black-halls dungeons. Her own voice had once joined the 
same chorus as she writhed among the tortured. And so she would have remained if 
the Black Heart had not found her pleasing to his eyes, choosing her as a vessel 
for his power and impregnating her with the Horde.
Viranis hand raised to where the Dark Lord himself had touched her that final 
night. A single white lock now nestled within her black hair, like an albino 
snake among black roots. As she fingered the single snowy tress, images flashed 
across her eyesyellowed fangs, ripping claws, the beat of bony wings. Her 
fingers fell away from her hair. Some memories were best left untouched.
Then a voice rose from the flames, a voice that poisoned her resolve. Like a 
beaten dog fearing the strike of its masters hand, Virarti felt her bladder 
loosen, soiling herself as she bowed her head farther. Her bones shook with each 
word. Are you prepared? the Dark
Lord asked.
Yes, Sire. She kissed the ground fouled by her own weakness. Her children 
scattered from her side, the spiders skittering under
leaf and carcass. Even this small remnant of the Horde knew their fathers 
voice.
Your region is secure?
Yes, Sire. My children guard the entire pass. If the witch comes this way, the 
Horde will alert me. I will be ready.
And you know your duty?
She nodded, smearing her forehead in the mud. All must die.
Elena closed her eyes and allowed the motion of the horse to lull her. The 
muscles of her legs responded to the shifts and rolls of her mount with easy 
familiarity, the line between beast and rider dissolving into simple rhythm.
They had been on horseback for almost a full day now, though the company had 
made little headway down the pass. The trundling, creaking wagon slowed them to 
a pace no faster than a quick walk; and to further delay matters, several 
swollen creeks had to be forded with care, the swift currents proving 
treacherous to wheel and hoof.
While the others grumbled about the meager progress of the troupe, Elena did not 
mind, simply happy to be once again atop her own horse. The small gray mare, 
Mist, was the only piece of her home to survive the ravages of last falls 
horrors. Now, as she rode, it seemed as if those terrible events were mere 
echoes from a bad dream. If she allowed herself, she could almost imagine that 
she was traveling the fields and orchards of her valley home, perhaps on a jaunt 
to Baldy Nob Hill for a picnic. Her hand strayed to the mares dark mane and 
combed the rough hair with trembling fingers. A slight smile curled the corners 
of her lips. For a moment, she could almost smell home in the scent of Mists 
musky sweat.
Child, youd ride better if you kept your eyes open, Erril said, his 
road-tired voice shredding the memory of her home.
Elena straightened in her saddle and opened her eyes. Rows of alpine birch and 
lodgepole pine lined their path. Ahead, Elena saw
wit ch storm
JAMES CLEMENS
the back of the wagon lurching through the rough terrain. Mist is following the 
others. She wont take me astray, Elena mumbled.
Erril kicked his mount, one of the tall crag horses, a white stallion whose 
coat blended well with the ice and snow of the peaks. The Standi plainsman, 
dressed in knee-high black boots and a deep brown riding jacket, drew abreast of 
her. A band of red leather tied his black hair back from his rugged face, yet 
the winds of the pass caught a few locks and blew them like a banner behind him. 
He and his mount towered over the small gray mare and its rider.
Have you been practicing your lessons lately? he asked in a hard voice, his 
eyes glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight.
She turned away from his stare to study the pommel of her saddle. Ive 
practiced some. Erril had been tutoring her on the few basic skills that the 
plainsman knew about the control and simple management of magicks. Errils 
brother, Shorkan, had been a powerful mage before sacrificing himself to the 
binding of the Blood Diary, and during Errils decade at Shorkans side, a 
small bit of the arcane skills had brushed off onto him.
The plainsman sighed and reached a hand to grab her reins lightly while 
controlling his own horse with subtle movements of heel and thigh. Listen, 
Elena, I understand your reluctance to touch the power within you, but
No. Youre wrong. She slipped the glove from her right hand, revealing the 
bloodred stain. Ive come to accept the burden and do not fear it. Elena 
reached her fingers toward Errils wrist, and as she knew he would, he pulled 
back his hand from her touch. Its you and the others, she said, that fear 
the power.
She raised her face, but Erril would not meet her eye. Its not that we 
dont he began.
Elena held up her ruby hand to stop him. She needed to voice this. I have seen 
how everyone tries not to stare, she continued, how they shrink from my touch. 
Their fear scares me more than the magick.
Im sorry, Elena, but you must understand. It has been centuries since anyone 
has borne the mark of the Roseand longer since a woman has done so.
Still, cant you see the girl hidden behind the Rose? She pulled her glove 
back on. I am more than just the stain on a hand.
When she raised her eyes, she found Erril staring at her with a
thoughtful expression, the hard lines of his face softened. Well spoken, 
Elena, he said. Perhaps I have looked too much at the witch and not at the 
woman.
She nodded her thanks. Perhaps you should see both. Because I suspect that on 
this journey, both will be equally tested.
Erril didnt answer, but he reached a hand and squeezed her knee. You have 
grown much during the six moons among Krais people. More than I had thought.
It must be the mountain air, she said with a whisper of a grin. He patted her 
leg and offered her one of his rare smiles. Something deep inside her stirred at 
the sight, something touched by more than the palm on her knee. A mixture of 
relief and regret flooded her when he removed his hand and turned away.
Erril sauntered his stallion a few steps aside while Elena tapped Mists flank 
to urge the horse after the retreating wagon. Elena sighed. Suddenly the journey 
to Aloa Glen didnt seem quite so long. Ahead, the thunder of hooves erupted 
near the wagon, drawing her attention. Meric appeared, mounted atop a spirited 
roan filly. The elvin lord seemed to float above his saddle as the horse 
galloped toward them. Merics silver hair, tied back in its usual braid, flagged 
behind him, matching his mounts own tail. He and his filly flew to join them.
What is it? Erril asked.
Meric ignored him, instead bowing his head first toward Elena before answering. 
Krai has called a halt ahead. Hes found something odd. He asks that we all 
join him.
Elena gripped her reins tighter. What did he find? Meric shook his head. I 
dont know. He says hes never seen its like before among these peaks and 
passes.
Elena recalled the wolfs message: The trail smells wrong. She reached a hand 
and pulled her riding jacket tighter around her neck. Errils hand had wandered 
to the pommel of his sword. Lead on, he said.
Meric swung his horse around and guided the way. As they passed the gaily 
painted wagon, Elena saw that Neelahn and Mogweed were already gone from the 
wagons front. She glanced within the tented interior. It was empty. Apparently 
Tolchuk, too, had proceeded ahead. Meric led the way along the thinly marked 
trail. As they rounded
n J1URM
a bend, the path beyond vanished over a steep slope. The others gathered near 
the crest and were studying the lower lands. Elena and her companions dismounted 
and joined them.
Krai, Erril said as he stepped up to the mountain man, whatve you found?
Krai just pointed his thick arm downward.
Elena stepped beside Neelahn. The nyphai woman wore a worried expression. 
Ahead, the trail dropped in steep switchbacks toward a lower rimwood forest. 
With the sun setting behind them, the wood below drowned in shadows. Composed 
predominantly of black oaks and red maples, the trees gnarled and bent boles 
were a dramatic change from the straight and stately posture of the lodgepole 
pines and mountain birch of the higher elevations.
That wood looks sick, Neelahn whispered, seeming to draw inward, as if 
listening with more than her ears.
Whats that stuff growing on the tree branches? Mogweed asked.
Elena saw it, too. Strands of gossamer filaments blew and billowed from almost 
every branch, like ghostly mosses. Some clumped in thick patches, some in 
ribbons stretching longer than the trees were tall.
What is it? Mogweed asked, directing the question at Neelahn, the troupes 
expert in woodlore.
But the answer came from Tolchuk, the ogres sharp eyes glowing amber in the 
dying light. Looks like webs.
Mogweeds voice rose sharply in pitch. And how What would cause those?
Elena answered that question herself. Spiders.
Neelahn stepped toward the lone oak, seeking answers. The an-cient tree towered 
like a sentinel near the edge of the dark wood, separate from its web-shrouded 
brethren. Only its branches, peppered with green buds, lightly brushed the arms 
of its companions. Something was dreadfully wrong here.
Neelahn! Erril called. Wait!
She ignored him, only raising a hand to silence the plainsman and indicate she 
had heard his warning. The others were still trying to coax the wagon down the 
series of switchbacks to where the trail continued into these strange woods. She 
could hear their raised
voices as they shouted orders to one another. Only Erril and Elena had followed 
her when she had hurried toward the forests edge.
As one of the nyphai, steeped in the elemental magicks of root and loam, the 
woodlands were her charge. Neelahn could not remain idle while this stand of 
old-growth forest suffered. She would find who or what had assaulted its 
spiritand make them answer for their violation!
Neelahn cautiously approached the ancient oak, careful not to crush the fallen 
acorns near the base of its knotted trunk. It wouldnt be good to offend this 
old man of the forestnot if she needed answers.
Bent with age, its bark burnished to a polished black by decades of winters ice 
and summers scorch, the solitary oak commanded respect. Its branches were a 
snarled canopy overheadas if in form, the old man expressed his anger at what 
had occurred to his root brothers. But even this stout survivor had not escaped 
the corruptions touch. Neelahn spotted several melon-size horny growths 
sprouting like yellow boils from his trunk. They somewhat resembled the 
parasitic galls from nesting wasps, but she had never seen them swell so large.
Neelahn reached a tentative finger to touch the bark of the old man, keeping 
her hand well away from one of the ripe growths that protruded overhead. Closing 
her eyes and bowing her head, she opened herself up.
Wake and hear me, old one. I seet your counsel.
She waited for a response, searching for that stirring of spirit that meant she 
had been heard. Some of the older trees could become lost in dreams and were 
reluctant to abandon the communal song of their forest home. But such was not 
the case with the old manshe heard no trace of woodsong, no music of the glade 
in which the old man communed.
The entire forest lay silent to her calling.
A chill passed through her. Only one other forest had been so deathly stillher 
own woodland home, Lokaihera, after the Blight had destroyed it.
Neelahn, Elena said near her shoulder, but the girls words seemed far away. 
Youre crying. Whats wrong?
The forest It isnt sick. Neelahns voice cracked as she answered. Its 
dead. Poisoned like my home.
How could that be? Erril said. Look, the trees still bud with new growth. 
They seem fine.
No. A trees spirit will sing the moment it sprouts from seed and continue 
until it dies. She faced Erril and Elena, touching her palm reverently on the 
cold trunk of the old man. I hear no woodsong here, she whispered. All the 
spirits are gone.
Yet, the trees still sprout, Erril continued to argue.
Its a deception. Something has dispossessed the true spirits and taken over 
the trees. What lies before us is not forest but something else.
Elena stepped closer to Erril. Who could have done that? she asked, her eyes 
wide.
Im not Neelahn tensed. Maybe it was just her imagination or a wishful 
dream, but for a breath, shed felt a familiar touch: a tingling behind her 
ears, a minor chiming, like wind through crystals. She dared not hope. Then she 
felt him reach for her, swimming up as he drowned in poisons.
The old man yet lived! But he was in such pain.
Neelahn? Elena asked tentatively.
Hush, hes weak. Neelahn turned away from the two worried faces to place both 
palms upon the knotted trunk of the ancient oak. Come to me, old man, she 
prayed. Let my song give you strength.
She hummed softly in her chest a melody taught to her as a child. The tree 
spirit drew closer, hesitatingly, as if wary. Neelahn opened farther. See my 
light; fear not. Then his song joined hers, at first just a mere whisper, but 
soon with a desperate fervor. It had been a long time since this tree had 
communed with another of the root. His song wrapped around her like the arms of 
a long-lost friend. Yet, Neelahn sensed little strength left in those 
once-strong arms. Though beautiful and full of the resonant depth that only the 
passage of many winters could cultivate, the woodsong faded with each note. The 
old man was using the last of his spirit to reach out to her.
Neelahn would not let his effort be in vain.
She sang in harmony to the old oaks chorus of pain and loss, pleading: Tell me 
what has happened to those who shared your root, old one. We must know.
The old man continued to sing, but his voice weakened rapidly. Only one word 
reached her clearly: Horde.
What did that mean?
Confused, she hummed in supplication for a clearer description but none came. 
He was slipping away. She tried to sing him songs of healing and hope, but it 
was to no avail. The old oaks spirit died as she held his song close to her 
heart.
She lowered her forehead to the bole of the tree. May the Sweet Mother make you 
safe, she sent him in final prayer. Yet, just as the old man drifted into 
nothingness, a last clear whisper reached back to her. Shuddering, shocked by 
the oaks final message, she dropped her hands from his bark. No! Not that! 
Tears sprang fresh to her eyes. What is it? Elena asked.
Neelahn tried to pull her mind back to normal speech, fighting for control of 
her tongue. How dull simple language was when compared to the multilayered song 
of the root. She shook her head, still dazed by the trees message. We must
Get back! Erril grabbed Neelahn by the shoulder and yanked her away from the 
oak.
Dancing to keep her balance, she twisted around to see what had so startled the 
plainsman. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover her expression of disgust. With 
the death of the tree, the yellow galls now quaked and shook upon the dead 
carcass of the old oak, and a sick droning buzz reached Neelahns ears. Back, 
back Erril urged needlessly. They all sped in a stumbling retreat.
Suddenly, like ripe milkweed pods, the galls burst open. A flow of tiny red 
spiders poured forth from the ruptured sores, spilling across the trunk and 
branches. The stench of rotting meat flowed forth from the heart of the tree, 
now a nest of the blackest corruption. Within a heartbeat, thousands of spiders 
drifted on lines of silk, wafting in the twilight breezes.
Mother above, what horror is this? Erril cursed. Neelahn knew the answer. 
Its the Horde. The spiders continued to entomb the tree in their webbing. It 
seemed as if the beasts were already growing, their tiny bodies swelling like 
blood blisters, their black legs stretching longer and thicker. So foul to the 
eye, there could be no doubt that poison ran strong in their bites.
What what are we to do? Elena asked. We cant go through
that forest.
Yes, we can, Neelahn said, her voice venomous enough to
match the spiders. She recalled the final chorus of the ancient oak. What he had 
asked of her was blasphemous to a nyphai, an entreaty that went against the 
grain of her own spiritbut now Neelahn understood the necessity.
How? Erril asked. What do you propose?
Neelahn closed her eyes, remembering the image that had bloomed in the oaks 
deathsong: Flames licking at wood and leaf. Her voice grew hard with the promise 
of revenge. We burn our way through.
Elena chewed at her lower lip and flexed her right hand, study-ing the ruby 
stain in the early evening gloom. The sun had already set behind the peaks of 
the Teeth behind her, leaving only a shadowed twilight at the edge of the 
corrupt wood.
No one paid her any heed as she stood near the back of the wagon. The others 
were too deep in discussion on the plans for tomorrow. Only one item had already 
been settledthat they would not brave the forest this dark evening. Instead, 
they decided to camp well away from the woods with two guards posted throughout 
the night.
As they all argued back and forth, only Mist stood by Elenas side at the back 
of the wagon, the horses nose buried in her feed bag. Elenas left hand idly 
ran a comb through her horses mane, removing brambles and tangles from the long 
days ride. But she did a shoddy job, her attention more on the bloodred whorls 
and black eddies of magick that swam across her right hand.
She concentrated on the ruby stain, remembering Errils instructions. Just let 
the magick show; dont release it. Elena deepened her breathing and let her 
heartbeat slow. She needed to practice control of her magicks flow, sensing 
that tomorrow would test her skills. With her lids sinking partially closed, 
Elena willed the tips of her fingers to warm. As she watched, only half aware, 
the nails of her right hand began to glow a soft rose.
Now for a bit more magick.
Elena bore her will to an intensity that scared her slightly. She could feel the 
call of her wild magicks, a seductive chorus of power. She listened to their 
siren song, now well familiar with their allure after the many days of practice 
with Erril.
Elena could not deny that a part of herthe half of her spirit that was 
witchwas attracted by the whispers of power. But rather than
deny this appetite, she heeded the powers call. Erril had taught her that 
ignoring her desires would only give the witch in her more strength and control 
over her own true will, allowing the witch to overwhelm the woman. She would 
not allow that!
She was Elena Morinstal, and too many had already died in her name for her to 
give up her heritage to some siren song of power. She would not lose herself to 
magicks lust.
She spread her hand wide. The tips of her fingers brightened to a white heat, 
the color burnt clean from them. She allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. If 
she should prick her finger now, the wild magick would be free to flow from her, 
unleashed into the world. And when she finally chose to do this, it would be the 
woman, not the witch, that bent the wild magick to her will.
She clenched her fist into a tight ball, feeling the energies penned up within, 
then opened her hand. Her magicks crackled in blazes of power across the palm 
and back of her hand.
Suddenly, a voice rose behind her. What are you doing? Startled, Elenas 
magick flared brighter, like an ember fanned to flame. She fought it back down, 
but not before the blaze had stung her eyes, as if scolding her for not 
releasing its energies into the world. After it had died away to nothing, it 
took a moment for her stressed eyes to make out the slender figure of the 
shape-shifter standing behind her.
Mogweed? Elena slipped her hand, now dark again, back into
its glove.
Sheathing your sword, I see, Mogweed said with a fluttering
smile.
Pardon me?
He pointed to her gloved hand. Covering up your weapon. A sheathed sword seems 
innocent enough, even beautiful, until the blade is pulled free, revealing its 
deadly edge. Mogweeds eyes glowed amber in the weak light. Your magick is 
like that sword.
Maybe. But a sword is easier to control, she said shyly. It doesnt try to 
stab people all on its own.
Ah, child, everything takes practice. A sword is only as lethal as the skill of 
its wielder.
But even a child can accidentally kill with a sword.
True, so true. Mogweed reached to her currycomb. Let me
help you with that. He began to work Mists mane with more diligence than 
Elenas halfhearted effort.
I can manage, she said, but Elena could not deny that Mist seemed to enjoy the 
shape-shifters attention. Of course, the chunk of cured sweetroot he first 
offered to the horse did wonders to ingratiate the man to Mist.
Tut, tut, he scolded her. I enjoy it. The horses deserve a bit of kindness 
for their long day of labors. He glanced over to her with those strange, 
slitted eyes. Now, enough about horses. I really came to see if you could use 
some company. You seemed so alone back here. Why arent you with the others?
No one seemed interested in my ideas about tomorrow.
Hmm that sounds familiar. He offered her a smile. I keep mostly to myself, 
too. Im afraid I dont fully understand the goings-on of mankind. We silura 
are an isolated people, living deep in the Western Reaches, well away from men, 
except for the occasional hunter or trapper. Im not comfortable around others 
He lowered his voice, sounding like tears might threaten. especially so far 
from home.
Elena took a brush and began wiping down Mists flanks. I know how you feel, 
she mumbled. A pang of sorrow caught her unawares. As she worked at Mist, soft 
music rose from the campfire as Neelahn began playing her lute. The lonely 
notes wafted outward like the gentle warmth of the campfire, spreading not only 
into the night but also reaching inside Elena. Erril had once told her that 
Neelahns lute contained an ancient spirit of the nyphais lost home. And 
listening to its mournful voice, Elena knew it was true. Its chords spoke of 
lost homes and vanished friends and touched Elenas heart. She had already lost 
so much of her own homemother, father, aunt, uncle. Her only hope lay in the 
chance that her brother Joach, after being stolen off the streets of Winterfell 
by the dark-mage, still lived somewhere amongst the lands of Alasea. Her secret 
dream was that along this lengthy journey she might find her brother again. 
Joach, she whispered to Mists flank, you promised to be there for me. I am 
holding you to your word.
Mogweed raised his head from near Mists tail. Were you talking tome?
She smiled, cheeks flushing. No, sorry. Just remembering
He nodded knowingly. Memories of home are always a strange mix of sorrow and 
joy.
Yes yes, they are. She lowered her face and hid the tears that began to well. 
She had always found the shape-shifter rather cold: always alone, seldom 
speaking, always studying everyone with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Now, maybe, 
for the first time she began to understand the man. Maybe the two of them 
werent so different.
The two worked over Mist in silence, both turned inward. When he didnt know she 
was looking, Elena caught a wavery smile pass over Mogweeds face. She imagined 
the shape-shifters thoughts dwelt, like hers, on bittersweet recollections of 
lost homes and families. After several moments of quiet brushing, Mists coat 
glowed in the fading twilight.
They both stepped back to admire their handiwork.
Thats much better, Elena finally said. Thanks.
No, I should thank you for allowing me to help. I found it nice to talk to 
someone who shared my sentiments. Mogweed suddenly raised a hand and patted his 
leather jerkin. His fingers stopped at an inside pocket and withdrew something. 
Heres a gift, he said. Just a small token.
Elena leaned closer to see what he offered in his open palm. Its
an acorn.
Yes, from near that big oak.
But why did you I mean of what ?
I know its not much of a gift. But Im a collector. What is someones trash is 
anothers treasure. I heard Neelahns tale. This woodland home is dead. I felt 
sorryso I collected the acorn to maybe plant somewhere free of this foulness, 
to give the forest a chance to someday live again. Mogweed began to withdraw 
his hand. Im sorry. It was a silly offering.
No, no. She took his hand in her own and removed the acorn. She held the oak 
seed in her fist and pressed it to her chest. What a sweet and thoughtful 
gesture. Thank you, Mogweed. I will treasure your gift.
I thought since we both lost our homes that maybe we could at least bring 
someone elses back. His voice cracked with his last words. And in that way, 
maybe bring back a little of our own. Elena did not hide her face this time. A 
single tear rolled down
jo WIT CH STORM
her cheek. She wanted Mogweed to see how much he had touched her with his words.
He seemed at first shocked by her emotion; then he glanced at his feet, as if 
embarrassed or guilty. Im sorry I didnt think
No, Mogweed. She reached to his shoulder. For a heartbeat, it seemed he 
cringed from her touch, as if he suddenly did not want to be here. She squeezed 
his shoulder.
Before she could speak, a stern voice rose from behind her. Elena, shouldnt 
you be in bed? It was Erril. Weve a dangerous day tomorrow, and I want you 
well rested.
She removed her hand from Mogweeds shoulder and faced the plainsman. I was 
just combing out Mist.
Erril ignored her. Mogweed, dont you have the first watch? Shouldnt you be 
with Krai?
I was just going, he said meekly, brushing past Elena.
And keep your eyes open, Erril called after him, his words more an accusation 
than an instruction.
When Erril turned back, Elena knitted her brow darkly. You need not be so hard 
on him, she said. Hes not a warrior, just a wandererlike me.
Erril blew out a rude noise. I can read people. Hes a shirker. Always looking 
for the easiest path.
Elena roughly placed her brushes and combs back into the wagon. She dumped the 
horses water bucket, slightly splashing Erril with the contents. Yes, youre 
a keen observer of peoples feelings.
As she stomped off toward the spread of bedrolls, her fingers wandered to the 
lump in her pocket. The acorn was a reminder that looks could deceive. The acorn 
appeared tiny and weak, but within its shell lurked the potential for a mighty 
oak.
Erril could not see thatnot in Mogweed, not in herself.
What is the matter with that child? she heard Erril grumble behind her.
Nothing, she answered silently. Nothing at all.
Erril stood with his back toward the camps fires. In the Distance, the light 
of the flames lapped to the fringes of the forest, but its heat barely reached 
his position. So far the creatures of the Horde
seemed content to stay within their dead wood. Still it would be unwise for his 
band to let its guard down. Behind Erril, to protect against any marauding 
spiders, the group of bedrolls lay within a protective ring of small campfires. 
Standing just beyond their circle of warmth, Erril wore a deerskin jacket with 
a furred collar against the late evenings cold as he stood watch. Morning 
seemed a false promise this dark moonless night. Even the stars were just 
whispers poking through a thin cloudy haze that had blown in at nightfall.
Unblinking, he studied the forest, trying to pierce its mysteries. The 
companions had argued well into the evening on the best course through the wood. 
They had all quickly decided that turning back was not an option. According to 
the wolf, the other trails were swamped with snowmeltand who was to say that 
these other paths werent similarly blocked by corruption? No, they had to risk 
the wood. Yet doubt ran like ice in Errils veins. The child was ultimately his 
responsibility.
We must go forward, Tolchuk suddenly said beside him, as if reading his mind. 
The ogre had been sitting so still and quiet, like a crouching boulder, that 
Erril had almost forgotten the hulking creature was there.
I know, Erril said, thankful to speak aloud what troubled him. But are we 
right? We could always go back to Krais people and wait until the other passes 
open.
No, this be the correct path.
The certainty in the ogres voice drew Errils eyes. How can you be so sure 
?
Tolchuk shifted his thick body, his joints creaking like breaking saplings. In 
the firelight, Erril saw the ogre pull open his thigh pouch and remove a large 
object. Like a fired coal, it glowed a deep red between Tolchuks claws. Erril 
recognized the stone: the Heart, as Tolchuk had named the large crystal, a 
chunk of precious heart-stone mined from deep in the ogres lands.
Erril had seen the crystal before, but never aglow as it was this night. His 
gaze was drawn to it; its gentle radiance seemed to penetrate deep within him. 
Erril found his voice strangely hushed as he tried to understand the ogres 
revelation. Whats the significance of of the Heart? he asked.
Tolchuk became silent, a boulder again. Only the white flumes
WIT CH STORM
flaring from his nostrils into the chill air indicated he still lived. Finally, 
he spoke again. I would tell you something, Erril. Something I have told no 
other.
What is it?
Long ago, one of my blood ancestors, the Oathbreaker, betrayed the land most 
foully. And as punishment, the land cursed our people. The ogre lowered his 
face in shame, his back bending in anguish.
Erril had never seen Tolchuk so pained. Uncomfortable with the ogres 
display, Erril found his eyes drifting back to the forests edge, but he knew 
he could not so easily ignore his companions distress. He spoke into the 
silence. What did this Oathbreaker of yours do?
No one knows. Tolchuk held up the glowing stone. But this be our curse. The 
stone holds our clans spirits of the dead until they can travel to the next 
world. But the land laid a corrupt seed, a black worm called the Bane, within 
the heart of the stone. It now eats our spirits instead of letting them travel 
beyond.
Erril grimaced. A foul story indeed.
I be the last descendant of this Oathbreaker, doomed by my mixed blood never to 
bear offspring. Prophecy says only I can lift this curse upon our peoples 
spirits and destroy the Bane.
Erril glanced back to the heartstone, trying to pierce its glow and spy the 
black worm inside. He could not see what the ogre described. This Bane How 
are you supposed to get rid of it?
I must discover what the Oathbreaker did and correct it. Tolchuk lowered the 
large crystal back to his lap.
I thought no one knows what this ancestor of yours did.
That be true. But I was given the Heart as a beacon. It guides me where I must 
go.
Erril digested this information, beginning to understand. The glow?
It calls me forward. Leads me where I need to be. First to the shape-shifters, 
then to the girl. After I joined you all, the stone grew dark and quietso I 
know we all must stay together. But with the first melt of snow, it began to 
call again, worse as each day passed. Now it urges like hooks in my heart. We 
must not delay.
Erril studied the stone for several moments in silence. I believe you, he 
finally said and turned back to face the corrupt forest. Though the ogres 
words had helped steady Errils resolve on their course, they did little to 
ease the fear around his heart. Stone or not,
JAMES CLEMENS
prophecy did little to protect one from a spiders bite. But, Tolchuk, are you 
quite sure of your stones pull?
As answer, the ogre lifted the heartstone toward the dark wood. The crystal 
flared brighter, competing now with the flames of the hearths. We have no other 
path. We must travel through the spiders forest.
Elena adjusted the damp cloth across her nose and mouth. It sat cold against her 
cheek. She shifted in Mists saddle, unable to find her rhythm.
We look like a bunch of bandits, eh? Krai called to her as he rode beside her. 
Elena imagined he wore one of his broad grins under his own mask of wet cloth. 
The others were similarly garbed to protect them from the smoke to come. Her 
companions were also outfitted with hooded cloaks, to keep ash and stray spiders 
from hair and face.
Elena nodded at Krai. They did look somewhat like a raiding party.
Ahead, Elena could see the tall column of black smoke already marring the blue 
morning sky. Its source was a fierce bonfire started at daybreak by Erril, 
Neelahn, and Meric. It raged a stones throw from the forests edge, near where 
the trail entered the wood.
She followed the trail of smoke to the blue sky above. Why did her journeys 
always begin with fire, she thought, remembering the orchard blaze that had 
heralded the beginning of her horrors.
Elena, accompanied by the mountain man for protection, traveled slowly toward 
the fire and smoke. The wagon trailed behind, its bells tinkling brightly in 
contrast to the dire wood they skirted.
Although the morning sun had quickly burned off the dawn haze, the forest itself 
still clung to the nights shadows. Wisps of trailing webs, many carrying the 
red-blistered bodies of their makers,
reached from the woods edge toward them. They kept well away from these 
clinging strands, aiming for the fire.
Mogweed drove the wagon behind her, bearing Fardale and Tolchuk. Erril had 
insisted no one should travel this trail on foot; the risk of a spider bite was 
too high. Even the horses legs were wrapped in leather straps.
Elena glanced over her shoulder to where the two draft horses strained in their 
harnesses. Her heart went out to them. Erril had tried to corral Elena within 
the wagon with the ogre and the wolf. Its safer under the wagons canopy, he 
had claimed. But she would not leave Mist tethered to the back of the wagon. 
Restricted by the lead, unable to maneuver, her mare would be easy prey to the 
crawling beasts. She could not allow that. Risk or not, she would stay with her 
horse.
Yo! Krai called to Erril as they neared. Elenas eyes were drawn forward. If 
you stoke that fire any higher, the mountain man bellowed, youll be chasing 
us back to my clans caves.
Erril raised his single hand in acknowledgement but kept his head bowed near 
the silver-haired elvin. The plainsmans hand and face were smudged with char 
and ash.
Meric shook his head vigorously at something Erril said. Even from here, Elena 
could see the elvins blue eyes flash angrily.
Ignoring their argument, Neelahn stood between the fire and the forest, wrapped 
in her cloak and mask, her shoulders tight by her ears. She stared steadily 
toward the forest, her eyes moist with more than the sting of smoke. The nyphai 
raised a black hand to her cheek and brushed away a tear, leaving a smear of ash 
under one eye.
The jangle and clatter of the wagon as Mogweed pulled to a halt finally drew the 
three fire builders. Erril straightened and crossed toward them, trailed by 
Meric and Neelahn.
Were ready, Erril said, eying Elena on top of Mist. A momentary flash of 
irritation mixed with worry seemed to cross through his eyes. He turned to face 
the others now gathered. Ive torches flaming at the fires edge. Everyone on 
horseback needs to grab one. Once remounted, well spread out on either side of 
the trail opening. He pointed for where he wanted everyone positioned. Then on 
my signal, well burn a swath through this cursed wood.
Heads nodded and everyone, except those in the wagon, approached
Witch Storm
the fire. Erril laid a hand on Elenas knee when she tried to dismount. You 
stay by the wagon. This is not for you.
Elena deliberately removed the plainsmans hand. No, she said with heat in her 
voice. She jumped from the mares back. This is for me. This is all for me. I 
understand the need to conserve my own magicks until Im more skilled, but if we 
are to burn a forest, then my hand, too, will lay torch to wood. Ill not sit 
idle.
Errils face had darkened fiercely. Yes, this whole journey is for you, Elena. 
But its purpose is not for you to burn a forest. If we are to trust prophecy, 
you are our last hope against the Gulgotha. You, child, have no right to risk
First, I am tired of being called a child. I am well past my first bleed. She 
moved to swipe back her hair, realizing too late that her locks were long gone. 
She dropped her arm, her face reddening further. Second, if I am to save these 
lands, I must learn to face adversity, not be hidden away and coddled like a 
babe. On this journey, I must learn to harden my heart in tempered steel. And, 
as you taught me, only the hottest fire can forge the strongest steel.
Erril just stared at her, his mouth hanging slightly open. The others had 
stopped to stare at them, though several eyes now darted awkwardly away.
I will not shirk my responsibility here, Elena finished, her hands in fists. 
I will face my fires.
Erril shook his head ever so slightly. Fine, he said aloud, but as she tried 
to brush past him, he stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. But you stick 
close to me, he whispered fiercely. Lessons learned do no good to the dead.
Elena nodded and crossed toward the fire. The others had already gathered 
burning brands. She reached for a stump of dead wood protruding from the fire 
and pulled out its flaming end.
Erril did the same. Mount up! he called to everyone.
Elena and the others returned to their horses. Mist shied from the torchs flame 
at first, but with a few soothing words, Elena was able to calm the mare and 
regain her saddle. She walked Mist closer to Errils white stallion. The 
plainsman, guiding his horse with motions of his legs, held his own torch high.
Suddenly a breeze blew up from the lower valley and scattered smoke and flaming 
ash from the tip of Errils torch toward Elena.
Erril twisted in his saddle to face Meric. Are you certain you can manage 
this?
The elvin scowled at him. You have already asked me that a fistful of times. 
My answer remains the same.
Erril persisted. Yes, and you have also told us a fistful of times that your 
heart is not firm on this journey. Our success here depends on your elvin 
skills, Meric. If you cannot master these winds and keep the fire driving ahead 
of us, we will be forced to retreat.
I know my duty. I have given my word as an elvin lord to drive this blaze 
through the heart of this foul forest. My winds will not fail me.
The two men stared icily at one another for several heartbeats. Elena could tell 
Erril hated being dependent on another. She guessed that after centuries 
wandering the roads of Alasea alone, the plainsman had grown to distrust any arm 
but his own. She moved Mist between the two men. Meric will not fail us, she 
said, with a nod toward the elvin. He knows my wishes and will not balk from 
his duty.
Meric bowed his head. I see the elvin kings wise counsel has not been diluted 
by generations of ordinary blood.
Krai called out from where he and Neelahn were guiding their horses away. He 
carried three brands caught up in his large fist. If youre done warming your 
jaws, weve a fire to set!
Erril raised his torch higher and kicked his stallion toward the forest. Elena 
followed, with Meric trailing. The trio aimed for the forest to the left of the 
trail, while Neelahn and Krai trotted toward the far side.
Sick-looking beasts, Meric said as Erril pulled his group to a stop just 
beyond the eaves of the forest.
Elena found the elvins words to be too mild. From the forests canopy draped a 
tangled curtain of webbing, snarls that hung like clotted blood from an open 
wound. The fat red bodies of the spiders, singly and in frenzied groups, added 
to the image that the trees bled.
These are not natural beasts, Meric said. They stink of corruption.
Natural or not, Erril said, raising his torch toward a tangle of web blowing 
out toward them, a hot-enough fire can burn out any corruption. He laid his 
torch to the mass of strands. The torchs
flame jumped to the web. Sizzling and hissing, the fire ran up the strands. A 
handful of spiders caught in the blaze tried to scrabble away, their bodies 
afire. Several blazing spiders even managed to pass the fire onto neighboring 
webs, while others popped and burst from the poisons boiling within their 
bodies. Splashes of caustic poison etched the wood and bark they touched.
Erril raised his voice, his words echoing across the valley. Now! Set it 
aflame! He threw his torch into the forest.
Elena threw hers where Erril pointed. Meric moved his filly to the side a few 
steps, then flung his own brand deep within the wood. Deadwood that had 
accumulated like driftwood at the edge of a sea greedily consumed the torches 
fires.
Again! Erril called out. Elena and the others returned to the fire to collect 
more torches. They repeated their attack upon the forest, seeding new fires and 
spreading the breadth of the fires front. After four trips to the forests 
edge, they were forced to stop. The blaze had grown too hot to approach closer 
than a stones throw.
Erril called for everyone to regather. As the others joined them, Elena could 
not keep her eyes from the flames licking up at the sky. The fire crackled and 
popped like the choking laugh of a predator. What had they done?
Elena walked Mist beside Neelahns horse. The small woman hung limply in her 
saddle. The nyphai, too, could not turn her back on the fire. Firelight 
reflected in her tears. We we had to do it, Neelahn muttered, reaching a 
small hand out to Elena.
Taking her hand in her own, Elena stayed silent, knowing that no words could 
ease this pain.
Neelahn continued, I know the forest is dead and I am glad to see the fire 
destroy the Horde that murdered this proud wood But but still
Elena squeezed her hand.
Tolchuk had by now wandered over to them, his amber eyes aglow in the flames. 
The ogres sharp ears must have heard Neelahns words. The spirits of the 
trees be gone now. Free now. It be not right that these beasts feast on the 
carcasses. It honors the dead to send their ashes back to the sky and ground. 
With the way burnt clear, life can begin again.
Tolchuks words seemed to straighten Neelahns shoulders. Green life from red 
fire, she said softly.
What was that? Elena asked.
Neelahn sighed and shook her head, slipping her hand free of Elenas. Tolchuk 
is right, she said. Even the last of our elders prophesied that my own forest 
home could only be rebirthed in fire. Green life from red fire were the 
elders dying words. Neelahn wiped away her tears and pointed an arm toward 
the fire. Today we have not birthed a fire of destruction, but the first flame 
of new life.
Erril called to them all, drawing their attention back to the circle of 
companions. The fire burns fierce enough. Its time now to give the fire its 
legs. Everybody load up and get ready. We must stick close to the heels of this 
marching flame. Erril swung to face Meric. Are you ready?
Always. Meric reined his filly around and trotted her several paces away from 
the group, toward the fires edge.
Once clear of the group, Meric settled his mount, then bowed his head with his 
arms tight across his chest. At first nothing happened. Elena noticed Errils 
stallion dance on its hooves as the mount sensed its masters nervousness. What 
had to occur next was crucial to their plans.
They waited, everyone eying each other. Only Meric sat calmly upon his steed, 
his head still bowed.
Then a high whistle echoed down from the peaks, like the keening cry of a 
hunting hawk. Elena held her breath. At first, she felt a slight shift in the 
air. The smoke that had wafted toward them in waves, fouling the breezes with 
its stink and ash, suddenly cleared around them. Fresh air, crisp from the cold 
peaks, washed away the smoke.
Then it came.
In a rush that had all members of the group scrambling to keep their mounts 
steady, a gust of swift air swept down to engulf the group and slam into the 
fires raging front. The flames swelled hugely, leaping toward the sky, as if 
trying to stop the windbut the gusts grew in force.
Elena crouched lower atop Mist, offering less of a target to the gale. Behind 
her, the wagons bells clanked angrily, and its canopy snapped sharply in the 
wind. With the gusts whistling in her ears, she barely heard Erril yell for 
everyone to make ready.
Soon the fire began to retreat from the wind, digging deeper into the forest, 
forging a wide path through the wood. The wind, knowing
WIT CH C5TORM
it had won the battle, calmed slightly but still blew steadily from the peaks, 
driving the fire onward. Their plan was to burn a swath through the forest wide 
enough to keep the spiders lurking to either side at bay. But they couldnt 
delay too long.
Lets go! Erril bellowed to them. Stay together.
Ahead, Meric shook back his hood. His face, lit by the retreating fire, was 
aglow with rapture. He turned to Erril. Do you still doubt my abilities?
Erril led the group. Not as long as that wind keeps blowing, he said as he 
passed the man.
Meric tried to scowl, but after touching the elemental power in his elvin 
blood, he could not erase the wonder and awe in his eyes. For the first time, 
Elena could see the prince in the man.
We must hurry, Erril yelled, struggling to be heard above the fires roar.
Elena faced the burning woods. The trail, a moment ago full of flame and smoke, 
was now an open throat, awaiting them. Elena pulled her cloak tighter around her 
shoulders and kicked Mist forward.
Virani knelt naked in the small glade, a delicate figure of carved moonlight, 
her fingers planted to the largest knuckle in the dank dirt. She listened with 
her head slightly cocked. Her long hair, silky like her childrens webs, draped 
to the leaf-strewn forest floor.
Surrounding her, the trees were now just black skeletons under shrouds of 
webbing. Thousands of her children scurried along the busy thoroughfares and 
byways of their magnificent construction, adding and building, fighting and 
mating. But Virani ignored all this as she strained her senses. Like the trees, 
Virani herself lay within a nest of silver web, but from her nest, eight cords 
of braided silk extended out to all compass points to merge with her childrens 
handiwork. These cords vibrated and thrummed like the strings of a finely tuned 
lute.
In her nest, Virani listened to the music of her childrens instrument. Not 
just with her ears, but with the bones of her body. Since dawn, something had 
been happening. She read agitation in the faint vibrations.
One of her children scampered down a cord toward her. She pulled a hand from the 
dirt and reached a finger toward it. What is it, my sweet?
The spider crawled up onto her palm.
You have news?
Her child sat with its furred legs bunched under it in the center of her palm. 
It quivered ever so slightly.
Dont be afraid, she cooed softly.
She raised the spider to her lips and placed the child in her mouth. Such a 
delicate creature. The warmth of a mothers love for a child ran through her 
veins. She felt its eight tiny legs dance on her tongue, and a smile turned the 
corner of her lips. Oh, how she loved this tiny one, but now was not the time to 
dally. Something was happening. The vibration in the cords increased with each 
breath she took.
Virani moved her child with her tongue. Now tell me what you know, little one, 
she thought as she crunched the spider between her teeth. Its poisons swept 
through her instantly. The master had prepared her well.
Virani swooned slightly, both hands again planted deep into the soil for 
support. Her vision swam in myriad hues. The trees and webs blurred. Then she 
sawsaw with the vision of her children a great conflagration consuming her 
forest. It raged many leagues away, near the edge of her wood. She spied the 
fire from thousands of eyes all at once, her minds eye fractured into a 
thousand pieces.
Stinging tears flowed across her cheeks as she bore witness to the holocaust: 
sheets of flame consuming wood and web  her children fleeing smote from 
countless windswept fires spiders aflame and dying . .. and for a moment, a 
charred wagon, its canopy smoldering, pulled by two wild-eyed horses
She spat the hollow husk of her child to the ground. No, she moaned. My 
children! She pushed to her feet, snapping free of clinging webs.
Virani looked toward the far western sky, trying to pierce the net f branches 
and webs. The sky above her was clear, with the sun directly overhead, but to 
the west, the horizon was blotted out by a nuge black cloud. If not for her 
vision, she might have mistaken it tor an approaching storm, black with angry 
thunderheadsbut she knew better. What fed these clouds was not rain and 
lightning, but fire and wind.

As Virani watched, she began to hear a distant roar like the call of an 
approaching beast, and in the skies above, tendrils and roots of smoke began to 
worm out of the black wall, reaching toward her.
The fire was coming this way, sweeping through the forested valley!
She shuddered as she realized its impact. It would consume all in its path! She 
raised a muddy fist to her mouth in horror and tore her eyes from the roiling 
skies. The Horde must not die, she cried. In her breast, the numbing fear for 
her children was laced with the strangling terror of offending the Dark Lord if 
she should lose his sweet gift.
Her mind dwelt for a moment on the thought of trying to contact her lord, but by 
the time she could purify the ebonstone and perform the rites, the fire would 
be upon her and all would be lost. That must not happen! No, she thought as she 
hugged herself, the call would have to wait. Once she and her children were 
safe, she would let the master know what had happened.
Behind her, the roar grew louder, and the day began to darken as smoke ate the 
sun.
She must hurry.
Scrambling free of her nest, she squatted in the damp mud, her small knees 
spread wide. She closed her eyes and opened that part of her, allowing the scent 
to flow out from her. It smelled of ripe meat and spoiled milk.
Come to me, my children.
She spread her knees wider, and they camecrawling, scrabbling, scurrying from 
all directions. She knew she could not save them all. Such a deed, besides being 
impossible, was unnecessary. She needed only to protect a fraction of the whole, 
only a small seed from which the Horde could grow forth again.
Come, come, she urged. Hurry.
Her children crowded over her knees and up her smooth legs, returning to where 
they had been birthed. They squirmed and wiggled their way to the angle between 
her legs. She smiled with motherly pride as they entered and filled her womb. As 
she began to hum a lullaby taught to her by her own mother, the Horde kept 
flowing into her, thousands of scrambling spiders, swelling her belly ever 
larger. Soon her stomach was as wide as a mother birthing twins. Virani felt 
her children settling in her belly and grinned.
^l
She carried so much more than twins.
Once her stomach was fully distended, she closed her knees. A few tardy children 
tried to climb up her bare legs, but she lovingly swatted them from her thighs 
as she stood.
Crossing to where her belongings were piled, Virani quickly dressed and slipped 
a bag over one shoulder. The forest trail was nearby, but she would still have 
to hurry if she wanted to clear the wood before the fire caught her.
She set off at a fast pace, one hand holding her bag in place, the other on her 
belly. Though exhausted, she allowed a smile to shine on her face. She was such 
a good mother.
Keep going! Erril called, his throat burned raw with smoke and exertion. He 
watched the wagons rear wheels struggle to climb over the half-burnt log that 
had fallen across the trail. Mogweed, dont let those horses balk. Drive em 
hard!
A cascade of flaming ashes swirled across the forest path, igniting tiny blazes 
on the wagons canopy. It was death to stop on this trail. Though the main fire 
was still being deliberately driven forward by the elvins winds, smaller side 
pyres still smoldered and spat at the company as they fought their way through 
the ruined wood. The wagon was most at risk, a large flammable target for stray 
flames.
Get those fires out! Erril hollered, but his words were unnecessary. Krai and 
Neelahn, mounted on their exhausted horses, were already circling the wagon, 
splashing water from goatskin flasks. The tiny flames sputtered out, leaving 
black scars on the wagons canopy.
Were running out of water, Elena commented at his side. She coughed harshly 
and sat hunched in the saddle, wilting from the heat. The hot breath of the 
racing fire seemed to worsen the deeper into the wood they traveled, the heat 
taxing the company more than the flame and spiders. And we still have so far to 
go.
Erril adjusted his mask higher over his nose, trying to keep his worried 
expression hidden. Well make it, he muttered.
Once she had finished dousing the wagon, Neelahn idled her mount beside them. 
Meric nears exhaustion, she said. He denies it, but I can see how his hands 
tremble on the reins. And a moment ago, he almost tumbled from his saddle.
JAMES LLEMENS
Hell have to manage, Erril said. If the fire should expire before we breach 
the woods, well be trapped. He must keep the fire moving. We cant stop. But 
as if mocking at his words, the wagons bells clanked sharply as the rear wheels 
failed to climb over the stubborn log and the rig settled back into the mud.
The two womens eyes stared up at him.
Krai circled around to join them. He pointed to the left of the trail. Here 
they come again.
Erril glanced where he pointed. It seemed that the spiders somehow always 
sensed when the company slowed. Various troupes of the Horde had periodically 
threatened the company along the trail, but luckily the creatures were slow. As 
long as the team had kept moving, the flames and the heat had posed a bigger 
risk than the spiders.
Until now
Across the scorched ground, masses of red-bodied spiders rolled toward the trail 
from the fringes of forest that lay to either side of the fires wide swath. 
Scattered, smoldering embers consumed many of the attackers, their bodies 
hissing and curling into tight balls, but the others continued their march over 
their dead comrades. Even in the swirling smoke and eddying winds, tiny spiders 
floated upon wisps of silk, bits of poison in the wind.
Death crawled, skittered, and floated toward them.
Erril glanced back to the stalled wagon and kicked his stallion closer. 
Lighten the load, he called to the wagons occupants. Toss out our supplies.
Tolchuks huge arm swung open the wagons back flap. Fardale peered out as the 
ogre began to climb from the wagon.
No, Erril yelled, get back inside. There are spiders underfoot. Just 
jettison our gear.
I weigh more than all of our supplies, Tolchuk said, ignoring Errils order 
and continuing to haul his massive body from the wagon. The ogre dropped 
barefoot to the trail. We ogre be thick of skin. No puny spider could pierce 
our hide.
Erril had by now pulled his mount beside Tolchuk. Still, he said fiercely, 
I would rather lose all our supplies than you.
Tolchuk patted Errils knee. Me, too, he said with a smile that exposed his 
fangs.
The ogre then swung back to the wagon, bent his knees, and grabbed the rear 
axle in both of his huge, clawed hands. With his
WIT CH OTORM
muscles bunching like gnarled roots, Tolchuk hauled the back half of the wagon 
up, tilting the rig upon the front wheels. Now! he bellowed out, his voice 
full of the strain in his back.
The crack of a whip split the wind. The wagon lurched forward as if stung by a 
bee. With a groan, Tolchuk followed, holding up the wagon, his legs driven in 
the loamy soil up to his ankles.
Once the rear wheels had cleared the log, Tolchuk released the wagon. It 
crashed to the trail, clear of the obstruction. Seemingly satisfied, the ogre 
rubbed his hands together to clean them of the axle grease and drew his feet 
from the sucking mud. Now we can go. He stepped over the tumbled log, crossed 
to the wagon, and clambered back inside.
Sweat stinging his eyes, Erril sat stunned at the display of strength in the 
ogre. Tolchuks manner, always so quiet and reserved, belied the raw force of 
sinew and bone in the creature. Erril would have to remember never to cross 
this particular member of the team.
Spiders, Elena said, interrupting Errils thoughts as she danced her mare 
beside him.
Like a wave breaking on a beach, the forefront of the spider army rolled onto 
the trail. At the same time, flanks of the foul troupe swarmed up the black 
trunks of neighboring trees and threw themselves on strings of silk toward the 
company. It seemed that the many beasts had one mind, one intent: to swallow 
Erril and the others in their sticky embrace.
Erril twisted in the saddle. Neelahn, take Elena and catch up to Meric. Krai, 
stay here with me. We need to buy some distance from these beasts.
Ahead, Mogweed popped his head from around the front edge of the wagon. His 
amber eyes were huge with fear. Sh-should I go ahead? Meric is almost out of 
sight!
Waving his hand forward, Erril called to him. Go! Catch up with him. And dont 
spare the horses! Erril swung his stallion . around as Elena and Neelahn 
trotted their mounts toward the wagon. He watched for a breath to make sure 
Elena followed his orders, then turned to Krai.
Cloaked in hood and mask, the mountain man seemed a menacing figure atop his 
black, fire-eyed war charger. The horse pawed its steel-shod hooves in the dirt. 
The spiders were now within spitting
distance of the mounts legs. Whats your plan? Krai asked calmly, showing 
little discomfort at the poisonous sea cresting toward him.
Erril hopped from his horse. Buying us some time. He pulled free his sword 
and swatted his mount. The slapped horse whinnied n surprise and galloped down 
the trail into the mass of spiders. Sometimes sacrifices were necessary.
The spiders swung toward the hooves that slashed into their midst. Like a single 
creature, they swarmed upon the horse. Its white legs and sides were soon 
encrusted with red-blistered bodies. The stallion reared, its neck stretched 
back in pain, a silent scream fixed upon its open jaws. It toppled backward to 
the muddy trail, writhing for several heartbeats before settling to a still 
form. Already loops and tangles of webbing began to enshroud the beast. Its open 
eye, once full of vigor and heart, was now the dull orb of a stillborn. A single 
red spider danced across the dead globe.
Sheathing his sword, Erril turned away as the sea of spiders swallowed their 
feast.
Krai reached a hand toward Erril to pull him up on his mount. His name was 
Sheshone, the mountain man said, naming the crag horse.
Erril allowed himself to be swung behind Krai atop the huge stallion. He wished 
the mountain man hadnt imparted that piece of information. The nameless were 
easier to forget.
Krai swung his mount around and trotted him after the retreating wagon.
Erril did not glance back.
What happened? Elena asked, her face pale with concern. She watched the 
plainsman untether one of the two draft horses that trailed behind Meric. He 
stayed silent as he quickly unburdened the beast of three of the packs. He let 
them drop to the mud and climbed bareback atop the thick-bodied horse.
Keep going, Meric, Erril ordered. Krai, make sure these packs get tossed in 
the wagon when Mogweed catches up to here.
Krai grunted his acknowledgement, then reined his horse around. Id better get 
back to keep watch on our rear. That bit of horseflesh will not buy us much 
time. He cantered away.
Once the mountain man was gone, Elena stepped her mare beside
Erril. They followed Meric and Neelahn, who were already a fair clip down the 
smoky trail. What happened to your stallion? she asked.
Erril stared steadily ahead. Hes dead. The plainsman kicked his horse to a 
faster pace, signaling the end of this discussion.
Elena rubbed her red eyes and glanced over her shoulder as if she might spy what 
had truly happened on the back trail. Behind her, the wagon lurched, tilting 
back and forth, as Mogweed drove the rig after them. Whatever had transpired 
back there was hidden by the wagon and sharp twists of the path. Resigned, she 
settled back forward. From Errils locked shoulders, she imagined the events 
had been hard on the plainsmanand as usual, he refused to share his burdens.
Elena found her right hand clutching the reins harder. Somehow she sensed that 
if she were better skilled with her magicks, perhaps she could have saved Erril 
from making the decision that hunched his shoulders now. She studied her gloved 
hand. Its ruby stain lay hidden from sight, yet, like a rash, its power itched 
across her skin, reminding her that what lay hidden could not be denied by mere 
deerskin.
Soon a time would come when Erril would not be there to bear her burdens. Then 
she would need to take her gloves off and make her own hard decisions. Elena 
contemplated the taut strain in Errils back. Would she have his strength then?
Neelahn had slowed her steed and dropped back. Trouble ahead. A league 
farther, the trail descends into a deep hollow. The flames jumped this secluded 
section of forest and skipped to the higher wood beyond.
And the spiders? Erril asked.
The forest remains intact in the low wood. And so does the
Horde.
Elena pushed Mist closer to the others. Can we go around?
Neelahn shook her head. Not with the wagonand even if we abandoned it, I 
doubt we could make it safely through the smoldering fires and collapsed trees.
Lets see this wood, Erril said, snapping his reins to urge his mount 
forward.
Neelahn led the way. Its just beyond the turn of the trail ahead. Meric 
waits.
No one spoke as they trotted toward where Meric slumped atop his roan filly. The 
heat seemed to worsen with each step forward, its roasting touch reaching 
through cloaks. Elena found herself gasping for air by the time they reached 
Meric.
As they approached, Elena could see the exhaustion in every muscle of the 
elvin. Somehow he seemed to have shrunk in on himself as if the draining of 
his elemental abilities had sapped the very substance from his being. He glanced 
tepidly at them, his eyes ringed in shadows, as the horses pulled to a stop 
beside him. Meric, Erril asked, how are you managing? Merics lips cracked 
as he spoke. The fire has but a league of forest yet to consume. I will last 
until then. He nodded toward where a wide pocket of green forest still thrived 
just ahead. But I cant help here. It takes all my concentration and skill to 
keep the main fire
moving.
Erril nodded as he turned to study the obstacle, his eyes narrow
with worry.
Elena inched Mist forward to better view where the trail dropped into the deep 
hollow. The surviving bit of forest, sheltered in the recess, lay shrouded in 
web and silence. No spiders could be seen moving among the strands and tangles 
of silver thread. In fact nothing moved. The wood lay as still as a corpse. The 
complete lack of any sign of life bothered Elena more than if a thousand spiders 
were crawling and capering among the branches.
Maybe the fires smoke drove them all away, Elena offered with
halfhearted hope.
I wouldnt count on that, Neelahn said. The spiders have been tenacious in 
sticking to their nests. I wager that beyond the edge of scorched trees, the 
Horde still awaits us.
Then maybe we can just torch this section of wood by hand,
Erril mumbled.
Meric sighed and shook his head. No time. We must stick close to the main fire 
as it marches, or the spiders will circle back and reclaim the wood before we 
can pass. Even now we delay too long. The fire escapes us as we speak.
A thunder of hooves momentarily distracted the group from the dire glade. Krai 
galloped his stallion up to them. The wagon was trundling not far behind.
The Horde is on the move again. Theyll soon be upon us. Whys
everyone stop? Krai asked, but his voice died in his throat as he saw what lay 
ahead.
Neelahn explained the situation while Erril returned to studying the woods. 
Elena pulled closer to the plainsman but let him think in silence. She needed 
for him to realize that only one option still lay open to them, but if she 
voiced it, Elena knew Erril would stubbornly resist. No, she would not goad him 
and drive him away from the correct choice. Given time, he would realize the one 
true path ahead.
As Elena watched Erril, she saw the tautness in his shoulders suddenly slump 
and recognized the resignation in his posture. After a moments hesitation, he 
twisted in his saddle, and Elena found herself staring into his hurt eyes. She 
knew how it pained him to ask this of her. She simply nodded at him. Both knew 
what must be done.
Erril swung his draft horse around to face the others as the wagon closed to 
join them. He cleared his throat to draw everyones attention. Spiders or not, 
were going to have to force our way through this bit of forest.
Concern lit everyones eyes, but no one voiced a protest.
Only Krai spoke, his voice edged with hard humor. I hope we have enough horses 
to spare.
Elena did not understand the mountain mans words, but she did not dwell on it. 
Now was not the time for words or explanations. She swung Mist around to face 
the dark woods and took a deep breath.
With the others silent behind her, Elena slipped the glove from her right hand. 
Its stain was already aglow with ruby and crimson whorls. She sat straighter and 
willed the witchlight to flare brighter. An ember of brilliant light the color 
of a moonrose bloomed in her open palm, then spread out to her fingers.
As she concentrated, she sensed Erril settle his stallion beside her. Let it 
build, he whispered hoarsely. Dont let it overwhelm you. The power is yours 
to control.
Elena let the lids of her eyes droop lower. Her hand now blazed in the shadowed 
wood. Magicks crackled across her skin. The power seemed so much larger than her 
small frame. How could it stay contained? And once released, how could she 
control it?
Careful, he warned, his voice full of worry.
A seed of Errils concern found fertile ground in Elenas chest. She again 
pictured her parents swallowed in a wall of fire cast out
from her own body. The glow in her hand faltered. She could no better control 
her magicks now than she had back then. I I cant she moaned.
Erril reached his hand to her knee. Yes, you can, El. This magick is in your 
blood. Its part of you. Control yourself and you control your magick.
But?
He squeezed her knee. Trust me, El. I know you can do this.
Fighting back tears, she glanced up to Erril. Under hair as black as shadows, 
his gray eyes shone with the intensity of his convictions. In the hard contours 
of his face, she saw the strength of the man who was her protector. She nodded 
and drew a small amount of Errils stoniness into her. Taking a deep breath, 
she turned back to face the shrouded wood, clearing her mind of anything but the 
flows and ebbs of the magick in her blood. In a few heartbeats, the glow grew 
back to an intense blaze.
She would do this.
Now, when youre ready, you Errils voice was like a gnat in her ear.
Enough! she snarled at him, willing him silent. You were right. I know what I 
must do.
Her left hand slipped to the sheathed knife at her belt and gripped its 
rose-handled hilt. She pulled forth her witchs dagger, its silver blade 
shining crimson in the reflected ruby blaze.
Her magick called for blood, sang for its release.
Now Elena was ready to listen.
She drew the daggers edge across the meat of her thumb. Their prison pierced, 
her magicks burst forth from the wound, a cold fire raging out into the world.
A flicker of a smile fluttered about her mouth before Elena could force her lips 
to a stern linebut somewhere deep inside, somewhere where Elena feared to look 
too closely, a part of her still crackled with laughter and wicked delight.
The roar of the consuming flame followed Virani from the eaves of the forest. 
Her brow glistened with sweat, and her breath rattled in ragged gasps as she 
stumbled from the woods edge. Her hair and green jacket were coated in a fine 
powder of ash, and tears
streaked through the soot that stained her face. With her legs wobbling under 
her, she kept running, trying to escape the fires voice.
One hand still clutched her belly, reminding her why she must not let exhaustion 
lull her into defeat. She must protect the seed of the Horde. She must not let 
the Dark Lords gift die with her. In her minds eye, she still pictured the 
flaming death of her children. Whoever had burned this wood would payoh, yes, 
they would suffer for this crime! It was this rage that fueled her weak legs and 
tired heart.
It took her several breaths and several more steps before she even realized she 
had escaped the forest and had entered the meadowed plains of the lower 
foothills. Only when her feet splashed through a wide stream of shallow snowmelt 
did her eyes focus on the open fields. Around her, the last of the afternoon 
sunlight, smudged with blowing smoke, cast the meadow grasses in hues of rose 
and gold. A few scattered islands of young oaks dotted the landscape, and in 
vernal pools, splashes of wild daffodils heralded the spring. Among these round 
hills, a thousand brooks and streams coursed through the lush growth.
Free of the overhanging branches and the webs of her children, Virani felt 
suddenly exposed and vulnerable. Her legs slowed as she continued along the 
trail that led down out of the highland forests toward the distant plains. She 
glanced behind her at the black skies, lit up from below with the scarlet glow 
of the flames. Like a living beast, the conflagration rolled slowly toward her, 
growling its anger at her escape.
She found her legs stumbling faster again. Would the fire be happy with just the 
forest? Though the meadow grasses were green and wet with spring growth, would 
that necessarily sate this hot flame and stop its progress?
She stumbled on, her hand moist on her belly. She had more to protect than just 
herself. She must keep going. As the sun retreated toward the horizon behind 
her, she struggled onward. Once she was sure she and the Horde were safe, then 
she could stop and let her master know what had befallen them. She kept glancing 
over her shoulder as she marched and splashed through the wet meadows.
With her eyes fixed upon the flames and her ears full of the fires roar, 
Virani failed to see the small hunters camp sheltered beyond
the rise of the next hill until she practically fell within the circle of tents. 
She seemed to surprise them as much as they startled her.
Virani shuffled to a stop, wary of these strangers. She quickly weighed the 
danger. A dozen men, dressed in the green leathers and knee-high black boots of 
hunters, stood or sat around three fires. A handful of women, now frozen in 
various poses around cooking pots and spitted meats, also mingled among the men. 
Scattered among the larger folk, the small faces of a few children peeked from 
around legs and bosoms.
Everyone stood fixed for a heartbeat until a hound tethered near one of the 
tents let out a long, baying howl in her direction. The dogs voice set everyone 
in motion at once. Virani backed a step away. Several of the men nudged each 
other and words were exchanged with appreciative glances in her direction. Spits 
of grilling meats began to turn again, and one broad-shouldered woman cuffed the 
hound and scolded it quiet.
One man separated from the group and approached her. Sandy haired with a 
matching broad mustache, he was a good head taller than the other hunters. His 
lips were set in a firm line, but his green eyes carried a trace of suspicion. 
Lass, why are you out among these hills by yourself?
Virani shrunk under his gaze, letting her long black hair drape between his 
eyes and her face. She could not find words, still too shaken by her sudden 
intrusion among people.
Where are your companions? Did?
The hunters voice was cut off as a woman who stood as tall as the large man 
elbowed him aside. She had blond hair cropped short and wore an uncompromising 
set to her mouth and eyes. Sweet Mother, Josa, cant you see shes heavy with 
child and practically scared out of her skin? She nudged the hunter farther 
away. Go tend to your hound before it chokes itself on its tether.
Once Josa had shuffled back to the heart of the camp, the woman placed fists on 
her hips and ran her eyes up and down Virani. Her voice was warmer than the 
tone she had used with the man. Now, child, dont fret. My name is Betta. 
Youre safe here. Just take a few deep breaths and calm yourself.
Virani straightened and moved a few strands of black hair from her face. The 
fire she began, but her voice failed her.
VV 1 1 C H
JAMES LLEM1NS
I guessed that from the soot and ash all over you. So you came from the wood? 
Were you traveling alone?
Yes no my children! Virani could not stop the flow of tears from bursting 
from her eyes.
Betta swallowed Virani in her large arms just as her legs finally gave out. 
Virani sank within her embrace, allowing the woman to support her for a few 
ragged breaths. It felt so good to unburden herself. Only another woman could 
truly understand the pain a mother felt at the loss of a childto carry a life 
in your womb and see the world destroy it. She sobbed uncontrollably into 
Bettas chest as the woman stroked her hair and whispered words to soothe her.
Betta led her into the camp, sweeping her into a tent for privacy. Once the 
woman had settled Virani into a nest of pillows and ordered a cow-eyed woman to 
fetch a cup of tea, Virani began to regain control of her emotions. She allowed 
Betta to wipe her face with a cold wet rag, clearing soot and tears from her 
cheeks. Virani tried to speak, to let her know how much she appreciated the 
kind attention, but Betta placed a finger across Viranis lips to silence her. 
Drink this; then we can talk. Betta handed her a small cup of hot mint tea. 
Its steam and aroma seemed to seep into her bones and give her strength.
Virani savored the tea in silence, allowing it to warm her tongue and hands. 
Once she had finished, she felt vigorous enough to speak without crying. She 
handed the small cup back to Betta. Thank you, she said shyly.
Betta settled to the pillows beside her. Now tell me what happened. Are there 
others of your party that we should search for?
Virani studied her hands, willing her voice not to break with the sorrow. No, 
I traveled only only with my children.
Did they not escape the fire?
She shook her head. It caught us by surprise. It was too fast! I couldnt I 
couldnt save the others. Her voice began to rise until Betta placed a hand 
atop hers.
Hush, now, do not blame yourself. You had to save who you could, she said, 
nodding toward Viranis bulging belly. Now, I want you to rest. You must be 
strong for the child you grow now.
Virani sniffed back the tears that threatened, and nodded.
Betta pushed to her feet and began to leave.
The fire rages fierce, Virani said before the other woman left the tent. It 
might yet cross to the meadows here.
Dont you fret. We know these lands. These spring meadows run wet and will 
stanch the fires path beyond the wood. And well have watchers out to keep an 
eye on the flame. If it threatens, we can break camp and be all on horseback in 
a blink. So you sleep. We will not let anything happen to you or your unborn 
child.
You are most kind, Virani said. She began to settle back into her pillows 
when a pain reached up from her belly to grip her heart. Her vision blacked, and 
a gasp escaped her throat as the fire ripped through her. For the briefest 
moment, she saw with the thousand eyes of her forest children: A small woman 
atop a horse ... her right hand raised, glowing like a small ruby sun Death 
rained out from her and consumed all a death more horrible than flame a death 
born of dire magicks!
As quickly as it came, the pain and vision vanished, leaving only a dull ache 
and hollowness in her chest. Betta was leaning over her, concern etched in every 
plane of the womans face. What is it, child?
Virani stayed silent, picturing again the womans fist aglow with wild magicks. 
She knew who approached, burning her way through Viranis children. It was the 
witch! The one the master craved! One trembling hand reached up to finger the 
lock of white hair nestled within the black. She had not forgotten her duty. The 
master must
be served!
Her face paled as she realized how close she had come to failing her Dark Lord. 
The witch had driven her from her post and almost slipped past herbut the 
witch had made a mistake. The master had attuned Virani to the womans black 
arts. With her magicks first touch upon the Horde, Viranis own body had felt 
its searing fire, warning her to the witchs presence. Foolish child! Now 
alerted, Virani would not fail her lord a second timeor her lost children. She 
would make the witch suffer and writhe as all those spiders had upon their 
flaming webs.
But she needed helpVirani raised her face to the worried eyes of Betta and 
recognized a potential ally, someone to help her with her duty. Especially with 
a little coaxing
Virani allowed tears to rise to her eyes. I remember now! she moaned loudly. 
My mind tried to erase to deny the horrors But now it comes tumbling back in 
a dreadful rush! Fire and death! She pushed up from the pillows and clutched 
Bettas arm. Those who set the fires and murdered my children come this way.
Bettas eyes grew wide, then narrowed with fire. You know who set this flame 
upon our wood ?
Yes yes Virani stared into Bettas reddening face. She comes with many 
others. I saw a wagon. Virani forced her shoulders to shudder. They murder 
all in their path.
Who are they?
Virani sat straighter and cranked her voice to a fevered pitch. Foul 
murderers and defilers of children. Not menbut beasts!
Bettas eyes sparked with hate; her lips bled of color. She spoke rapidly. Our 
elders warned that this wood was befouled by evil, that the poisonous beasts 
were unnatural markers of corruption. We were sent here to watch the wood and 
make sure the spiders didnt spread to the meadows. And for moons now, the 
beasts have stayed cloaked among the trees, shunning the direct light of the 
sun. But now Sweet Mother! Now if your words are true, the evil prepares to 
spread its foul reachand fire marks their coming! The woman broke Viranis 
grip on her arm and stood. I must alert the others. Those monsters will not 
pass here.
Virani watched the woman fly from the tent, Bettas voice already raised in 
alarm. No, Virani thought as she rubbed her full belly, the poisonous smile of 
a spider fixed on her lips. No, these killers of her children would not escape 
these hills.
The magick streamed in rivers of coldfire from Elenas open palm while sparks of 
blue flames danced like will-o-the-wisps around her wrist. With sweat beading 
on her brow, she concentrated fully on her task, struggling as best she could to 
maintain a leash upon her magicks. Though Erril had instructed her in the 
basics of manipulationsimple lessons he had learned while serving as a liegeman 
of the Orderany complex orchestrations of her gifts were beyond her current 
abilities.
Still, what Elena lacked in skill, she made up for in raw power. . Wild magick 
was a force few things could withstand. As her flow of coldfire washed upon the 
shore of the web-shrouded glade, hoarfrost and ice froze all it touched. Tree 
trunks burst with explosive cracks. Frozen roots snapped their hold upon the 
dirt, toppling ancient oaks and stately maples. Even the tenacious webs of silk 
were transformed to delicacies of frost that shattered with even the slightest 
breeze.
A cloud of frigid mist rose from the forest, driven into the smoky sky by her 
coldfire crackling through the glade. Her magick devoured the wood and its 
denizens just as thoroughly as hot flames had scoured the main forest. Two 
fires, twins in extremes, consumed all in their paths. As Elena watched the 
white mist meet the black smoke in the sky, it reminded her of the extremes of 
her own magicks. While studying with Erril, she had learned that the character 
of her magicks was dictated by the light that renewed her power.
j A
Sunlight gave her power over red flame and heat, whereas moonlight aligned her 
to the burn of ice and frost. It was as if her magicks mirrored her own spirit, 
dividedtwo extremes againbetween witch and woman.
In the sky above, where icy mist met fiery smoke, spats of whirlwinds grew as 
the two sides fought for control. Ice-coated leaves rattled like the bones of 
the dead. Branches snapped and were drawn into the air. The sky itself groaned 
as the battle raged.
The fury of the skies spread to Elenas breast. Her magick sang in her blood, 
crying to join the war above. Her heart thundered to its chorus of destruction. 
She fought against its call as surely as the smoke fought the mist. But another 
part of her, the witch within, sang with the harmonies of her magick, thrilled 
to the crackles of blue flame and screaming winds.
Elena squeezed her eyes closed against the sight of the roiling skies, pulled 
her attention back to herself, and centered her breathing. She concentrated on 
her body and searched through muscle and tendon, ligament and bone, blood and 
bowel. She acknowledged the soreness of her inner thighs from the long day of 
riding, felt the throb of a fresh bruise where her shoulder had struck a low 
branch, even dwelled upon the faint tenderness of her newly budding breasts. She 
was more than mere flows of arcane magicks. She was a womanand that was magick 
enough for her.
A voice intruded. Elena, youve destroyed the glade. Pull back. It was Erril. 
He still sat atop his draft horse at her side.
She inclined her head slightly, keeping her eyes closed. Now was not the time to 
be distracted by the awful beauty of her magicks crackling flows. She slowly 
closed her raised hand. Her fingers felt frozen to the marrow of her small 
bones. For a moment, she feared she would snap her digits from her palm as she 
willed her fist to close. Yet slowly, one by one, like a bloom closing at 
midnight, her fingers clenched to a fist, severing the flow of coldfire. The 
traces of magick still left in her screamed at the interruption. Her hand 
trembled with the pent-up power. More! sang her blood. Taste the full rage of 
your wild magical One finger began to stretch back out.
A voice intruded again. No! But this time it was not Errils clipped Standish 
accent. It was Elenas own voice, spoken aloud to the magick within and without. 
She tightened her fist, feeling her
own heart beat in her clenched palm. She willed the beat to slow from its 
fevered pitch to a controlled throb. Without opening her eyes, she knew the 
brilliant radiance of her hand had faded back to its normal stain. She lowered 
her fist to her lap.
Sweet Mother, child! Krai said as he danced his war charger behind her. Just 
look at that!
Elena opened her eyes and for the first time saw the result of her magick. The 
wooded hollow now lay etched in silver ice, each bole, branch, and leaf entombed 
in crusts of hoarfrost. Thousands of spears of cloudy ice stretched out from 
trunks and limbs, some as long as a man was tall. But instead of draping toward 
the ground, these thorns of brilliance stuck straight out from their woody 
perches, pointing away from Elena, as if a terrible wind had been blowing out 
from her. Which in some ways, she realized, was true.
As Elena studied her handiwork, the smoky sky cleared for a brief instant to let 
the sharp rays of the late-afternoon sun pierce to the assaulted glade. Where 
sunlight met crystal ice, thousands of tiny rainbows burst forth. The entire 
glade transformed for one long hushed breath into a sweet dreama forest of ice 
and rainbows.
Its so beautiful, Neelahn said with wonder thick in her voice. As if 
woodsong itself were given substance and form.
Elena tore her eyes from the brilliant wood. Here numbing beauty hid so sweetly 
the death and destruction at its heart. Hot tears flowed across her chilled 
cheeks. Death should never be this radiant. Whats wrong? Erril asked. Are 
you injured? Studying her hand, Elena shook her head. Even where the dagger had 
sliced her thumb, no wound now seeped. It had healed without even a shade of a 
scar. Her right hand, though, had not escaped completely unscathed. As the 
magick had bled out from her wound, the stain had drained from her skin. Instead 
of the usual deep ruby whorls, her palm now was only slightly reddened, as if 
she had suffered a bad sunburn. The ruining of the wood had cost almost all her 
magickal reserve, leaving only a small trace of her power. She raised her hand 
to show Erril. Im fine. But I only have a bit of magick left.
The plainsman stared, then nodded. No need to worry. We should be able to clear 
the wood from here. You can always renew once youre completely drained.
Why must I wait until all the magick is gone before I can renew? she asked, 
lowering her hand. Wouldnt it be safer to keep my reserve full at all times?
Now youre thinking like a true mage, he snorted, the lines of worry 
momentarily easing. My brother Shorkan used to voice the same complaint. Many 
mages in his time tried to discover ways to renew before their magick was fully 
spent. They all failed. It just doesnt work that way.
Then maybe I should spend the last dregs of my power. Empty my reserve and 
renew now. It seemed the most prudent course, but the thought of again opening 
her magick trembled her heart.
No. Do not even harbor that thought. Errils face darkened with concern, his 
voice tight. Magick is a gift not to be squandered lightly. It should only be 
used with true purpose. Leave it be. Erril kicked his horse forward and waved 
for the others to follow. Now lets go.
Elena, though, urged Mist to keep abreast of the plainsmans steed. But why? 
What difference does it make? Cant I use my power in whatever way I want?
Erril did not look at her. Theres danger in that path, Elena. Lax and 
frivolous use of magicks during my time led to the corruption of many a mages 
spirit.
He continued down the trail in silence, his eyes staring somewhere far from the 
frozen forest as they entered the dead hollow. Elena thought the conversation 
had ended and began to turn away, but Erril started speaking again, his voice 
thin and strained. Soon those mages grew drunk with their powers. It twisted 
many of them. From this corruption, the Brotherhood of the Darkmages arose. He 
turned to stare at her, his gaze intense. Be warned. More than just the danger 
of death is risked by the wanton use of your wild magicks it can also blacken 
and pervert your spirit.
Elena sensed the truth in his words. She had felt the seductive call of her 
magicks and knew deep within her that a corner of her spirit already sang to the 
raw wildness of her power. A shiver passed through her. How long until that part 
of her spirit grew? With trembling fingers, Elena slipped her deerskin glove 
back over her right hand and resolved that she would only use her magick when no 
other path lay open. Even then, she would think twice.
Erril mumbled something under his breath.
JAMES V^LEMtNS _
What was that? she asked as she cinched her glove on tight, unsure if the 
plainsman had been addressing her.
After a long pause, he raised wounded eyes toward her. You need a better 
teacher, he said. Im not learned enough to instruct you in the finer workings 
of your art and in the tools of safeguarding your spirit. This untutored use of 
your magicks risks so much.
For the first time, Elena saw the depth of pain behind his stony features and 
realized she was not the only one who suffered when she used her powers. I 
Ill manage. Youve taught me well. She smiled crookedly at him. Besides, what 
choice do we have? Youre
all Ive got.
Her words softened his pained expression. Still you must proceed with 
caution.
I will, Elena promised.
Meric and Neelahn trotted their horses up to them. Meric leaned far in his 
saddle, one fist gripping his saddles horn to keep him upright. His words were 
coarse with fatigue. The fires path has almost reached the forests edge. 
Weve wasted too much time. We must hurry before the Horde retakes the burned 
corridor weve
forged.
Go on ahead then, Erril said. Neelahn, stay close to Meric and help him. 
Erril swung around in his saddle and called to the wagon that crept slowly 
behind them through the iced bower. Mogweed, lean on the whip. We must run the 
horses if we are to outpace the
spiders.
Elena saw the shape-shifters pale face clench with fear, but Mogweed nodded. 
With a crack of a whip, the wagon bucked forward. The sudden start tumbled two 
figures from the rear of the wagon. It was Tolchuk and the wolf Fardale. They 
had jumped from the rig and now ran alongside it. Elena was amazed the huge 
ogre could move with such speed.
Erril seemed more angry than impressed. No, no, stay in the wagon, he yelled. 
We cant slow to keep abreast of you on foot.
Tolchuk answered, his voice calm and steady as he loped beside
the large wheel of the wagon. Less burdened, the horses can pull
faster. And we ogre be quick of footat least for a short way. I can
race as far as the forests edge. Fardale and I will not slow you down.
Errils face shone with doubt. The spiders
Tolchuk pointed to the side of the trail. Entombed in ice, the

Wit ch Storm
blistered bodies of spiders could be seen like red blemishes in a diamond. They 
be not chasing us very quickly.
Erril stared for a moment in indecision, then called out to Krai. Keep to the 
back trail! Guard our rear! &#9632;
Krai raised an arm in salute, pulling his war charger behind the billowing 
canopy of the wagon.
Erril swung forward in his saddle and snapped his lead to urge his mount 
faster. Does your mare still have enough heart in her to run the rest of the 
way? he asked as Elena followed.
Mist has a strong heart. Shell be exhausted, but I believe she can run me out 
of this foul wood.
Then lets be off, he said, kicking his steed even faster. Im tired of trees 
and long to see the end of this forest.
Elena urged Mist on with soft words of encouragement. Her mare snorted briskly 
and tossed her head, glad to run. Elena kept close behind Errils horse, 
following the plainsmans broad back.
By now they were almost halfway through the dead hollow, the branches a frozen 
roof over their heads. Down the trail, Meric and Neelahn were small figures. 
Elena could see them ride through frosted drapes of webs that blocked the trail, 
shattering the frozen strands into thousands of glittering fragments. As they 
followed, wind-borne motes of web, like a light snow flurry, still floated in 
the trail. Loathe to have even these pinpricks of corruption touch her skin, 
Elena pulled her mask, which had fallen from her face as she worked her magick, 
back up over her mouth and nose. Still she shivered as pieces of web settled 
upon her cloak and hood. Even Mist nickered warily as she galloped, needing no 
further encouragement to run.
Soon they were climbing back out of the hollow and entering the burned wood 
again. But relief at escaping the hollow was a fleeting thing. The sudden return 
of heat felt pleasant for several heartbeats; then the air reeked of scorched 
wood and smoky poisons, and the burning breath of the fire swallowed her up. 
Elena coughed, and Mist noticeably slowed as the heated air taxed the sweating 
horse.
The distance between Elena and Erril quickly grew. Behind her, Elena could hear 
the ringing bells of the wagon closing in on her. She leaned forward and rubbed 
a palm over Mists wet neck. Cmon, girl, you can do this, she urged, the heat 
charring her throat. Its just a little farther.
With the smoke and ash limiting her line of sight, Elena prayed her words were 
not a lie. She had lost track of Meric and Neelahn quite some time ago as they 
were swallowed in the haze, and now even Erril had become a ghost down the 
trail. She thought to call out to him but realized there was no need. He could 
not make Mist run any faster.
She tapped Mists flank and whispered words of encouragement, letting the mare 
know she needed to hurry. In answer, Mist huffed loudly, and her hooves dug 
harder. Her flanks heaved and rolled under Elena as the mare fought through the 
smoky air. Errils figure grew more solid as the distance narrowed. Good 
girl, she sang in the horses ear. I knew you could do it.
Suddenly Mists hoof struck a stubborn root, and the mare stumbled forward. 
Elena fought to keep her seat, arms pinwheeling, but she lost the battle and 
found herself tumbling through the empty air. She braced for the impact with the 
hard groundbut it never came. Instead, huge arms scooped her up before she hit.
Elena glanced up into the monstrous, fanged face of Tolchuk. As he ran, he 
carried her in the crook of one arm. The ogres bare skin felt like rough bark 
against her cheek as he held her clutched to his chest. The smell of wet goats 
swelled around her from his steaming body. From the corner of her eye, Elena saw 
the black shadow of the wolf flash past, with Mist not far behind.
Thank you, Tolchuk, she gasped. I wouldve surely broken a bone. But I can 
run on my own now.
No time, he growled, his ragged voice like grinding boulders. Spiders be in 
pursuit from all sides.
Elena glanced to the side of the trail. She had been so focused on the trail 
ahead that she had failed to see what threatened from the corners. Thousands of 
faceted eyes glowed back at her from the forests smoky edge. Rivers of spiders 
flowed toward them, roiling and surging like a single beast. The blistering-hot 
ground consumed hundreds of their brethren, but hundreds more used the bodies of 
the fallen as a bridge across the burning soil. It was as if the entire army had 
one intent, one mind. For the first time, she understood why the creatures had 
been named the Horde.
The ogre loped in huge bounds of his muscular legs, but exhaustion bowed his 
back. As he ran, his free arm knuckled often to the mud for support. Half beast, 
half man, Tolchuk scrabbled in a fast gait down the trail.
wit ch storm
Suddenly a thunder of hooves swamped over them as Krai drove his huge war 
charger even with them. Quick arms, ogre! But Ill take the girl from you 
now.
Rorshaf, the mountain mans steed, seemed hardly winded, dancing on steel-shod 
hooves, mane flaring black as Krai kept abreast of the lumbering ogre.
Tolchuk didnt argue. No false heroics, only common sense. Elena found herself 
half tossed onto the horse. Krai swung Elenas small frame into the saddle in 
front of him, and with a coarse command in the guttural language of the crag 
horses, he ordered Rorshaf to raceand run the stallion did! Trees blurred to 
either side as they flew down the trail. In a heartbeat, she thundered past Mist 
and closed in on Erril.
Yo! Krai hauled his mount up to the plainsman. The Horde closes from all 
sides. If we mean to escape these woods, we must do so now.
Erril pulled his mask from his face, his eyes wide at seeing Elena with the 
mountain man. He glanced behind him to see the empty saddle atop Mist as the 
horse closed the distance. What happened? he began to mumble, then shook his 
head. Never mind. Krai, get her out of these woods. Ill help Tolchuk and the 
wagon.
Krai nodded, and without a word, he shot forward and left Erril quickly behind. 
As Elena clutched handfuls of black mane, Ror-shafs hooves raced through mud 
and smoke. Elena found herself holding her breath in fear, not for herself, but 
for the others still behind with the spiders.
Krai leaned over Elena. It cant be much farther, he whispered to her. Elena 
tried to gain hope from his words, but who could truly say how much farther the 
trail ran? Elena stared forward at the wall of swirling ash and smoke. Would 
this trail never end?
As if hearing this thought, the wall of blackness before them blew open for a 
heartbeat to reveal rolling meadows just an arrows shot away. Then a gust tore 
the sight from her eyes, swallowing the trail back up with smoke. Had it been a 
mirage, a trick of a hopeful heart?
Thank the Sweet Mother, Krai mumbled to himself. He kicked Rorshaf fiercely. 
You saw it, you old bag of bones! Now get us out of this sick forest!
The horse snorted in irritation. Then, as if to show his master the
true heart of the war-charger breed, Rorshaf became the wind itself. The 
galloping stride of the stallion became a smooth current of muscle and motion, 
as if the horses hooves failed to even touch the mud
of the trail.
In half a breath, the trio of horse and riders burst forth from the forest and 
smoke into a world of rolling hills and meadows. With a whoop of triumph on his 
lips, Krai reined his horse to a slower pace as they skirted into the tall 
grasses. The fire had scorched the green meadow for a quarter league before the 
wet grasses and wide streams smothered the fire to slumbering embers. Krai 
trotted his stallion in a wide circle, Rorshafs hooves splashing slightly in 
the flooded
meadows.
Elena rejoiced in the snatches of late-afternoon sunlight that slipped through 
the gaps in the smoky sky. In the distance, she could see sprinkled patches of 
meadow flowers gracing the gentle slopes of these hills. They had made it free 
of the woods!
Suddenly, from behind them, Mist burst forth from the wall of smoke and raced 
past them into the green meadows.
Mist! Elena called, but the small gray was panicked and continued fleeing out 
among the meadowed hills. Krai, we need to go
after
The mountain man held up a hand, silencing her. He sat straighter in his saddle 
and searched the wet fields as he slowly swung his horse in tight circles. 
Wheres Neelahn and Meric? he mumbled. They
should be
Suddenly an arrow shot past Elenas ear, and Krai fell backward from the saddle, 
almost carrying Elena with him. Alone atop Rorshaf, Elena twisted about. Behind 
the horses rump, Krai lay on his back in the grass, the feathered haft of an 
arrow protruding from his shoulder. He fought to sit up, the wind knocked from 
his chest. Managing to raise himself up to one elbow, he spat something in the 
language of the crag horses.
Rorshaf hesitated.
Go, you useless piece of dung! Krais voice thundered. Rorami
destro, Rorshaf, nom!
The war charger suddenly snorted loudly and spun on its heels. Elena frantically 
grabbed fistfuls of mane as the horse shot away into the meadows. Overhead 
another volley of arrows rained past the racing horse.
WIT CH STORM
With tears in her eyes, Elena clung to Rorshafs back. The horse flew across the 
empty hills and meadows, a black zephyr across the green fields. But where would 
this ride end? Elena risked a glance over her shoulder and saw the edge of the 
forest fading behind her. Then Rorshaf passed over the crest of a hill, and the 
forest disappeared completely from view. And with it, all those she knew and 
cared for in the world.
Naked and alone in the tent, Virani knelt upon a pillow, her swollen belly 
resting on her lap. The ebonstone bowl balanced on a small oaken tray before 
her. The stones surface already danced with darkfire, the black flames sapping 
the feeble light from the tent. She listened for the approach of any footsteps, 
shivering as the flames drank the warmth from her skin.
Outside, the camp was almost empty. Among these nomadic people, it was skill 
that judged the hunter, not whether the one who pulled the bowstring was man or 
woman. So most of the womenfolk had accompanied their men to hiding places among 
the meadows to lie in wait for those who moved through the forest. Only the 
children, guarded by two older women and one bent-backed man, still moved among 
the smoldering hearths.
Virani had waited for the camp to empty before beginning the preparations for 
contacting her master. She had intoned the casting words and paid her debt of 
blood, then waited. Now all seemed quiet, a hush fallen over the encampment. It 
was time.
Bowing her face, she recited the final words and felt the surge as the Black 
Hearts essence swept within the flames of the darkfire. The shadows thickened 
in the tent, and the air became difficult to breathe. Virani kept her head 
bowed. Somewhere without, a hound began baying wildly but was quickly cuffed to 
silence. Virani felt her children surge in her womb, agitated by the closeness 
of their true lord. She bent down to touch her forehead to the lip of the bowl, 
both as honor to her master and as protection for her children.
From deep within the flame, the Black Heart spoke, his voice dripping venom more 
poisonous than the entire Horde. Why do you call?
To let you know, Sire. She whom you await has come. I have seen her and felt 
the burn of her magicks.
And she yet lives?
I have laid my web. She will not escape me.
She must not! Virani felt his wrath like a snake tightening around her neck. 
If the cursed child reaches the plains, she could head in any direction, losing 
herself among the many lands. That must not happen!
Viranis mouth dried with fear. The the Horde and I will not fail you, Sire. 
You can trust your servants.
Harsh laughter crackled fiercer than the black flames and held even less warmth. 
The darkness grew denser near the core of the ebonstone bowl. It was not just 
the blackness of a moonless night, but a total lack of light and substance, as 
if what swelled before her was a peek into the heart of death itself. Her belly 
quaked with fear, and the tent grew colder than the deepest crypt. The taste of 
iron filled her mouth as she bit her trembling lip.
From this inky void came the voice of her lord, sounding somehow closer. Trust? 
You beg for trust?
Y-y-yes, my sire.
The void wormed over the lip of the bowl toward her. I will show you how much I 
trust you.
Virani squeezed her eyes tight. Bloody saliva drooled from her lips. Master? 
Please Even with her eyes closed, she could still somehow see the darkness 
sliding toward her. She knew wherever it touched she would be forever scarred. 
She crouched, frozen, like a pig to slaughter.
She felt its first touch upon her exposed knee. A gasp escaped her throat, but 
she knew better than to move. The master did not like it when one of his 
servants flinched from his touchthat she remembered well from those early 
lessons taught in the dungeons of Black-hall. So Virani held still, pulling her 
mind back to that corner of her being where she knew to retreat. Three winters 
spent in the twisted warren of cells below the Gulgothal halls had taught her 
methods of preserving her sanity. She fled to that safe space now, barely aware 
of the cold finger crawling up her inner thigh.
In her safe place, she hummed songs her mother had taught to her among the boats 
and nets of her fishing village on the storm-swept northern coast. She wrapped 
herself snug in choruses of lost loves and lifes wonders. Here she couldnt be 
harmed, here nothing could touch her, here she was safe
Suddenly pain ripped open her warm cocoon, a blazing torment worse than any she 
had felt during the long dungeon winters. Her eyelids snapped open, but the 
agony blinded her as surely as if her eyes were still closed. All she saw was 
blackness etched with red lightning. But as the pain ebbed slightly, her vision 
returned, narrow and pinched, but wide enough to raise a moan to her lips at 
what
she saw.
A shadowy umbilicus, like the black tendril of some sea beast, now linked the 
ebonstone to her womb. It pulsed and throbbed as it filled her belly with dark 
energies, searing her flesh with the fire of white-hot branding irons. Unable to 
scream as the pain trapped the breath in her throat, all she could do was writhe 
at the end of the burning tether. Only the magicks the Dark Lord had imbued in 
her veins long ago kept her heart from bursting. This protection, though, was no 
kind gift. Death, right now, would be a welcome guest.
But as the pain waned to a smoldering ember in her womb, death was not her 
companion now. The voice that filled her skull like leeches, sucking at her 
will, was something so much worse. See how much I truly trust you, Virani. I 
grant you another gift. I have taken the Horde in your belly and transformed 
them into something new for you to love.
My children! she cried, sensing her loss. No! This new torture was so much 
worse than the pain of the flesh.
Fear not, woman. This child you will love just as well. The wicked umbilicus 
spasmed one final time, then detached and slid back into the ebonstone bowl. 
Enjoy my final gift.
In her belly, worms of ice roiled through the burn in her womb, eating away the 
pain. A sigh of pleasure whispered from her lips as the agony vanished. Her 
belly now felt cool and calm. Released from the storm of pain, she found herself 
falling limp to her pillows, curling around her swollen belly.
Deep within, she felt something stir, something strong, something ripe with her 
lords black magicks. She hugged her arms around her belly, appreciating the 
strength in the movements of her unborn
Y
child. She closed her eyes, pulling her arms tighter, a smile on her lips.
Her master was right as always. A glowing warmth suffused her veins, and she 
found tears in her eyes. She did Yes, she certainly did love this child. She 
rocked back and forth upon the pile of pillows. It wouldnt be long, she sensed.
Her child, the true seed of the Black Heart, would be born this night.
Erril danced his draft horse behind the wagon. It is only a little farther, 
Mogweed! he called. We can make it! But his words felt like a lie on his 
tongue. Erril tried to ignore the spiders closing on their flanks, but it was 
difficult with the constant low rustle of the Hordes march. The sound ate at 
the back of his skull. Tolchuk, they are almost upon us.
I have large ears, plainsman. I hear them, too. The ogre ran behind the 
wagon, pushing at its rear to ease the load of the laboring horses in front. He 
ran at a slow trot.
Too slow, Erril feared. He risked one look behind him. The trail to the rear 
was already awash with a sea of writhing, surging bodies. To the sides, only 
three horse lengths away, the Horde drove toward them. We need more speed, he 
mumbled to himself.
Suddenly a loud barking erupted near the front of the wagon, startling Errils 
mount. He had to fight to keep the horse from bolting down the trail into the 
spiders. Ahead of him, the wagon jerked forward out of Tolchuks grip, almost 
tripping the ogre to the mud. Tolchuk stumbled a few steps, then caught his 
balance and pursued the fleeing wagon. The barking continued, mixed with 
occasional loud growls.
Erril kicked his horse forward to investigate. Tolchuk, can you keep up? he 
asked as he trotted past the loping ogre.
Gasping from exertion, Tolchuk nodded his boulder of a head. Just get this big 
wagon out of my way and see how fast I run.
Erril snapped his reins and urged his mount to the front of the wagon. Once he 
slipped past the side of the rig, he saw the reason for the commotion.
It was Fardale!
The large black wolf raced behind the horses legs, snapping at
JAMES CLEMENS
heels and dodging the occasional kick of a hoof. The wolfs eyes glowed amber in 
the gloom of smoke and shadow as he herded the terrified team and wagon onward.
Perhaps there was a chance
Ahead, the end of the trail came into view amid the blowing black ash and soot. 
It was a sight to cheer the heartexcept between them and freedom, Erril saw 
the path tremble and quiver with a flowing army of spiders. The Horde had 
outflanked them. But how?
Then Erril spotted the woodland stream a quarter league down the trail near the 
edge of the path. Its wet banks had offered the Horde an easy path through the 
burned wood to cut off their escape. Erril swung his head around. They were 
completely encircled by a blanket of spiders.
Mogweed seemed also to have spotted this obstacle before them and began hauling 
on the reins. Fardale! Stop! Leave the horses be! the thin shape-shifter 
screamed. We must stop! Hurry!
The wolf heeded his brothers shouted orders and raced to the front of the train 
of horses, now barking to help his brother slow the wagon.
Erril realized the folly of Mogweeds plan. If they stopped, they had no chance 
of escaping the bites of these spiders. They would be surely swamped as they 
stood frozen on the trail. Ahead, the wind blew apart the smoky drape, and 
Erril saw that escape was only a stones toss away. So close! He clenched the 
reins of his mount, refusing to bow to defeat. No, if he was to die, he would 
end his life with a struggle!
Erril galloped his horse forward to keep abreast of the wagon. The team had 
only one defense leftspeed! And Mogweed was about to destroy this single 
advantage. Dont slow the horses! Keep them running! Its our only chance!
Mogweeds eyes were wild with fear. Seemingly deaf to Errils cry, Mogweed 
still yanked on the lead.
Erril realized he did not have time to argue and sway the shape-shifter. If 
they were to have a chance to survive, he would have to take control of the rig. 
Skilled from centuries of riding, Erril pushed to his feet atop his galloping 
draft horse and leapt across the open trail toward the wagon. Taking a blow to 
the shoulder, Erril crashed atop the drivers bench. Not waiting to check his 
bruised condition, he clambered into position beside Mogweed. The shape-shifter 
sat
on the bench with the drivers whip frozen in his hands, his face shocked at the 
sudden appearance of Erril.
Give me the lines, he ordered, then crawl back and tell Tolchuk to get in 
the wagon.
Stunned, Mogweed obeyed with a slight look of relief in his eyes. What are 
you?
Im going to push the wagon right through them. Now go!
Mogweed cringed and hurried toward the rear, clambering over the boxes of 
supplies.
Erril snapped the lead with a loud crack, then tucked it under his knee, 
snatching up the drivers whip. Now was no time to spare the horses. He gave the 
team a touch of the whip. Fardale! Leave the horses and get up here!
The treewolf was already in motion, seeming to sense the change in plans. 
Fardale spun on a paw, and in a blur of black fur, flew into the wagon, joining 
his brother under the wagons canopy.
That left only Tolchuk to collect. Get that ogre in he started to order 
when suddenly the rear of the wagon sank sharply. A plank cracked explosively 
from the back of the rig.
Hes in! Mogweed yelled to Erril.
With the increased weight of the ogre, the horses noticeably slowed. This was 
no good. Jettison our gear! he called back to his companions. Everything! 
Toss everything!
Behind him, Erril quickly heard crates crashing to the trail. But he could not 
dwell on their losses. He beat the horses savagely with the whip, silently 
apologizing for his cruelty but knowing he must not fail. Ahead, the draft horse 
he had been riding, now no longer burdened, flew into the sea of spiders first. 
The horse raced like a storm through the Horde.
If that horse can make it, then maybe
A loud screech erupted from the steed, and Erril watched it stumble to a knee. 
A wave of spiders washed higher on its flanks. The horse struggled to rise, 
crawling in lurching motions, but then collapsed under the mass of tiny 
predators. The horse had not even made it a quarter of the way through the 
spiders.
But the poor beasts death had not been in vain. Its appearance among the Horde 
had diverted the spiders attention, its blood drawing the armys bulk to the 
side of the trail.
Erril drove the wagon toward the opposite flank, where the spi-
ders now swarmed less thickly on the trail. He cracked the whip over the 
sweating rumps of his team. He needed every drop of speed and heart still 
remaining in these horses. Cmon, he urged through clenched teeth as the wagon 
entered the spiders domain.
Among the Horde, the horses needed no further urging, seeming to sense the 
danger. The proud beasts dug madly at the mud of the trail, froth flying from 
their lips. As they raced, spiders were crushed underfoot, and a greenish smoke 
could be seen rising from the horses heels as the poisons scorched their 
hooves. Rather than slowing them, the pain drove the horses faster. Erril 
raised his whip, then lowered it, realizing how little fear it could generate 
now.
He could do nothing more.
Erril watched spiders beginning to work their way up the leather wrappings that 
protected the legs of the beasts. Ahead, the trail ended within whorls of smoke 
and sunlight. They had made it halfway through the Hordes blockade. Erril 
clenched his fist tight on the lead. Almost there! They must make it!
But the horses were slowing, their hearts giving out after the long day of 
terror and racing. Smoke blew across the trailhead, erasing the promise of 
escape. It now seemed the entire world was just spiders and ash.
Tolchuks head appeared at Errils shoulder. The ogre stayed silent. No words 
could help now.
At least the girl got out safely, Erril said as the horses slowed.
All be not lost yet, the ogre said. As long as we be moving, there be hope.
With his words, the horse on the left died, crashing to the mud, its harness 
ripping free of the wagon. The other horse bucked, tangled in the legs of the 
dead horse. Then this one, too, fell to the trail defeated. The horse never 
even tried to get up, simply raised its neck once, looking toward the wagon as 
if to apologize; then life fled from its eyes.
The wood now lay silent with death.
Escape lay only a small distance away, yet it might as well have been a thousand 
leagues.
Erril was suddenly knocked aside, his one hand grabbing for the side of the 
wagon to keep him on the drivers bench. From the corner of his eye, he saw 
Tolchuk roll through the front opening and over the side of the wagon.
Erril straightened. What are you doing? he cried.
Tolchuk had a knife in his clawed hands. The ogre hurriedly sliced loose the 
tethers and harnesses to the horses and dug his nails into the backs of their 
spider-encrusted carcasses. With two grunts, he flipped the horses bodies 
aside, as a child might a soiled rag doll, then gathered the harnesses over his 
own shoulder. Spiders now danced across the ogres back and legs.
Tolchuk ? Errils voice died in his throat. What could he say? Death lay as 
surely within the wagon as without.
As long as we be moving, there be hope, Tolchuk said, repeating his earlier 
words. The ogre leaned into the gathered harnesses, and his feet sank into the 
mud. He took a step, then another. Once the wagon began to roll, the ogre dug 
harder with his legs.
Erril twisted in his seat, frantic for some way to help but unable to think 
how. He had never felt so useless. All he could do was watch as the ogre 
bunched his muscles and dragged the wagon behind him.
Though the pace grew no faster than a crawl, at least they were moving. With 
blood pounding in Errils ears, time slowed to match their creeping pace.
As Erril watched, spiders plagued Tolchuk, but luckily the main bulk of the 
Horde was drawn to the carcasses of the horses, an easier meal than the 
thick-skinned ogre. Still, enough spiders remained to thickly coat Tolchuks 
legs. And even though the ogre had bragged earlier of his peoples thick hides, 
tree bark itself was no obstacle to the corruption of the Horde. From his seat, 
Erril could see tendrils of green smoke rising from Tolchuks thighs as the 
poisons ate at his flesh, trying to weaken a spot so their bites could kill. 
Lines of pain marked the ogres back and neck.
Tolchuk could not last much longer.
Suddenly a fierce gust blew down the throat of the trail and cleared the way of 
smoke. Sweet Mother! The meadows were only a horse length away! Erril jumped 
up. Lost among the ash and gloom, he had never suspected they were so close. 
Youre almost there! Erril cried in encouragement to the laboring ogre.
Tolchuk raised his face, then stumbled a step at the sight. Regaining his 
footing, Tolchuk leaned harder into the harnesses. The view of freedom seemed 
to renew the vigor in the ogres stride. His strong legs ate up the last of the 
distance, and the wagon was soon rolling into open meadows.
As soon as they entered the grasslands, the spiders fled from Tolchuks body 
and raced back to their shrouded trees. Seemingly the Horde feared to abandon 
its shadowy roost. Still, Tolchuk continued to haul the wagon until they were 
clear of the trees and only green grass surrounded them.
Once safe, Tolchuk stopped, his legs wobbling under him, and dropped the 
harnesses. He tried to swing around toward the wagon, but his legs gave out, and 
he collapsed to his knees into the wet meadow.
Erril leapt from the wagon and raced toward the ogre. Tolchuks burnished 
skin was marred with white streaks and pocks from the assault of the spiders. 
When Erril reached him, Tolchuks face was still clenched with pain, and his 
breath rattled with wheezes and a coarse cough. The ogre rolled two bloodred 
eyes up to Erril as the plainsman leaned over him.
We did it, didnt we? Tolchuk gasped.
Erril placed a hand on the ogres shoulder. Where his fingers brushed one of 
the pockmarks, Errils skin burned fiercely. He could only imagine the pain the 
ogre still suffered. You did it, my friend. It was your heart and bone that 
saved us.
Tolchuk nodded. Good. As I said, we ogre be thick of skin. With those last 
words, Tolchuks eyes rolled back, and the ogre slumped to the grass.
Before Erril could check to see if Tolchuk still breathed, a voice cracked 
across the open meadow. Back from your demon! Do not make us feather your 
corpse with arrows!
Erril straightened and saw a band of twenty or so green-cloaked figures rise 
from the deep grass, each member armed with a tautly bent bow. Instinctively, 
Erril reached for his sword belt, but just as quickly, he realized this was a 
battle he could not win. He searched the determined faces that surrounded him.
No, now was not the time to fight.
Erril raised his arm and opened his palm in the common gesture of surrender.
Wrapped under a thick blanket, Virani still lay nestled among the tufted 
pillows when she heard the hurried feet of several people running into the camp. 
Voices were raised in tones of jubilance, and
occasional shouts of victory burst from the party. As someone ran up to her 
tent, Virani sat up straighter, drawing an arm protectively across her belly.
The tent flap whipped open, startling her, but it was only Betta. The large 
woman, dressed in a stained green cloak with the hood pushed back from her 
cropped blond hair, pushed into the tent. Her eyes shone brightly, and she wore 
a wide smile. Breathless, she crossed to Virani and lowered herself to one 
knee. We did it! she exclaimed, almost trembling with excitement. We captured 
them
all!
Virani could not have asked for better news. All of them?
She nodded. You were right. They even came with a huge demon leading their 
wagon. Clawed and fanged, it was an awful sight. Lucky for us, it quickly 
collapsed.
Virani did not recall any demon from her vision, but perhaps this was some 
other trick of the foul witch. And the girl? Did you see a small woman-child 
atop a horse?
Yes, poor thing. She seemed the prisoner of some black-bearded cutthroat. We 
freed her with a well-placed arrow, and she escaped from there on her own. 
Betta grinned proudly. Last we saw, she was riding like the wind across the 
meadows.
Viranis blood chilled with each word Betta spoke. No! This could not be! The 
witch had slipped her snare. The horror of this realization must have reached 
her face.
Whats wrong? Betta asked, her smile fading away with concern.
The child she stammered. The child is the demon who leads them. She wears 
the flesh of the innocent like a costume. She was the one who killed my 
children! Her voice had now edged toward hysteria. You must believe me. <
Betta, her eyes wide in horror, raised a thumb to her forehead in a warding 
gesture against evil. I dont doubt you. The other demon we saw this day proves 
the truth of your words. The huntress scrambled to her feet. Stay here. I must 
let the others know! Hopefully, weve chased the she-beast away from our lands, 
but who knows the mind of a demon? Perhaps she might try to rescue her 
companions. We must be prepared.
Virani reached a trembling hand toward Betta. No, we must seek her out. Now!
Betta shook her head. Night falls. And we hunters know not to
f n. 1VX H a V> L, C iVi. BINS O S
seek a wounded beast in tall grassespecially at night. No, in the morning well 
track the demon. If the beast remains in these lands, well drive her out or 
see her dead. You can be assured of that!
Virani was at a loss on how to convince the woman to hunt the witch this 
night. As she struggled for a plan, a ripping spasm jerked through her belly. A 
loud gasp erupted from her throat, drawing back Bettas attention. Before even 
the first spasm ended, a second quake of pain shook through her body, and 
Virani fell back to the pillows, a scream on her lips.
Betta was at her side, reaching under the blanket that hid Viranis nakedness. 
The large woman rested one of her hard hands on Viranis feverish belly. At 
that moment, another rip of pain tore at Viranis swollen gut, and with it, a 
wash of hot liquid flooded her legs. Instantly, the stench of corruption filled 
the tent.
Your belly pushes, and your life-water flows, Betta said, her nose curling in 
disgust. Signs that your child comes, but something is wrong. Betta flew to 
her feet and pushed to the tents flap. I must fetch the midwife and let Josa 
know about the demon child. With that, she was gone.
Alone, Virani kicked back the blanket and pushed to her elbows as the agony 
faded for the moment. Between her legs, she saw the spread of greenish black 
fluid staining the pillows. The smell was thick with rot. It was not life-water 
that flowed from her womb, but the brackish brine of a tortured birth.
Virani lay back among the pillows. She had experienced a birth like this once 
before. In the dungeons of Blackhall, the guards had abused her most foully; and 
one night, while stretched on an altar, a winged beast had come to lay his seed 
in her. Moons later, in the soiled hay of the dungeons floor, she had birthed a 
stillborn child. Then, too, her life-water had run black, and the stink of death 
had lain upon her womb. In the filth, she had gathered the dead child in her 
arms, rocking and moaning. Not again! Long ago, she had lost a cherished baby 
and could not survive the death of a second infant. She cried so loudly that her 
master took pity upon her and took her dead child. Using his black magicks, he 
transformed the babe into the Horde. The one became many. Once finished, the 
Black Heart returned the now-living children into her belly to thrive and never 
leave her again. Even now tears rose to her eyes at the sweet memory.
Agony suddenly slashed at the bones of her pelvis, pulling Virani back to the 
present. She could feel the child thrashing in her womb. Her face shining with 
sweat, she smiled past the pain.
This would be no stillborn birth.
Suddenly, an old woman thrust through the tents opening, her arms laden with 
two pots of water, one steaming, and a load of scrap cloths. The smell of sick 
birthing seemed to strike the newcomer like a blow. The woman scowled dourly, 
and with a slight shake of her head, crossed to Virani.
Honey, she said with a voice scratchy with age, dont you fret. I been a 
midwife for going on forty winters and know a thing or two about bringin young 
uns into the world. Everythingll be fine.
Virani, though, could see the lines of worry on the old womans face and sensed 
the midwife had recognized the smell of death. But Virani simply nodded.
The woman set her pots of water beside the pillows, then fished a few dry mint 
leaves from a pocket and crumbled them into the water. My names Greddie, but 
everyone calls me Auntie Dee, she said as she worked. So just you relax and 
let Auntie Dee take care of you and your young un.
Suddenly a burst of pain tore into Virani like the huge knobby roots of a tree. 
Her scream drew Auntie Dee to her side in a heartbeat. Lost in red pain, Virani 
barely noticed the old woman lay a cold cloth across her hot forehead then slide 
around to crouch between her twitching legs. Thankfully, the agony retreated as 
quickly as it had comeat least for now. Gasping, Virani lay limp among her 
pillows.
Humming softly to herself, Auntie Dee grabbed Virani behind the knees and 
pulled her legs up and open. Now listen, child, I want you to push when I tell 
ya. The old woman raised her face from between her legs. And not before I tell 
ya, you hear?
Viranis hair clung to her wet face, and her skin ran hot and cold all over. 
Ill try.
Auntie Dee frowned up at her. No. You will not try, you will dot Are we all 
clear on this here?
Virani swallowed a lump in her throat. Yes, maam.
Good girl. Auntie Dees face disappeared as the old woman leaned down to 
examine Virani closer. What are all these marks down here? she asked as she 
probed and prodded.
JAMES v_, L fc Mt in ;>
Virani knew they were the tattooed symbols of power the Dark Lord had marked 
upon the entrance to her womb. I Im not sure Then the pain struck again, so 
suddenly, without warning, like lightning from a clear sky. Viranis back 
arched off the pillows as her womb ripped open.
Push! she heard Auntie Dee yell, but it sounded so far away. Push! I can just 
see the head! Push or youll lose the child!
The words sank through the agony. She must not lose her child! Not again! Never 
again! With a cry frozen on her stretched lips, Virani curled her shoulders up 
off the pillows, bearing down on the fire in her belly. She clenched her teeth 
and forced every muscle into one purposeto push this child into the world.
Almost almost Auntie Dee chanted before her. I thought the child dead for 
sure. But look at that little imp squirming to get out!
Virani ignored the mutterings of the old woman. With a final sharp intake of 
breath, she clutched handfuls of pillows in her fists, tearing through the 
fabric with her nails and gouging the flesh of her palms, then with a scream 
that split the night, she shoved her child from her womb.
Afterward, she fell back to her pillows, like a puppet with its strings slashed. 
She lay there shuddering and trembling from the exertion for several breaths 
before concern for her child drew her up on an elbow. Auntie Dee had not said a 
word yet.
Virani struggled up, panicked that something was wrong, then with relief saw 
Auntie Dee with her baby. Her child had its eight jointed legs wrapped around 
the old womans face, clinging to her skull. Auntie Dee lay sprawled across the 
floor of the tent, her heels drumming and spasming in death throes. Virani 
sighed as her babys four wings beat the air, drying its wet membranes before it 
could fly. It mewled softly and sucked greedily at the wrinkled neck of the 
woman, its two sets of jaws digging and working deeper into the soft tissue. As 
she watched, blood ran in thick pools from the wounds. Children were always so 
messy with their eating.
Still Virani could not help smiling warmly at her child. It was so good to see 
a baby suckle for the first time.
Elena fled from the setting sun. Shadows chased her and the horse across the 
meadows as she clung to Rorshaf with both fists wrapped in his black mane. Her 
mount thundered over green knolls and splashed through soggy fields. She had 
long given up trying to control the horses flight; the reins lay just beyond 
her reach, and her screamed commands had been ignored by the stallion. Fleeting 
thoughts of leaping from the saddle had passed through her mind, but a fall from 
such a height at this speed would surely break a bone if not her neck. So she 
clung with her cheek pressed to the wet mane of the horse, praying Rorshaf had 
some destination in mind.
Still, as much as her fears dwelt on the mad ride, her heart lay far behind her. 
What had befallen the others? When last she had seen Krai, the mountain man was 
collapsed in the meadow, an arrow shaft protruding from his body. There had been 
so much blood. She squeezed her eyes closed as if she could pinch the image from 
her memory. And what of her other companions?
Errils face floated like a ghost in her minds eye. He was her guardian, her 
knight, her teacher. Even as she escaped this ambush, she knew all was lost if 
Erril did not avoid this noose, too. How was she supposed to travel the lands 
of Alasea by herself? How was she to avoid the Dark Lords minions and find the 
lost city of Aloa Glen? No, she needed Erril and the others.
Pushing upright in the saddle, Elena grabbed a firmer handhold in Rorshafs 
black mane and hauled savagely on it. Stop, curse you! Stop! Tears blew off of 
her cheeks as the horse raced on. Like a flea
battling a dog, Elena fought the horse with her thin arms. She had to stop 
Rorshaf before she was carried too far away. But her will meant little to the 
war chargers drive. With twilight swallowing the hills in shadows, the stallion 
continued to thunder across the meadows.
Please, Elena cried into the fading light. Please stop. Despairing, she 
slumped and buried her face in Rorshafs mane. I dont want to be alone. Her 
last words were a moan.
Then, as if her sobs finally melted the iron heart of the horse, the cadence of 
the hoofbeats slowed from full gallop to canter to walk. Elena raised her face 
to watch the horse pull up to a wide stream blocking the way forward, its waters 
polished a silvery rose in the last of the evenings light. A scattering of 
dragonflies darted on pearlescent wings through the reeds and thrushpoles at its 
edge.
Near a solitary willow whose branches brushed the shallow waters, Rorshaf danced 
to a stop, his muscles trembling from exertion. Elena slid off the horses back, 
almost falling as her own tired muscles betrayed her. She caught herself and 
reached for the fallen lead that dangled in front of the stallion. She had to 
keep the horse walking, or he would stove up. She tugged on the lead, expecting 
the stubborn war charger to resist, but Rorshaf followed her as she walked along 
the streams edge.
A battalion of frogs plopped from the mud into the river as Elena moved ahead, 
angry croaks spreading a warning through the ranks. With the scent of water 
lilies perfuming the twilight air, meadow-larks wheeled and glided over the 
waters, catching flitting insects. Elena slapped at her arm as a rivermidge bit 
at her hot skin. Rorshaf huffed and swiped his tail at a similar plague of 
biting flies drawn by his sweating coat.
Elena kept the stallion walking, and after a time, Rorshafs trembling flanks 
began to calm. Still, she kept him moving until a small eddy from the stream 
blocked the way forward, a tiny harbor of silver waters. She let him drink from 
the still waters, but only a little. She also knew she should rub the horse down 
before night truly fell, but right now exhaustion weakened her own legs. Elena 
knelt by the waters edge on a flat stone.
Staring into the quiet stream, she could clearly see her own reflection in the 
water. She removed her gloves and raised a hand to her shorn hair. Who was this 
woman? Her face seemed so foreign, smudged with ash and char. She leaned down, 
reached a hand to the
WIT UH J1URM
stream, and splashed cool water over her brow and cheeks, trying to find the 
face of the girl who used to run wild through her familys orchards. With water 
dripping from the tip of her nose, she watched the streams disturbed surface 
quickly settle back to still. She stared into her own eyes in the wavering 
reflection. That young girl in the orchards was long gone.
As she leaned over the waters, movement caught her eye. A small pendant had 
fallen from her shirt and now dangled and swung from her neck over the water. 
She reached a hand to cup the tiny carved vial that hung from the twisted cord. 
The cord was braided from the hair of her dead aunt Fila. A rush of memories 
assaulted her: fond memories scented with cinnamon and flour from time spent in 
her aunts bakery, and foul memories full of blood and terror. Aunt Fila had 
died on the streets of Winterfell to buy Elena a chance to escape the claws of a 
skaltum.
Tears rose to her eyes. She clutched the vial tight in her right fist, jabbing a 
sharp corner in her palm and drawing blood. I need you, Aunt Fila, she called 
to her own reflection.
Elena expected no answer. She had tried many times while among Krais people to 
contact her aunt with the magicks in the amulet. She had failed each time. 
Either the elemental magicks in the vials water had seeped away, or her aunt 
was now beyond her reach. Still it brought her some small comfort to keep this 
token of her family by her heart. She squeezed the vial tighter, remembering not 
just her aunt but also her Uncle Bol, who had given her the amulet and 
instructed Elena on its use. Seek my sister in reflections, he had urged Elena 
among the ruins of the old school. If able, she will
come.
Elena let her hand drift open as a pang for all she had lost reached her heart. 
The vial, now free of her fist, swung over the waters. A drop of blood from her 
pierced palm rolled from its jade surface to strike the water with a small 
ripple. As the ripple spread, a milky light bloomed upon the surface of the 
water.
Eyes wide, Elena watched the light swirl like spilt cream. Aunt Fila? she 
whispered.
The pool of light continued to spin and spread.
Please, Aunt Fila, I need you. Elena reached to clutch the amulet again, her 
tears joining the waters.
JAMES OLEMENS
Then, like a whispered memory, the glow settled into the faint image of her lost 
aunt, the familiar face draped in swirls of light.
Elenas throat tightened with tears and emotion. She had lost so much of her 
family. The sight of her aunt awakened old wounds that had only recently healed.
The image grew clearer. The stern lines of her aunts face became distinct, her 
eyes sharp with fire. Words arose from the water, quick and urgent. Child, time 
runs short, and the distance is too great to maintain this contact for long. But 
youre in great danger. You must flee!
These were not the words of comfort Elena had expected to hear. Flee? But but 
where? Elena stuttered, the dam of tears bursting.
Hush, child. Enough of this nonsense. Wipe your face. Tears are just wasted 
salt.
Obeying her aunts words without thinking, Elena wiped at her eyes. Aunt Fila, a 
rock-hard and industrious woman, was not accustomed to argument. Even death had 
not softened her iron resolve.
Now look over your shoulder.
Elena craned her neck around. In the far distance, evening had consumed the 
higher meadow. But buried among the hills, a spattering of red flames glowed 
near the horizon.
Aunt Fila spoke behind her. The camp of your enemies. There lie your friends. 
But between you and your companions stands a creature of the foulest ilk, of the 
blackest magicks. To free them, you must defeat it.
Elena turned back to the ghost in the water. But how? My mag-ick is almost 
spent.
Her aunt frowned at her. I can sense that. Your magick is like a beacon to me. 
But it shines only feebly now, and what comes for you this night is blacker than 
the deepest pit. You cant defeat it. Not yet. You must run.
Elena sniffed back her tears. But what of the others?
They are lost.
But I cant just leave them.
You are all that matters. You must survive to reach the Blood Diary. The 
prophecy must be fulfilled!
Elena remained silent.
Aunt Filas voice softened. I know that what is asked of you is difficult. But 
hard choices were made by all to bring us to this point in history, to give us 
One chance for a new dawn in this black time. You are the lands only hope.
Elena pushed to her feet.
Good girl. Her aunts voice grew faint, and the light faded from the water. I 
cant maintain the contact any longer. Use this night to escape from here. The 
plains beyond the hills are wide with hundreds of small towns and villages. 
There you will find refuge. The light in the stream was now only a feeble glow. 
No image could be seen, but faint words still rose from the water. I love you, 
sweetheart.
Elena watched the glow completely vanish. I love you, too, she whispered to 
the dark water.
With the light gone, true night descended around her. Elena turned to face the 
mountains and meadows behind her. The camp-fires seemed brighter in the 
deepening darkness. Sorrow tightened her shoulders. With her heart heavy as a 
stone, she twisted away from the distant flames. Her aunts words echoed in her 
head: You are the lands only hope.
Elena placed a boot into Rorshafs stirrup and pulled up into the war chargers 
saddle. This time she kept the reins firmly in hand, determined not to be 
dragged once again by a panicked horse. Elena sat straight in the saddle, her 
hands clenched into hard fists as she searched her heart. She was tired of being 
hauled blindly against her will, whether by a wild horse or wild forces. It was 
time she chose her own path.
She swung her mount around to face the distant campfires. With a silent apology 
to Aunt Fila, Elena kicked Rorshafs flanks. The stallion reared, huffing 
loudly, then dug his steel-shod hooves into the mud and cantered off toward the 
clustered flames.
Prophecy be damned! Those were her friends.
Erril tested the bonds that held him fast to the wooden staije. The leather 
straps were solid, the knots tight. He tried pulling at the stake, but the pole 
was thick and had been pounded deep into the dirt. It failed to budge.
Its no use, Krai whispered from where he stood tied at a neigh-
boring pole. His right shoulder was wrapped in a bloodstained bandage, his face 
haggard.
And use caution, Meric added in a hiss. Theyll beat you if they catch you 
trying to wriggle free. The elvin, who had been captured earlier, stood staked 
beyond the mountain man, sporting a new bruise on his cheek as proof of his 
words. He nodded toward two guards who leaned on spears a few paces away. 
Dressed in green hunting cloaks and caps, both men were broad shouldered and 
hardened by years of winter camps. Songs of victory from the nearby campfires 
kept the guards distracted and masked the teams exchange of words.
Erril searched the immediate area. Mogweed was the only other of the companions 
staked here. The shape-shifter hung sullenly in his bonds, head down. Erril 
turned a worried face back to Krai. Wheres Elena and Neelahn? he asked.
They took Neelahn to question her just before you arrived. Krai lowered his 
voice, and a hard grin shone through his black beard. But Elena escaped. I sent 
her off on my war charger. Shes safe.
Erril allowed himself a sigh of relief. Where did she go?
I gave Rorshaf orders to carry her until he reached water, then stop. If 
trouble arose, he was ordered to mind the girl from there.
Your horse understood all this? Erril asked doubtfully.
Krais grin grew broader. I raised him from a foal. Hell mind my commands and 
watch over the girl.
Erril let the mountain mans words sink into his heart, but they offered little 
comfort. Horse or not, the child would not last long on her own.
Wheres the ogre? Meric interrupted, his blue eyes searching the surrounding 
meadows. And the wolf?
Erril nodded toward the wagon. They have Tolchuk trussed up tighter than a 
pig, with ropes and iron chains. I thought him dead, but he began to moan and 
thrash as they dragged him through the mud behind three horses. Hes groggy from 
the spiders poisons, but I think hell live as long as they dont take a sword 
to him.
And Fardale? Krai asked, his grin now faded.
Mogweed answered, his head still hung in defeat. My brother ran off, proving 
his cowards blood.
He had no choice, Erril argued. Hunters have no love for wolves. They would 
have surely peppered his body with arrows if given the chance.
Still, he abandoned me, Mogweed added sourly. Suddenly a screama womans 
screamsplit the night. The four men staked to poles froze. Errils first 
thought was that they were torturing Neelahn. But before rage could set him to 
struggling with his bonds, Erril saw the tiny nyphai woman being shuffled 
around a tent, escorted by two large women. Neelahns jacket was ripped, her 
violet eyes wide with fear. At spearpoint, she was driven back to an empty pole 
and lashed to it.
The stationed guards tried to get some answers from the women, but their 
questions were waved away. Its womens business, one of the escorts scolded 
as she knotted Neelahns bonds. Some commotion over at the birthing tent. 
Sounds like the lass is having a difficult birth. Once the nyphai was secure, 
the escorts gathered their spears and left.
The guards scowled at the five prisoners, then swung away. They resumed their 
post, but this time took up positions a few paces farther from the stakes and 
closer to the circle of fires, their necks craning to get a better view of the 
stirred-up camp.
Erril bent his head to meet Neelahns eyes and kept his voice quiet. Did you 
learn anything? Like who these people are and why we were attacked?
Neelahn, shivering slightly in her bonds, swallowed a few times before 
speaking. They they think we sport with demons. Someone told them we killed 
their children and corrupted the forest.
What! Who?
They didnt say. But I overheard one of the questioners, the headwoman named 
Betta, mention something about a young girl from the forest who was about to 
give birth. She seemed very anxious, as if something was going wrong. &#9632;
You think this girl might be one of our accusers?
She shrugged. Im not sure. But this Betta woman left to check on the birthing. 
And I think it was this headwoman that screamed. Something is dreadfully wrong.
Errils brow furrowed. If anything goes sour with that birth, he grumbled, I 
can guess wholl be blamed.
Krai rumbled beside Erril. I spotted hunters gathering bundles
BPl
of woodmore than is needed for their campfires. He raised his brows 
suggestively. If we dont want to burn, wed better find a way to remove 
ourselves from here.
Ill not argue with that. But how?
No one answered.
Errils mind slipped and slid over various plans. None seemed realistic. Even 
if they escaped their bonds, what of Tolchuk? Could they just abandon the 
ogre? And what of their gear? The wagon was easy to replace, but one of the 
captors had ripped the ward to Aloa Glen from Errils jacket pocket, 
absconding with the small iron-sculpted fist. How were they to proceed without 
the key to unlocking the magickal barriers to the lost city? Erril ground his 
teeth with frustration.
Hes back! Mogweeds loud squeak drew all their attentions. Even one of the 
guards glanced over his shoulder to scowl at them, but he turned quickly away as 
a second scream billowed from across the camp.
Quiet, Mogweed! Erril commanded.
The shape-shifter stood agitated in his bonds. Over there, Mogweed said with a 
nod. Behind that bush.
Erril glanced where Mogweed indicated. I dont see anything. Perhaps the 
shape-shifter was deluded by fear. Then Erril saw it, too: a pair of yellow 
eyes glowing behind the branches.
Its Fardale, Mogweed said with relief in his voice.
The treewolfs black form was indiscernible from the shadows of the high meadow 
grass and low bushes, but the intense amber eyes were unmistakable. Good. Erril 
added this new factor into the plans for escape. With the wolfs aid, perhaps 
there was a chance. Can you speak with him? Erril asked, hope beginning to 
fill his tight chest.
Mogweeds eyes were already locked upon his brothers. Fardale says hes 
scouted the campand warns it reeks of the corrupt stench hed scented before. 
Fear now shook the shape-shifters voice as Mogweed turned to face Erril. It 
its the scent of the spiders. But here the foulness has grown much stronger.
Virani was so proud of her child. Her dearest one had already grown so much 
larger as it feasted on the midwife. It sat on Auntie Dees chest, now grown as 
large as a small calf. Underneath it, the
WITCH STORM
old womans wasted flesh now clung tight to skull and bone, her many wrinkles 
gone as her sunken skin stretched flat across the bony planes of her face. How 
much younger Auntie Dee now appeared! What a fine gift Viranis child had 
granted the midwife for her work this night.
But, of course, that wasnt her childs last gift.
Now, I know youre hungry still, but we have much work to do if we are to 
prepare to catch our little witch.
Her baby craned its face toward her. Two sets of mandibles chewed at the air, 
dripping blood onto the chest of the old midwife. It mewled softly at her, its 
membranous wings vibrating. Six stalked eyes waved at her in supplication.
Virani raised a palm to her cheek. Oh, how beautiful was her child! But this 
was not the time for cuddling. Maybe later. Right now preparations must be made.
Give your auntie a kiss for helping us, honey. Be quick about it. We must 
hurry.
Her baby swung back to the old woman and buried its muzzle between the midwifes 
sagged breasts, digging through her shift and into the flesh. Virani smiled as 
she heard the ribs break. Such an obedient child.
With legs latched tight to the old womans torso, it worked its head into the 
midwifes ravaged chest to reach her heart. Virani then saw the large red 
glands at her babys throat convulse as her child delivered its final gift into 
the old midwife. Once finished with its kiss, her baby clambered off the old 
womans chest, its eight jointed legs dancing backward, its four membranous 
wings vibrating with excitement.
Auntie Dees body, which had long ago grown still as the child had fed, now 
began to twitch upon the ground. The old womans mouth opened and closed like a 
fish stranded on a dry bank. Then her glazed eyes began to glow a soft red.
Suddenly the midwife bent at the waist, sitting up. Her mouth hung slack, and a 
blackish drool dripped from her lips. Fingers flailing, her hands scrabbled 
across the floor as the babys poison spread to all corners of the dead woman.
Just then, behind Auntie Dees shoulder, Virani saw the tent flap stir. Her 
child scrambled to the side of the door as Betta bowed her way inside. Is the 
birthing done? Betta asked as she pushed the
flap of the tent wide open. The huntress straightened once through the doorway, 
but her face twisted with disgust. Sweet Mother, whats that stench?
Virani just smiled proudly. Auntie Dee tried to answer, but only a choking 
gurgle flowed from her damaged throat.
Auntie Dee? Betta approached the back of the old woman sitting among the 
tumbled pillows.
Drawn by the voice, the midwife slowly turned her head, her neck twisting all 
the way around. Her vertebrae popped and cracked like snapping branches until 
Auntie Dee faced Betta.
The huntress stared, her eyes huge with horror. She stood frozen, her hands 
fluttering around her throat like startled birds. Then Betta screamed, a 
beautiful screech that pierced the tent to fly through the camp.
Auntie Dee lurched to her feet, swinging around to return her head to its proper 
place. She stepped toward Betta on shaky legs, a gurgle still flowing from her 
bloody throat. With palsied motions, Auntie Dee pointed to her own chest as if 
to show Betta where Viranis baby had kissed her. The old womans spasming 
fingers dug at the raw-edged wound in her chest, ripping at it. Then with a 
sudden jerk, Auntie Dee tore her rib cage open.
Betta screamed a second time, but sadly it was not as piercing.
From the midwifes open chest, a spawn of black-winged scorpions burst forth. 
Each a thumbs length long, they swarmed over the panicked huntress, stingers 
jabbing. With her hands batting at the creatures, Betta fell backward out of the 
tent, coated with the scrabbling bodies of the poisonous beasts.
Naked, Virani followed, pushing aside the teetering figure of the ravaged 
midwife. Hollowed out, Auntie Dee collapsed in a rattle of bone and skin upon 
the pillowed floor. Virani ignored the old woman and crossed to the tents 
opening. She threw back the flap and found Betta lying on her back just beyond 
the doorway. The huntresss skin had already started to blacken, and her belly 
had bloated like a dead cow left too long in the summer sun.
Beyond Betta, a ring of hunters stood limned in their camps fires, faces 
stunned in horror.
Virani ignored them and spoke to Bettas still form. Now dont be selfish. 
Share the kiss, my little ones.
With her words, the swarm burst from the corpses belly in a thick
black cloud, spreading out to consume the waiting hunters. Screams rose into the 
night as ebony stingers spread their deadly kisses. A small child ran panicked 
among the fleeing legs toward Virani, tears flowing across her cheeks. Virani 
knelt to collect the frightened child in her arms. Hush, my dear, theres 
nothing to fear.
Virani pulled the child tight to her naked bosom. What a sweet little girl with 
those pretty curls! She was almost like a tiny doll. Virani covered the childs 
ears to muffle the screams of the camp. Poor thing. Children were always 
frightened by loud noises. Virani remained crouched by the sobbing child and 
waited.
It didnt take long. Around her, hunters collapsed in agonized poses to the 
flattened meadow grass, and their cries soon died away as the poisons took 
effect. Virani sighed and stood up, still carrying the child in one arm. 
Everywhere bodies lay strewn around the camp. One sorry fellow had even fled 
into one of the fires to escape the kiss of the scorpions. As the flames charred 
his bones, thick oily smoke billowed into the night sky, the smell of burning 
flesh tainting the chill breezes.
Virani scowled at his flaming form. Sweeping back her long black hair, she 
turned away from the sight and crossed toward where the prisoners were staked at 
the camps periphery. The scorpions knew her will and had left the five butchers 
of her children alone. She would deal with the murderers personally. As Virani 
maneuvered between the small cluster of tents, the child in her arms continued 
to sob. Hush, little one, she said, then lowered the child to the ground.
Too stricken with terror, the little girl collapsed to the dirt, crying and 
rocking back and forth. Virani stepped over her and continued toward the 
stakes. Now theres no reason to carry on like that, she said as she left. 
Why dont you play with my baby? You two will have fun.
Virani knew her own child had been following close at her heels, its scaled 
legs scrabbling and scritching in the dirt. As she continued onward, Virani 
heard the sobbing child scream once behind her; then there was only silence. 
Virani smiled. Every child needed a playmate. v
Now she came within sight of the five stakes.
Virani stopped behind a low tent and studied them. Four men and one woman, she 
noted. Murderers all! Her warmth and good-
will after birthing such a fine child dried to a hard knot in her gut at the 
sight of them. She stalked into the open, unashamed by her nakedness. Why should 
she be the one ashamed? Her shoulders shook with suppressed rage. She stepped 
over the blackening bodies of the two guards and kicked aside a fallen spear.
Her baby, now done playing, scurried up next to her. Its wings beat at the air 
as it tried to gain flight. Already hungry again, it mewled plaintively at her. 
Virani sighed. A mothers work was never done.
Ahead, the female prisoner gasped at the sight of Viranis baby. At least this 
small woman had the good taste to recognize the astounding beauty of the child. 
A surge of pride warmed Viranis heart. Perhaps Virani would even let the 
woman feed the baby before killing her.
Then one of the men, the prisoner with only one arm, dared to speak. Sweet 
Mother! It cant be!
Virani turned hard eyes toward the man.
Is that you, Virani? he asked, his eyes wide and shocked.
Surprise froze Virani where she stood. Even the hungry cries of her child 
seemed dull in her ears. She gazed at the bound man, seeing him clearly for the 
first time: black hair, ruddy complexion and those eyes! Those piercing eyes 
the color of stormy skies. Erril! I knew it! I knew you werent dead!
Both stared in silence at each other.
Then the huge black-bearded man cleared his throat. Erril, you you actually 
know this woman?
Erril nodded. His words were like dry leaves crumbled underfoot. Yes. Long 
ago. We were once lovers.
Elena heard the screams from the camp die quickly in the wind. What was 
happening? Fear and worry clenched her hands on the reins of her mount as she 
rode across the dark meadows. Were they the cries of her friends? She shook her 
head to dismiss such thoughts. Even from two leagues away, Elena could tell that 
many more voices were raised than were numbered in her party. Still, it was 
possible her companions voices were mixed in with that dreadful night music.
But now, nothing. Even the tree frogs and crickets had been quieted by the 
screams, as if the entire world held its breath. This abrupt silence was worse 
than the cries. Elena could almost sense death in the quietness of the night.
With the fires of the camp as a beacon, she urged the war charger to faster 
speeds, but even Rorshaf had his limits. After almost a full day of outracing 
flames, spiders, and ambushers, the horses gait could achieve only a shaky 
gallop. Still Rorshaf fought his fading heart to obey his rider, his chest 
heaving, his breath trailing in twin streams of white, like banners in the cold 
night air.
Suddenly, Rorshaf stumbled as a hoof struck an unseen obstruction. Elena twisted 
in the saddle to maintain her perch. Rorshaf, though, was a skilled crag 
stallion, and among the icy cliffs of Krais home, good balance was bred into 
the horses bones. Rorshaf caught himself up before he rolled, pulling back into 
his gallop.
With a heave, Elena hauled herself straight in the saddle. Biting her lower lip, 
she pulled back on the reins and slowed the horse to a
(AMtS
walk. She was being foolish. Her urge for speed had been a blind reaction to the 
screams. Her heart, rather than her head, had guided her actions.
Elena glanced across the fields. The sliver of moon was too pale to shed more 
than wan light across the waving grass, and pools of mist collected in the folds 
between the round hills. Racing too quickly through the dark meadows risked 
another stumble, a broken leg, or worse. And what was she hurrying toward? To 
what end? Her aunts words echoed in her head: Between you and your companions 
stands a creature of the foulest ilt, of the blackest magic^s You cant defeat 
it.
Elena pulled Rorshaf to a stop. In the far distance, near the horizon, a vague, 
reddish glow marked where thousands of embers still smoldered in the rimwood 
forest. Not far from the horizon, the fluttering flames of the nestled camp 
danced shadows across the hills. She stared, unblinking, at the fires. What was 
she to do?
The thought of turning back and obeying her aunts instructions to flee passed 
through her mind. It was not too late. She could take Rorshaf, and even in the 
horses weakened state, she was sure they could reach the distant plains by 
morning.
No! Elena waved this thought away. She would not abandon her friends. That was 
not a choice.
But then again, what were her choices?
She removed the glove from her right hand. The mark of the Rose, as Erril 
referred to her hands ruby stain, had faded with her magicks release to a pale 
sunburn. Only a little of the magicks strength still coursed through her veins. 
For a moment, she considered again the thought of dumping the residual magick 
she contained and renewing now, bringing her Rose to full bloom. Even though 
Errils warnings were fresh in her ears, fear of facing the unknown enemy with 
only a fraction of her power scared her more.
Elena found her other hand reaching and pulling free her sheathed dagger. The 
knifes bright blade caught the scant moonlight and shone like a small lamp in 
her hands, drawing Elenas eyes. She was sure the dagger was visible for 
hundreds of leagues.
The knifes brightness gave Elena reason to pause. The release of her magick 
would be a far greater beacon this night than a shining blade. If she were to 
drain her magick, all eyes would be upon her,
including the evil at the camp. Elena lowered the dagger back to its sheath. She 
was unwilling to expose herself to whatever lay in wait among the flickering 
campfires.
As she pondered her choices, a plan began to grow within her. She might be low 
in power, but there was also a certain strength in shadows and surprise. With 
luck and the cover of night, there wa.s a chance to free her friends without 
needing the power of a full Rose. Who was to say she even needed to confront the 
foul creature?
With this in mind, she climbed off the war charger. Rorshaf would be too noisy 
and large for her to creep unseen upon the camp with him. She must go on foot. 
While her mind whirled with plans, she pulled the packs and saddle off the war 
charger and walked him to cool his heated skin. Once satisfied the horses heart 
had calmed, she hurriedly rubbed him down, then tossed his lead around the thin 
bole of a scraggly meadow oak.
Stay here, she whispered at the horse.
Rorshaf pulled lightly against the tether and rolled a large eye toward her. 
Elena could tell he did not like the situation but would obey.
Elena ruffled through the packs, loading all she would need into one satchel. As 
she buckled the pack, her eyes spotted Krais ax tied to the abandoned saddle. 
Its red iron surface had been honed to a dull sheen, but no amount of grinding 
or polishing had been able to remove the black stain that marred its surfacea 
foul blemish where the blood of a skaltum had etched the metal.
Without thinking, Elena crossed to the weapon and unlashed it. Hefting the ax, 
she weighed it in her small hands. Though heavier than she could truly wield, 
its strength and sharp edge gave her comfort. Propping it over one shoulder, she 
faced the distant campfires. She would need to be as hard as the iron of the ax.
Clutching the hickory haft of the weapon, she set out toward the fires at a hard 
pace. With over a league to travel, she wanted to reach the camp while nights 
cloak still hid her. As she marched, her thoughts dwelt on her companions. Were 
they still alive? Was this dangerous journey needlessly putting herself in 
jeopardy? Her steps did not falter. In her heart, she somehow knew they lived. 
Whether this hope was wishful thinking or some invisible bond that had formed 
between her and her friends, she did not know. But she could not leave without 
the others.
JAMES LLEMENS
As she continued, the night grew colder, her white breath marking her steps, but 
the exertion of slogging through the muddy meadows kept her warm. Soon the camp 
was only an arrows flight away. She circled a bit to the right to place a large 
hill between her and the encampment. She wanted her approach to be as furtive as 
possible.
By now though, even without seeing the camps interior, she knew something was 
amiss. No snatches of voices or clatter of cooking pans echoed from the far side 
of the rise. Worse yet, a foul but familiar stench marred the nights winds: 
burning flesh. Elena found herself cringing, unnerved. She knew that stink too 
well. Tortured images of her parents wrapped in cloaks of flame bloomed in her 
minds eye. She fought these memories back. Now was not the time.
She slowed her pace as she neared the looming mound, searching its crest for 
sentries. Either they were too well hidden or no one stood guard. She crouched 
low in the tall grass as she continued toward the deeper blackness at the base 
of the bluff. From here, she must be cautious. All her plans depended on 
stealth.
Around her, the grasses lay silent. Not a bird whistled in warning; not an 
insect whirred for a mate. In the quiet, her footsteps seemed so loud, but Elena 
knew her own fears amplified the noise. Still she tried to move more carefully, 
her ears straining for any other sounds.
Her wariness allowed her to hear the whispered snap of a twig to her left. She 
spun around, raising the ax, just in time to see the large black shape 
materialize out of the grass before her, as if the shadows themselves had been 
given form. From the black hulk, fangs glowed in the scant moonlight, and sharp 
yellow eyes narrowed in warning.
A fleeting image formed in her head: Two limping wolves meet in a wood. Bact to 
bact, they face the hunters.
Elena dropped Krais ax and ran to the shape-shifter. It was Fardale! Wrapping 
her arms around his neck, she buried her face in his thick fur. She allowed 
herself a moment of relief, then pulled back. If the wolf still lived ? She 
retrieved the dropped ax. The others? she whispered at the shape-shifter. Do 
you know where they are?
Fardale swung around, then glanced back over his shoulder at her: A wolf leads 
another past a hunters hidden snares.
Elena nodded. Though she bore no siluran blood, she understood the 
shape-shifters message. Over the long winter, she had heightened her ability to 
communicate with the wolf, her magick allowing
her to forge a bond where blood did not. She waved him onward, but before 
Fardale obeyed, he sent one last image. Elenas eyes grew large, and her heart 
clenched. Before she could speak, the wolf slipped between the grasses, his form 
dissolving again into shadows. Elena followed on numb legs, the image still 
vivid in her mind: A naked woman of stunning beauty stood before a family of 
trapped wolves. From her loins, poisonous vipers flowed toward the pact.
Erril found his tongue thick in his throat. How could this be? He stared at the 
naked woman before him, her bare thighs fouled with black blood. Her face, 
achingly beautiful, was as cold as polished stone, and her ebony hair, once a 
solid drape of night, was now marred by a squirming streak of white. But worst 
of all, Erril saw madness dance in her eyes.
As he stood lashed to the stake, his mind fought to match the memories of a 
young maiden from ten winters ago with the woman who now stood before him. He 
remembered when they had first met. It had been along the harsh northern coast, 
in a town constantly shrouded in sea mists, where the air had always tasted of 
salt and ice. He recalled the young woman, a fishermans daughter who had shyly 
caught his eye as he juggled for coppers in a seaside tavern.
Inexplicably, he had found himself drawn to seek out the company of this young 
maiden. Her delicate face and silken hair had seemed so out of place among the 
wind-hardened people of these northern lands, like a soft-petaled rose growing 
in rock. He could not take his eyes from her as he juggled his flaming brands.
So after his last set on the cedar-planked stage, he retrieved his collection 
pan and the few yellow coins inside it, then shouldered his way through the 
crowd of bearded men and haggard women to reach the small woman near the back of 
the tavern.
She kept her eyes lowered demurely as he stepped before her table. Even as he 
introduced himself, she barely acknowledged his presence. When she spoke for the 
first time, her voice was as tender and soft as her skin. My name is Virani, 
she had said, her long black hair spread like wings to either side of her raised 
face. In her moist blue eyes, he saw a sadness that spoke to the emptiness in 
his own chest.
Erril sensed at that moment that they both needed each other. He
needed to step from the road for a while, and she needed a heart to call her 
own. And so they had talked well into the night and into morning.
Eventually he was introduced to her family and accepted like a long-lost son. He 
had thought to spend only a few days but discovered a certain simple pleasure in 
life by the sea. He helped repair the familys damaged boat, and before he knew 
it, days became passing moons. Viranis father taught him the nets and the 
vagaries of the sea, while her brother showed him the mysteries and wonders of 
the coast and the wet forests around them. And during all this time, he and 
Virani grew closer. Her father even seemed pleased with the choice his daughter 
had made. One-armed or not, you have a strong back and a good heart, he had 
once told Erril as they shared a pipe before the fire one evening. I would be 
proud to call you son.
It was this time spent along the northern coast, fishing and crabbing, that 
reminded him what he missed most from his distant past: the warmth and quiet 
peace of a family around him.
Words suddenly intruded on his memory, pulling him from the sea back to the 
stake in the meadow. He found himself staring into Viranis wide blue eyes. 
Why did you leave me? Madness and darkness now lay behind those eyes that had 
once shone with love. Her voice rose toward hysteria, one hand reaching up to 
tug at the white streak in her hair. You knew I was with child. Your child!
Erril looked away from her. I didnt mean to hurt you, he mumbled. And he 
hadnt. Time and the warmth of her family had eventually healed the hollowness 
in Errils chest. Cured of his road-weary sickness, he had come to his senses 
and knew he had to leave. Among Viranis family, he had gained the peace he 
needed, but at what cost? Viranis pregnancy had finally forced Erril to 
recognize the selfishness of his actions. He would never age, but Virani and 
his child would. He knew his path was not the way of home and children. That 
road was for men who aged, for men who grew old with their wives, not for a man 
who had lived hundreds of winters and who might live hundreds more. No, the 
empty road was his only true home.
So, knowing that to delay any further would only hurt Virani worse, he staged 
his own death. One day, he had set out on a small boat as a storm approached and 
simply never returned, letting his death be blamed on the cruel mistress of the 
northern coast.
I didnt understand, he said now, struggling to explain. I thought
Virani interrupted, her eyes far away in the past. My father was so ashamed of 
me! To be with child and without a husband. After you disappeared into the sea, 
my father dragged me off to an old crone in the hills. She gave me a potion of 
crushed leaves that cramped my belly. Her face winced as if recalling this 
pain. The blood. So much blood! The potion stole the child from my body. My 
poor sweet child.
Errils heart grew cold with her words.
But I had heard rumors, she said, her eyes bright, of a one-armed juggler far 
to the south. I knew it had to be you! I knew you couldnt be dead. So after a 
handful of days, once I stopped bleeding, I fled from the old crones hut and 
went to seek for you. From village to village, I searched. Viranis voice 
cracked with her next words, as if the memories hurt her even to speak of them 
again. Then one evening on the road, he found me. Black wings, teeth, the 
hissing of snakes. He snatched me up and took me to his dungeons. Tears rolled 
down her face as emotions warred within her trembling body. She turned wild eyes 
upon him. Hate and hurt mixed in her twisting expression. Where were you? Why 
didnt you protect me? I couldnt stop him!
Erril looked away from her. Im sorry, he whispered, but even to him the 
words sounded hollow.
Her face hardened. She wiped brusquely at her tears, her eyes narrowing as if 
seeing him for the first time. I dont need your pity, Erril. The Black Heart 
was kinder to me than you. She laughed sharply and pointed to her feet. In his 
dungeons, his winged beast came to me one night and granted me this gifta new 
baby to replace yours.
About her legs capered a creature of nightmare. The size of a large dog, it was 
all wings, jointed legs, and gnashing jaws. From its black maw, poison dripped 
and flowed, hissing where it struck the mud.
Errils eyes widened with horror.
Here is a love that wont abandon me! she said, then turned to the foul beast. 
Why dont you give Erril a little kiss? For old times sake.
The creature mewled, its eight legs digging at the mud. Stalked eyes swung 
toward him; then the beast scrambled in Errils direction.
Though he recognized the horror of what approached, a larger dismay gripped his 
heart. He should never have just abandoned Virani. He was as much to blame for 
the tortured woman before him as anyone. Erril closed his eyes and leaned his 
head against the pole, ignoring the creature as it reached his legs and snuffled 
at his boots like a hound on a scent.
And which of them, the Dark Lord or himself, had treated Virani more cruelly?
In his heart, Erril was afraid he already knew the answer.
Elena crouched in hiding along the bank of a swollen creek, clutching the ax in 
her hands. The gurgling water masked any sounds around her, making her nervous 
and edgy, and the occasional croak of a mud frog made her jump with each 
eruption.
Shivering from more than just the cold, she clenched her teeth until her jaw 
ached. Where was Fardale? He had left her buried in a patch of scrubby hawthorn 
bushes beside the flowing stream as he checked the way forward. Though she knew 
her fears stretched her perception of time, she was sure the wolf had been gone 
longer than necessary. Had something happened?
She pushed higher on her knees and peered between the branches of the bushes. 
The flames of the campfires lit the darkness just beyond the shoulder of the 
hill ahead. From where she spied, it seemed as if she were alone in the meadows.
As her ears strained, she occasionally heard snatches of words barked from where 
the fires crackled. But maybe it was just her imagination. She sank back deeper 
into cover and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. The longer she 
waited, the more certain she was that failure would be the only outcome of this 
nights venture. Who was she to think she could free the others? Her companions 
had far more strength and skill than she, yet they had still been captured.
Her mind fought for any plan, but none seemed sound.
As despair and worry settled around her heart, a rustling of grass sounded from 
behind her. She swung around and saw the familiar
vv l T c H STORM
black shadow slink along the creek bank toward her, yellow eyes ablaze. A sigh 
of relief escaped her throat.
The treewolf glided toward her. Elena saw he carried something in his jaws. It 
glinted in the moonlight. When he reached her hiding spot, he dropped the object 
in the mud of the bank, then crossed to lap silently from the creek.
She studied the muddy object, a puzzled look on her face. Why had the wolf 
brought her this? She had to remind herself that Fardale was no simple dog; a 
keen mind lay behind his wolfish features. She leaned closer to the object, and 
then like the dawn rising after a stormy midnight, a plan grew in her mind. She 
stood up suddenly. Of course! She held her breath, daring herself to believe it 
possible. She gripped the ax firmer in hand and allowed a small hope to beat 
back her despair.
Fardale crossed back to her, his eyes expectant. She knelt on one knee and 
hugged him for the second time that night. Thank you, Fardale, she whispered 
in his ear.
He licked her once on the cheek, acknowledging her gratitude, then pulled from 
her grip. His eyes glowed at her, and images flowed: A wolf who lags behind the 
pact is attached by the stalling bear. She nodded, knowing they needed to 
hurry.
After a final intent stare, as if weighing her resolve, Fardale swung around on 
his paws and led the way back up the bank.
Elena quickly collected the glinting object from the mud and followed.
Neelahn watched the spider beast spread its four wings, each over an arms 
length long. In the firelight, flows of black iridescence ran like oil over 
their membranous surfaces. It shuffled back from Errils legs, mewling in what 
could only be pained hunger. Neelahn sensed that the creature was in its 
infancy, a pupa with legs, that its true adult form had yet to be seen. Only by 
feeding could it force its body to its next stage.
Her arms struggled for some weakness in the knots that secured her, but the 
ropes were thick and well tied. Even Krai, his face red with effort, could not 
budge the stubborn restraints. The other two men, Meric and Mogweed, seemed 
resigned to the uselessness of
i
fighting their bonds. Meric stood straight in his ropes, his eyes scowling, 
while Mogweed simply cringed.
Neelahn stopped battling her ropes, recognizing that muscle and bone would not 
win this night. Still, she was not ready to give up. Not yet. Perhaps with wits 
and cunning
Then suddenly it was too late.
The creature, which had settled into a motionless crouch, legs bunched under it, 
burst forward in a blur of wings and scrabbling limbs. It leapt at Erril.
The plainsman gasped as the spider beast slammed into his chest. Eight legs 
latched around Errils torso, clamping him even tighter to the wooden pole. The 
spiked ends of the beasts legs dug into the wood. Errils face purpled from 
the constriction, and for the first time since meeting him in Winterfell, 
Neelahn saw fear in the mans eyes.
The demoness named Virani cackled with glee, her lips pulled back in a feral 
grin. Kiss him, my sweet! she encouraged her creature. . Neelahn knew that 
any chance lay in immediate action. The words leapt from her lips. Stop! Call 
off your beast!
Virani swung her poisonous gaze toward the nyphai.
Neelahn continued before she lost her resolve. The Dark Lord would not want 
you to kill Erril.
The demoness took a step closer to Neelahn. And why is that? You think you 
know of my masters wishes?
From the corner of her eye, Neelahn saw the spider beast lowering its twin 
gnashing jaws toward the plainsmans throat, but she kept her gaze fixed on 
Virani. I know the Black Heart wants the girl child, Neelahn told her. More 
than anything, he wants the witch.
These words seemed to reach through the womans madness. Viranis sharp, 
mocking smile faded.
Only Erril knows her whereabouts, Neelahn lied. Kill him and you lose any 
chance of discovering where he has hidden her.
Virani made a soft noise at the foul creature, and the beast froze, obedient, 
its jaws only a fingers breadth from the skin of Errils neck. Neelahn could 
see worry and doubt weaken the gleam of vengeance in the demoness. Virani 
seemed to shrink in on herself. She backed a step away.
The witch Yes, the witch. One of Viranis hands wandered like a lost 
kitten to her hair, playing with its black strands. We must
WIT CH STORM
get the witch for my lord. I mustnt fail him. Her eyes wandered back to 
Erril. Well play afterward.
Neelahn allowed her clenched muscles to relax a breath. Sweet Mother, it had 
worked.
She watched Virani step to the beast and raise a single finger to caress one of 
its quivering wings. Now, now, get down from there. We mustnt hurt Erril at 
least not yet.
Neelahn watched with relief as the creature pulled its legs from the wood one 
at a time and climbed off its perch. It shook its wings in frustration and 
screamed at the night. Its screechthe voice of the dark beyond the 
firelighttouched upon the ancient fears buried in the marrows of all living 
creatures. Neelahn found her knees weakening at the sound.
Thankfully, Virani soothed and quieted the creature with a palm upon its back. 
Hush now, no tantrums. I know youre hungry. The demoness raised her arm and 
pointed. Go feed.
Neelahns eyes flew wide in horror. In a flutter of wings and scratching legs, 
the beast sprang at her.
Thank you for reminding me of my duty, Virani said. As reward, you may take 
Errils place.
The back of Neelahns head cracked into the pole as the spider beast crashed 
upon her. It latched its eight jointed legs around her, pinning and encasing her 
small form from ankle to chest. Tiny lights danced across Neelahns vision from 
the blow to her skull, but the spinning sparks were too weak to block the sight 
of the frothing jaws diving toward her neck.
As the beast tore open Neelahns throat, pain drove her quickly into oblivion. 
Only the tiniest moan escaped Neelahns lips as she died, a soft sighing note 
carried away in the wind.
Elena crept through horror. Bodies lay like scattered firewood around the camp. 
Not only men and women, but also children and gray-haired elders. Their 
blackened bellies had bloated like ripe melons, and small creatures could be 
seen squirming under their stretched skins. Elena kept her eyes away, steeling 
her heart, lest fear chase her off. Only the animals had been spared. Around 
her, horses nickered nervously and dogs slinked between the tents with lowered 
heads, as if fearing the strike of a stern hand. The surviving beasts shied from 
her as the large treewolf led the way. None of the hounds contested their 
passage.
She continued creeping through the outskirts of the camp. Fardale seemed to be 
circling around the tents, aiming for the eastern edge of the camp. From there, 
she could now definitely hear snatches of raised voices. Some few had survived. 
But who?
Clutching Krais ax in her left hand, her palm grew slick on its hickory handle. 
Hidden in a pocket near her heart was the muddy object Fardale had stolen from 
the camp. Its weight helped firm her resolve. She could do this, she kept 
intoning in her head. She stepped over the ravaged body of a child, keeping her 
eyes averted. She must stay strong, keep control. Her right hand was clenched 
into a fist, empty but not weaponless. Elena had bloodied her hand with the 
witchs dagger, and soft coruscations of power lapped and danced around her 
wounded fist as she held her power at bay.
She was ready.
Elena stepped around a tent and found Fardale crouched just
ahead. He flashed his eyes toward her. The forest cat prowls low in the brush to 
surprise the rabbit.
Elena crouched lower, almost crawling, as Fardale padded silently away. With the 
heavy ax cradled on her shoulder, she tried her best to keep up with Fardale, 
but the wolfs paws floated across the trampled grass and mud, and a gap quickly 
grew between her and the wolf. Biting her lower lip, she struggled with her back 
bent after the fading black shadow. Ahead, Fardale vanished beyond the corner of 
the last tent.
She hurried after him, but when she reached this last tent, she paused. Beyond 
the corner lay only open meadow with nowhere to conceal oneself. Holding her 
breath, she peeked around the edge of the deer-hide tent. What she saw there 
almost caused her to lose control of her tightly held magicks.
Five poles were staked into the ground with her friends lashed to them. A 
creature of sick dreams climbed away from one of the posts. It was all wing, 
black scale, and jointed legs. And before them all, watching with intensity, 
stood a slender, naked woman draped in long black hair, a single lock etched a 
milky white. The woman seemed to sense Elenas eyes upon her and turned in her 
direction. The womans face was as white as her moonlit lock and as cold as a 
sunless cave. Elena darted back behind the tent before the womans eyes spotted 
her.
She shivered, not from the sight of the woman or the creature, but from what 
else she had seen for that brief moment. It could not be! Yet Elena knew it was 
true. Though what stood lashed to the last pole was just loose skin and brittle 
bone, she recognized the honey blond hair and the green shift that adorned the 
desiccated figure. It was Neelahn.
Elena could not stop the tears. She huddled behind the tent and held her bloody 
fist before her mouth, trying to keep her sobs from being heard. She had come 
too late! Neelahn was dead.
A cold voice rose from beyond the tent. Elena knew it came from the strange 
woman. Now, Erril, where is the witch?
Ill tell you nothing, Virani. You can kill us all.
Oh, Erril, you never did understand me. I didnt kill the little blond woman 
to threaten you. These others truly mean nothing to me. Theyre just food for my 
baby. My master has given me a tool to extract the information from you, with or 
without your consent but the method is so messy.
JAMtS
Ill not betray the child.
But, Erril, youre so good at abandoning children. Even your own.
The witch is beyond your reach, Virani. I hid her well. She is beyond even 
the reach of the Gulgothal lord.
Elena trembled where she hid. Erril was lying. But why? As soon as she wondered 
this, the answer came to her. Erril must know about her flight atop Rorshaf and 
thought her halfway to the plains by now. With his deceptive wrangling, he hoped 
to extend her lead. He was willing to sacrifice himself and the others just to 
buy her extra time.
She could not let him make this sacrifice, especially since it was a useless 
gesture. She was not racing across the plains in flight. She was here. Their 
deaths would do no good.
The woman continued speaking. Maybe you tell the truth, Erril, but I will 
still find where you sent her. But first, my baby is still so hungry. Isnt that 
so like children? They eat until theyre full, and moments later theyre crying 
for more.
Elena heard a keening mewl rise from the meadows that made her flesh crawl. It 
sounded like the plaintive wail of a lamb she had once found ravaged by a 
bandicat, a cry full of blood, pain, and the certainty of death.
My baby must grow strong to take wing and hunt down your wit en.
Elena pulled to a crouch and wiped the tears for Neelahn from her eyes. No more 
would be sacrificed this night. Blood from her fingers stung her eyes as she 
wiped her cheeks clearand with her bloods touch, the world changed around her. 
She saw with new eyes. The magick in her blood had cast some minor spell upon 
her vision. She could now see inside the flesh of her hand and view the blaze of 
azure light trapped within, opening her eyes to the flows of magick inside her.
The womans icy voice cut through Elenas moment of wonder. Now go feed, my 
sweet. Why dont you try that big man over there? He looks strong and will feed 
you well.
Elena lowered her blazing hand and stood. She must stop this slaughter. Now was 
not the time for stealth and shadows, but something bolder something riskier. 
It was now time to make a stand.
So, once again, where is this witch of yours, Erril?
I told you
H J 1UKM
Hefting the ax over a shoulder, Elena stepped from behind the tent. Here I am, 
she answered calmly. Her quiet words rang clear in the hushed and deadly night. 
You want a witch? Im here.
Erril watched the girl step forward, shock and horror sqtjeez-ing the breath 
from his chest. Elena had Krais ax over her left shoulder, and blue crackles of 
power sparked about her right fist. The child obviously did not know what she 
faced. Neither weapon she bore was strong enough to vanquish the twin threats 
here. Between Viranis twisted spirit and the spider beast, Elena had no chance 
to win this night, and with the others bound tight, none could come to her aid.
As Elena approached, Erril saw that the childs cheeks were bloody, and a 
strange azure glow shone from her eyes. What new magick was this?
Why, look! Erril, your little lost sheep has wandered home, Virani commented 
casually. My master taught me much about her witchery and magick. And I can 
tell you thisfrom the hue of her hand, shes rather weak right now. At least 
the deaths of my children in the forest werent a total waste.
Erril could not contest Viranis words. Get back, Elena! he called. Its a 
trap!
Krai and Meric echoed his words. Only Mogweed stayed silent, cowering and 
trembling.
Elena ignored them all, not even looking in their direction. She concentrated on 
Virani. Get your monster away from Krai, Elena said with fire in her voice.
The spider beast had frozen at the sudden appearance of the girl. An arms 
length from Krais boots, the creature crouched unmoving. The large red poison 
sacs on either side of its head pulsed like foul hearts.
My baby? Virani answered. But the sweet things not finished growing yet and 
needs more nourishment. She waved a hand, and the spider beasts legs again 
began to move in Krais direction.
Then you leave me no choice. Elena lifted the ax in both hands and threw the 
heavy blade with the strength of both shoulders. It arced toward the spider 
beast. Erril was amazed that the ax flew as fast and as sure as it did. He 
suspected some of the girls magick must
JAMES bLEMENS
be behind the power of the throw. Still, as Erril had judged, neither was a 
match for the evil in this meadow. The spider beast darted to the side, and the 
ax missed, landing between Errils and Krais stakes, burying its blade deep in 
the mud.
Viranis eyes had followed the axs path with a momentary wince; then she 
laughed loudly when it landed harmlessly. She spoke to the ax. Goodness, she is 
a feisty one, isnt she?
With Viranis attention diverted, Erril noticed Elena stare intensely at him 
for the first time, obviously wanting something of him. Once she had caught his 
eye, the girl slipped an object from her breast pocket and hurriedly rolled it 
toward his stake. Glinting in the moonlight, it bounced and tumbled across the 
grass to land near his toes. He studied the muddy object, his eyes wide. How 
did ?
Unfortunately, Elenas secretive movements did not completely escape Viranis 
attention. Now what are you up to? Keeping her eyes on Elena, she backed 
toward Errils stake. Whats this little love note shes passing to you?
As Virani glanced closer to the object, bending slightly away from Elena, the 
child pointed toward the ax. Erril suddenly understood. But could he make it 
work again? From the corner of his eye, Erril saw Krai struggle with the spider 
beast as it reached his legs and climbed upon him. With what little movement 
Krai could manage with his ropes, the mountain man kept jabbing his knees at the 
creatures belly to keep it unsettled, but this battle would not last long. 
Erril concentrated on the object at his toes. He must make it work.
How cute! Virani said, leaving the muddy object untouched. Its a tiny iron 
sculpture. I thought it was a rose at first, but now I see its just a small 
fist. She faced Elena again. Not very romantic, my dear.
Elena backed a few steps away, raising her red fist high in the air. Crackles of 
power blazed in the night.
Virani followed. Very pretty. Now see what I can do. With a long, sharp 
fingernail, she sliced a deep cut in her forearm. Blood welled quickly, but 
Virani smeared it over her chest and face before it could drip to the mud. 
Instead of staining her skin red, the blood seemed to draw shadows to her flesh. 
About Viranis form, inky pieces of night coalesced around her, drawn to her 
naked skin and clinging to her like a lovers caress. She now wore the darkness 
like a shield.
I will give you one last chance to free my friends, Elena said, seemingly 
unfazed by the demonstration of Viranis power.
Or what? By now, shadows trailed and roiled around Virani like serpents. As 
they grew in strength, the meadow dimmed, the shadows sucking hungrily at the 
fire and moonlight. The shadows themselves soon crackled with black flames. You 
think you can douse the darkfire that the Black Heart has granted me?
Lets find out, Elena answered. She backed farther away, leading Virani with 
her.
Its too late to run, my dear.
Struggling to shut out the womens warring words, Erril closed his eyes. He 
knew the girl was just trying to buy him time, keeping Virani distracted. He 
must not lose this chance. Elena needed his help. With his heart pounding in his 
throat, he recalled his battle with the rockgoblins. How had he made the ward 
work? He remembered the boys name, the one whose fist lay carved in iron before 
him, the one he had slain long ago. / need you, he whispered in his mind. He 
formed*the boys name on his lips: I need you, Denal.
With the silent utterance, his shoulder stump suddenly bloomed with a searing 
fire. He gasped as he hung in the ropes, his legs weak with the flare of pain. 
Then just as quickly the agony vanished. Yet all was not as it had been. Erril 
now sensed the presence of a phantom arm attached to his shoulder, like a 
distant memory of his old limb of flesh and bone. He opened his eyes and saw the 
iron fist floating in the air before him. It was again his own fist, attached at 
the end of his phantom arm. He stretched and flexed his hand and watched the 
sculpted ward obey, iron fingers opening and closing to his command. He clenched 
the hand back to a fist. He had done it!
Lowering the iron hand, he saw that Elena had managed to draw Virani out of 
sight behind the tents. He could hear their voices raised in challenge. He must 
not waste the slim chance the girl had won.
A groan to his right drew Errils attention. Krai was losing his battle with 
the spider beast. The creature now straddled the mans large chest, scrabbling 
to secure its position, its legs digging into Krais flesh, With his phantom arm 
and iron fingers, Erril reached and grabbed the hickory handle of the ax. 
Pulling with a force stronger than his real limb, he hauled the blade up from 
the mud and lashed out at the beast.
He only managed to smack it with the flat of the blade, but it
proved enough. Caught by surprise, the beast was knocked clear of Krai. In a 
flurry of wings and tangled legs, it landed on its back.
Swing around, Erril hissed at Krai. Your ropes!
Krai twisted his body around the pole to expose the cords that bound his arms 
and shoulders. Hurry! he spat back at Erril. Nearby, the creature was already 
righting itself, shaking out its disturbed wings. From its two jaws, a scream of 
fury pierced the night.
Sweat beaded his brow as Erril swiftly swung the ax. With two swipes, Krai 
stood in a tangle of severed ropes.
The spider beast leapt at Krais throat, but the mountain man drove a fist the 
size of a small boulder into the creatures face, knocking it away from him. 
Begone, you foul-faced dunghill, he shouted. The beast rolled into the higher 
meadow grass.
Erril freed the mountain mans legs. Take the ax, he called, giving up any 
pretense of subterfuge. Get me out of these ropes.
Krai obeyed, accepting the ax from Errils iron fist. The mountain man moved 
with grace and speed, using his huge ax like an extension of his arm.
Erril shook off his ropes.
Get me out of here, too! Mogweed whined loudly.
Erril pointed at the shape-shifter. Free Mogweed and Meric but the three of 
you keep that beast here! Im going after Virani and the girl.
Wait, Krai warned. His eyes were on the edge of the grass line. Here it comes 
again.
The beast leapt from the meadows edge. Its stalked eyes were aglow with red 
rage; green poison dripped and sizzled from its slathering jaws. But it seemed 
shaky on its legs, teetering as if blown by strong winds. Its body shuddered, 
and its swollen belly convulsed. It screechednot with rage but with pain.
Somethings wrong, Krai mumbled.
Get me out of here! Mogweed cried again, spittle shining on his lips.
Meric spoke for the first time, his words directed at Mogweed. Fool, keep your 
tongue still.
The beast seemed attracted by their voices and took a scatter of steps toward 
them, then suddenly stopped as if unsure. Its eyestalks waved erratically, and 
it began to wobble on its legs. It tried to take another step but instead 
toppled to the ground. It scrabbled at the
mud, and its wings fluttered weakly for several heartbeats. Then, after a final, 
violent shudder, it lay limp. The glow faded and died in its eyes.
Its dead, Mogweed said, his words both a question and a statement of relief.
But what killed it? Krai asked.
Erril ignored the question and the mystery. Elena was more important. He waved 
Krai toward the two men still roped to the poles as he turned to leave. Free 
them, but dont be so sure the beast is dead. Watch it closely.
Erril turned to leave, but before he could step away, Mogweeds voice quaked. 
L-l-look!
Erril glanced back. The beast lay quiet, its eyestalks limp and dead, but now 
its wings had begun to dry and curl like sun-seared leaves, and its eight legs 
withdrew into its black body. With these transformations, its belly section 
swelled, and something inside its poisonous heart began to thrash and squirm.
Get me out of these ropes! Mogweed squealed.
Krai was already there, slicing the shape-shifters bindings. Whats 
happening? Krai asked as he moved to free the elvin from his ropes.
Erril stood frozen in indecision. Its molting, he said. Shedding into its 
new form. Erril knew he should leave this matter to Krai. But Mogweed would be 
of no aid to the mountain man, and Meric was still too weak from his daylong 
manipulation of the winds to be of any real help. Erril paused. He feared 
pursuing Elena without first seeing what manner of monster was at his back.
He did not have long to wait.
The skin and scale of the spider beasts belly split open, and from its heart, 
an oily green mist blew into the night, glowing like some sick fungus on 
moldering wood. Erril sensed that one whiff of that oily fog would kill 
instantly. All four men backed farther away from the carcass.
What squirmed free from its dead shell plopped, steaming, onto the mud of the 
meadow. Pale skinned, like the belly of a dead snake, it lay curled, a moist 
bundle on the mud. Here it was at its most vulnerable, but the fog of poisonous 
mist hung around it like a protective barrier.
The men could only watch as it began to uncurl, arms stretching out, knees 
bending free. It rolled to face them, swiftly gaining its
lames Clemens
bearing and strength. What crouched before them was no weak babe, fresh from a 
womb. Instead, cunning already shone in its eyes. It swung its feet under itself 
and stood on its two bare legs to face them.
Sweet Mother, Krai swore near Errils shoulder, amazement thick in his voice. 
He lowered the ax he had been about to hurl.
Before them rose a wonder. Long black hair framed a face of soft skin and full 
lips, breasts the size of ripe apples, and a slim waist above long, shapely 
legs. Her simple beauty shone forth like a beacon from all the horror of her 
birth. Not only did she share her mothers beauty, she was her mothers twin.
It was Virani, born again.
Sweet Mother! Krai swore again, backing now in horror, his ax clutched tight.
From behind this beautys shoulders, membranous wings spread forth, all bone and 
leather. Black blood could be seen coursing through the thick vessels in her 
wings. A feral smile spread the she-demons lips to reveal rows of sharpened 
teeth. A red tongue, longer than an arm, slithered from between pointed fangs, 
curling about her face like an angry viper. She hissed at them and raised hands 
that sprouted razored claws, a sick green oil sheening their tips. What stood 
before them was a creature of pure poison.
Erril groaned. I thought her mad deluded
What? What is that thing? Krai asked as they backed another step, raising his 
ax protectively.
The Dark Lord He he finally succeeded in mating a human with a skaltum, 
mixing human blood with the lineage of the dreadlords. This creature this 
monster truly is Viranis child.
The cursed beast crouched lower on its legs, arms and wings raised high.
Watch out! Meric called from behind their shoulders.
They all retreated in a bunch.
It called after them, its voice a hissing cackle. Now why are you all running 
away? It leapt toward them. Come give usss a little kissss.
Elena continued to back farther into the heart of the camp. Once again she was 
among the litter of bloated and blackened corpses and had to be careful where 
she placed each foot as she retreated from the demoness. The air stank of smoke, 
blood, and excrement.
Had she bought the others enough time? Elena could not know for sure, so she 
continued her slow retreat, drawing Virani with her.
She studied the woman. The demoness lay wrapped in shadows, her pale skin 
roiling and flowing with inky blackness while ebony flames of darkfire danced 
across her skin.
Yet that was not all Elena saw. With the trace of blood magick still tinting her 
vision, Elena could spy deeper within the demoness. Buried in the womans chest, 
a tiny white flame flickered. Already this night, Elena had seen such flames 
near the hearts of her two friends, Meric and Krai, and recognized these tiny 
blooms of energy.
It was elemental magick!
Viraniunknown perhaps even to herselfwas an elemental! Of what forces, Elena 
could not fathom. But the small white flame was not alone in the womans chest. 
Around this tiny flicker, a maelstrom of black magicks roiled, drawing 
sustenance from this sweet flame just as the flames of darkfire dancing on 
Viranis skin drew energies from the firelight and moonshine.
This roiling force made Elenas stomach sicken and set her heart to pounding. 
Black energies seemed to fill Viranis entire body, from the tip of each finger 
down to each toe. How could Elena ever think of defeating this creature? She 
backed another step. If only she could keep the woman distracted until Erril 
came to her rescue. Maybe the two of them together could
Virani spoke from within her shadows, startling Elena. I think Im done 
herding you, little lamb. Ive got you where I want you.
Herding her? The words made Elenas heart grow cold. What did she mean?
Virani waved her arm, and darkfire blazed forth from the womans fingertips. 
Elena winced and raised her crackling fist like a shield, but the assault was 
not directed at her. Black flames arced forth from Viranis hand to dance 
across the corpses around her, igniting them. The fires touch upon their 
blackened flesh was like the touch of life upon a seed. The swollen bellies of 
the dead hunters burst wide, releasing a swarm of black scorpions into the 
meadow. Some scuttled in the mud toward her, while others were winged and took 
flight in tiny black clouds.
One scorpion, with its stinger raised, scrambled toward her toes. Elena waved a 
hand at it as if warding it away. A drop of blood flew
from her fingertip and struck its armored back. The scorpion blew apart into 
gray mist and vanished. Elena stared, wide eyed, for a heartbeat. Sweet Mother, 
her blood could kill!
She danced back from the approaching army of scorpions.
Unfortunately this put her closer to Virani. See, the Horde doesnt want you 
to leave either, the woman said gleefully.
Elena ignored her, an idea forming in her head. She clamped her left hand around 
her right wrist and squeezed. Blood from her wounded palm bled faster, dripping 
down a single finger. Elena spun in a slow circle, seeding the ground with fine 
drops of her blood, creating a circle around her.
What are you doing, child? Virani had stepped closer and reached a hand 
toward Elena. Where the womans fingers crossed the ring of blood, her nails 
began to smoke. Virani yanked her hand away and rubbed at her fingers. Now 
that wasnt very nice.
Scorpions swarmed toward Elena from all directions, both on the ground and in 
the air. The night was thick with their buzzing wings and chattering claws. But 
whenever the poisonous beasts reached her barrier, they vanished in puffs of 
mist. Soon, a thickening gray fog began to build around her from the number of 
vanquished scorpions.
Elena cringed within her small island. How long would her power keep them at 
bay?
Now where did you learn to form a mage ring? Virani asked, her voice only 
mildly irritated. She waved a hand and halted the assault of scorpions. The 
beasts stopped their approach, waving their claws and slashing their tails in 
agitation. A writhing sea of armored scale and stingers surrounded her, only a 
bootstep from her toes. What a nuisance, Virani said sourly. Scorpions 
clambered over the womans bare feet, and a few winged ones landed in her hair. 
She kept plucking them out.
You you dont know half my power, Elena boasted. She raised her hand and 
pointed it at Virani. It was with some small satisfaction that Elena saw 
Virani take a step back.
Then the demoness seemed to collect herself and pushed a strand of black hair 
away from her face. Perhaps youre right, but within your ring, youre trapped. 
If you unleash your magicks, youll break the seal. She shrugged. So right 
now, I cant get to you, and you cant get to me. But with sunrise, the spell 
will break, and my Horde will be
waiting. She waggled a few fingers at Elena. I guess Ill leave you to their 
care. Besides, Id best check on your friends and make sure theyre all 
comfortable. I wouldnt want to be known as a poor host.
Elena trembled where she stood. Her knees felt as if they might give out at any 
moment. What was she to do? She watched Virani swing away from her and step 
casually through the sea of scorpions. Elena clenched her fists. Where was 
Erril?
Erril swung his iron fist, using the full strength of his phan-tom arm, and 
smashed it into the leering she-demons face. Her head bounced back, and the 
force of the blow shoved her an arms length away.
Her wings snapped angrily at the air. That hurt! she said, but she seemed 
otherwise unharmed by the massive blow. The dark magicks of the skaltum 
protected even this mixed-blood creature.
Krai stepped up next. You think that hurt! He swung his ax in a mighty arc 
toward her neck, but she was quick as a snake and darted back from his blow. 
Krai barely managed to catch his balance to avoid the parrying swipe of her 
clawed hand. He danced back from her.
They again stood staring across a narrow space at each other. Meric and Mogweed 
had retreated a few paces farther back, leaving the fight to Erril and Krai.
Any ideas? Krai hissed at Erril.
I dont know. Shes the first of her kind.
I just need one good strike, Krai said. My blade is still tainted with the 
blood of the skaltum from last autumn. Itll penetrate her dark protections.
Yes but can you do it? Shes smaller than one of her full-blooded brethren, 
but shes just as tough and much faster.
If we attack togetheryou go in low and Ill go in high.
The creature laughed sibilantly at them.  You go in low and Ill go in high, 
 she mimicked them. Besidesss toughness, I also have the hearing of one of my 
full-blooded brethren.  She cackled again at them and tossed back her hair.
Even this small gesture reminded Erril of her birthmother. How much else of 
Virani was in this monstrous being? You may be half skaltum, he said, 
pleading to that part of her that might be Virani, but you are also half 
human. We dont need to fight.
Who sssaid you had to fight? Im not a cat. Id prefer if I didnt have to play 
with my meal first. You could just stand there.
With a snap of wing, she leapt at them.
The attack was so sudden Erril could only manage a glancing punch to the 
demons shoulder; still, it was a lucky blow. The strike sent her spinning on 
one clawed foot. Erril ducked under her wing as Krai struck out with his ax. 
While rolling to the side, Erril saw the iron blade strike home, a clean blow 
to the side of her head. But Krais ax bounced harmlessly from the beasts cheek 
without even raising a bruise. The rebounding ax tumbled from Krais startled 
hands. The mountain man tripped backward in a hurried retreat.
Fortunately, the force of the blow had knocked the she-demon to a knee, so she 
was unable to immediately attack. Erril helped Krai to his feet. The ax now lay 
at the demons heels.
She rubbed her jaw and turned poisonous eyes toward them. You were right, 
mountain man, that does hurt more.
Why How ? Krai stammered, obviously struck dumb at the lack of damage from 
his blow.
Didnt you know the rulesss? she said sadly. Im a newborn.
Erril groaned. He suddenly knew why the ax had failed to bite. They were in 
horrible trouble.
What does she mean? Krai asked.
I didnt think Its been so long.
What?
Tell him, the she-demon hissed, pushing back to her feet. He should know what 
he facesss.
Erril pulled Krai farther back. When the skaltum are newborns, theyre gifted 
with a thicker layer of dark magicks. Its to better protect their young.
Then how do we harm it?
We cant. Not even sunlight will weaken its protection. Only after a newborn 
kills its first prey, thus proving its strength, will its dark magicks become 
vulnerable. Erril nodded toward the she-demon. She must feed before she can 
be harmed. And I can think of only one way to do this.
How?
Erril darted a glance over his shoulder toward Meric and Mogweed, then faced 
Krai with worried eyes. One of us will have to sacrifice ourselves to her.
Wait, Elena called to Viranis back.
The naked woman stopped her casual stroll through the sea of scorpions and 
turned back toward Elena, grinding one of her creatures under her heel as she 
swung around. What is it, child? Ive work to do.
Elenas mind scrambled for some way to delay Virani. Erril and the others 
could not have escaped yet, or the plainsman would be here by now. She must earn 
them more time. Ignoring the sea of scorpions at her toes, she studied the 
maelstrom of black energies seething and surging within the body of the 
demoness. Her own fist crackled with only the mildest tempest of blue coldfire, 
a mere summer squall compared to the raging storm within Virani.
Elenas eyes suddenly narrowed in suspicion. How was it that Virani had such 
power? From the way all the others had talked, Elena had thought herself the 
only female to wield magicks in ages. How did it come to be that a woman now 
stood before her whose power equaled, if not surpassed, her own?
Elena remembered a lesson from her fathers teachings of sword-play to Joach: 
Even the strongest opponent has a weat spot.
But where was Viranis weakness? The woman seemed steeped in powerful magicks. 
Yet how could that be? If Virani was not also a witch, what kept the magick 
inside her?
Elenas eyes suddenly flew wide as a thought occurred to her. Near the womans 
heart, Elena still caught glimpses of the small silver flame buried within the 
surging storm of dark magicks. Could
that be the answer? A plan formed in Elenas mind. With a tremble, she glanced 
to her toes and the scorpions surrounding her. If she was wrong, she would pay 
with her life.
What is it? Virani repeated. She was about to leave again. Elena spoke 
clearly, trying to fill her voice with confidence. She had to draw the demoness 
nearer. I see a secret inside you. Deep inside you, a flame of power.
One of Viranis eyes crinkled in suspicion. Yes, its the magicks the Black 
Heart bestowed upon me.
No, that black fire is only a parasite upon your own true power, sapping that 
which you were born with.
I dont know what you are talking about. This is nonsense. Yet Virani had not 
turned away in disgust. Instead, intrigued by Elenas words, she took a step 
closer.
Elena continued, keeping the woman interested. Youre an elemental. Your spirit 
is bound to the land.
What are you prattling about, child? I have no magickal gift. Elena swallowed 
hard. So Virani was unaware of her own nature. How was Elena to get her to 
believe? She took a different course. What about your mother or father? Did 
they ever show the gift of land magicks?
Virani waved the question away and began to turn. No, think about it. Did 
either one show any signs? Any strange talents? Elena could not keep traces of 
desperation from her voice.
Virani hesitated, then spoke in a cold voice. I dont know. My mother died 
when I was young, but my father often talked of how she could sing the crabs and 
lobsters into our traps even the iron-crabs of the deep that could tear a mans 
arm off. But what does any of that matter?
It proves your mother had the gift, so you must have it, too. It is
in your blood.
Nonsense.
Elena had to persuade her to try to use her power, to wake her blood for a 
moment. Look inside. Remember the sea Remember the sound of waves on rock, the 
taste of salt in the airand look!
Virani glanced suspiciously at Elena, but the small silver flame seemed to grow 
slightly brighter.
At least open your heart to the possibility!
I I Deep within the shell that was Virani, the elemental
WIT CH OTORM
fire burned fiercer as her blood sought to remember its birthright. Virani took 
a step closer. I think
The silvery flame flared to a sharp incandescence, momentarily beating back the 
black fires within the demoness.
Tears appeared in Viranis eyes. She took another step closer, now only an 
arms length from Elena. She seemed weak on her legs. I sense it now. So clear! 
So beautiful. A profound sadness entered her voice, thick with tears. I 
remember!
For a moment, Elena saw a glimpse of the woman buried within the black magicks. 
But she could wait no longer. The black magicks of the Dark Lord already churned 
hungrily and would not be kept in check by the flare of silver flame for longer 
than a few heartbeats.
Opening her right fist fully for the first time, Elena struck out. She reached 
toward Virani and felt a jolt of pain as her hand passed over the circle of 
blood, piercing her protective mage ring. Then her splayed fingers touched 
Viranis naked skin. Not waiting even a breath, Elena willed her power to flow 
into the womans chest.
Streams of magick wound from each fingertip into the demoness. Elena studied her 
magicks path, and with the aid of her enhanced vision, discovered she had 
better control over the flows and weaves of her power. Reaching toward the 
womans heart, the edges of Elenas magick were consumed by spats of black fire. 
Witchfire died quickly when confronted by the might of the Dark Lords dire 
power. Still, there was a chance. If only the path to the silver flame could 
stay open a moment longer
She thrust deeper with her magicks.
What are you ? Virani was awakening to the assault.
The black magicks began to collapse back toward the silver flame. No, just a 
moment longer. Elenas trace of magick was but an ember before a raging 
firestorm, but there was no retreating. She forced her fingers of magick toward 
the fading silver flame near Viranis heart. If she could join her magick to 
Viranis, get the small elemental flame to flare bright enough, perhaps the 
silver fire could drive off the black. She lunged and sent her magick into the 
elemental flame, stoking the fire with her own.
Her power flowed, and like oil thrown on fire, the silver flame flared into a 
raging storm.
The black energies fled from the fierce light.
Elena allowed herself a moment of hope. It was working!
JAMES ijLtMtnj __
Dont Viranis voice was weak and trembling. Elena stared up at the womans 
eyes. They were now so clear and lucid that they appeared almost a different 
color. Tears welled in those eyes. It hurts Dont make me remember who I am.
You must, Elena said. The flame in the woman wavered with her words. Elena fed 
more of her witchfire into the blaze. Fight it!
Panic widened Viranis eyes. Stop! You cant defeat him this way. You dont 
understand what youre doing. Like an army massing, the black magicks grew 
thicker at the edges of the silver flame. The energies now crackled wildly 
within the small womans body. Youre making him stronger in me!
Elena hesitated. She had only the smallest bit of magick left. You dont 
understand! The woman now howled. He feeds
on me!
As Elena watched, the black energies swelled, drawing substance
from the stoked flame.
Understanding suddenly dawned in Elena. Sweet Mother, it was feeding on 
Viranis elemental power. Her efforts had only succeeded in strengthening the 
black magick, giving it fuel for its fire. The silver flame faded, its energies 
drawn into the darkness.
Once again, a mad gleam crept into Viranis eyes. But before she was 
overwhelmed, the womans hand reached up and grabbed Elenas, pressing it firmly 
to her cold flesh. Its not too late! Virani
moaned.
What? Elena cried. I dont understand!
Then it was too late. Elena could see the others eyes go cold, her expression 
harden to granite. The grip on Elenas wrist spasmed tighter. The woman was 
goneand the demoness was back.
Erril kept his eyes fixed upon Viranis spawn, reluctant to face the others. 
The she-demon grinned harshly at him, wings spread wide, eyes aglow with hunger. 
She seemed to relish the pain of his
decision.
Erril ground his teeth, his jaw aching.
If there was to be any hope of harming the creature, one of them must die first. 
Only death could wear thin her dark protections. But who would volunteer to be 
her first kill?
If not for the fact that he alone knew the true path to Aloa Glen,
Erril would not hesitate. He had lived more than his share of winters. But as 
guardian to the girl and the only one capable of unlocking the Blood Diary, he 
could not sacrifice himself. And worst of all, he had to ask someone else to 
take his place. Krai spoke beside him. Take my ax, Erril. Meric had crossed 
to near the mountain mans shoulder and
pushed the ax back toward Krai. No, tis your tainted blade that can
kill her. Im too weak to fight this night, while youre still strong.
The blood of my lost king must be preserved, even if it means my
death.
Mogweed huddled in their shadows. The elvin speaks wisely, he muttered.
The she-demon cackled at them. If you mice are done with your chattering, 
perhapsss I should make the choice for you.
Time had run out. Erril could think of no words to argue against Merics 
statement. He glanced at the silver-haired elvin. Merics blue eyes were sharp 
with purpose. Erril regretted all the hard words the two had shared. It was 
clear the elvin cared as much for Elenas safety as Erril did, even if it was 
for different reasons. Erril stared at the large bruise that marred Merics 
left cheek, proof already of his brave heart. Now Meric stood ready to show the 
full depth of his resolve and spirit.
Erril found the elvins eyes staring into his own. No further words were 
needed. Erril nodded his head, the decision made.
Meric stepped forwardjust as a howl shattered the night.
All eyes, including the she-demons, swung to the left. From the wall of meadow 
grass, a huge wolf leapt into the clearing. It was Fardale. He crouched with a 
loud growl flowing from his throat, the hackles on his back raised high.
It seemsss we have another volunteer, the she-demon said with a sharp smile.
Get back, Mogweed screamed to his brother. You cant harm it! Fardale 
glanced at his brother, his amber eyes glowing like twin moons in the night.
Oh, Mogweed whispered and slunk farther into the shadows of the others.
Erril sensed that some silent communication had been shared between the two. 
Did Fardale tell you something? he whispered quickly.
Mogweed kept his eyes toward the she-demon and his growling brother. Hes freed 
the Theres another
Again the quiet night was shattered, this time by a rumbling bellow that came 
from the other side of the clearing. It was no wolf. It rose from the tall 
meadow grass and kept rising and rising. How could something so large have moved 
so quietly upon them, especially burdened?
It took a shocked moment for Erril to recognize Tolchuk. The ogre held a 
squirming dog over his head, its muzzle clamped shut in one of his large, clawed 
hands.
The she-demon snapped her wings and swung to face the new challenge. But before 
she could turn, Tolchuk threw the dog at her. The squirming weapon cartwheeled 
across the clearing, limbs scrambling at the empty air.
Instinctively, the she-demon struck out at the flying object. Poison-tipped 
claws lashed out at the dog, knocking it aside. The hound crashed to the mud in 
a limp pile, its chest raked open, dead from the poison before it even struck 
the ground.
My, my, the she-demon said, you do seem to be running short on weapons. What 
next, a sheep? A goat?
Using the distraction of the dog, Tolchuk had by now stalked into the clearing.
Erril noticed that his companions had succeeded in surrounding the she-demon. 
But of what use was that? She still had her dark magicks. Meric glanced once at 
Erril, then swung back toward the winged beast and walked toward it.
Errils heart ached, but he knew there was no other choice. Mogweed suddenly 
snatched at Merics billowing white shirt and tugged the elvin to a stop.
Leave him Erril began to say.
The the dog! Mogweed stuttered in a faint whisper. Its dead.
So?
Mogweeds voice snapped louder. The monster killed it. Didnt she?
Errils eyes grew wide with understanding.
The shape-shifters words seemed to have reached the she-demon, too. Her eyes 
glanced to the dead hound near her clawed feet. The fanged smile faded on her 
face as she realized the truth. She had
killed. She had taken the life of her prey. Her magicks were now vulnerable.
Her eyes met Errils for just a heartbeat. Erril grinned, but his lips were 
hard. Do this for Neelahn, he hissed at the others. Take her down.
Krai whopped in triumph and led the charge toward the encircled she-demon. She 
tried to take flight and escape, but Tolchuk dragged her by a wing back to the 
mud and grass. The others swamped her, Krais ax a blur of revenge. Erril 
turned his back on the fight. He was no longer needed here. Elena, though, had 
been left with Virani too long.
Behind him, he heard a screech that shivered the small hairs on his arms. It was 
a death cry.
Without glancing back, Erril ran from the she-demons dying screams. He felt no 
satisfaction, not while Elena was still in danger. With his iron fingers 
clenched into a fist, he raced over the small rise that separated him from the 
main encampment. He prayed he wasnt too late.
He crested the rise to peer into the circle of tents of the main camp. Among the 
sputtering fires, a sea of blackness surged and flowed across the trampled soil. 
Scorpions! Their glossy armor reflected the firelight in poisonous glints.
But this was not the horror that caught Errils breath in his throat. In the 
center of this poisonous sea, Elena struggled. Virani held the girl tight as 
the scorpions descended in a swarm upon the pair.
Elena! he called out to her.
Elena heard her name called, but knowing her plan to deal with Virani had 
failed, she stayed silent. She had squandered her magick in a futile attempt to 
defeat the demoness. At least Erril was free, she thought as she stared into 
the baleful yellow fire in Viranis eyes. Hopefully, the others were safe, too. 
If nothing else, she could die knowing she had bought them their freedom.
Virani yanked on Elenas arm and pulled her closer. I hear a little bird 
calling your name.
Elena ignored her words, too. Her eyes were on the dying war of energies waging 
within the womans breast. The silver flame of ele-
JAMES LLEMENS
mental power had waned back to a weak flicker. Black energies whirled around 
this small pyre, still drawing licks of substance from the flame.
It was a mesmerizing dance of power.
Its not too late! The last lucid words of the woman mocked Elena. How ? How was 
it not too late ?
The magick churned and wheeled around the tiny spark of flame.
Then Elena suddenly knew.
As scorpions skittered up her boots, she pressed her palm more firmly against 
Viranis chest, as if trying to keep the demoness at bay. If only if only it 
isnt too late.
Elena thrust once more into the womans chest with the last dregs of her 
witchfire. Again fingers of power wound toward the tiny elemental flame, 
dodging spats of black energies. As she worked her magick, the final streams of 
her energies became an outstretched hand. Reaching, she closed her witchfire 
upon the small bit of elemental magickand squeezed.
Like pinching out a candles flame, her magicks snuffed the small brightness 
from Viranis chest, extinguishing the womans elemental fire.
In the void, the black energies collapsed around Viranis heart, swallowing the 
last traces of Elenas magicks. With her power spent, her special vision dimmed 
and disappeared. She could no longer see the flows of magicks. .
Elena removed her hand from Viranis chest. Her fingers were so coldand so 
pale. Not even a trace of the Rose remained.
Suddenly a hand grabbed her wrist.
Elena jumped and tried to pull away, but the grip was iron. She stared up at 
Viranis wild eyes. The demoness grinned and wrenched at her arm.
Elena gasped from the pain, too stunned to fight. Now quit squirming. You 
Viranis face suddenly took on a vaguely confused expression, as if she had 
forgotten what she had been about to say.
The grip on Elenas wrist spasmed tighter for a heartbeat, squeezing a cry from 
Elena. Then the hold on her wrist relaxed, and Viranis hand fell away.
Free, Elena stumbled backward. Scorpions crackled under her
heels as she crushed them. She stamped others from her boots. The scorpions 
seemed as stunned and confused as Virani. Some were even stinging each other, 
while others stood as still as their mistress. Virani suddenly shuddered, as if 
shaking cobwebs from her naked body. As she trembled, the white streak in her 
hair faded and darkened to match her other black locks. For a moment, Elena 
thought she saw a dark mist seep from the womans skin and fade out into the 
night.
A winged scorpion landed on Elenas arm, stinger raised. Elena cringed and 
started to swat at it when the poisonous creature collapsed and dissolved into a 
glistening black clump on her arm. It was clotted blood. Elena shook it off in 
disgust.
Around Elenas boots, the other scorpions also collapsed into bloody piles that 
steamed into the chill night. Like the ripples from a pebble dropped into a 
pond, the dissolution of the scorpion army spread outward from the two women 
until the poisonous creatures were gone. The Horde lay dead.
Virani moaned, drawing Elenas attention, though the girl stood unmoving, still 
wary of the naked woman.
Virani swooned and fell to her knees in the mud and blood. Her ashen face had 
paled even further, as if her very substance had left her body. She raised her 
face toward Elena. The mad gleam was gone. Is it is it over? she asked, tears 
flowing down her cheeks. Suddenly from behind, someone grabbed Elenas shoulder 
and pulled her away from the kneeling woman. Her heart leapt to her throat until 
she realized it was only Erril. The plainsman stepped between Elena and 
Virani.
Get back! he snapped at Elena. The iron ward floated in the air before Erril, 
its cold fingers open and reaching for Viranis throat.
No, Elena said, tugging at his real arm. Leave her be. Shes no danger now. 
The dark magicks have fled her.
How? he asked with narrowed eyes. His shoulders were still tight with fury.
She was an elemental. The Dark Lord somehow bound his black energies to her 
land magick. Once that was gone, the foul energies had no hook in her and were 
cast out.
Erril stayed silent, but he lowered his iron fist.
Its over, Elena said softly.
JAMES
Erril realized the girl was right. Virani? he asked tenta-tively, his voice 
softening as his anger fled him.
She raised her face toward his, and a mixture of pain and loss glowed in her 
eyes. Then her countenance settled into simple sorrow. As he watched, her skin 
paled and her flesh seemed to shrink to her bones. She was dying.
He stepped toward her. Behind him, Elena began to protest, believing he meant to 
attack her. He waved her back and knelt beside Virani. After a moments 
hesitation, he reached and took the woman in his one arm. At his touch, she 
collapsed like a teetering stack of blocks in his embrace, too weak to hold 
herself upright. He gently lowered her to his lap and fingered stray black hairs 
from her face; he had always hated when hair got in her eyes.
As he stared at her, his heart remembered the face he had once kissed and the 
woman he had once loved.
From where she lay, Virani stared back at him. Im so so sorry, Erril. 
Tears glistened in the firelight on her cheeks. I What I did
The plainsman reached out and touched a finger to her lips. Hush hush, it 
wasnt you.
Virani trembled under his touch, too weak now even to speak. She reached for 
his hand, her fingers fluttering like a weak bird, but she was too feeble; her 
hand fell away.
Erril knew her death was near. He wiped the tears from her cheek and took her 
hand in his own, entwining their fingers. He bent down close to her. He would 
not abandon her again, not now.
Her eyes were barely open. He pressed his cheek against hers and whispered in 
her ear. Im the one who is sorry, Virani. I should never have left you.
She struggled to speak, her breath catching in her dying throat. I I loved 
you.
He leaned closer and gently kissed her on the lips. He felt her relax under him. 
And I loved you, he whispered as he lifted his lips from hers, but she was 
already gone. He held her cold hand for several long breaths, his cheeks damp, 
his head bowed.
Beside him, his iron fist fell to the mud, once again just a motionless
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JOACH LIVED AS A PRISONER IN HIS OWN HEAD.
As his body stood in the Great Kitchen of the sprawling Edifice, awaiting his 
masters supper, Joach stared out of two holes in a skull that felt like a 
hollowed-out pumpkin. He watched his arms move and his legs shamble, while 
inside his head he screamed for someone to help him. But his lips remained slack 
with a continual rope of drool hanging to his chin. He could feel the saliva 
slobbering from his mouth but could not get his hands to move and wipe it away.
Eh, you! Boy! jeered the greasy-haired kitchen urchin, poking Joach in the 
shoulder with a dirty spoon. Did your mum drop you on your head, or what? Git 
away from me before you slobber in the soup kettle.
Shoved by the spoon, Joachs legs stumbled back a step.
Leave im be, Brunt, the cook said from a neighboring hearth. He was a 
wide-bellied man, like most cooks, wearing a stained apron that covered him from 
neck to toe, sashed at the waist. His cheeks glowed ruddy from the heat of the 
kitchens many hearths. You know he aint right in the head, so quit pestering 
im.
I heard he was left in the woods by his parents for the wolves to finish off. 
Brunt made a snapping motion toward Joach.
M-m-master wants m-meal, Joach heard himself stutter with a slurred tongue. 
That was the extent of his conversation. Just enough words to let others in the 
Edifice know his ordered duty. The kitchen help ignored his garbled words. He 
might as well have been another spoon or pot.
Naw, naw, the cook said. He was kicked in the head by a horse and everyone 
thought im dead. Were all set to bury im, they were! Then that old crippled 
brother, he came along and plucked im up. Took im here. Rescued the drooling 
dolt. Now thats kindness! The cook spat into a skillet to test its heat before 
continuing. Speaking of kindness and dolts, if you want to keep working in my 
kitchens, youd better get back to stirring that stew, or itll burn!
Brunt lowered his spoon to the fish stew with a grumble and continued to stir. 
Still, that kid gives me the woollies. He just stares at you with his nose 
dripping. Its downright sickening.
Even if he had been able to control his lips, Joach would not have argued with 
the boy. Ever since he had been stolen from the cobbled streets of Winterfell by 
the darkmage named Greshym, Joach had been under the demons spell, a thrall to 
the ancient ones commands. While he still lived in his head, aware and feeling 
all, he was unable to stop his body from obeying the murderer of his parents.
Unable to speak freely, he could not even warn anyone who lived within the walls 
of the Edifice of the snake that lived among them. Greshym posed as a 
white-robed brother of the Order, but in truth was a creature of the Dark Lord.
A platter of meats, cheeses, and a bowl of steaming fish stew was shoved toward 
his chest. Joachs arms caught the handles of the wood platter. He had been 
ordered to fetch supper, and as always, his body obeyed. In his head, he dreamed 
of poisoning the meal but knew it impossible.
Be off with you, you slack-jawed oaf! Brunt said with a sneer. Get outta my 
kitchen!
Joach turned to go, his body ever obedient. Behind him, he heard the cook scold 
his boy. Your kitchen, Brunt? Since when is this your kitchen?
Behind him, he heard a slap and a yelp from Brunt, but Joachs legs were already 
carrying him out of the kitchen and down the hall.
As he shambled through the twisting corridors and stairways of the Edifice, 
winding his way back to his masters chamber, he stared at the laden platter and 
put aside all thoughts of poisoning the meal. The fish broth smelled of garlic 
and butter, and the meats and cheeses were cut thick and generous. Even the loaf 
of cold bread seemed a miracle of flavor.
Pangs of hunger wailed in his belly, but unless his body was given
the order to eat by the darkmage, Joach could do nothing to fill his empty 
stomach. Over the many moons since he was stolen from his sisters side, his 
body had wasted into a scarecrow. Often whole days would pass before the 
darkmage would remember to tell his servant to eatand lately, those days of 
hunger were becoming even more
frequent.
Joach was now mostly forgotten by his master and, like a neglected dog, he 
wasted away, awaiting his masters next word.
As he shambled past a mirror in a hall, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. 
His face, formerly sunburned from his work in the orchards, had paled to a 
slugs complexion, and his flesh had shrunken on bone. His cheekbones poked from 
under bruised eyes. His red hair, overgrown past his shoulders now, hung tangled 
and matted. And his green eyes stared back at him, dull and glazed. He was the 
walking dead.
No wonder the kitchen urchin had wanted him out of his sight. Joach himself was 
relieved when his body moved past the mirror and the image was gone.
For the past moon, Joach had given up the fight against his spell-cast 
enslavement, resigned to his fate. Occasionally he would still scream in his 
bone prison, but no one ever heard. Now death seemed the only real possibility 
of escape. He pulled back deeper into his skull and curled up on himself. 
Starvation would eventually claim his body; then he would be free.
Despondent, he ignored his body as it struggled the platter into his masters 
cell. The room was barren of any significant trappings or decorations. Only two 
thin beds, an ancient wardrobe, and a worm-worn desk occupied the room. A 
threadbare rug covered the floor, but it did a poor job of keeping the cold of 
the stones from ones feet. Though a small hearth continually glowed with 
embers, its feeble heat did little to dispel the chill that always hung in the 
air. It was as if the room itself knew the evil it contained and kept warmth and 
cheer from its occupants.
In addition to the ever-present chill, the room was also always dim. Besides the 
single oil lamp on the desk, the only other illumination came from a 
small-slitted window that overlooked one of the many tiny courtyards that pocked 
the great structure. Somewhere beyond the walls of the Edifice sprawled the 
half-sunken city of Aloa Glenand beyond that only the sea. Since arriving, 
Joach had
seen neither sea nor city, nothing but the halls and chambers of the sprawling 
Edifice huddled in the center of the once-mighty city. Like a second prison, it 
held his body as surely as his skull held his spirit.
Put that platter on the desk! Greshym ordered. The darkmage was already 
wearing his cowled white robe. That meant the demon was going somewhere. He 
never wore the robes when alone. The fabric seemed to irritate the darkmage as 
much as its pure white color mocked his black heart. He shook the sleeve of his 
right arm lower to hide the stumped wrist, then pulled the hood over his bald 
head with his good hand. He stared at Joach with those milky globes of the 
near-blind.
Even though Joach had no control over his body, his flesh still crawled as those 
eyes settled on him. It was as if his body, too, knew the menace that lay like 
poison behind those milky globes. Come, Greshym ordered. Ive been summoned. 
Joachs legs stepped aside to let the darkmage pass, and in the process, he 
almost dumped the fish stew on the mages pristine robe. Put that cursed 
platter down, you fool! Greshym snapped as he swept through the doorway. Do I 
have to tell you everything?
Inwardly, a tiny smile formed in Joachs mind. Maybe there was a little 
rebellion in his body yet. He set the tray down and followed the darkmage back 
out to the hallways once again.
Over the moons of his enslavement, Joach had learned more about his prison than 
any of its denizens suspected. Chambermaids, servants, and even other brothers 
of the Order spoke freely around Joach, thinking him a brain-addled fool who 
would not repeat their words. So truths were spoken in his presence that would 
otherwise be kept silent.
He had learned that the Brotherhood was a group of scholars and other men of 
skill who had banded together in secret to preserve Aloa Glen and the traces of 
ancient magicks still contained within the sunken city. They kept Aloa Glen 
cloaked and the paths to the city warded against trespassers. Besides the 
Brotherhood, only their servants and a handful of others roamed what was left of 
the ancient city. Aloa Glen was lost to the world, a city of myth, kept hidden 
from the eye of the Gulgothal lord by both time and magickor so the 
Brotherhood supposed.
Only Joach seemed to know about the darkmage who masquer-
aded as one of their own. But what was this murderers purpose here in a 
half-deserted city?
Joach followed the bent back of the crippled old mage. After a few twists and 
turns, he could guess their destinationthe westernmost tower, named the 
Praetors Spear after its sole occupant.
During his slack-jawed eavesdropping, Joach had also learned what the others in 
the Edifice thought of the solitary figure who lived alone in the western tower. 
Though the Praetor led the Brotherhood, he was seldom seen and little was known 
of his past. His true name had long been wiped away, as was tradition for this 
post. Some said the Praetor had lived for over five hundred winters, while 
others said it was just different men who bore the Praetors name, succeeding 
one after the other.
So who truly was the man in the tower? And what business did the darkmage have 
with the leader of the Brotherhood?
Greshym had visited the Praetor in his tower four times since Joach had arrived 
at Aloa Glen, but Joach had learned nothing of the mysterious leader. Each 
time, Joach had been left standing by the stairs that led up to the distant room 
as Greshym continued on to his rendezvous. He was never allowed to accompany the 
old man.
Even his body seemed to know this routine. Joachs legs began to slow when the 
darkmage finally wound through the dusty corridors and reached the lower stair 
of the Praetors Spear. Joach was ready to stop, anticipating the signal to 
haltbut it never came.
Greshym started up the spiraling stair.
Without the order to stop, Joachs body had no choice but to follow. That had 
been his masters last command.
He climbed after the darkmage. The stairs seemed endless, curving ever upward. 
They passed an occasional slitted window, and Joach caught glimpses of the 
ruined city below. Toppled towers lay strewn in crumbled piles of stone and 
moss; lakes of brackish brine dotted the landscape where the sea bubbled up from 
below. In some of these dark green lakes, the peaks of ancient buildings 
protruded like steep islands. And sea mists drifted languidly through the 
remnants of the once-proud city, ghosts of those that once roamed its streets 
and hawked wares from its open doorways. While above all, gulls circled the 
ruins in slow spirals, like foothill vultures eying a dying calf.
Yet the views most profound effect came from something unseen,
something felt in the bonesan aching melancholy for all the beauty and wonder 
lost forever. Glimpses of the ancient majesty of the city could still be seen in 
the occasional sparks from windows of stained crystal set like jewels among the 
ruins or in the towering marble sculptures, now tilted or marred with damage, of 
honored men and women whose faces spoke of grander times and higher purposes. 
Though the city was dead, it still spoke tales of a glorious empire, of a 
peaceful era. It spoke of Alasea before the Gulgotha raped her lands. If Joach 
could cry, he would as he looked upon his lands ancient past. Here sprawled a 
small reflection of Alasea as a whole: a land of beauty, broken and dying.
Joachs body continued its climb after its master. They passed a few stationed 
guards, but their eyes seemed blind to the crippled man and the doltish boy. 
Joach recognized the glaze in their eyes as he passed. He had seen it in his own 
eyes in the hall mirror: the walking dead.
A chill crept into Joachs skull. Did Greshyms grip reach so far? Or were there 
other darkmages masquerading in white?
At the top of the stairs, a huge oaken door blocked the way farther. Two 
dull-eyed guards stood with spears to either side. Greshym ignored them and 
strode toward the door, his staff thumping loudly, making no attempt at stealth. 
Joach followed.
The heavy door swung open on silent hinges even before Greshym reached its 
ornate handles. No hand opened this door. Beyond the threshold, Joach could 
sense a palpable evil. Like a thick fog, it flowed out from the open doorway.
Though he did not want to enter the chamber beyond, he could not balk at 
entering. His body continued its shambling pace after the darkmage. Joach 
cowered deeper into his skull, trying his best to hide. As he entered the 
well-lit tower chamber, he was surprised at how warm and inviting the room 
appeared. Three large hearths glowed cheerily with licking flames. Fanciful 
tapestries hid the stone walls of the tower, reflecting bright colors in the 
firelight, while couches and thick-stuffed chairs of expensive red silk dotted 
the heavy rugs. Huge windows with insets of stained crystal showed the blue sky, 
and below one of these windows, sunlight shone brightly on a huge polished table 
that held a crystal-and-marble model of Aloa Glen as it had stood before its 
falla thousand jeweled spires, with walk-
&#9632;
ways that passed from tower to tower through cloud, fountains, and parks.
Joach had to pull his attention away. It hurt too much to look at its pristine 
beauty. So much lost.
His gaze settled on the lone occupant of the room. He stood tall by the western 
window, staring out at the sunken city, his broad back to them. He wore a long 
white cassock, its cowl thrown back casually.
Greshym cleared his throat.
The man, who could only be the Praetor, swung to face them. Joach was surprised 
at how young the man was. He had expected the leader of the Brotherhood to be a 
gray-haired elder, not this black-haired young man. Gray eyes studied the 
darkmage from a hawkish ruddy face. Joach recognized the countenance of a Standi 
plainsman. Traders from the neighboring plains had often visited Winterfell 
selling bundled leaves of tobacco or wagon loads of barreled spices. It was so 
odd to see such a familiar reminder of home so far afield.
Those gray eyes shifted from Greshym to settle for a moment on his own. Joach 
tumbled backward in his skull. What he saw in those eyes was nothing of home: it 
was maggots and clotted blood. It was black fires that consumed the flesh of 
those you loved. It was evil. Here stood the source of foulness that Joach had 
sensed in the room. It flowed from those eyes, black wellsprings of corruption.
Thankfully, those eyes left his own after only a heartbeat.
Why did you bring the boy? the figure asked, his clipped Stan-dish accent 
clear in his words.
Greshym glanced at Joach as if surprised to see the boy standing in his shadow. 
He sniffed derisively and turned back to the tall man. I simply forgot. Hes 
been dragging behind me for so long that I dont even see him anymore.
Its not wise to be forgetful here. The Brotherhood grows suspi-
cious.
Greshym waved this statement away with a twist of his staff. The Brotherhood is 
made up of fools. It always has been. Let them have their rumors; theyll never 
suspect the truth. Now what news of our witch?
The Praetors eyes twitched at Joach, then just as quickly away. She moves once 
again, he said coldly. She has fled the Teeth, escaped the hills, and lost 
herself among the peoples of the wide plains.
How? I thought the Dark Lord had laced all the trails leaving the thawing 
mountains with legions of his illguard. What happened?
She slipped past one imbued with the Horde, killing her.
Curse that damned child!
You know the witchs resourcefulness at surviving, Greshym. Or have you 
forgotten Winterfell? Besides, she is guarded well by my brother.
Greshym stamped his staff on the rug with a muffled thud. Speaking of your 
brother, he said, irritation thick in his voice, how is it that Erril still 
lives? You never did explain that. He has no magick. The Praetors eyes grew 
hooded, and his face darkened. Something the Black Heart hadnt anticipated. 
The Blood Diary has claimed Erril as its own. It protects him against the 
ravages of time. Sighing loudly, Greshym continued. And what of the Diary, 
Shorkan? Have you discovered a way to unlock the cursed tome?
A slight shake of the Praetors head answered this question. Not without 
Erril. He is the key.
During his long imprisonment, Joach had learned to read the darkmages moods. 
These last words seemed to wound Greshym. So theres no way to get to the 
book, he mumbled sourly.
A trace of anger entered the Praetors words. What is this concern about the 
book? We dont need it in our hands. As long as it resides here in Aloa Glen, 
locked or not, it will serve its purpose in luring the witch here. If she 
survives the traps set by our lord, she will fight and bleed her way across the 
lands just to put hersef in our hands. Our lords plan is wise. We simply 
wait.
Greshym seemed hardly to have heard the words; his voice was vague and 
distracted. Still, if I could get to the book
The Praetor leaned closer to the darkmage. What? What could you do? Joach 
could almost feel the menace in the man like the suns heat on his skin. Greshym 
backed a step, bumping Joach.
Then I then I could destroy it and eliminate the risk of its ever falling into 
the claws of the witch. Its dangerous letting the witch get so close to the 
book. Greshym cleared his throat and shook some semblance of spine back into 
his pose. Thats all I meant.
Joach knew these last words were a lie. And the Praetor seemed to sense it, too. 
He walked around the darkmage, eying him up and down suspiciously. Greshym did 
not flinch from his scrutiny.
M
Finally, the Praetor pulled his cowl back over his head dismis-sively and turned 
away. Go now. Listen and study. We must be ready for her.
Greshym began to swing around, but the tall man spoke again. And take better 
care of your servant. He reeks like rotting fish.
Joach would have flinched and blushed at these words, but instead his body 
continued to stand, slack and dumb, beside the darkmage.
Why do you keep the boy anyway? he continued. Be rid of him.
Greshym scowled. I think not. Like the Blood Diary, the boy is a card whose 
value is yet unknown in this game. Ill keep him until our hand is fully 
played.
The Praetor walked to the window and waved them away. Then at least clean him 
up.
Greshym bowed his head slightly and turned on a heel. Leaning on his staff, the 
old mage limped toward the large ironbound oaken door. Follow me, he snapped 
at Joach.
The boys legs obeyed, and Joach shambled in the darkmages wake.
In his head, though, Joach reviewed their words. He knew whom the two had been 
speaking about. The witch had to be his sister Elena.
He sobbed quietly in his empty skull. His sister yet lived! It had been so many 
moons since he had heard mention of her. He had not known if she had died in 
Winterfell or what had become of her. Now he knew! Elena was free.
But as much as this relieved him, a greater fear gripped his heart. Elena was 
coming here! She would be captured or killed. He remembered his promise to his 
father before he and Elena had fled their burning home: to protect his younger 
sister. And he meant to keep that promise! But how could he? He couldnt even 
keep from fouling himself.
His body shambled after its master, but in his head, he railed against the 
chains that bound him. He must find a way out of this imprisonment and stop his 
sister from coining here.
Yet, regardless of his passion, his legs still kept following the darkmages 
footsteps, and drool once again rolled from his cracked lips and dripped from 
his chin.
How? Joach cried in his head. How am I to brea^free? Where was the door out of 
ones own skull?
Greshym limped back through the corridors that led to his room. His mind seethed 
with black thoughts. How dare Shorkan order him about like some low servant! He 
had once been the mans teacher! Of course that was long ago, and they had been 
different menwhole men, before the forging of the Blood Diary had split their 
spirits.
Now Greshym hardly recognized his former student. Had he himself changed as 
much? He didnt think so. After imbuing half his spirit in the books forging, 
he was still the same man, only now he was able to think more clearly, able to 
see his hearts desires more keenly. He now had no nagging doubts about facing 
his innermost lusts. Once, guilt and regret had tied his hands, and sorrow and 
pain had guided his acts. Now he walked free, unfettered by constricting 
emotions, able to loose his baser desires and pursue his lusts with all his 
energies. He now dabbled freely in the blackest arts just to see what would 
happen, his ears deaf to screams and pleas for mercy. The forging of the book 
had opened his spirit to all its secret demons, allowing him to rejoice in them 
without shame, to pursue them without guilt, finally to live his life true. The 
book had freed him.
He cursed under his breath as he struggled down the stair. So why had he lied to 
Shorkan about his real reason for his interest in the Diarys destruction? It 
was not, as he had explained, to keep the witch from gaining it. No, he wanted 
the book destroyed for his own selfish reason.
He spat on the dusty floor. He had lied because Shorkan would never understand. 
The fool seemed content with his wounded spirit. . And why shouldnt he be 
content? Shorkan had everything. Not only did he have boundless power and the 
freedom of an unlocked heart, but he also had something Greshym did not: youth.
Shorkan never aged. He appeared the same black-haired young man as when the book 
was forged, still vital with youthful energy. The passing of winters had left 
him untouched. Whereas, due to some trick in the magicks, Greshyms body had 
continued to age. His joints grew hoary with pain, his eyes bloomed with 
cataracts, and his hair fell from his wrinkling skin.
Whenever Greshym saw Shorkan standing tall and handsome in &#9632;, his tower room, 
his heart burned with the injustice. This disparity 
wore on him as his body declined. Like water dripping on rock, it dug a well of 
discontent deeper and deeper into his spirit.
He had been treated most foully and was determined to reverse this injustice. 
Over the centuries, he had studied the black arts in secretreading texts bound 
in runes, practicing on small animals and childrenuntil at long last he had 
come upon a method to regain his youth. It could work, but it first required 
freeing his spirits other halfand to do that, the book must be destroyed!
To this end, he would let nothing stand in his way. He cared naught for his 
allegiances to the Dark Lord, nor for his promises to Shorkan. His unfettered 
heart felt no compulsion to obey these two who thought themselves his masters. 
The book had freed him to act on his hearts desires, and in this matter, too, 
he would do as his spirit willed.
Greshym continued through the halls of the sprawling Edifice, striking the oak 
of his staff hard on the stone.
Let all who stood in his way burn!
He stopped at the crossing of two halls and leaned heavily on his staff as he 
glanced down each hall. As he stood, breathing harshly through clenched teeth, 
his shoulder was bumped from behind, almost knocking him down. Twisting around, 
he swung on his assailant.
It was only the cursed boy. He snapped his staff forward and struck the boy 
across the ribs. Keep back from me, he hissed.
Unfazed, the boy did not even blink, just stumbled a step away then stood 
staring at him with that omnipresent glaze in his eyes.
Greshym swung back to study the hallways. The boy was like a rash on his skin: 
always there, a constant irritation. He shook his head, dismissing the 
irritation, and considered the choice of halls. His hips ached, and the thought 
of his soft bed tempted him back to his cell, but if he was ever to regain 
strength and vigor in his limbs, now was not the time to listen to complaining 
joints.
With the witch under way, he must delay no further. Who knew how long before 
she came knocking on the door to the Edifice? If he was to succeed, he had to 
begin now. Decided, he set off down the hallway to the right.
Follow, he called to the boy, but keep one pace away from me!
The hall led away from his room and toward the Grand Courtyard. Greshym scowled 
at the thought of crossing the decaying park contained within the walls of the 
courtyard. While he reveled in its rotted wood and brine-choked roots, its 
occasional cluster of thriving
green leaves or single bright blossom always reminded him of its former 
grandeur. These shards of past glories galled him and sickened his belly with 
old memories. Yet this was not the real reason he detested the Grand Courtyard. 
In truth, a small part of him feared the place. Traces of Chyric magick, 
sustained and preserved over the centuries, still lay like pools of poison among 
the gardens.
The Grand Courtyard, nestled in the center of the Edifice, had been the nexus of 
Chyric power for the entire city. It was the root from which all of Aloa Glen 
grew. Though the city itself was now long dead, echoes of its magicks still 
whispered along its garden paths.
Greshym pulled his shoulders tighter together. He hated the place. Yet, this 
day, he had no choice but to walk its paths. The only way to the catacombs was 
through the courtyard.
He continued down the long hall with the boy in tow. Footsore, his ankles 
throbbing, his heart beating like a scared rabbit in his chest, he finally 
reached the gilt-and-glass doors that led to the courtyard.
The two doors towered twice the height of a man and contained an inlay of 
stained glass and crystal that formed a pair of the entwining branches of a rose 
bush, its thorns glistening in the afternoon sunlight. The roses themselves were 
crafted from ruby and heartstone the twin symbols of the Order. Whole townships 
could be bought for the price of one of those roses.
Flanking the doors, two guards bearing long swords stood to either side of the 
threshold. One stepped forward and swung open the door for the white-robed 
brother.
Nothing was denied a brother of the Order.
Greshym bowed his head in thanks and passed through the portal into sunlight. 
The boy followed in his usual shambling gait. Squinting, he looked into the 
Grand Courtyard and remembered another reason he hated the place. Speckled like 
white mold on an old corpse, others of his white-robed brethren moved through 
the relic of a garden. He had forgotten how crowded the courtyard could be, 
especially when the sea mists lifted and the sunlight shone brightly. He 
suppressed a groan and stepped farther within the garden. Brother Greshym? A 
voice rose to his left. He heard the scrape of loose rock as someone stood up 
near the edge of one of the graveled paths. How delightful to see you up and 
about! The sun has been drawing out everyone today.
Greshym turned toward the speaker, but he kept the edge of his
JAMES
cowl tilted down to partially hide his face. How had the cursed fool recognized 
him? Then he remembered the boy. Of course, everyone knew his doltish servant. 
Even now he saw the man glance pitifully at the spell-cast boy.
Why, Brother Treet, Greshym answered, attempting to squeeze the irritation out 
of his voice. A truly handsome day it is. How could I resist? My old bones were 
craving warmth and dragged me down here.
The pudgy man, his cowl thrown open to the sunshine, smiled. Hair the color of 
dried mud lay sparse on his exposed pate, and his eyes were too far apart. He 
looked like a surprised cow, Greshym thought.
Suddenly the balding mans eyes widened. Oh! Then you havent
heard!
Greshym inwardly groaned. Gossip ran like wild dogs through the halls of the 
Edifice, thrashing all in its path. He did not have time for this nonsense and 
pretended not to hear the mans words. At his age it was easy feigning deafness. 
I I should be going before my ol legs give out on me. This winters damp 
still has a grip on my creaking knees. He leaned heavily on his staff in 
emphasis.
Why then, a little walk in the gardens is just what you need, Brother Treet 
said consolingly. Ill come with you.
How kind, but theres no need. I have my boy here. He began to turn away.
Nonsense. I must take you to see the koakona tree. You cant miss this.
Greshym almost cringed at his words. I dont have time
Ah, then you truly havent heard, have you? The glee of someone with a secret 
to reveal was rich in Brother Treets voice. Come. Come see. Its wondrous. An 
omen of good fortune.
As much as Greshym balked at stepping within a stones throw of the monstrous 
dead tree in the center of the gardens, Brother Treets excitement piqued his 
curiosity. What was the daft man spewing about? What is this talk of good 
omens?
I wont ruin the surprise. You must see for yourself. Brother Treet led the 
way down a gravel path, his sandals crunching loudly in the quiet garden.
Greshym followed the pudgy man. Hiding his scowl, he waved the boy to stay near 
his heels. Of all the traces of ancient Chyric
magicks, the koakona tree at the gardens heart was the most potent. Its limbs 
had once stretched far into the sky, higher than any of the citys spires. 
Before dying, its trunk had grown so thick that ten men with linked arms could 
not circle its girth. The mighty tree had once shaded the entire garden under 
its green-and-silver leaves, and at night, its purple blossoms would open and 
begin glowing like a thousand sapphire stars.
To the people of Aloa Glen, the tree had been the living heart of the city.
Yet, as majestic as the tree appeared, it was nothing compared to its roots, 
poking like massive gnarled knees near its base. The roots dug deep into the 
island and spread like a web under the city. To those in power, here lay the 
true heart of the city. The old mages of Aloa Glen would concentrate their 
magick into the trees roots, creating a living nexus of energy. Then the roots 
thousand branches, crisscrossing and winding under the city, would spread the 
magick throughout Aloa Glen, sustaining its spell-cast spires and other 
impossible wonders. But that was long ago.
As he marched after his fellow brother, Greshym stared up at the long-dead tree 
and felt a twinge of sympathy. Time had been no kinder to the tree than to 
Greshym. After the fall of Aloa Glen, the tree had succumbed to the ravages of 
passing winters and the loss of sustaining magick. Now the tree was a skeleton 
of tiered branches, most of its limbs long rotted and fallen to decay. 
Occasionally though, like a dying man opening his eyes to peek one last time at 
the world, a few leaves would grow in small clumps on one branch or another. But 
it had been ages since even that had occurred. The tree was now just a lifeless 
monument.
But dead or not, Greshym still shied from its presence. Whispers of ancient 
magicks seemed drawn to the tree, hanging about its branches like moss. Though 
these traces of ancient magicks were weak, there was still danger. It was an 
intricate weaving of black magicks that kept death from Greshyms heart, a fine 
web of power and blood, and even a passing drift of Chyric magick could unravel 
or weaken a part of the complex black spell that sustained him.
So Greshym had learned to walk with care among the decaying gardens of the Grand 
Courtyard, especially near the koakona tree. But this day, he did not have much 
choice. Though his mission to the catacombs required traveling the edges of the 
courtyard, it was curi-
JAMES
oSity that drew him toward its heart. He knew better than to risk such a path, 
but when his blood developed a desire, Greshym was nOt easily dissuaded. So he 
followed Brother Treet deeper and deeper into the gardens, passing other 
brethren along the way.
Greshym noted that as he neared the tree the number of white-robed brothers who 
gathered there grew, becoming a solemn pilgrimage to the tree. Some brothers led 
others, heads bowed in whispers, while others walked singly, eyes raised toward 
the barren branches. What was luring such numbers of his studious brethren?
With each labored step, his curiosity grew. Why hadnt he heard of any of this? 
Anger became mixed with curiosity. He stared at the sheer number of white robes 
descending on the tree. Why had he
heard nothing?
As if reading his thoughts, Brother Treet answered. It just appeared this 
morning. But news is traveling fast.
What? Greshym snapped, no longer capable of feigning an affable good nature.
Brother Treet glanced toward him at his sharp retort.
Greshym collected himself and waved the man on. Im sorry, Brother Treet. Its 
my old joints complaining and being testy. Im afraid this trip may not have 
been a good idea.
His words seemed to console his guide. No worries, Brother. Were here. Treet 
turned forward and gently pushed the gathered men aside. Make room, he 
scolded. Let an older brother through.
The sea of robes parted. Brother Treet stepped aside to allow Greshym to pass 
forward. Its a sign, an omen, he said breathlessly as Greshym limped past. I 
just know it!
Greshym feigned a misstep, crushing Brother Treets foot with his staff as he 
struggled among the gawkers. Only the sinking gravel kept the mans toes from 
breaking, but the pain purpled his pudgy face. Greshym continued on as if 
unaware of the harm he had caused. He finally reached the shadow of the trees 
trunk.
Around him hushed voices whispered in prayer and astonishment. Just 
overheadGreshym had to crane his neck backwarda low-hanging branch ended in a 
small cluster of green leaves.
Greshym scowled. It had been almost two decades since the tree had sprouted any 
growth. A stray breeze fluttered the patch of leaves, their silvery undersides 
flashing and dancing in the sun. The crowd murmured in awe at the sight.
Is this what drew them all? From within his cowl, Greshym grimaced his disdain. 
A handful of leaves!
He was about to turn away when brightness caught his eye. Buried within the 
cluster of leaves, a spark of color flasheda sapphire blazing in a fluttering 
sea of green and silver. A purple blossom! Curled and closed in slumber, it 
rocked gently on its branch.
Greshym stared in shock, his bleary eyes struggling to understand. The koakona 
had not bloomed in over two hundred winters! Yet there it was! Hanging and 
rolling in the sea breeze, a lone jewel from the distant past.
He backed a step away. He suddenly felt it: like a chill that passes down a 
spine, raising the smallest hairs. He backed another step, bumping into the boy 
who stood ever present at his shoulder. Too stunned to scold, he just herded the 
boy behind him as he retreated. But the chilling sense of danger crept after 
him. He recognized his uneaseand its source. It was Chyric power, white magick, 
flowing out from the single bright blossom. He had not felt its touch so strong 
since ages long lost.
His eyes wild, his staff knocking knees and shins, he stumbled back as the crowd 
surged forward, their voices suddenly rising loud with astonishment.
Sweet Mother! someone called at his shoulder. It is a miracle! another 
exclaimed in wonder. All about him, voices echoed these words. Somewhere a bell 
began ringing.
Greshyms heart clamored in his breast; his breath choked him. He stared in 
horror.
Overhead, the blossoms petals slowly opened. A gentle light glowed from their 
heart, brightening the petals with a soft azure luminescence. Greshym recognized 
this gentle radiance. It was the glow of Chi.
JOACH STUMBU* BACKWARD AS THB DARKMAGE HERDED HIM AWAY FRQM
the ree If not for the press of the other white-robed brothers he would have 
fallen over his own topping feet. His legs felt numb and
eet fW Z PinPuCkS- ^ rCaChed Ut ^ dutched  ^e sleeve of a neighbonng brother 
to secure his stance, but even his fin
gers, numb and tingling, failed him, and cloth slipped from his palm
A choking gasp escaped his throat as he realized what was happening. Thankfully, 
the rattling noise was lost in the commotion of raised voices around him. No 
eyes looked in his direction. His vision squeezed toward darkness as he moved 
one limb, then another. First, he took a step back, then raised his hand before 
his face and clenched his hand into a fist.
Free! Sweet Mother, he was free of his prison! His body was once again his own.
The tingling in his flesh quickly faded to echoes along his bones as the spell 
of binding unraveled. Unsure what had freed him, Joach continued to retreat 
through the crowd, the darkmage backing with him. So far, Greshym had failed to 
notice the change.
A skinny white-robed brother turned in his direction as he bumped past. Eyes 
wide with wonder, the mans voice was dazed, his words breathless. Its a 
miracle. Can you not feel the magick?
Joach did not know what the fool was talking about. He tried to flee, but the 
man had gripped his arm with excited fingers. Look, the brother said, pointing 
with his other hand toward the huge trees limbs. Its flower blooms in 
daylight! Its a sign!
In reflex, Joachs eyes drew to where the man pointed. He spied a drooping 
purple flower buried within a cluster of leaves. The petals appeared to glow 
from under the shadows of the wide leaves probably a trick of light.
Yet, as his eyes settled upon the flower, a calm overtook his hammering heart. 
Like the touch of a summer sun on his cold skin after diving deep into the 
chilly waters of Torcrest Pond, it warmed through his body. Somehow Joach 
understood that here lay the key that had freed him from prison. He did not 
understand how or why, only that some magick in that glowing flower had broken 
his bonds.
With this thought, as if to confirm this supposition, the petals of the flower 
broke apart and drifted like purple snowflakes toward the ground, their duty 
done. A sigh of regret rose like a mist from the crowd around him. Clearly some 
momentous event had been anticipated, and with the fall of petals marking the 
end of the miracle, disappointment rang clear in their voices.
Its over, said the man beside Joach. The brothers fingers fell from the 
boys arm.
Greshyms voice suddenly rose from near his shoulder. Leave my boy be, he 
snapped at the skinny robed brother, but the darkmages
I UKM
voice lacked its usual fire, sounding more distracted, almost fearful. His eyes 
stared at the falling petals for several heartbeats. Finally turning, he waved 
the tip of his staff, and his gaze flashed over Joach, hardly seeing the boy. 
The edge had returned to his voice as the last of the petals settled to the 
dirt. Leave the poor boy be. He doesnt understand all this.
Well, neither do I, said the other man. Youre the oldest of the Order, 
Brother Greshym. What do you make of these events?
Just echoes of the past, he mumbled harshly. Some memory in the dead wood, 
like a dream coming to the surface. Nothing to get stirred up about.
The dismissive words sagged the skinny brothers shoulders and faded the light 
in his eyes. Youre probably right, he said sadly. Still, I shall see if I 
can collect one of its petals before the others all get to them.
Joach noticed the brothers had clustered around the bole of the
huge tree and were bent reverently collecting the small fallen petals.
Come, Greshym said to Joach as the other left their side. The
darkmage turned his back and stomped his way through the garden.
Follow me, he ordered.
Joach found his feet following, not because of any spell, but simply because he 
did not know what else to do. It was clear that the darkmage still thought Joach 
was his slave, a thrall to his words and commands. The man was mostly blind to 
Joachs presence and did not seem to notice his new hesitations or extra 
movements.
As he walked, a fleeting thought to call out to the other brothers and expose 
the snake among them passed through his mind. But restraining thoughts kept his 
tongue silent. Would they believe him? The others all thought him a brain-addled 
fool. Who would believe that not only a revered member of their order, but also 
its very leader, the Praetor, were under control of the Gulgotha? And even if 
he could convince them, what if there were other darkmages unknown to Joach? If 
the Praetor, the head of the Order, was under the Dark Lords black dominion, 
surely there might be others. For his risk, would Joach only succeed in chopping 
off the head of the weed, leaving the foul root intact? Then would anything be 
truly gained if he spoke out? These worries kept his voice silent.
Nothing would be gained by speakingat least not yet!
A different plan formed in his head as he shuffled behind the
white robe. His legs had weakened from starvation, and it was easy to mimic his 
usual dull pace. What if ? The more he pondered his plan, the firmer his 
resolve became. Greshym only gave Joach glancing attention, barely seeing him 
most of the time. And Joach, trapped in his head these many moons, had learned 
what was expected of him and how he should act. But could he truly pull it off? 
Could he masquerade as the spell-cast slave of the darkmage? And by doing so, 
perhaps learn more about Greshyms schemes? Joach could not answer this last 
question.
Even if he learned nothing, he could always explore ways to escape the island. 
But in his heart, Joach knew he would never use that escape routeat least not 
alone.
He pictured his sister Elenas face: freckles on her nose, eyes crinkled as she 
concentrated. He had no idea where among all the lands of Alasea his sister 
might be now, but he knew Elena was headed to Aloa Glen. If Joach could not 
find her and warn her away, he could at least learn in secret what traps were 
being laid here and try to thwart them.
So Joach continued after the bent back of the darkmage. He knew his best chance 
at helping his sister lay in deceit, in masquerading as a slave. He would fight 
fire with fire, deception with deception. As Greshym and the Praetor wore false 
faces, so would he! Elena, he whispered in his skull, /// not fail you again.
For a heartbeat, the purple flower appeared in his minds eye, glowing much more 
brightly in his memory that it had in reality. Was it mere chance that had freed 
him? Or like the black snakes that hid among the white folds of Aloa Glen, were 
there perhaps allies of the lightmaybe others who might help himhidden in the 
black shadows?
With Greshyms back turned, Joach glanced furtively around the courtyard. 
Shadows and sunlight danced along the paths of the decaying garden. The bright 
and the dark mingled together.
If there were others out there who could aid him, how would Joach be able to 
recognize them in this play of sunlight and shadow?
Whom could he trust?
Somewhere beyond the high walls of the Edifice, a gull cried a lonely call 
across the empty sea. The cry echoed in Joachs chest.
In this matter, he knew he was alone.
The gulls cry swept over the waves toward where Sy-wens small head bobbed in 
the gentle surf. Her eyes followed the birds flight across the blue sky. As her 
webbed ringers swept back and forth in the salty water, keeping her stationary 
in the sea, she imagined the various landscapes the gull had flown over. She 
pictured towering peaks, forests of dark shadows, and empty meadows wider than 
the sea. Tales were spoken of such places, but she had never seen any of them.
She craned her neck back to view the spread of sky and cloud, her green hair 
floating like a halo of kelp around her. The gull disappeared to a dot in the 
suns glare. Sighing, Sy-wen turned her attention back to the churning white 
surf where the sea met the shore of the nearby island in an angry rumble. White 
froth spewed high in the afternoon sunlight, and black rocks glistened like the 
backs of whales while over it all, the ocean roared as it attacked the stone 
island, as if angry at the interruption of its blue expanse.
Sy-wen thrilled at the war of sea and rock. It touched something deep inside of 
her, something she could not name. She studied the island. Her eyes rilled with 
the views of its green-draped peaks, of its cascading falls of spring-fed water, 
of its arched stones of windblown rock. Beyond this one island, others could be 
seen like the humped backs of great sea beasts marching toward the horizon. 
Archipelago.
Even the word that named the maze of islands set her heart to beating. Here was 
mystery and lands unknownforbidden territory
t
for the merai. Only the banished of her people walked those broken shores and 
sharp rocks.
As she kicked her powerful legs to hold her head above water, she felt the 
familiar gentle brush of a warm nose against the back of her thigh. Sadly, she 
spread her legs to allow Conch, her mothers mount, to slide under her. Once she 
was seated on his familiar back, Conch arched up, raising Sy-wen higher. Soon 
only her webbed toes still touched the sea. From atop Conchs back, she could 
see past the churning barrier reef to the interior of the island. Above the foam 
and spray, she spied the towers and straight-edged buildings of the 
landwellers, those of her folk banished from the sea so long ago. She raised 
her arms wide and caught the sea breezes in her splayed hands. How would it be 
to swim through the air like a gull, to fly among those towers and peer in the 
windows at those who lived life at the seas edge? Did they miss the oceans and 
cry all night for their long-lost home, as Mother said?
In front of her, Conchs head surfaced. The jade seadragons scaled neck 
sparked, scintillating in the sunlight. He huffed explosively as the scaled 
flaps that blocked his nose opened, expelling old air. He rolled one large black 
eye toward his rider, blinking his translucent lid open and closed. Sy-wen 
shrank under his gaze.
Though not bonded to the dragon as her mother was, Sy-wen had been raised with 
the giant and had learned his moods. Conch was frustrated with her. He hated it 
when she swam close to the stone islands that dotted the sea. Yet from the 
relieved tremble in his throat as he rid himself of his stale air, she also 
sensed the great beasts worry and concern.
She rubbed a hand along his long sleek neck, scratching the sensitive nest of 
scales by his ear holes. Her touch calmed his irritation. She smiled as he 
turned away. Conch had always been such a worrier. Even when she was a child, he 
had always watched over her, a constant shadow as she grew into a young woman.
Yet as much as it pained her, Conchs guardianship would soon end. Sy-wen must 
soon bond her own dragon and leave Conch behind. Having already begun her 
womans bleed, she was no longer a child. For the past ten moons, immature 
seadragons had already been flocking to her, drawn by each moons virginal 
bleeda flurry
of whites, a scattering of reds, even a few jades like Conch. But she had fought 
them all off. As an elders daughter, she knew her duty and must soon choose, 
but she was not ready. Not yet.
Tears suddenly rose to her eyes. She did not want to lose Conch, not evernot 
even to bond one of the rare blacks, the mightiest of the seadragons.
After her father had died, Conch had become her guardianand her companion. She 
could hardly remember her true father, only a vague memory of laughing eyes and 
warm, strong arms. Even her mother, too involved with her duties as an elder, 
seldom left their clans home inside the belly of the giant leviathan, the 
whalelike creature that housed her familys clan of merai. Without siblings, 
Sy-wen learned quickly how empty the oceans could be. With only Conch at her 
side, she had wandered the seamounts and the elaborate coral reefs, always 
alone.
Lately, she had found herself lured to the islands. Whether it was some growing 
unease as her womanhood and its responsibilities beckoned, or simply a swelling 
dissatisfaction with the empty sea, Sy-wen could not say. She had no words for 
the continuing draw that pulled at her heart.
Maybe it was simply her stubborn nature rebelling against her mothers 
restrictions. After her first excursion near the islands, her mother had 
vehemently forbidden her to venture near the Archipelago again, warning against 
the fisherfolk with their spears, telling tales of how the banished, angry at 
the loss of their true home, would lure merai to their deaths on the rocks. She 
had never seen her mother so disturbed: voice cracking, eyes red, almost wild. 
As fury and frustration had choked her mothers words, Sy-wen had only nodded in 
agreement, eyes lowered in obeisance, acting properly scolded and chagrined. But 
once her mother was gone, Sy-wen had simply dismissed her warnings.
No words, not even angered ones, could sunder the lines that had so snugly 
hooked Sy-wens heart.
So, against her mothers will, she often snuck away from the leviathan and swam 
alone to the edge of the Archipelago. There, she would drift in the currents, 
studying the islands carved by wind and sea. Curious, she would watch for any 
signs of the banished, one time even swimming within sight of one of their 
fishing boats.
But always, as now, Conch would eventually follow her scent and venture forth to 
collect her up, carrying her back to where their leviathan home swam slowly in 
the Great Deep.
The seadragon, loving Sy-wen as he did, kept silent about her wanderingsnot 
even telling her mother. Sy-wen knew how hard it was on the sweet giant to keep 
a secret from his bondmate. Recognizing his pain, she limited her visits to the 
islands to only occasional excursions. Stillshe glanced behind her and stared 
at the island one last time as Conch began to swing aroundshe would be back. 
Sy-wen rubbed the dragons neck, telling him she was ready to
leave.
Conch snorted the last of the dead air from his series of lungs. Under her, the 
seadragons chest swelled as he drank in the fresh breezes, preparing to dive.
Before submerging, Sy-wen slipped loose the stem from one of the air pods at her 
waist and bit off its glued end. It tasted of salt and seaweed. She inhaled to 
test its ripeness. The air was still fine. Even if the pod had staled, there was 
no danger. Sy-wen knew Conch would let her use the siphon at the base of his 
neck. Though tradition allowed only a bondmate to share a dragons air, Conch 
had never refused Sy-wen.
Sy-wen slipped her feet into the folds behind his front legs, and Conch 
tightened the footholds to secure her.
Satisfied, she tapped Conch with the heel of her hand three times, signaling she 
was ready to go. A rumble shook through the great beast and his form sank under 
the waves, taking Sy-wen with him. Just as the water swamped her face, Sy-wens 
inner lids snapped up to protect her eyes from the waters salt. The translucent 
lids also sharpened her eyesight in the silty water.
After the rush of swirling bubbles cleared, leaving only a few stragglers 
chasing them into the Deep, Sy-wen stared in awe at the full sight of the 
creature she rode. From nose to tail, Conch stretched longer than six men. 
Dragon was the merais word for the great beasts who shared their world under 
the waves, and though the seadragons had their own name for themselves, Sy-wen 
found her peoples title most fitting. Wings spread out to either side as Conch 
stretched his forelimbs wide. Gentle but powerful movements rippled through the 
wings as the dragon sailed through the sea. His
snaking tail and clawed rear legs acted as skilled rudders, guiding them in a 
slow curve around the lee of the islands and heading toward the open waters.
Slow undulations swept through the length of Conchs body as his form glided 
deeper. Schools offish darted in unison to either side of his flowing body, 
splashes of blues and greens. Below, rows of reefs marched under the wings of 
the dragon, dotted with the glowing yellow and bloodred blooms of anemones. At 
the fringes of the reef, tall fronds of kelp waved as they passed.
Sy-wen stared at the massed coral below her. It was like flying, she thought, 
soaring above distant mountain ranges. She smiled, biting on her air pods stem. 
Her eyes grew hazy as she watched the seafloor flow under her. A patch of clouds 
far overhead blotched the landscape in patches of shadow and filtered sunlight. 
She dreamed of flying in the sky with Conch.
Suddenly Conch twisted sharply in the water, diving deep toward the peaks of 
coral. Startled, Sy-wen almost lost her lips hold on her air spout. She quickly 
searched for what had startled the dragon. There was little for a seadragon to 
fear in the wide Deep. Except
Sy-wen craned her neck up. Far above her, the shapes that she had thought were 
clouds shadowing the ocean floor were actually the bloated bellies of boats. She 
quickly scanned the barnacled bottoms of the fisherfolks vessels. Sevenno, 
eight boats! Sy-wen did not have to be told what this meant. A solitary boat 
usually just carried pole and net fishers: nothing to fear. This manySy-wens 
heart climbed to her throatthis many boats meant hunters t
Sy-wen clung to Conchs side as he wove his wings and body so deep that his 
belly scratched the sharp peaks of the reef. The waters near the islands, 
though, were too shallow. They would be easily spotted by the ships above. Conch 
struggled to find deeper water. From the corner of her eye, Sy-wen spotted 
trails of blood flowing back along their trail from the dragons coral-wounded 
belly.
Drawn by his blood, as if by magick, schools of sharks appeared from the black 
waters. In only a few heartbeats, monstrous rock-sharks, longer than three men, 
glided from dark valleys in the reef.
Sy-wen realized what Conch was trying to do. He had purposely wounded himself, 
luring the larger predators from their hidden
homes, trying to lose himself among the more common denizens of
the reef.
Conch slowed his glide through the water, letting the other predators within his 
shadow. He pulled hard once with his wings, then folded them under his body, 
narrowing his silhouette as he flowed through the water. Only the slow 
undulations of his body now propelled them forward.
Sy-wen risked a glance upward. A huge rockshark, with a snap of its large finned 
tail, swept just over her head. Sy-wen leaned down closer to Conchs neck. The 
shark would not dare risk attacking until he knew the dragon was near death, but 
the hulking rockshark was not the true threat here.
Farther overhead, the last of the boats glided past. Staring over her shoulder, 
Sy-wen slowly expelled the air from her sore lungs as the bellies of the hunting 
fleet faded behind her. They had made it!
Sy-wen sat straighter on Conchs back and rubbed a hand along his neck. Tears of 
relief mixed their salt with the seawaters. Her silly curiosities had almost 
killed the gentle giant. A new resolve grew in her breast. Where words had 
failed, fear and danger had finally managed to dig free the stubborn hooks in 
her heart. Never again. She would never return to these islands. Her mothers 
words had been wise, and like a child, she had dismissed that good counsel! 
Sy-wens hands clenched to fists. Maybe it was time to look toward her 
approaching womanhood with a more open heart. Maybe it was time she grew up and 
looked at the world with the wisdom of an adult, instead of the dreaming eyes of
a child.
She glanced back as the last of the boats drifted away from them.
Never again!
Suddenly, below them, the seafloor exploded upward, swallowing them in a storm 
of silt and sand. Conchs body contorted violently under her. The scaled folds 
that secured her feet spasmed open. Sy-wen was thrown from Conchs back. Her air 
siphon ripped from her teeth as she tumbled through the water.
The sea gagged her throat as she swallowed a mouthful of salty water. In the 
blizzard of sand, she struggled to resecure the stem of her air hose. She must 
not lose her air. As her body slowed its tumble, instinct drew her fumbling 
fingers to the pod fastened to her
waist belt and felt along its surface until she discovered the base of the stem. 
Thank the Mother, it was still intact. She hurriedly followed its length and 
pulled its end to her lips.
She drank the air hungrily while using her webbed hands to hold herself in 
place. Able to breathe again, she could now think. What had happened?
Swirling sand obscured her vision. She swam backward against a mild current, 
letting the flow of the water clear the silt around her as she kicked and 
paddled. Where was Conch?
Suddenly, like the sun pushing through a break in the clouds, the storm of sand 
settled enough for Sy-wen to get a quick glimpse near the heart of the storm. 
Conch, his long green body coiled up on itself, struggled savagely with 
something, his legs slashing, his neck twisting and contorting. It looked almost 
as if he were fighting himself. Then Sy-wen saw Conchs adversary. It was 
wrapped tight around his body, and the more Conch fought, the tighter his 
opponent gripped him.
A net! A snare set in the sand to catch him!
As Conch struggled, a single black eye rolled in Sy-wens direction and fixed on 
her. For a brief moment, he stopped his struggle, hanging still in the tangled 
net. Flee, he seemed to call at her, I am lost. Then the sand swallowed her dear 
friend away. No! Sy-wen swam into the sandstorm, paddling fiercely. She had a 
knife and a stunner at her waist. She would not abandon Conch. She dug and 
clawed her way through the clouds of silt. It seemed forever that she fought the 
murk. Then, suddenly, she was free, back in sunlit waters, the wall of swirling 
sand at her back. She twisted around. She had swum through the entire cloud of 
silt. But where was Conch ?
Above, movement caught her eye. She glanced up and saw her friend bundled in a 
tight ball in the clinging net, being hauled and drawn toward the surface. The 
bellies of the boats were now clustered in a circle around the ascending dragon. 
Sweet Mother, dont let this happen!
Sy-wen fought her way toward the surface, but she was too late. She had wasted 
too much time fighting the swirling sand. She watched, her heart thundering in 
her ears, as Conch was drawn to the surface.
She kicked toward the planked bottoms of the boats. She must still try. Aiming 
for the largest vessel, she slid under its keel, and
guided by a hand slipping over its barnacled surface, she floated upward until 
her head bobbed in the shadowed curve of the boats
leeward side.
Voices suddenly struck her ears, strident, their thick accent making them 
difficult to understand. Look at the size of that beastie! someone called from 
almost directly overhead.
Sy-wen sank lower until only her eyes and ears were above water. She watched as 
Conch rolled in the tangled net, sluggishly writhing
as he tired.
Itll fetch a shower of silver. Well all be rich! another shouted
gleefully.
A sterner voice rang out from the boat above, guttural and full of threat, a 
voice of command. Git the beasts nose above waters, you daft fools! You want 
to drown it!
But why do we want it alive? What difference The stern voice again.  
Jeffers, if you poke it one more time with that spear, Ill plant it up your 
hairy arse!
A voice called back. Its still fighting, Capn!
Leave it be! Give time for the sleep potion to reach its heart! Then the mans 
voice lowered so only the men near at hand could hear. Sweet Mother above, I 
cant believe it. So the rumors were true about seeing a seadragon at the 
fringes of the Archipelago. Who would have thought?
Not been one seen in these parts since my grandpa was young.
Yah, but Ive heard talk of occasional sightings in the Great Deep. He made a 
low whistling noise. Wonder why the beast ended up here in the shallow 
coastals? And why it kept coming back?
Probably an ol one. Getting daft in the head.
Well, whatever reason, itll bring us enough silver and gold for a lifetime. 
Look at that beaut!
Sy-wen could not stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks. Conch, she 
silently sent to him, Im so sorry.
Quite a catch it is, Capn. Makes you almost want to believe those ol stories 
of mer folk.
The other laughed. Now, Flint, dont you go daft in the head.
Just saying it makes me wonder.
Well, youd best wonder about the riches well fetch with a living seadragon at 
Port Rawl. Seadragons blood is as rare as heartstone. I heard tell that vials 
left over from the last dragonthe beastie
caught up near Biggins Landing ten years agostill fetches six gold coins a 
drop! Now wonder about that, Flint!
Glee entered this others voice. I can just imagine the look on that old snake 
Tyrus when we haul this treasure to port.
His menll have to tie him to a mast to keep him from tearing that lice-ridden 
beard from his face in his jealous rage. They both chuckled.
Were both going to die rich men, Flint. Then the voice again rose gruffly and 
shot across the waters. Jeffers! What did I just tell you about that spear!
But, Capn
Each drop of blood is wasted profit! Samel, git that Jeffers be-lowdecks. The 
next one who stabs the dragon gets fed to it! Then his voice lowered. Fools!
Sy-wen had already stopped listening. Her eyes were on her friend tangled in the 
net, a pool of blood spreading around him. Drawn by the blood, occasional fins 
of sharks broke the water but were chased off with spears. By now, Conch had 
stopped struggling, lying limp in the ropes. She could see he still breathed. 
But for how long?
Sy-wens chest hurt from suppressing her sobs. What was she to do? It would take 
her until well past nightfall to return to the leviathan and tell the others 
what had happened. But even if the elders decided to risk freeing him, Conch 
would be long gone, lost among the hundreds of islands of the Archipelago.
She closed her eyes and made a choice. She could not abandon her friend. His 
life depended on her.
Opening her eyes, she slipped a hand to her waist and freed the shark-tooth 
knife from her belt. Repositioning her air stem, she dove under the waves and 
kicked and swam toward her friend.
In the distance, sharks circled warily. Sy-wen could see their black eyes 
watching, unblinking. The spears kept them at bay so far.
Sy-wen swam deep under Conch until the sunlight was blocked by the netted 
dragon. Floating up in his shadow, she reached his underside and ran a hand 
along the net. The oiled ropes and knots had dug deep into Conchs flesh. Blood 
seeped where the tight ropes had sliced his skin during his struggle. A deep 
gash in a tangled fold of a wing bled near her hand, and she found herself 
reaching for the in-
ury as if her touch could make the wound disappear. Oh, Conch,
/hat have I done?
Before her fingers touched the dragon, something suddenly slammed into her 
ribshard. Sy-wen gasped, losing her air stem and swallowing a mouthful of 
seawater. The blow pitched her out from under Conch into the sunlit waters. 
Gagging, Sy-wen spun around and dug for the surface. Seawater seared her lungs. 
Near blind with pain, Sy-wen saw her attacker swing back around toward her. It 
was a rockshark. With her attention so focused on her wounded friend, Sy-wen had 
failed to see the shark. She knew better than to let her guard down when sharks 
smelled blood in the water.
She kicked in retreat. Her head broke the surface of the sea at the same time 
the huge shark fin crested the waves. It stood taller than her whole body. 
Coughing and choking, she held up the tiny knife and reached for the stunner at 
her waist. She had fought beforeshe would not let a shark stand between her and 
Conch.
She raised the knife, but she never had to use it. A massive spear flew bright 
across the sparkling water and slammed into the base of the fin. A fountain of 
blood flew up from the buried blade, and the rockshark exploded out of the 
water, thrashing against its death.
Sy-wen stared, stunned by the sight of its cavernous mouth lined by hundreds of 
teeth. She cartwheeled her arms to clear away from its spasms. Even a dying 
shark could kill. Voices rose behind her. Good throw, Kast!
What an arm!
Sy-wen spun around. She was once again near the lee side of the main boat. She 
glanced up at a pair of bearded, scarred faces staring back at her, their black 
eyes unblinking. She never knew sharks could leer.
Before she could react, a net flew over the rail of the boat and swept down over 
Sy-wen. She kicked off the boats side, trying to escape, but her feet slipped 
on the algae-slicked planks. Rope and knot descended on her, wrapping around her 
like a living creature. Her knife was knocked from her fingers.
She fought, but like Conch, her efforts only aided in tangling her further. 
Seawater swamped her mouth and throat. Unable to surface or reach her air pod, 
she gagged and thrashed but could not beat
back the dark. Like the sea itself, the swelling blackness drowned Sy-wen, 
sweeping her away.
Kast ignored the commotion on the deck behind him. He stood at the prow of the 
Stipjact and watched the rockshark die on his spearpoint. As the king of 
sharks, its body and blood would drive other sharks away from the wounded 
seadragon.
Still Kast continued his watch, his eyes drifting to where sunlight sparked off 
jade scale. Except for a barrel of additional spears at his side, he stood 
alone. None dared approach too closely unless invited. His almond-shaped eyes 
warned all who neared of his heritage.
Kast had been born and raised among the savage tribes south of the Blasted 
Shoalsthe Drerendi, a people known for their piracy and hard living. He even 
sported a tattoo on his neck of a seahawk, talons bared in attack. It was the 
symbol of the most savage and predatory of the Drerendi tribes, the 
Bloodriders. Kast wore his black hair pulled into a long tail that draped to his 
waist, leaving his neck exposed for all to see the tattoo. It was not done in 
false pride or to brag of his heritage, but in simple warning. Sea folk were a 
rowdy lot, and it was best that a man know who he insulted or accosted, lest 
blood be drawn. So Kast kept his tattoo exposed, forewarning all to stay clear.
Alone by the bowsprit, he studied the seadragon, shading his eyes with a hand as 
if supposing it all a mirage of sun and water. Yet the dragon did not dissolve 
into mist and vanish. It was as real as his own bones and sinew. Kast studied 
the folds of wing tangled in the net, the hint of pearled fangs protruding from 
a narrow snout, the black-jeweled eyes the size of a mans fist.
Raised on the sea, he had never supposed such wonders still hid below its waves. 
He had seen rocksharks that could swallow a man whole, silver-bellied eels 
longer than the S%ipjact, and even spiny lobsters that killed men with a touch. 
But he had never seen such a creature as this dragon! Such a beast spoke of 
another time, an age when myth was forged in blood.
As he contemplated the sight, he brushed the tattoo of the sea-hawk on his neck 
with a finger. Could it be ? He remembered the madness that had shone in the 
blind seers eyes as he writhed on his deathbed. He recalled the garbled words, 
the hand clutching his
arm as the old man died. Kast shook his head, dispelling the past, and dropped 
his hand from his throat. Why had he followed the words of a madman?
Captain Jarplins voice suddenly cracked across the deck behind Kast. Git her 
out of the water! he ordered. Youre gonna kill her!
It was the urgency in Jarplins voice, more than the content of his words, that 
finally drew Kast from his study of the seadragon. He glanced toward the 
starboard rail, where already a group of deckhands had gathered.
The captain leaned over the rail and yelled again over the side.
Thats it, men, haul her on up!
Intrigued at what new treasure was being fished from the sea and satisfied that 
the blood of the slain rockshark would keep other predators away, Kast signaled 
a fellow mate to take his post and crossed to join the group of men. Hired for 
his skill at tracking and hunting the pathless expanses of the sea, Kast had no 
obligation to help with the nets and lines, yet still he often joined the 
deckhands in their duties, ignoring their obvious discomfort at working so 
closely alongside a Bloodrider. He cared not whom he made nervous. That was not 
his concern. Kast needed to regularly work under the sun, testing the worthiness 
of his arms and the strength of his back. A Bloodrider did not let his skills 
wane.
Kast bumped an onlooker on the shoulder, a red-haired, cleanshaven youth. His 
voice commanded attention. Tok, whats been
found?
The boy glanced toward him, his eyes widening, then backed a step away. Not 
not sure, sir, Tok answered. A stowaway, we thinks. Some girl that was trying 
to sneak off the boat.
A stowaway? Kast could not keep the disgust from his voice. Stowaways were 
gutted and tossed to the sharks among his own
people.
The Hort brothers spotted her asneaking into the Deep, Tok
added nervously.
The captains voice barked again. Clear away, you lollygaggers! Haul that net 
up here. Jarplin bullied through the crowd of deckhands. The captains broad 
shoulders told of the strength still in his old arms, and though his hair 
silvered toward gray, Jarplin was as hard and tough as any of his men. His green 
eyes let nothing escape his notice. Known for his quick anger, the captains 
justice was swift
and often brutal, but still he ran a tight ship, and over the three winters 
aboard the Sfypjact, Kast had developed a grudging respect for the man. What 
are you all doing? Jarplin called out as he reached the bearded Hort brothers. 
He shoved other men away from the rail. Clear on out!
Kast watched as the two brothers hauled their dripping net over the rail and 
dropped their cargo to the deck. Seawater and oiled ropes splashed across the 
planks.
The men all backed a step, letting Kast now get a clear view of the catch.
Its only a lil girl, someone said.
Kasts brows lowered. Tangled in the net, a small figure lay sprawled across the 
deck. Bare chested, with only a hint of breasts, she wore a pair of tight 
breeches made of some slick materialsharkskin perhaps. It took him a few 
additional heartbeats to realize that the dark green seaweed snarled in the net 
along with the girl was actually her hair. How could it be? After so many ages
She does not breathe, Kast heard himself say, stepping forward.
Captain Jarplin pushed through the men that crowded around the catch. Git that 
net off her!
The boy Tok danced forward with a knife in his hand, ready to slice the girl 
free.
The captain spotted him. Tok, put that knife away. I wont have a perfectly 
good net wasted on a stowaway.
The boy stopped, his freckled face reddening.
Kast, though, continued toward the prone girl, a knife flashing into his own 
palm. He bent to the net and began sawing at the ropes. She isnt a stowaway, 
Captain.
I dont care what Jarplins voice trailed away as he saw clearly for the 
first time what his precious net held.
The captains first mate, Flint, stood at Jarplins shoulder. He was a thin man, 
hardened and worn by storm and sea into a figure of tanned leather and sharp 
bone. His voice was as coarse as the scrabble of gray beard on his chin. You 
heard the captain, Kast. Git away from the net and let Then his words died, 
too. A long low whistle escaped his cracked lips. As his eyes settled on the 
cargo, Flint rubbed at a small silver star fastened to his right earlobe. That 
that aint no stowaway.
The captain raised a hand, silencing his first mate. Kast sliced through the 
knots with snaps of his wrist and deft knowledge of where to cut. The girl was 
free in only a few breaths. Kast lifted her from the tangled ropes. His eyes 
raised to the circle of deckhands, and they all backed from the intensity of his 
gaze, leaving him room to lay the slight form on the cleared-off deck. He 
straightened her limbs and checked for the beat of her heart.
She still lived, but her lips were blue and her skin pallid and cold. She would 
not live much longer. He rolled her onto her stomach and straddled her, then 
used both palms to squeeze the water from her lungs. More seawater than he 
thought could possibly be contained in her small frame sluiced across the 
planks. Satisfied that he had rid her of most of the water, he flipped her back 
around and bent her neck. He lowered his lips to hers and breathed life into her 
chest.
As he pinched her nose and worked the bellows of her lungs with his own air, he 
heard the others murmur around him.
Look at her hair. It shines like algae floatin on dead water.
Did ya see her hands? Webbed like a duck, I tell ya.
Kast is wasting his time. She is lost to the Deep. Others grunted their assent 
to this last statement. One mate, though, snickered. It was one of the Hort 
brothers.  Course Kast isnt wasting all his time. I wouldnt mind kissing the 
lass, too. And those little muffins on her chest look mighty tasty. He laughed 
coarsely.
Kast ignored them all. He focused on his duty. In and out, he worked her chest.
Finally, the captains voice rose behind him, and he placed a hand on Kasts 
shoulder. Shes gone. Leave her be. The sea has claimed its own. He pulled 
Kast up.
Red faced, Kast sat back on his heels, studying the young girl. His efforts had 
returned a bit of color to her lips, but nothing more. She still lay unmoving. 
He let out a rattling sigh, conceding defeat. She
was lost.
Then suddenly the girl coughed harshly, wracking her whole form. Her eyes 
fluttered open and fixed upon him. Father? she mumbled and reached a hand 
toward where Kast knelt over her. Her fingers touched his throat, resting for a 
heartbeat on his seahawk tattoo.
Kast jumped back from her fingers as if stung. Where she had
touched, his tattoo suddenly burned like a brand on his skin. He stifled a gasp, 
his cheek and throat burning with an inner fire. His heart thundered in his 
throat.
Shocked and speechless, he watched the girls eyes roll back and her arm swoon 
to the deck. She drifted away again.
Kast bent over the girl, one hand rubbing his neck. The fire was already fading. 
Obviously the child was delirious, but at least she now breathed. We need to 
get her somewhere dry and warm, he said. The men had fallen silent around him 
when the child had awakened. He scooped her up in his hard arms.
Take her to the kitchens, Jarplin said. The heat of the hearths should warm 
her up. But once shes able, I have a few questions for the lass.
Kast nodded. He had questions of his own. He waited no further and whisked her 
across the deck.
Behind him, he heard the captain address his men, his voice gruff and irritated. 
And the rest of you, get back to the rails. We have a dragon to haul to port.
Bent over, Kast crawled through the narrow companionway that led to the lower 
cabins. His nose was assaulted with old smells of unwashed bodies mixed with the 
acrid scent of salt and vinegar from the cooking stoves. After the bright 
sunshine, it took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim passageways of 
the lamplit lower decks. Blinking, he hauled his cargo down the hall toward the 
galley near the stern.
His mind whirled on the events of the day, his skin still aching with a dull 
burn. First the dragon, then the girl. What did it all mean? He remembered the 
childs green eyes staring into his own, dazed and confused. Could it be the 
prophecy? For a breath, he again pictured the blind shaman of the Bloodriders 
dying on his fouled cot in a back room of Port Rawl. His last words echoed in 
Kasts head: A Bloodriders oath is tattooed on his flesh. Though the sworn 
words are forgotten, the flesh remembers. The shaman had then clutched Kasts 
arms with the last of his strength. You must go north of the Shoals, Kast. The 
tattoo will soon blaze with its old promises. Do not forget. When the seahawk 
burns, the oceans will run red with blood, and the riders will be called forth 
to fulfill their oathto mount again and drive the great dragons from the sea. 
A shiver passed through his body as he carried the girl down the
passageway. The shaman had been his teacher, his master. But was it prophecy or 
madness that drove the blind seers last breaths? He had obeyed his teachers 
last words and traveled north of the Blasted Shoals, leaving behind the lean, 
swift ships of his people for the heavy, swollen-bellied boats of the 
Archipelago. For over ten winters, he had exiled himself to respect his deathbed 
promise, growing more bitter as each winter passed without incident.
But nowcould this be a sign?
Confused, Kast dismissed these thoughts as he reached the kitchens and pushed 
through into the heated room. He needed the girl alive. Perhaps answers would 
come from her lips, answers he had been seeking for a decade since the death of 
his teacher. He would get his
answers!
As he carried the girl into the warmth of the ships galley, Kast spotted Gimli, 
the cook, bent over a bubbling pot, his old cheeks ruddy from the coals, his 
brown hair sticking straight up from the sweat and steam. Gimli glanced at Kast 
as he entered, his eyebrows rising as he spied Kasts burden.
Whatcha got there?
Kast kicked aside two stools and laid the girl across an ironwood table. I need 
dry blankets, and a cloth soaked in hot water. He checked to ensure she still 
breathed. Her chest rose and fell steadily. Relieved, he went and hurriedly 
gathered blankets from a neighboring cabin.
As he reentered the kitchen area, Gimli was pulling a scrap of cloth from a pot 
of boiling water. He juggled it over to where Kast was draping the childs small 
form in heavy, coarse blankets.
Kast took the steaming cloth. Ignoring its burning heat, he wiped down the 
girls face and upper body. The girl moaned under his touch, her lips moving as 
if she were speaking, but nothing intelligible came out.
As the cook looked on, Kast finished his ministrations, wrapped the girl from 
the neck down in blankets, and gently positioned a down-filled pillow under her 
head.
Who is she? Gimli asked.
Kast had no answer and stayed silent. He pulled a stool beside the table and sat 
on it. He wanted to make sure he was the first to speak to her when she awoke.
The cook shrugged at Kasts silence and turned back to his duties, armed again 
with his ladle.
WIT CH STORM
Alone, Kasts fingers wandered to the green locks of the childs hair drying on 
the tables planks. Gimli had failed to ask the right question. He shouldnt 
have asked who the child wasbut what.
Kast did know that.
He whispered to the blanket-wrapped figure, naming her heritage: merai. He 
touched her soft cheek. Here lay myth given flesh. Dragonriders, he said in a 
hushed breath.
The ancient slave masters of the Bloodriders.
Sy-wen swam in murky dreams.
She pictured men whose mouths were filled with row after row of sharks teeth 
She fled from a dragon, torn and bloody She dodged a seabird that clawed at her 
eyes. She kicked and paddled to escape these horrows. She must flee!
Then her father suddenly came and picked her up in his strong arms, pulling her 
from the horrors in the sea. He kissed her and carried her to safety. She smiled 
up at him and found she could finally rest. He would help her. Darkness then 
swallowed her awaynot the cold blackness of death, but the warm embrace of true 
sleep.
She slept deeply, but over time an urgency slowly grew in her heart. She was 
forgetting something. No, not somethingsomeone. She moaned as she struggled 
against the whispers of slumber in her ear. Who had she forgotten? Then a new 
voice filled her ears, drowning all else away. A harsh voice, coarse and spoken 
with a thick tongue.
That girlspread out on the table like thatlooks a mite more appetizing than 
the cooks stew, Kast. How about letting my brother and me have a taste of her?
As the darkness shattered into shards around her, Sy-wens eyes opened. She 
found herself in a narrow room that reeked of salted fish and burning coals. 
Around her, empty tables were strewn with dirty bowls, cracked spoons, and 
half-eaten crusts of bread.
Where was she?
WIT C H JTORM
As jagged pieces of memory tumbled into place, Sy-wen shrank back from the three 
men staring down at her. She remembered Conch, captured and bleeding. She 
remembered the tangling net that had pulled her from the sea and recognized two 
of the men here as the bearded pair who had caught her. Their leering faces were 
hard, but not as hard as the third mans. His features made the others seem like 
mere babes. Yet the severity in his face was not born of harsh cruelty, like the 
other two, but was more like rock hardened by the beating of a winters surf. 
His features shone with a proud nobility won through time and deeds rather than 
birth and circumstance. His black hair was swept back from his face and revealed 
a red-and-black tattoo of a hawk emblazoned on his cheek and throat.
She knew this man, too. Her eyes were drawn to the curve of a tattooed wing upon 
his throat, and the panic in her heart subsided slightly. He had saved her. He 
would protect her.
One of the bearded men spoke up. Looks like the lass likes my voice. I come 
acalling, and she wakes right up.
Leave us, the tattooed man said in a low voice. He did not even turn toward 
them.
The galley is a common room, Bloodrider. We have as much right to be here as 
you.
The tattooed man tilted his neck to face the speaker. Youve had your dinner, 
Hort. Clear on out.
And I suppose you could make us both, the other answered, menace thick in his 
throat. His companion stood at his shoulder, supporting the mans threat.
Sy-wen ignored the growing tension. Her eyes were still fixed upon the mans 
tattoo. She could not look away. She stared at the crown of feathers atop the 
hawks head, the sharp points of its clawed talons. With the strangers neck 
bent like this, it seemed the hawks red eyes blazed directly at her, digging 
deep inside her.
As she stared, she suddenly found her heart beating faster. It became difficult 
to breathe. Unable to stop herself, she wormed an arm free of the wrappings 
around her and reached out to touch the tattoo.
She had a need.
Her fingers brushed a wing that stretched across the mans throat. At her touch, 
the man knocked her hand away, flinching back as
w-
if struck by an eel. He reached a hand up and rubbed his tattoo as if trying to 
erase it from his flesh. Dont, he said coldly, his eyes wide
and wary.
She answered, her words coming from deep near her heart. I have need of you. 
She reached out to him, and he backed a step away, out of her reach. Come, she 
insisted.
One of the others laughed nearby. Looks like the lass likes Blood-riders, Kast. 
Maybe after youre done with her, well show her what
real men
Sy-wen did not hear them. She had a need, and the sight of the tattoo had cast a 
spell over her. It told her to demand what she wanted of this tattooed man. A 
part of her struggled against these strange compulsions, but it was a whisper 
before a roar. She could not resist. Neither could the man. He obeyed her order 
to come and stepped toward her, his eyes now narrow with fury. It seemed he 
could not resist the compulsion any more than she could, as if they both danced 
to some ancient music in their blood, sung and orchestrated by her need. He 
leaned toward her, exposing his neck to her. She reached and covered the tattoo 
with her palm. He spasmed under her touch, and his narrowed blue eyes flamed to 
red, matching the hungry, hunting eyes of the hawk.
As her blood compelled, she named her desire. Take me from here, she said. I 
must escape.
Youre already gone, he answered in a voice filled with fire. He leaned over 
and scooped her up.
The bearded men stared at them, jaws hanging open. One of them made the mistake 
of speaking. Youre not going anywhere with the girl, Kast. Then he made the 
fatal mistake of blocking the tattooed mans path, a knife raised in threat.
Sy-wen watched, and though her senses were dulled by whatever spell had been 
cast, she still knew the stranger moved far quicker than her eyes could ever 
followeven when burdened with her
weight.
In a blur of sharpened steel, the man named Kast twirled, a knife appearing in 
one of his palms. Before either bearded man could speak or raise an alarm, they 
were clutching throats slashed from ear to ear. Their pig eyes seemed not to 
know they were already dead. Blood flowed down their stained shirts. They fell 
in unison to their
knees as if in final prayer. One raised a bloody hand in supplication toward the 
tattooed man, then both fell forward onto their bearded faces.
Inside she screamed at their sudden deaths. She had never seen so much blood. 
Yet still she did not fight the mans murderous arms. Instead she spoke to him 
in encouragement. I must escape, she said, repeating her hearts desire.
He nodded, his red eyes aglow, and lifted her higher in his arms. He stepped 
over the corpses and carried her toward a portal.
As soon as they left the chamber, Sy-wen smelled the sea in the narrow 
passageway. The scent of home came from directly ahead. Hurry, she urged 
silently. Her guardian climbed the stairs at the end of the hall and carried her 
to the open deck of the boat.
Night had fallen. Below stars as bright as the full moon, the ships full sails 
billowed like drifting clouds on a black sea.
A strong breeze blew through her hair as Sy-wen was carried across the decks. 
Around her, a scattering of men worked the riggings and sails. A few fishermen 
saw Kast and raised a hand in welcome. Nearby, a boy with shocking red hair sat 
and worked at coiling a long rope.
Kast, whatcha doing with the girl? Is she dead? The boy dropped his rope and 
stood up. His eyes were bright with curiosity. The boy now stood between Kast 
and the starboard rail.
As the man walked directly toward the boy, Sy-wen felt him shift her weight in 
his arms, freeing one of his hands. She realized what was about to happen. Oh, 
no! The bloody knife glinted in the starlight.
The boy crinkled his brow, and a small laugh escaped his throat as he saw the 
blade. Whatcha doing, Kast?
No, no, no, she sang to herself. Dont do this! She could not move or stop what 
was happening. The spell trapped them both.
Then, whether the man heard her silent wish or obeyed some inner compunction of 
his own, he hesitated. Run, Tok Get away, he said, his voice strained, his 
words garbled.
The boy had frozen in place, a confused look on his face.
Kast raised the dagger, but his arm trembled. Go, boy, he spat between 
clenched teeth. Now!
Suddenly a new man appeared from behind Kasts shoulder. He stepped between Kast 
and the boy. He was an older man, all worn
edges and sun-wrinkled skin. A scrabble of gray beard marked his chin, but it 
was the small silver star fastened in his right lobe that caught her eye. Its 
brightness seemed so out of place on the gray manyet at the same time also 
somehow so right.
Kast spoke to him, his voice a gasp as he fought the spell that bound him to 
Sy-wen. Flint take the boy Get away.
Oh, enough of this nonsense, the old man grumped. He raised a fist to his lips 
and blew through it. A fine dust puffed into Sy-
wens face.
The powder stung her eyes and nose. She sneezed violently, almost throwing 
herself from her guardians arms. She blinked a few times, then darkness pulled 
her down.
Kasts blood raged against the assault on the girl. He lunged with his dagger, 
but as soon as the girl slumped limp in his arms, it felt like a bowstring had 
snapped within his chest. His vision sprang clear of the red fire that had 
blinded his thoughts and sight.
He stared at the knife poised at his first mates throat. What was
he doing?
Flint pushed the dagger away with a single finger.
The boy Tok peeked around the old fishermans shoulder.
Whats happening?
Flint opened his palm and raised it to the boy. Does this smell
odd?
The boy bent and sniffed. His eyes blinked, and he sneezed a
quick little burst before sliding to the planks. Sleep dust, Flint explained. 
What whats happening? Kast asked.
The old man wiped his hand on his breeches and shook his head. Who would have 
guessed after so many centuries that the bond-oaths of the Bloodriders still 
tied them so tightly to the merai?
What are you talking about?
As answer, the old man pulled a woolen scarf from his pocket and held it out to 
Kast. Cover your tattoo. We dont want that happening again.
What? What happened? I dont understand. Shaken, he sheathed his dagger and 
accepted the scarf. Flint, whats going on?
No time. The old man peeked at the girl in Kasts arms. Such a
JAMES CLEMENS
pretty face for so much trouble. He sighed and glanced up and down the deck. 
If you wish to escape, we must hurry. This night wont last forever. Ive 
awoken the dragon and freed him of the ropes. But he is gravely injured, and any 
delay could mean his death.
Kast backed a step away. He had wrapped his neck in the woolen scarf. I dont 
know what scheme you plot, Flint. But Ill have none of it.
Quit being such a fool, Bloodrider. You just killed two shipmates. Thatll get 
you hung before the Skjpjact reaches port. Come or die.
Kast still stood frozen in indecision. Suddenly an explosion of voices erupted 
from belowdecks, angry voices. The captains voice was among them.
Flint raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Where do we go? Kast asked.
I have a skiff tied near the stern. Carry the girl. He turned and led the way 
toward the rear of the boat.
Kast followed. He glanced at the sleeping merai girl in his arms. What was 
going on?
A trail of snoring men marked Flints trail across the deck. Kast eyed his wiry 
back. Who was this man he had worked alongside these past three winters? He was 
certainly more than just a ships first mate. Curiosity drove Kast after the old 
man. Flint knew more about what had happened this evening than Kast did, and he 
was determined to learn all the old fisherman knew of the merai, their dragons, 
and the strange hold the girl had upon him.
Kast joined Flint by the stern rail, where a rope ladder draped over the side. A 
small, single-sail skiff rocked in tow behind the larger boat.
Can you climb down with the girl? Flint asked.
Kast nodded. The child was light as a wisp. Below, he could see the dragons 
jade snout secured to the side of the skiff. Its huge wings billowed under the 
waves to either side.
Flint must have noted where he looked. Hes old, and his wounds are deep. It 
will be lucky if we can reach the healers before he dies.
Where are you taking him?
I
Flint climbed over the side of the boat. He looked Kast squarely in the face and 
spoke a name that revealed his madness. To Aloa
Glen.
As the old mans face vanished out of sight, Kast stared at the open sea behind 
the boat. Starlight reflected in the midnight waters. Aloa Glen. The mythical 
lost city of the Archipelagoes. Surely Flint was mad. Sailors had searched many 
centuries for the sunken city, and nothing had ever been found.
Still, Kast remembered his old teacher, the Bloodrider shaman, long dead from 
riven fever. Kast had followed a madmans fevered words before, so why not 
again? He hoisted the child over his shoulder and reached for the ladder.
Below, he saw the seadragon sluggishly spread its wings.
Besides, Kast thought as he climbed onto the ladder with a child of the ancient 
merai over his shoulder, this night even myths were becoming real.
Something stung Sy-wens nose and pulled her from sleep. She blinked away the 
traces of slumber and found two men staring at her. She remembered these two 
men, but she was still too dazed to know if she should fear them or thank them. 
Where ? Who ?
Hush, child. My name is Flint, said the one with the gray beard, the silver 
star in his ear glinting brightly at her. Youre safe. He waved a tiny vial in 
front of her nose. Sniff more of this, my dear. Itll help clear the cobwebs 
from that pretty little head of yours.
Sy-wen winced at the smell, but it did seem to help her eyes focus. Above her 
head, a sail bulged taut with the night wind. She was in a small boat. Stars lit 
the night sky still, but to the west, a rosy glow promised morning.
Wobbly, she struggled to sit up. To either side of the skiff loomed the shadowy 
silhouettes of island mountains, hulking behemoths that threatened to topple as 
the boat raced through the sea channel between them.
Careful there, sweetheart. The old man helped her up and pulled a blanket 
around her shoulders. I think it best if you keep yourself covered.
She lay near the skiffs prow. Pulling the blanket more firmly around her bare 
chest, she stared back toward the stern and recognized the other man in the 
boat. He sat with one hand on the rudder and would not meet her eye. Though his 
neck was covered with a gray scarf, she knew him to be the tattooed man, Kast, 
who had rescued her from the hunting fleet. He was the one who had cast some 
spell over heror maybe it was the other way around. She shook her head, still 
confused. The events earlier seemed like a watery dream. The old man sat back 
from her, pocketing his tiny vial. Im sorry for using the sleep potion on you, 
my dear. But it was the only way to break the oathbinding between you two.
She did not understand his meaning and pushed higher on the pile of blankets. If 
she could just find a bit more strength, she could throw herself over the boats 
side, but her arms trembled with the exertion of just sitting up. She sank back 
to her blankets. One hand wandered to the five-legged starfish attached to her 
belt. It was still there! She had lost her knife, but they had foolishly left 
her with the stunnera weapon. She eyed the two men and let her fingers drop 
from her waist. She only had the single stunner. She must bide her time.
Then an explosive snuffling near her left elbow startled her and drew her gaze 
toward the starboard edge of the skiff. A familiar scaled nose rose above the 
boats lip. A fine mist blew out into the night from his flared nostrils. 
Conch!
She reached out a hand and brushed her fingers along the hard ridge between his 
nostril flaps. Responding to her touch, Conch nudged at her palm. Thank the 
Mother, he still lived!
Leaning closer to the boats edge, she saw the tether that leashed the dragon to 
the side of the skiff. Though he still lived, he was yet a prisoner of these 
fisherfolk.
The man named Flint must have read her thoughts. He spoke as Conch nuzzled her 
hand. We mean no harm to your bondmate, child. He is gravely injured and needs 
a healers attention.
She kept her gaze away from the men. I can take him to our own healers, she 
said, keeping silent about the incorrect assumption concerning Conchs bonding 
to her. The merai are wiser in the ways of dragons than you landwellers.
Perhaps, he answered as the tattooed man looked on, but Im afraid Conch took 
a severe stab into his chest, puncturing his hind
lung. Hell not be able to submerge to a depth to reach your leviathan. His best 
hope to survive lies with the healers at Aloa Glen.
Sy-wen crinkled her eyes at the mention of this city, distrustful. She had heard 
old stories of such a place, fanciful tales full of magick-wrought wonders and 
creatures from all the lands. Surely it was just an imaginary town.
Kast spoke from beside the rudder, his voice filled with bitterness. Aloa Gien 
is a myth, Flint. What makes you think you could find a place that sailors have 
searched for for centuries without discovering? Flint nodded toward Sy-wen. 
The seas hold many mysteries, do they not, Kast? How long has it been since one 
of the Drerendi has laid eyes upon a merai?
Kast lowered his eyes. It has been many centuries before the arrival of the 
Gulgotha to our shores.
Yet, is she not flesh? Is she merely a creature of myth? Kast glanced at 
Sy-wen, then back to the old man. His eyes were hard. But Aloa Glen has never 
been discovered. What makes you think you can find it?
Simple, Flint said with a shrug. Its my home. Kasts eyebrows rose in 
surprise, then lowered, bunching up upon his forehead like thunderclouds. 
Youre daft, Flint. Your home is Port Rawl. Ive been to your house by the 
Blisterberry Cliffs.
Ah, thats just a place to dry my bones when Im out of the sea. Sy-wen 
cleared her throat. She cared nothing about any of this talk. She had only one 
concern. Can these healers of yours save Conch?
If we can get him to them alive, I believe they can. Sy-wen pulled her hand 
away from where Conch snuffled at it. Her palm was covered in black blood that 
blew from his wounded chest. She held the bloody hand toward the old man. He 
will not live much longer.
Flints eyes narrowed. The genuine concern in the old mans face touched Sy-wen. 
He was truly worried about Conch, too. I did not think his wounds were so 
deep, he muttered, obviously shaken.
His concern loosened her own resolve. Her voice cracked with
emotion. Please, she said with tears, if you can help save him
He placed a warm palm upon her knee. Ill do my best. He
swung to face Kast. We need to swing around the leeward side of
the next island. Do you know the Arch of the Archipelago?
Kast nodded. I know the place.
Thats where we must go. Flint glanced toward Conch. And we need as much 
speed as you can beg from the wind.
Sy-wen huddled on her blankets, a prayer on her lips. Hurry, she whispered.
Kast must have heard her. His gaze focused on her. I will get your dragon to 
port alive, he said with a rude sharpness. The seas and winds are the heart of 
a Bloodrider.
She stared back into his determined eyes, silent for several breaths.
Finally, Flint drew a hand between the two of them, severing their gaze. Once 
Sy-wen turned aside, the old man lowered his hand, seemingly satisfied, and 
nodded toward Kast. Just make sure you keep that tattoo of yours covered.
Why? Kast asked gruffly.
The old man turned his back on Kast and stared out over the water. Old magicks, 
old oaths, he mumbled, then waved away the question. Now concentrate on the 
sails and rudder.
But Kast had one more question. If youre from Aloa Glen, he asked, changing 
the tack of the conversation as he worked the rudder, why sign on as the first 
mate on the Skipjack}
Flint still did not turn toward the other. To keep an eye on you, Kast, he 
said with a shrug, then touched his silver earring. Your people will hold the 
fate of Aloa Glen in the bellies of your warships.
Late with Greshyms evening meal, Joach raced down the de-serted hallway, his 
footfalls leaving little puffs of dust as he ran. No one had been in this 
passage in ages. He clutched his map in one hand. Had he missed a turn? 
Breathless, he stopped at an intersection of halls and unfolded his scrap of 
parchment. With his heart beating urgently in his ears, his finger followed the 
charcoal lines that roughly outlined the hallways and passages of this level of 
the Edifice. Curse this place, he mumbled to himself as he realized his error. 
He tapped the intersection where he should have turned.
Slipping a sliver of charcoal from his pocket, he extended the detail of his map 
to this location. Error or not, he could not waste any bit of information he 
gathered on this place. Once done, he folded his map and wiped his fingers on 
his trousers.
He swung around and followed his steps in the dust back the way he had come. He 
frowned at the footprints. Perhaps he should whisk away the signs of his 
trespassing in these halls. Then he shook his head. Time was running short, and 
he still needed to reach the kitchens to collect the darkmages supper. Besides, 
no one had been this way in a long time, and Greshym would grow suspicious if he 
delayed much longer. For the past moon, Joach had been using the short space of 
time when he was sent for meals to do some exploring. But each time he had to 
hurry. He did not want the darkmage to grow wary if his meals came too late.
Joach reached the proper intersection and made the turn that headed toward the 
east staircase. He fled as fast as safety allowed, his ears pricked for any 
voices or the sounds of other steps. Too many denizens of the Edifice knew the 
addle-brained servant of Brother Greshym, and Joach could not risk anyone seeing 
him walk faster than his usual slow, dull-eyed shamble. Luckily, the halls 
remained empty, and he reached the stairs without encountering anyone.
He paused at the floors landing with his head cocked, listening to the 
stairwell. These stairs, spiraling down the inside of the easternmost tower, a 
tower named the Broken Spear, were seldom used. This section of the Edifice 
seemed to have been abandoned. Dust and debris cluttered the passages and halls. 
Still, Joach knew the value of caution and kept himself vigilantand this time, 
it proved wise.
Faintly, he heard muttered voices echoing from far below. Someone was on the 
steps. Joach backed away, then shook his head and stopped. He could not wait for 
them to leave the stair. He had already delayed too long. So he slumped his 
shoulders and let a dribble of drool froth his lips. Sighing, he walked heavy 
footed down the stairs, practicing a stumble now and then.
He had perfected the manners of a simpleton. No one gave him more than passing 
notice. So he scuffled down the spiraling steps, again assuming his role of the 
doltish servant boy. As he progressed, the voices grew more distinct. The 
conversation sounded heated, angered, but the words spoken were unclear.
Curiosity perked in Joach. The brothers in Aloa Glen were always so calm and 
sedate, interminably cooperative with each other. Seldom were voices raised in 
anger. Occasionally Joach overheard debates concerning various esoterica of 
magick or a difference of
opinion on the translation of a certain line of prophetic writing, but again 
discussions were always civil and respectful.
The voices on the stair, though, were anything but courteous. Maybe it was just 
two servants arguing over some trivial matter. The hierarchy of the servant 
class in the Edifice was fickle and often led to arguments, even the occasional 
fight.
Joach continued down the steps. Snatches of words began to reach him. Two 
distinct voices, one high and sharp, the other low and dour.
You blaspheme Such is not the way!
I heard it Ragnark truth in tongues of fire!
Ragnark moves for no man
Joach rounded a curve in the spiraling stair and had to suppress an expression 
of surprise when he discovered two white-robed brothers on the steps below. They 
had their cowls lowered as was custom when brothers conversed.
Two faces raised to stare up at him. Joachs left foot slipped, and he stumbled 
down a step. He caught his balance and kept his expression dull, incorporating 
his accidental misstep into his usual role. The two brothers were unknown to 
him. Joach was not sure they would recognize him, but he could not take any 
chances.
One of them nodded toward him as he shuffled down the remainder of steps. Its 
just that odd birds servant. You know, that old bent-backed brother.
The other eyed Joach up and down. Brother Greshym. I heard about his addled 
boy.
The two brothers were a contrast in form. The taller of the two was massive 
shouldered and broad backed, with skin so dark he seemed a shadow in his robe. 
The other, skinny as a sapling, had skin so pale even his eyes and lips seemed 
bled of color. Both, though, had shaven heads and a single silver star adorning 
the lobe of an ear.
From the corner of his eye, Joach stared at the five-pointed stars. Perhaps they 
were the symbol of some chapter of the brotherhood. He had never seen their like 
before. As he continued down the stair, both men grew quiet. Their caution in 
speaking in front of him only heightened his curiosity.
Still, Joach did not stop when he reached the landing the two men shared. He did 
not have the time to dally and ponder these men. He still had to reach the 
kitchens. So he shambled past them without
even a glance. Yet, as soon as he was a distance down the steps, out of the 
mens direct sight, he heard their voices again.
The dark man spoke, his voice deep and more hushed now. Brother Flints signal 
was spotted from the watchtower just after twilight. He should be arriving at 
the Grotto just after the sun rises
tomorrow.
Joach slowed his steps, listening.
Then we should be off, Moris. Our time to act runs short.
Do you think the Praetor suspects?
If he does, the smaller brother hissed, were doomed, and Aloa
Glen will fall.
Joach stopped in midstep. Could it be ? It sounded as if these two also knew of 
the evil that lurked within the walls of the Edifice. But were they allies or 
some competing menace? Joach chewed at his lower lip. Though his suspicions ran 
wild, he had grown to realize over the past moon that he needed help. All the 
maps and drawings he could muster would not save his sister Elena. He had to 
take a chance. He had to trust someone.
He turned and scrambled back toward the landing above. But when he got there, 
the brothers were gone. Joach checked the halls that led out into this level of 
the Edifice. Nothing. He listened for steps, both in the hallways and on the 
stairs above. It was as if the brothers had simply vanished.
He stood on the empty landing, frozen in indecision. He had no
clue where the two had gone, and to search for them now would only
delay Joach past the point of maintaining his ruse with Greshym.
Cursing silently, he continued down the stairway toward the kitchens.
He would watch for those two men again.
Once the boy was gone from the landing, Moris pulled his eye away from the 
peephole in the hidden door. His large dark frame filled the tiny passage. You 
were right, Geral, he said to his small pale companion. Your ears are sharper 
than mine.
In the dim passageway, their white robes were like the lost shades of the dead. 
Moris could see his fellow brother turning to lead the way through the secret 
halls of the Edifice.
I was sure Id heard the boy stop after he was out of sight, Geral
said. Who would have suspected the boy only played at being a dolt? A clever 
way of gleaning information. He almost exposed us. The dark forces grow more 
cunning here.
Moris followed. Do you truly think he is a tool of the GuP-gotha?
Of course. Why else would he maintain this ruse? Geral glanced over his 
shoulder at his towering companion. However, what it does make me wonder about 
is the loyalty of the boys supposed master, Brother Greshym. Has this revered 
brother also been lured to the dark magicks and do he and the boy work together, 
or has the boy been sent to spy upon our esteemed brother, to learn his secrets? 
It gives me much to ponder. I hate to think that someone named after one of our 
sects most gifted seers has given his heart to the Gulgotha.
Hmm Moris considered his friends words. He was not as certain about the 
boys allegiance as Geral. He had seen the expression on the boys face as he 
had searched the landing. The boy was scared. It was not the face of a cunning 
creature of the Dark Lord, but only of a frightened child. Still he kept these 
thoughts to himself. Geral did not like his views questioned, and the two of 
them had already been arguing all day. Moris was tired of parrying words with 
his fellow brother. So he kept his silence on this minor matter.
We must avoid this boy as much as possible, Geral said.
Moris made a noncommittal grunt and fingered the silver star in his ear. In this 
matter, too, he disagreed. The boy deserved further attention. Moris could not 
so easily dismiss the fear he had seen in the lads eyes.
Geral continued speaking as he led the way to their concealed warren of rooms. 
Our sect has kept its secret ways since before the fall of Alasea. We must be 
extra cautious during this pivotal time. All can be so easily lost from a 
loosely spoken word.
I know, Brother.
Moris followed Gerals narrow back down the winding stairs that led below the 
base of the abandoned tower. The stairs led deeper and deeper under the Edifice. 
A few flickering lamps marked their course. Soon the walls of the narrow 
stairway were no longer mortared blocks but simply plain rock hewn from the 
stone of the island itself. Eventually the stairs ended and a maze of corridors 
led outward.
Geral continued onward without pause. Around Moris, the corridors widened enough 
for his large frame to finally straighten, and
the scent of mold and brine swelled in the passages. It was the scent
of home.
They turned a sharp corner in the passageway, and a room larger than the Grand 
Ballroom of the Edifice opened before them. Even after his twenty winters as a 
member of this sect, Moris blood still
thrilled at the sight.
The walls of carved rock spread like wings to either side. Imbedded in the stone 
were thousands of crystals, some the size of a birds eye, others as large as an 
ogres fist. Their facets reflected the flames of the sputtering torches to 
glow like a subterranean starscape.
Both brothers touched the silver stars in their ears and paused in the entryway. 
As impressive as the walls were, the true reverence of the room lay in the 
gnarled cord of root that ran from the distant roof of the chamber to the center 
of the floor. The knobby, crooked shank of growth, as broad as Moris shoulders, 
was the taproot for the ancient koakona tree, the true heart of Aloa Glen. 
Here was stored the last vestige of its Chyric energies.
Around the chamber, a handful of other brothers of their cryptic order had their 
heads bowed as they communed with the tree. Some had hands raised to one of the 
crystal stars on the walls, delving for
prophetic visions.
Their sect, older than the Brotherhood itself and formed when Chi had still 
blessed the mages of the world with magick, had not abandoned their duties. They 
continued to work at unraveling the paths of the future through the search for 
prophetic visions. Long ago, their words had predicted both the disappearance of 
Chi from these lands and the rampage of the Gulgotha. They had tried to warn 
their fellow mages, but their words were judged blasphemous. The others could 
not fathom that the spirit Chi would ever abandon them, and so those of their 
sect were declared heretics and banned from the Order; they were exiled from the 
shores of Aloa Glen. Hard truths are never easily accepted.
Yet, even the sects banishment had been foreseen by some members of their 
group. A small cadre of seers disobeyed the Orders edict and vanished into the 
walls and secret corners of the Edifice. Over the hundreds of winters since, 
they had worked in secret. With or without the help of the Brotherhood, they 
prepared for the
future dawn.
The sect of the Hifai would not abandon its duty.
Moris lowered his fingers from his silver star and stepped into the chamber. 
Long ago, their sects most powerful seer, the mage named Greshym, had spoken 
the vision that forged the Blood Diary. He had then sacrificed his life in the 
binding of the book, giving his blood to prove the validity of his vision. Could 
Moris offer any less?
Moris crossed to near the huge root and knelt. He himself had spoken the vision 
of this nightwhen once again Ragnark would move, when the blood of a dragon 
would mark the beginning of the battle for Aloa Glen.
SHADOWBROOK


Elena tried not to flinch as the daggers flew toward her. Two blades of honed 
steel flipped through the midday sunshine, reflecting sparks of brilliance as 
the twin knives tumbled over the heads of the onlookers. The knife thrower, 
Erril, stood on the far side of the town square, blindfolded. Even though Elena 
knew the fold of cloth binding Erril had been artfully slitted and impeded 
Errils sight only a bit, she still could not keep from holding her breath and 
squinting nervously at the descending daggers.
She heard the voice of one of the townsfolk raise nearby. The boys daft! 
Standing there like a cow while someone throws knives at his head.
A neighbor agreed. But whos more daft? The boy or his father? Imagine throwing 
knives at your own son!
Then it was over.
Thunt. .. thunt
The two daggers imbedded into the oaken door at Elenas back, one to each side 
of her head, missing her ears by only a breath. She let out a sigh of relief and 
stepped forward. As she bowed deeply to the audience, a drop of sweat that had 
nothing to do with the days heat rolled off her nose to strike the stages 
plank. She straightened with a wave, matching Errils own wave from across the 
town square.
For the past three moons, the company had been traveling the countryside, 
performing as a small circus from village to village. This stop, though, was a 
large town, at least twice as big as her hometown
of Winterfell. It was the first such city they had ventured into. The town of 
Shadowbrook, named after the river that ran through its center, was one of three 
shipping towns that marked the plains, one for each major river that crossed the 
region. River barges loaded in Shadowbrook with the wares of the plainsbaled 
tobacco leaf, bushels of the rye grain grown only there, aromatic oils drawn 
from herbs unique to the regionand transported them to the coastal cities to 
barter for trade goods. Due to its commerce center, the riches of the plains 
flowed into Shadowbrook, and Erril hoped to earn enough here to book passage on 
a ship to the coast.
His decision had proven wise. Over the past four days, the performances had gone 
well.
A scatter of applause met the end of Elena and Errils performance. Waiting by 
the side of the stage stood Mogweed, dressed in a red-and-green hunters 
costume, with Fardale at his side. A few children were pointing at the huge 
treewolf, their eyes wide. Fear and awe could be heard in their whispered 
voices. Mogweed and his trained wolf were a popular show and earned more coppers 
from the crowd than the supposed father and son knife show.
As she hopped from the planked stage, Elena fingered her cropped hair, stained 
black to match her father. A few of the young girls who had been watching 
Fardale cast sneaking glances at her. The shy gazes and quick smiled whispers 
suggested a few were enamored by this exciting new circus boy. Elena sighed, 
tiring of her charade.
Still, the deception had kept them safe.
Thousands of circus troupes plied the wide plains of Standi, earning their 
profits while the crops were rich. Come winter, the flow of coppers would 
dwindle with the suns warmth, but for now, the plains were dotted with gaily 
colored wagons and performers of many an ilk. It was easy to get lost and 
disappear among them.
Occasionally their troupe encountered small groups of armed Gulgothal dog 
soldiers patrolling the plains, and all of Elenas party knew for whom they were 
searching. One evening, the company had even performed for a battalion of the 
rough men, but none of the soldiers had raised an eye at their troupe. As a 
matter of fact, the captain of the battalion had paid them a silver coin as a 
bonus. The disguise had worked well.
Over time, the horrors of the foothills faded, though the mourn-
JAMES
ing and tears for Neelahn did not. Her lute still traveled with the company as 
a reminder of their fallen friend, almost like an accusation for failing to 
protect her. Oddly enough, it was Meric who had finally insisted on taking 
responsibility for the fragile instrument. We were once enemies, he had 
explained. But long ago our two peoples worked together. I would like to return 
this to the elvin as symbol of the beauty and nobility of the nyphai. Perhaps 
in its music, the nyphai can still in some small way live. One night, Meric had 
played the instrument, and for a moment it seemed his words were true. In the 
music, Neelahns spirit had seemed to sing out to them. Tears and sad smiles 
had reflected the campfire that night, and for the first time, it seemed they 
could at last put her memory to rest.
So the days had passed. At first everyone had felt relieved that no further 
assault descended upon the party and that no chase dogged their trail. But as 
time wore on and hundreds of leagues disappeared under their wagons wheels, the 
companions began to glance over their shoulders again and jump a bit at sudden 
noises, and the nightly campfires were stoked with a few more logs to drive the 
darkness farther back. It was as if the entire troupe was holding its breath, 
awaiting the next attack.
The quiet and peace had begun to wear on them. Sighing, still edgy from her 
performance, Elena pushed aside the thin curtain behind the stage and almost ran 
into Meric. He stood in the wings, awaiting his turn. He slipped a small sparrow 
into one of his billowing sleeves with an embarrassed look. His crude magick act 
was seldom well received. His haughty nature seemed to shine through to the 
audience and rub against their grain. Only during his finale, when he used his 
elvin magicks to levitate, did the crowd respond enthusiastically.
Meric stepped aside with a slight bow. Milady, he said with
simple grace.
Elena frowned at him. Careful, she warned, suddenly irritated. Remember, Im 
supposed to be Errils son, not your long-lost
bloodline.
He waved off her concern with a flip of his thin wrist. A few bird feathers blew 
out of his cuff with this motion. His pale face reddened slightly. I should go 
out there, he mumbled. Mogweed will soon
be finishing.
She nodded and continued toward the wagon. The shielding curtain
ran from the wagons edge to the back of the stage, so Elena did not have to 
confront any more doe-eyed audience members. To her right was an empty warehouse 
that awaited the falls harvest. It was the perfect site in the square to set up 
their circus, as there were no prying eyes to peek backstage.
After Meric disappeared behind the curtain, Elena had a moment to herself; all 
the others were occupied with the show. Onstage, she heard Fardale howl, his cry 
raising a tinkling of nervous laughter from the audience. Elena knew that on the 
far side of the stage stood their troupes only other attractiona sideshow with 
a single exhibit. In a curtained cage guarded by Krai crouched Tolchuk. People 
were charged a copper to view the imprisoned ogre. Most viewers laughed at the 
poor quality of the constructed monster, who was wearing fake goat horns on 
his head and painted-on whiskers. None suspected that what stood before them 
truly was an ogreand that was the way Erril wanted it. For a troupe to have a 
real ogre would wag too many tongues and perhaps attract undue attention, so 
they added fake embellishments to mask Tolchuks true nature. Still, with Krai 
standing rock faced before the cage with his huge ax, and with a sign near his 
feet that warned for the audiences own protection, the novelty attracted hordes 
of gawkers.
So with everyone else occupied, Elena had a solitary moment to herself, a rare 
event in such close company. As the only female among this company of men, she 
enjoyed these moments to herself. She smiled and walked toward the back of the 
wagon, scratching at the band of cloth that flattened her chest and bound her 
breasts.
It was then that Elena was attackedthough it would take some time to recognize 
the chance meeting as an assault. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement 
and jumped back from the shadowed doorway of the warehouse.
A small, naked boy stepped out from the shelter. He could have been no older 
than three and stood staring at her, sucking his thumb. He was dirty as the 
bricks of the warehouse, with mud-colored hair and a soot-smeared face. His 
face, like those of all children his age, was round and full of open honesty. 
Oblivious of his nakedness, he smiled around his thumb and pointed at her.
Elena knelt down closer to him. Are you lost? she said as if coaxing a puppy 
to her.
He pulled his thumb from his lips with a loud slurp. You shouldnt
be here, lady.
Elena smiled. How did the little boy know she was a girl? Maybe her voice had 
given her away. Its all right, she answered him. Im with the circus.
Circuth? he lisped.
She slid off the glove from her left hand and offered her bare palm to him. She 
knew better than to reach for him with her ruby-stained hand; the odd sight 
might frighten the child. Now wheres your mommy and daddy? Were they watching 
the show?
He took her offered hand with a shy smile. His palm was cold, and slimy from 
filth. A shudder ran through her legs at his touch. It was like gripping a dead 
fish.
But his eyes, shining brightly up at her, disarmed her. I dont have a mommy or 
daddy, he said, a slight giggle in his voice as if he were amused at such a 
thought.
Her heart went out to the little fellow. To be orphaned so young, he probably 
didnt even remember his parents. A bit of anger grew in her chest. An orphan or 
not, how could his caretakers leave him so poorly kept and looked after? Then 
where do you live? she asked. Live? He scratched his oily hair with his dirty 
fingers. Where do you come from? she repeated. He brightened with her words. 
Oh, I dont come from here. She sighed. Of course the child must live in 
Shadowbrook. A naked three-year-old child didnt just wander into this large 
city on
his own.
Who are you with? she tried again. Someone must be responsible for him.
Im hungry, he said, obviously tiring of the subject.
Smiling sadly, she guided him toward the back of the wagon. I think I just 
might still have some sweetcakes left from this morning.
He crinkled up his nose at her suggestion.
She was surprised by his response. What child didnt like sweet-cakes? Then 
what are you hungry for? We have some dried beef
and bread.
He suddenly stopped and, with surprising strength, drew her to a halt. His voice 
became suddenly lustful, nothing like a childs. I need your magick, he said 
hungrily.
She gasped at his words but could not free her hand from his grip. The boy 
looked up at her with that same clear face of a child, but in his eyes lurked 
something much older.
A second, gruffer, voice arose behind her, startling a gasp from her as she 
swung to face this new threat.
Good performance today. It was Erril. The plainsman was pushing through the 
curtain toward her, the fake blindfold in hand. Erril! she cried out to him.
The terror in her voice had him immediately at her side. What is it? His gray 
eyes were sparking with deadly intent, one of his throwing knives already in his 
hand. He scanned the empty space between the curtain and the warehouse.
Elena remained mute. She stared down at where the boy had stood just a moment 
ago. He was gone, but cold fingers still held her. They were not a childs hand. 
In her grip was a clinging handful of wet moss. Oily strands and coarse vines 
were wrapped tightly around her palm.
What is it? Erril repeated, lowering his blade slightly as his gaze settled 
on her.
She held out the fistful of mossy growth toward him. I I dont know.
Tolchuk crouched within the cage, his legs cramping from the confinement. The 
curtain draped around his cage blocked his view beyond, but he could hear 
Merics voice onstage. The elvin was close to the finish of his act, and soon 
the show would be over for the day. Straightening the pair of goat horns on his 
head, he awaited the next curious townsperson to spend a copper to view the 
monster. Over the past three moons, he had played along with this farce, 
growling and hissing at the patrons for their amusement, but his most ferocious 
attempts at instilling terror usually only resulted in laughter, especially when 
the goat horns fell off. None believed him a real ogre. But then again, he 
actually wasnt a real ogre, since half his blood came from a siluran 
heritage. Sighing, he worked his calf muscle with the claws of one of his hands.
Krai, his supposed jailer and guard, hissed at him through the curtain. Someone 
comes. Be ready. The mountain mans voice
grew louder as the possible patron approached. Come see the beast of the 
mountains! Dragged from his foul lair after killing forty men and feasting on 
their bones!
Tolchuk shook his head at the mans theatrics. Krais words bordered on lies, 
except that Tolchuks people had actually killed over forty men and had feasted 
on their bones. It just hadnt been this particular ogre who had committed 
these atrocities. Krai, with his mountain honor, had at first balked at hawking 
such an obvious exaggeration, but over time, the road had worn away his 
misgivings, and the mountain man had grown quite fond of his role as the 
troupes barker. His deep thundering voice suited his assignment well. As Krai 
continued his litany of horrors, Tolchuk groaned
loudly.
Did you hear that! Krai said in conspiratorial tones to someone
beyond the curtain. He stirs! Beware his rage and blood lust! A child spoke. 
Mommy, I dont want to see the scary monster.
Oh, honey, its just a trick. This was a womans voice, sounding
tired and exasperated. Someone in a fancy costume. Dont you want
to peek at it?
I dont wanna! The childs voice edged toward a tantrum.
Fine, then I guess we should be heading home.
I wanna pet the big doggie!
The voices began to fade as the pair drifted away. That was a wolf, honey, and 
his master has put him to bed. The child began a
whining complaint.
Krai poked his head through the curtain. He wore a huge grin. He seemed to enjoy 
his current occupation. Sorry, we lost them.
I heard, Tolchuk grumbled sourly.
Suddenly another womans voice rose from behind Krai, startling him. Few snuck 
up on a mountain mans back without his awareness. Id like to see your 
monster, she said. Her speech was sure and swift as a mountain stream in 
spring.
Krai quickly recovered from his surprise and swung to face her, his staged words 
already on his lips as the curtain flap dropped closed. Why, yes, come see the 
beast who has slew forty men and Then the mountain mans voice suddenly 
cracked. And he umm, I
mean it
Feasted on their bones, the woman finished for him. Yes, Ive
heard it all before. The clink of a coin in the pan marked the womans payment. 
Now if youd be so kind as to step aside, Id like to see this ogre of yours.
Krais tongue stumbled on words he had repeated a thousand times. Be beware 
his blood lust.
Yes, yes, of course, I will. The woman bent her way through the curtained 
canopy to step before Tolchuks cage. Krai, his cheeks bright red, stood behind 
her, holding the flap up.
Tolchuk studied the woman and understood the mountain mans sudden 
consternation. She was a formidable sight. The woman stood as tall as Krai and 
only slightly less broad of shoulder. She wore her long blond hair braided back 
into a tail that reached past her waist. Dressed in leathers with iron bindings, 
she seemed more a warrior than Krai, and the twin blades in crossed scabbards on 
her back added to the impression.
Yet, as gruff as her physique and dress were, her face was that of a handsome 
woman. She had full lips, a slender face, and eyes bluer than the skies at 
twilight. These finer features were obviously not all wasted on Krai. The 
mountain man could not seem to look away from her, his lips still parted in 
midspeech.
Why did you put such ridiculous ornaments on him? she glanced back at Krai. 
Whats the purpose of the great horns?
The mountain mans features darkened further, and intelligent speech was clearly 
beyond him. She seemingly saw through their sham and for anyone to argue 
otherwise would only heighten the awkwardness of the situation.
Well? she said tersely, as if well accustomed to her questions being answered 
without delay.
Tolchuk answered her. It be a disguise, he said. True monsters be often 
killed in villages.
The woman did not even raise an eyebrow at his words. Have you no dignity? she 
asked. To crouch in filth and play the buffoon?
Taken aback by her brutal summary of his condition, it was Tolchuks turn to be 
at a loss for words.
She spun to face Krai, her motion fluid and graceful, like some fierce cat. 
Free him of this cage, she ordered. I wont stand for this.
But?
Her eyes were fire. I would have words with the both of you, she said. But I 
will not speak while She suddenly twisted back to the cage. What is your 
name, ogre?
Tolchuk.
Hmm he-who-walks-liXe-a-man she translated. A cruel name. She returned to 
stare at Krai, ignoring Tolchuks shocked expression. How had she known the 
meaning of his ogre name? As I was saying, I will not speak while Tolchuk is 
locked up like some
mad dog. Now free him.
Krai nodded, too abashed to speak a further word, and fumbled with his keys. He 
unhinged the lock and removed the chains that
barred the cage door.
The woman stood with her hands on her hips until her orders were obeyed. As 
Tolchuk half tumbled from his cramped cage, the tall woman studied him with an 
odd set to her lips, as if she was about to say something but held back.
Soon Tolchuk was stretching his crooked legs on the cobbles of the street. 
Working a kink from his back, Tolchuk raised a pained face to her. What be 
your name ?
She inclined her head ever so slightly. Mycelle Yarnosh.
How be it that you know the ogres tongue?
She waved his question away. We have more important matters to discuss, like 
what an ogre is doing so far from his mountain home
in the first place.
Krai finally found his ability to speak. I I see no reason why
this is any concern of yours.
She rounded on him, bringing her face close to his. Because I went through a 
lot of trouble to track you all down. Her words pushed Krais hand to the haft 
of his ax. She did not even glance at his threat. You play at games when all 
your lives are in jeopardy. Why do you tarry here in Shadowbrook? You know 
better than this, man of the mountains. When you are hunted, to stop is to die.
What do you speak of, woman? Krais gruffness had returned. If I could find 
you, Mycelle stated heatedly, so could the Gul-gotha. Ive been tracking you 
since the foothills, and your guide has wisely kept you moving, escaping even my 
skill. But now this stupidity! She threw a hand in the air. Has it just been 
the luck of
the lame, rather than wisdom, that has kept you from the dogs of the Dark Lord?
Tolchuk closed in on the woman. She seemed to know too much about them. He 
sniffed at her, scenting her strength but also an underlying fear, a bitter 
tang. Anything that could trigger such a response in her was truly something to 
worry about. He spoke at her shoulder. Why have you been hunting us?
Is it for bounty? Krai asked.
She sighed and shook her head with exasperation. Have either of you been 
listening to me? If I was here for a fistful of silver, a legion of dog soldiers 
would have your innards for their victory stew. Now if we are done dithering, 
perhaps you could introduce me to this witch of yours.
Krais ax was now in his hand; he had armed himself so swiftly that Tolchuk had 
not even seen him move. Yet the woman had. Both her blades were already poised, 
one at Krais throat, one above Tolchuks heart. The ogre looked down at the 
sword tip touching
his chest. Not only did she know the ogres language, she also knew
the one weak spot on an ogres body where a single thrust could kill.
Both her weapons were held with a casual steadiness that was more
threatening than the edges of her twin swords.
Tolchuk was the first to speak. Krai, hitch your ax. If she meant
us harm, wed be both dead.
Krai was not a dullard. He carefully returned his ax to his belt.
And youMycelleif you know of the witch, then you know we will lay down our 
lives to keep her from harm. So sheathe your blades and let your tongue do your 
talking.
With a single motion, she swept both swords into the crossed scabbards on her 
back. She reached and pushed back a single lock of hair that had escaped her 
braid. I mean your witch no harm. I have dogged her trail to offer my blades 
and service to her. She nodded toward the town beyond the curtained alcove. 
But I may have come too late. There are two illguard stationed here, and they 
can sniff magick.
Illguard?
Spawn of the Black Heart himself, imbued with foul magickal beasts. They make 
plans already to close off the city. Then they will  hunt the streets for your 
company and the witch you guard.
Krai glanced at Tolchuk, his question clear. Should they trust her?
If youre to escape, she continued, it must be within the day. My skills will 
be of great help.
And what do you want in return? Krai asked, still doubtful.
That is between me and the witch, she said coldly.
Krai eyed the ogre again. Tolchuk shrugged at him. It would be best to bring 
her to the others, he decided. Let the matter be settled then.
Tolchuk spoke to her, letting his threat ring clear in his voice. If you 
betray us, you will need more than two swords to keep me from your throat.
She smiled at him, a bit sadly, then raised a palm to touch his cheek. Is that 
any way to speak to your mother, Tolchuk?
Kral watched the ogres face change multiple colors at the womans statement 
and her touch on his cheek.
The ogre backed away from her. How could Where did ? Tolchuk then 
collected himself with a shake of his head and stated firmly, You cannot be my 
mother.
Mycelle lowered her voice, a certain tenderness entering it for the first time. 
I can see your father in you quite clearly. She pointed vaguely at his face. 
The way your eyes are pushed a bit too close together. And that nose! That is 
your fathers nose.
Tolchuks hands wandered to his face as if trying to feel the truth of the 
womans words. Kral sensed the woman spoke with an honest heart. She does not 
lie, Kral asserted.
But how Why? Tolchuks thousand questions were plain on his rocky features. 
He seemed unable to sort them in any coherent order.
Mycelle placed a hand on the ogres arm. I fell in love with your father. Its 
just that simple.
These words quieted Tolchuk. If what you speak is true, why did you leave us? 
I was told you died in the birthing caves.
She nodded and grew pensive. In some ways, I did. You know of your siluran 
heritage, do you not?
Tutura, Tolchuk mumbled.
Yes, she said with a bit of fire. So the ogre tribes have always named us: 
Tutura, baby stealers. We were despised by the clans. Yet your father knew my 
secret and still had the heart to love me. But
blood is blood, and with your birth, I could no longer hide the fact that I was 
not truly an ogre. Your half-breed birth spoke my deception to the rest of the 
clan. I was hounded and almost killed. Your father rescued me, taking me beaten 
and bloody to the ancient ogres in the deep caves.
The Triad.
Yes. They carried me to a magickal gate in the mountains heart and cast me 
out, warning that I must never return or I would be slain. They said the spirits 
in the gate would take me where I needed to go.
Tolchuk nodded with her words, as if he knew what she spoke of. The Spirit 
Gate, was all he whispered.
Mycelle did not seem to hear him and continued her tale. I was cast east of the 
Teeth, deep into the lands of man. Wounded in body and spirit, I was barely able 
to transform myself, but I didinto the form of a human. Weak and dying, I was 
found and taken in by a kindhearted woman who cared for me. It was she who
Her words were interrupted by Mogweeds sudden appearance at the curtain flap. 
The shape-shifter still wore his stage costume, his hair disheveled. 
Somethings happened to Elena, he said in a rush. Shes safe, but Erril 
wants us all at the wagon. Only after speaking his words did he seem to notice 
the woman standing behind Krai. Mogweeds face blushed as he realized he had 
spoken openly in front of a stranger, breaking the companys code of silence.
Krai clapped Mogweed on the shoulder. Dont worry. She already knows about 
Elena.
Wh-who is she? he whispered. Krai shrugged. She claims to be Tolchuks 
mother. Mogweeds brow crinkled as he glanced around Krais wide shoulders to 
peer at her. But Tolchuks mother was siluran, he muttered. That woman is 
not one of my people. Her eyes Mogweed waved to his own slitted pupils. For 
those who knew the creatures of the Western Reaches, the strange amber eyes with 
catlike pupils marked a shape-shifter in any form. This womans eyes were 
normal, like any other humans.
Mycelle must have heard his words. But I am siluran. Or more truthfully, I was 
of your people. I have since settled.
Mogweeds eyes grew wide, a mixture of shock and disgust clear in his 
expression. You you settled? Were you forced?
We dont have time for this, she said, dismissing Mogweed with disdain. The 
story is long, and Elena is not as safe as you so blithely stated. At least not 
here in Shadowbrook. Take me to her.
Her words seemed to snap the others from their interlocked
gazes.
Shes right, Krai said. Lets go. He led them through a back flap of the 
curtained alcove and slipped behind the stage. As he walked, he pondered the 
days sudden events. First the warrior woman with her wild claims, and now there 
was something wrong with Elena. Was there a connection? Once past the backdrop 
behind the stage, Krai spotted Meric and Fardale huddled with Erril near the 
rear of the wagon. In the middle of them, Elena sat on the carts boot, showing 
them something clasped in her hand.
Krai cleared his throat, and all their eyes swung toward the mountain mans 
group as they marched along the curtain.
Errils brow darkened as he saw the stranger among them, his suspicions plain 
in his expression.
But Elena was the first to speak as her face also responded to the newcomer. Her 
eyes crinkled in confusion, then widened with shocked delight. Aunt Mycelle? 
She leapt off the wagon and raced over to the woman, throwing her arms around 
the supposed stranger. Tears burst from the girls eyes as she buried herself in 
the womans embrace. I cant believe youre here, she sobbed and squeezed 
tighter, as if needing further contact to dispel her disbelief. Youre really
here!
The woman returned her hug just as affectionately. Child, how
youve grown.
Who is this woman? Erril said darkly.
Mycelle answered with a warm smile for Elena. Im not really her aunt but her 
Aunt Fila and I did share a different sort of sisterhood.
Into the stunned silence, Krai spoke. You knew her aunt?
Yes. She was the woman who found me and cared for me after I passed through the 
Spirit Gate.
Ah Krai said, suddenly seeing how fates were twisting
together.
Errils face had blackened with ire. Could someone explain what
you are all talking about? His question was ignored.
K M
Mycelle pulled Elenas wrist up. Whats wrong with your hand? The womans eyes 
had narrowed with concern.
Krai leaned closer. Elenas left hand was crisscrossed with looping shreds of 
mossy vines. It seemed as if the tiny leaflets and corkscrewing branches grew 
out from the flesh of her hand.
It wont come off, Elena said. She tugged at a fragment of the tenacious 
growth. Its stuck.
Mycelle knelt on one knee and studied the girls hand, flipping it one way then 
another. Her lips were tight. Does it hurt? she finally said.
No, its just sort of tight.
Hmm She twisted a leaflet from the moss and sniffed at it.
Erril had by now shouldered his way beside them. His eyes were still 
suspicious. Do you know anything about this?
This is swamp moss, Mycelle said, picking at another strand. It isnt just 
clinging to her. Its growing into her.
What! Erril pulled Elena back from her, but the girl shook him off and stood 
on her own.
Mycelle stood up and wiped off her fingers that had touched the moss. Elenas 
been bewitched.
r
Mycof and Ryman stared across the taiman board, both deep in thought on their 
next moves. The bone and jade pieces were spread between them in an intricate 
parlaying for dominance on the wormwood gaming board. Both combatants sat 
hunched over their pieces, dressed in motleys of green silk shirts, red woolen 
jackets, and black tasseled slippers.
Though similarly attired, it was their matching features that drew an eye. 
Obviously of twinned birth, the pairs likeness to each other was disturbingly 
exact. Where most other twins had slight differences, minor imperfections that 
set them apart, these two had no such telltale signs. It was as if both had been 
carved by an artisan of impeccable skill from the same bone as the taiman 
pieces. Their ivory faces, each slender as a womans, with features small and 
pale, made each seem more a statue than a man.
The left corner of Mycofs lip twitched slightly up.
You have made a decision, Brother? Ryman said, noting this abrupt outburst 
from his twin. Mycof was always such an exuberant taiman player.
Mycof glanced at Ryman. He saw the ridicule in his brothers eyes for his 
obvious lack of control. Mycof fixed his unruly lips back into a thin line. 
Sorry, he said, and reached to move a piece; he mounted it atop Rymans 
stallion.
Is that the move I have been waiting all afternoon for?
You are mounted, Mycof answered. Three moves and I will have your castle 
stormed.
Ryman stared at the board. Had his brother gone mad? Then with this thought, he 
saw the trap. It was his turn to let one eyelid open a bit wider in surprise.
Mycof enjoyed his normally stoic brothers enthusiastic response, and enjoyed 
even more Ryman reaching a finger out and toppling his own castle, admitting 
defeat. Still, Mycof kept his features still: Not a lip parted, not an eyelash 
moved. He would savor this moment and not ruin it with a ridiculous display such 
as a smile. Mycof caught Ryman studying him from under his white bangs. Mycof 
kept his face placid.
You are in rare form, Brother, Ryman finally conceded. He used a polished nail 
to sweep back his stray hair from his red eyes.
Another game?
Evening approaches, and the Pack will soon be ready to hunt. Perhaps it would 
be best if we waited until the morn.
Mycof conceded the logic of his brothers plan with a slight bowing of his head.
Quit patronizing me! Ryman scolded; even his cheeks showed a thin reddish hue.
Mycof had not realized how upset his brother was at the defeat. I was only 
acknowledging the full value of your assessment. Evening doth approach, and the 
Pack grows most hungry for blood.
Ryman heard the solidness of his brothers words and used Mycofs even tones to 
help harden his own constitution. The flush faded from his cheeks. Then we 
should retire to the cellar. He stood, keeping his gaze well away from the 
board. He did not want to be reminded of his defeat.
The careful shunning of the board was noted by Mycof. He stood up and followed 
his brother toward the door. At the threshold, the back of his hand brushed his 
brothers sleeve. This token of affection was not unappreciated by Ryman.
Thank you, Ryman said, his lips barely moving. I think this days challenging 
game overheated both our bloods.
Certainly it was a most riotous contest.
They left together, two ivory statues draped in expensive finery. Their 
slippered feet whispered through the scattered rushes that covered the castles 
stone floor. Servants stepped aside, casting their eyes down as the two lords of 
the Keep passed. Few but the servants
ever set eyes upon the pale brothers, and the sun never did. Mycof and Ryman 
were not unaware of the whispered rumors about them, but no one questioned the 
twins heritage and right to the castle.
Their parents, long gone to their crypts, had been deeply loved by the people of 
Shadowbrook. It was the Kuradom family who had founded the city long ago, and 
it had been the twins father who had most recently overseen the flourishing of 
Shadowbrook through wise contracts and trade agreements, expanding the flow of 
riches into the city. The entire town had shared in this new wealth, and in 
memory of their fine parents and ancient lineage, most folk just shook their 
head at the eccentricities of the brothers.
So no one said a word to Mycof and Ryman as they wandered deeper into the 
less-traveled regions of the Kuradom stronghold. It was their right. It was 
their home.
The stronghold, known in Shadowbrook simply as the Keep, was older than the town 
around it. It had started as a small signal tower, one of many once scattered 
throughout the Standi Plains. Most had fallen since to rubbled ruin, but this 
one, positioned strategically and profitably near the banks of the Shadowbrook 
River, was a seed that had grown the town itself. And as the town had spread 
like roots from a tree, the tower itself had grown in fits and starts: a wing 
extended here, a third story built there, even four stumped towers added to 
surround the old signal tower. And in recent times, battlements, walls, and even 
a thin moat had been constructed around it, though these last works were more 
decorative than purposeful. The moat had a park built at its edge, and stately 
black and white swans swam its waters in languid circles around the Keep.
Proud of the castle gardens and handsome soaring battlements, most townsfolk had 
forgotten the true seed that had sprouted their town. The ancient signal tower 
was buried deep within the fanciful facade, a crumbling structure of rough, 
ill-fitted stones that was the heart of the Keep. Only a handful of men still 
remembered its ancient nameRashamon, the Bloody Pike, named during the first 
of the Gulgothal battles five centuries ago, when a thousand men had given 
their lives to defend the plains. Its bloodstained battlements, lit by hundreds 
of siege fires from the encamped dwarf armies, had glowed crimson for an entire 
moon. Only with the death of its last defender had the tower finally fallen to 
the dwarves.
Yet this ill history was not unknown to the twins. This was their true heritage.
Mycof and Ryman glided in silence from their heavily curtained room in the 
Keeps west wing toward the narrowing passages that led to the inner tower. As 
they progressed, the ceilings lowered, and the walls to either side closed in 
until the pair were forced to walk in single file. Finally, as the roof began to 
brush their white hair, they reached a door of beaten and carved brass gone 
green with stain. Mycof slipped a silver key from his sleeve and unlocked the 
way into Rashamon.
Swinging the door wide, a waft of air washed up from below. Mycof inhaled the 
sweet scent. It smelled of mold, damp dirt, and a hint of something richer, a 
musky scent that thrilled through him. Ryman also paused at the threshold, his 
eyelids slightly lowered as he, too, reveled in the dank reminder of what lay 
below.
Come, Brother, Ryman said in a thick voice and led the way down. Its almost 
twilight.
Mycof saw his brothers hand tremble slightly as he reached out to the moldy 
stones for support in his descent down the steep, narrow stair. Mycof also felt 
the rush of anticipation in his own limbs. He had to restrain himself from 
hurrying his brother forward.
Ryman, though, still sensed his brothers growing urgency, like a storm cloud 
over his shoulder. He increased his pace.
With Rymans back turned so he could not see, Mycof allowed himself a smile. The 
two brothers knew each other so well. As they continued down the winding stair, 
the passage grew darker. No maid or servant kept the torches burning along the 
length of this inner staircase. Only Mycof and Ryman had keys to open the brass 
door that led into the bowels of Rashamon.
Yet, faintly ahead, far down the staircase, a glow began to grow. Now, without 
any urging, both brothers sped down the stair, oblivious to how their slippered 
feet gave them the poorest grip on the damp stone. The reddish, burning light 
called to them.
The pair passed other doors, but these openings had long been bricked closed and 
were ignored. Down and down they wound. Only the glow held Mycofs attention. He 
licked his lips. Hunger grew in his belly like a flame.
By the time the twins reached the bottom of the stairs, they were running, 
breath rasping though clenched teeth. On this lowest level of the Bloody Pike, a 
thin sheet of black water soaked the stone floor,
oily with mold and aglow with the reflected light from the cellar
room ahead.
With their feet splashing in the water, soaking their expensive silk slippers, 
Mycof and Ryman rushed for the deepest room of Rashamon and the secret it held. 
They dashed through into the dank cellar. Here the floors were no longer stone; 
like all good cellars, this one had a dirt flooror more precisely, mud. Over 
the hundreds of passing winters, the tower had settled into Shadowbrooks water 
table, and the river now swamped the dirt floor.
Ryman reached the room first, immediately sinking to his ankles in the 
river-soaked muck. He had to pull each foot free to move forward from here. The 
filth made sharp sucking noises with each step as he moved toward his goal. He 
had already lost both slippers to the greedy mud, but he gave them no thought. 
They were easily replaced. Behind him, Ryman heard Mycof struggle along with 
him. Both their eyes were on the object in the center of the room, half
sunk in the muck.
Crouching naked, like a toadstool growing in a black cellar, was the object of 
their devotion. Its squat body was a lump of bone and muscle molded by a cruel 
artist into only a rough approximation of limbs and torso. Its hooked nose 
dropped like melted wax over its fat lips, and black eyes had sunk deep into the 
planes of its face. Before its belly floated a spinning sphere of black 
ebonstone afire with ancient memories of blood-soaked Rashamon. Their masters 
bald, craggy features were aglow in the reflected bloodfire of the globe.
It was the seeker, he who had discovered the twins five winters ago and had 
gifted them with the Pack, a reward for swearing their service to the Black 
Heart.
Mycof and Ryman fell to their knees in the thick mud, ripping the silk clothes 
from their bodies. Their twin faces were contorted into spasms of ecstasy and 
savage delight. Their normally placid features were now storms of wicked 
emotions.
They bowed before their god, smearing their faces in the filth, and thus 
displayed their allegiance to Lord Torwren, the last of the foul dwarf lords.
Erril picked up the final juggling dagger and set the blade to the grindstone. 
He positioned himself near the shadowed doorway
of the warehouse where Elena huddled with Mycelle. He had been shooed away by 
the tall swordswoman as she examined the girl. She seemed to know more about 
what had happened to Elena than he did, so for now he tolerated her orders.
Around Erril, the other members of the troupe were involved in their own chores 
as they closed down the circus for the evening: boxing their props, caging and 
feeding Merics sparrows, and sweeping up their corner of the town square. To 
the side, Krai grumbled as he wrestled the curtains back into the wagon. The 
twilight sky warned of rain, and the entire circus must be wrapped up. Only the 
wooden stage would be left on the square, since dismantling it would be too much 
work.
It cost an expensive tithe to keep their stage in place, but Erril had at least 
managed to barter for the fee to include the storage of their wagon and supplies 
in the nearby warehouse. The troupe itself was housed in a small inn on the 
north side of the square, the Painted Pony. It was a shabby establishment, but 
Erril knew that the more frugal their living expenses, the sooner they would 
earn enough for the barge passage down to the coastal city of Lands End.
As the others busied themselves, Erril honed his dagger with swift strokes upon 
his grindstonebut his attention was not on his work. His eyes were fixed on 
Elena and Mycelle. After declaring the child bewitched, the woman had refused 
to say anything further until she questioned Elena more about the odd boy who 
had confronted her.
As Erril studied the two of them, the evening gloom and fog began to roll in 
from the river. He set aside his grindstone, satisfied with the blades edge. 
With the scrape of metal on stone finally ended, their voices carried over to 
him.
Is this where the boy appeared from? Mycelle said. This doorway?
Elena nodded. I thought him only a lost child. As he eavesdropped, Erril 
polished his blade with a sheen of oil and stored the knife beside the six other 
daggers in the wooden case. The hilts were nicked and scarred from long use, but 
the blades were shiny and clean, as if newly forged. He knew the value in 
maintaining good weapons.
Mycelle finally straightened in the doorway, drawing Errils eye with her 
movement. A lost boynow that is just like her.
Like who? Elena asked.
Mycelle did not answer. She only looked around the square with her head slightly 
cocked, as if she were keying on a sound only heard by her ears.
Both intrigued and suspicious, Erril snapped closed his wooden case and crossed 
to join them. I overheard you, he said.  Have you truly a suspicion who is 
behind Elenas attack?
The tall woman only glowered at him and motioned him to
silence.
Erril continued. What did you mean when you said Elenas been
bewitched}
Mycelle stayed silent, still listening, then shook her head. She spoke slowly to 
Erril, as if speaking to a dolt. Bewitched it means a witch has cast a 
spell on her.
The tension thickened like a rolling fog between them. Elena spoke into the 
strained silence. But I thought I was the only witch?
Mycelle smiled at her. Now who told you that? Elena glanced at Erril.
Men! the woman scolded, rolling her eyes skyward. It looks as if I came just 
in time. She sighed, then continued. Elena, youre the only true blood witch. 
But a few women who bear strong elemental magicks have declared themselves 
witches of the land. Sea witches, forest hags, water witches. I believe it 
was one of these land witches that has done this to you.
Who?
I have a suspicion, but itll take more investigating. By now, Meric and 
Fardale had come closer. The two must have also overheard Mycelles words. The 
wolf sniffed at Elenas hand.
Erril glanced to the streets to see who else might be listening. The square was 
empty of all but a few evening stragglers. Luckily, the threat of rain had kept 
even these last few hurrying to accomplish their final errands before the storm 
blew in. None glanced toward the circus troupe.
At his elbow, the elvin asked, Do you think the Dark Lord is involved in 
this?
No, I sense no corruption in this magick. But Mycelle still seemed distracted, 
her eyes narrowed in concentration.
The womans edginess slipped into Erril. He glanced warily about the square. 
Maybe it would be best to continue this conversation at the inn, he finally 
said.
Mycelle nodded. The first wise words Ive heard you speak, Erril.
With the circus locked down for the night, Krai and Tolchuk hauled the wagon 
through the barnlike gates that led inside the rafted warehouse. Two pallets lay 
along one wall. Tolchuk and Fardale had been spending their nights in the 
storehouse, both to guard their belongings and to keep suspicious tongues from 
wagging about the ogre and the treewolf.
Tolchuk at first objected about being left out of the discussions, but some 
silent exchange passed between him and Fardale, and he grew silent. Mycelle also 
laid a hand on her sons arm. Well talk soon, she said.
Tolchuk did not answer. He simply turned away and went to care for their 
horses. The troupes mounts were also kept at the warehouse, corralled in a 
small yard behind the stout structure. It was cheaper to water and care for 
their own mounts than to pay an additional fee to stable them at the inn. 
Besides, the Painted Ponys barn was riddled with rot, and rats the size of 
small dogs rooted through the barns dingy hay.
Of course, their own accommodations were not much better at the inn. The rooms 
were small, dark, and reeked of the fish frying constantly in the inns kitchen. 
Being a river city, siltcod and mudfish were the staple of the inns dinner 
fare, and variety did not seem to be in the cooks vocabulary.
Once the wagon was secure, Erril led the others toward the inn.
As they pushed inside the cramped common room of the Painted Pony, Mycelle had 
her own opinion on Errils choice of accommodations. Yes, she said, eying the 
three ale-stained tables occupied by a handful of sullen-faced dockworkers, I 
do believe it is high time you began traveling with a woman.
Two of the rough men glanced in Mycelles direction, their eyes widening at the 
fine sight of the tall blond swordswoman. As a leer crept into their 
expressions, Mycelle stared them down, her eyes glinting with steel. The 
dockworkers suddenly found their mugs of ale particularly fascinating and turned 
away.
Where are your rooms? Mycelle asked.
Erril led the way, stopping only to order a cold supper to be prepared. At the 
top of the stairs, he said. The crooked steps creaked under his weight. Ive 
hired two rooms.
How generous of you, Mycelle said sarcastically as she followed
with Elena.
Soon the six of them were crowded into the larger of the two rooms. Mycelles 
perpetual scowl deepened when she surveyed the room, but she kept her sharp 
tongue still. The chambers two beds were planked cots with the barest ticking 
to cushion a body. The single window looked out upon the inns courtyard and, 
though open, only seemed to draw the summer heat into the room rather than cool 
it. To add to the stifling quality of the quarters, the low ceiling seemed to 
press down upon them all. Krai had to lean to keep his head from striking the 
rafters.
Lets all get settled, Erril said. It seems we have much to discuss 
tonight.
Mogweed and Meric claimed one bed, while Krai and Elena sat upon the other. Only 
Mycelle and Erril still stood. The two of them faced each other like two wolves 
about to fight for leadership of
the pack.
Mycelle spoke first. After examining Elenas hand, I dont believe the 
bewitching poses an immediate risk, but more dire threats hunt these streets. 
Shadowbrook is a danger to her.
I can take care of Elena myself, Erril said. Ive got her this far. Ill get 
her to Aloa Glen. Why should we trust you?
Krai began to answer this question. She is Tolchuks But Mycelle silenced 
him with a glance. If you dont mind, Ill tell my own story. And she did.
Erril listened with little patience as the swordswoman told of her journeys 
from the Western Reaches and of her time with the ogte tribes. She stared 
Erril straight in the eye as she spoke, offering no apologies for her actions. 
Even Erril could sense the truth of her words. After Tolchuks birth, I was 
cast out and taken in by Elenas aunt. It was Fila who taught me who I truly 
was, and about the special gift born in my blood. She explained why I was so 
unlike the other silura who were content in their forest home, how this gift 
had driven me to leave the Western Reaches for far horizons.
And what was this gift? Erril asked.
She nodded toward the beds. Like Krai and Meric, I was also born with land 
magicks in my blood. Krai is rich in rock magicks, and Meric has the gift of 
wind and air.
Both Krai and Meric glanced at her uneasily, obviously sharing Errils own 
concern. How do you know about them? Erril asked.
It is my gift. I am a seeker.
A seeker?
An elemental hunter. In each generation, there are a few who are born with a 
special empathy for elemental magicks, those who can read the land magick in 
others. I am one of them. The magick in others calls out to me like a silent 
song. It draws me like a lodestone. This is my elemental gift.
And Aunt Fila discovered this in you? Elena asked.
She was a wise and talented woman. Mycelle bowed her head in memory. Due to 
my skills, Fila invited me into the Sisterhood and taught me how to use my 
magick. She knew there would come a time when the elementals would play a role 
in either saving or damning our lands. She once told me, The witch is the key, 
but the elementals will be the locket in which the key is kept safe. Fila gave 
me a purpose to my life.
But what did Aunt Fila want you to do?
Mycelle answered, but kept her eyes focused on Erril. As a seeker, I was to 
journey the lands of Alasea, discover those gifted with elemental powers, and 
warn them.
Warn them of what? Erril asked gruffly.
To warn them that I was not the only seeker among the lands. She let those 
words sink into them before continuing. The lord of the Gulgotha has recruited 
his own seekers. They, too, scour the countryside, searching for young 
elementals. Where I only warned, they would rape. Imbued with tools of the Dark 
Lord, his seekers could corrupt the gift in these youngsters and forge them into 
a black army, the illguard, a foul legion of the most dire black magicks.
Errils eyes widened with her story. He pictured Viranis midnight hair and 
smooth skin. His face darkened with the memory. He saw the shock of recognition 
in the others eyes, too. I think he mumbled. I think weve already met one 
of these corrupted elementals.
Now it was Mycelles turn to show surprise. You faced one of the illguard and 
survived?
F
Barely, Elena said softly.
Of what use is your warning? Erril said with sudden heat. If any of these 
elementals are caught, they cant resist the Dark Lord. Mycelle reached into a 
pocket. No, there is a way to resist the corrupting touch of the Gulgotha. 
She removed a jade pendant carved in the familiar shape of a tiny vial.
Elena sat straighter on the bed. Thats just like the one Uncle Bol gave me to 
talk with Aunt Filas ghost!
Her words crinkled Mycelles brow. The woman obviously did not understand what 
Elena meant. I did get this from your Aunt Fila, she conceded. One of the 
Sisterhood was skilled at carving jade. As I journeyed, I passed these vials out 
to the elementals I discovered. If ever confronted, swallowing the contents of 
the vial will keep one from falling prey to their dire magicks.
So there is a way to resist this corruption, Erril said. This revelation 
wounded him. If only Virani had met this woman
Elenas face, though, had brightened with hope. Does the vial contain some sort 
of magickal elixir?
So I told everyone, she answered. For the first time, her gaze lowered to the 
floor. But I spoke falsely. The vials only contain poison. A shocked hush 
spread through the room.
Mycelle continued. Death is the only way to keep the corruption from claiming 
you. The Sisterhood judged it better to die than to become a mindless creature 
of the Dark Lord. Once possessed, there is no way back. Mycelle paused and took 
a deep breath. However, we could not risk that this selfless choice would be 
made by all. So I spread both the poison and the lies to ensure this would not 
happen. Mycelle glanced up, then quickly away. The horror must have been plain 
on everyones face.
Mogweed was the first to speak, his voice incredulous. You
helped kill people.
The swordwoman raised her head and turned to face each person in the room. Her 
eyes were bright with threatening tears, her voice sharp. Do not judge me! I 
made my own choicesand I will not recant them. I have done things that have 
wounded my heart. I abandoned my ogre lover and my son. I shed my own siluran 
heritage, forever trapping myself in human form. Ive given poison to children 
while accepting thanks from their mothers. But I will not apologize for my 
actions. She frowned at Erril. This is the final
war. If the curse is ever to be lifted from our lands, we must all bleed.
Finally, her chest heaving with emotion, she closed her eyes and lowered her 
voice. This silent war between myself and the seekers of the Dark Lord has been 
raging since before Elena was born. Without my efforts, there would be a wall of 
illguard between you and Aloa Glen. It was my lies and poisons that cut a 
bloody path for the witch to follow. She opened her eyes and stared at Erril 
with an intensity that iced his bones. Are you now too timid to walk my path?
Erril swallowed, unable to answer. He did not know who frightened him morethe 
illguard or this woman with a heart of ice.
Krai was the first to speak. Weve all made hard choices.
Yes, Elena said timidly, but we were given the choices. These deceived 
innocents, these elementals who go about with poison around their necks, have 
had the choices taken from them. They will end their lives by their own hand 
without even knowing it.
But which is kinder? Mogweed asked. Knowing or not knowing?
Glances were exchanged.
No one had an answer.
Mycelle was the first to break the silence. You may soon discover the truth of 
my sentiments. Here in Shadowbrook Ive already sensed two of the corrupted 
elementals, a pair of the illguard who hunt this city. While you debate my 
morals, they will have your hearts roasting on their darkfire spits.
Her words caught their attentions and awoke the fears that had been slumbering 
in all their breasts since their battle with Virani.
What should we do? Krai asked.
We do what we must to survive, Mycelle said, her voice thick with venom. She 
pocketed her vial of poison. Its what Ive done all my life.
Rise, the dwarf lord intoned, his voice a coarse itch in My-cofs and Rymans 
ears.
The twins raised their fouled faces from the mud. Mycof could taste the dank 
river sludge on his lips. It was the sweetest nectar, but
Mycof knew there were finer tastes still to be appreciated this night. Kneeling 
beside him, Rymans eyes mirrored his own lusts.
The floating sphere of ebonstone slowed its spin and settled into the dwarfs 
pale hands. Spats of crimson bloodfire still skated over its black, polished 
surface, and veins of silver could be seen in arcs of jagged brilliance on the 
surface of the ebonstone talisman.
Are you ready to accept the Sacrament? the dwarf asked. His eyes searched 
them, his gaze squirming over them like a blind river eel. He judged their 
worth.
Yes, Lord Torwren, they both recited. Our bodies we give to
you.
The dwarf rose on gnarled legs. Then come and accept your masters reward. He 
held the ebonstone toward them.
Crawling on hands and knees through the mud, they approached
the talisman.
Come, Torwren urged, his voice a raw scab. Give up your cool flesh for the 
heat of the hunt. Lord Gulgotha has need of your talents tonight. Other 
elementals have entered Shadowbrook. They must be found and brought to Rashamon 
for the Sacrament.
Ryman felt a twinge of jealousy at the dwarfs words. He did not care to share 
the secret rites deep under the Keep with anyone but his own brother. Still, his 
eyes were full of bloodfire and ebonstone. He could not resist obeying.
The Pack was hungry for the hunt. The hunt meant blood.
The two brothers each raised a muddy palm to the talisman. Ryman pressed his 
flesh against the cold stone and knew he touched the heart of his master. He 
felt his bowels loosen and his bladder give way. It did not matter. The heat of 
his spirit was drawn into the
stone.
To complete the Sacrament, Mycof closed the circle. He reached with his free 
hand and took Rymans fingers in his own. The two brothers were now linked, both 
together and to the stone. With the touch of flesh on flesh, the spell was 
complete, and the Pack was called again into the world.
Ryman stared at his brother as the spell took hold of their bodies. It was like 
looking in a mirror. How handsome he was! Ryman grinned as the pain ripped into 
his body. He watched Mycofs skin ripple and knew his did the same. Black boils 
the size of bruised
thumbs arose upon their pale skin. Mycof matched his brothers white-lipped 
grin.
The Pack was coming!
Soon a thousand boils marked their flesh on face, arms, chest, belly, buttocks, 
and legs. Mycof watched one especially large growth on his brothers left cheek 
ripen and stretch as what lurked within the boil struggled to start the hunt. 
The boil burst with the tiniest spray of blood. Mycof felt a similar sharp 
eruption near his own right nipple. It felt like the bite of a wasp.
Soon a storm of wasps stung their flesh.
The twins moaned in the ecstasy of the Sacrament.
From the boil on Rymans cheek, a black, segmented worm coiled forth. It 
stretched and waved from its burrow. Soon hundreds of others were doing the 
same. Mycof stared in awe at the beauty of his brother; tears rose in his eyes 
at the sight. His brothers naked pale flesh was festooned with hundreds of the 
writhing, questing tendrils of blackness. Mycof knew his own body was gifted 
with the same dark beauty.
Rymans and Mycofs eyes met, and they knew it was time.
Like leaves falling in autumn, the worms dropped from their burrowed nests and 
fell to the watery mud with small splashes and plops. There, the sweet creatures 
drank the brackish waters and ate the rivers mud, swelling as they consumed 
their meal. Soon spiky hair sprouted and grew along their squirming lengths. 
Small clawed limbs burst forth from the sides to lift them from the mud. Red, 
beaded eyes and whiskered snouts grew forth to end their blind grubbing, and 
pale, scaled tails whipped back and forth, anxious for the hunt.
Pocked and bleeding, the two brothers stared proudly at the army of rats that 
lay around their knees. The Pack was ready.
The dwarf lord spoke. It is done. Let the hunt begin.
With his words, the two brothers fell backward into the mud as their minds 
entered the Pack. Mycof and Ryman were now one with their offspring, a thousand 
eyes, a thousand sharp teeth hungry for blood. They sent the Pack flowing up the 
steps of Rashamon, spreading out through the hundreds of cracks in the ancient 
stones. Scurrying forth from the Bloody Pike and out through the Keep, flowing, 
rippling in all directions, they reached the streets of the sleeping town of 
Shadowbrook.
Deep under Rashamon, though, the two brothers still lay sprawled in the mud. 
Their eyes were now blind to the dwarf leering over them, yet their ears could 
still hear him.
Go, he whispered as he crouched over them, his thick lips brushing the edges 
of their ears. Bring me the magick.
As Tolchuk hauled a barrel of water across the warehouse, he felt a prickling 
atop his foot. Glancing down, he discovered a fat river rat crawling over his 
clawed foot. Disgusted, and already in a foul temper at being left in the 
warehouse, he kicked savagely at the rat, meaning to gut it with a claw, but the 
sleek creature was too quick and skittered away with an annoyed squeak, as if 
offended that the ogre should get in its way. He scowled at its retreat. He 
hated rats. With the river only a few blocks from the town square and with the 
warehouse mostly empty, the foul creatures competed for residence in the hollow, 
raftered building.
Fardale stood at the open doorway that led to the horse yard and swung his nose 
toward Tolchuk. The treewolf was a black outline against the sea of fog that 
had rolled in from the nearby river. The roiling mist was like a living 
creature, more substantive even than the ghostly images of the neighboring 
buildings. As if swallowed by the great white beast, the nickering and stamping 
of the horses were the only signs that the yard was occupied by anything but the
occasional bold rat.
In the weak light cast by the two oil lamps in the warehouse, Tolchuk saw the 
treewolfs hackles raise in a ridge along its neck and back. With his eyes 
aglow, Fardale sent to him: Carrion lays
spoiled on the trail.
Tolchuk crossed to the wolf, the water barrel still clutched under one arm. He 
knew better than to dismiss Fardales keen senses. Beyond the doorway was just a 
wall of fog. What do you scent?
Fardale raised his muzzle to the slight wind that blew in from the night, then 
glanced up to the ogre.
An image of spiders appeared in Tolchuks head. He knew Fardale was not 
referring to the ordinary spiders nesting in the rafters feasting on flies and 
moths. Tolchuk scratched one of the many scars that pocked his thick hide from 
the old healed bites of the Horde.
Be there another demon? he asked.
Fardales eyes glowed. A wolf sniffs many scents near a watering hole  a swirl 
of odors, too many to make clear.
Tolchuk tightened his grip on the water barrel. The treewolf was not confident 
of his abilities among the myriad smells of the bustling town. Perhaps we 
should bring the horses inside. Caution would be wise this odd night.
Fardales answer appeared in Tolchuks head. It was the image of Erril. The 
wolf wondered if they should raise the alarm among the others.
Tolchuk grimaced. A moment ago, he would have welcomed any excuse to go to the 
inn and join the others, but was Fardales vague sense of unease reason to 
abandon his post? What could he tell the others except that the wolf smelled 
something his nose could not identify? The same had been true for himself when 
he had first entered Shadowbrook. The town was a swamp of unusual odors and 
scents.
He pondered his choices until the horses in the yard erupted in a sudden flurry 
of panicked whinnies and striking hooves. Blinded by the fog, Tolchuk and 
Fardale froze. The horses, lost in the fog, sensed or saw something.
As Tolchuk and Fardale tried to pierce the veil of mists, a huge black shape 
swelled up directly before them. They scattered backward as a horse flew between 
them into the warehouse. It was Mist, the girls mare. The horses eyes were 
rolled white in panic, and the beasts lips were frothed with fear.
Tolchuk backed from the doorway after the horse. Fardale, go to the inn! Warn 
the others!
The treewolf retreated with the ogre deeper into the warehouse. His eyes glowed 
for a brief instant toward Tolchuk: Two wolves, bact to bact, hold off the 
hungry bear.
Yes, Tolchuk argued, leading the way to a side door. But eight wolves be 
even better, especially if they have swords. He kicked at the door, not 
bothering to search for the locks key. Planks splintered, and the door crashed 
wide. Get me help!
Tolchuk turned away. Fardale hesitated at the open doorway, but Tolchuk 
refused to allow further contact.
The wolf vanished out into the fog in a whisk of shadow and fur. Tolchuk 
noticed the mare retreat to the farthest, darkest corner
of the warehouse, but his attention stayed focused on the door to the rear yard. 
Fingers of fog probed into the warehouse, questing tendrils that slid along the 
floor and curled toward the roof.
Furtive movement up in the rafters caught Tolchuks eye. Tolchuk ducked, then 
realized it was only a line of small rats whisking in a column along one of the 
oaken beams, scrambling away from the foggy doorway. Something had spooked even 
these wily creatures. He began to glance away when one of the rats tumbled from 
its perch to strike the dirt of the warehouse floor. Its pelvis cracked with a 
quick snap, but still it tried to drag its carcass away from the door, away from 
the fog, tiny claws digging at the dirt.
What was happening? The rats above panicked, climbing over each other, squeaking 
in fear. Two more rats fell from above. Their necks were mercifully broken by 
the fall, their struggle over.
Still the broken-backed rat fought to flee, squeaking its alarm. Tolchuk 
crossed and stood over it. Its panicked squeals rasped Tolchuks raw nerves. It 
was making too much noise, masking the approach of whatever lay out in the yard. 
He brought his clawed foot up to squash it, but the small rats nose swung 
toward the ogre. Its tiny black eyes were full of pain and fright, and a 
keening whine flowed from its throat. Tolchuk hesitated, his foot hovering over 
the beast. Finally, he gritted his teeth and lowered his foot, leaving the rat 
untouched.
Tolchuk cursed himself. He had been among these humans too long. Bending over, 
he scooped up the injured rat. He hated rats, but he hated more to see something 
so small and frightened suffer. Unsure what to do with it, he finally dropped 
the quivering beast into his thigh pouch. As it settled inside, the rats 
constant squeaking stopped. It had sought a place to hide and had now found it.
As the warehouse grew quiet again, Tolchuk turned to the doorway. The other 
horses were out there. Tolchuk crossed and retrieved one of the oil lamps. In 
his other arm, he still carried the water barrel. Its weight and solidity gave 
him some anchor against the tenuous menace within the fog.
Raising the lantern, he approached the open doorway. He finally
noticed that the horses in the yard were now silent. Even the rats
above had either fled the warehouse or found a place to hide. It was
as if the fog had dampened all noise as well as it masked the views.
His rasping breath was the only sound in his ears as he reached the
open doorway. He held the lantern out into the night, but the fog just became 
that much thicker, a billowing white cave around his light.
Then, as if an emissary from the fog, a single rat stepped within the sphere of 
Tolchuks lamplight. Yet the word rat was a poor description for the mud-slick 
creature before him. Whereas the creature in his pocket was brown furred and the 
size of an ogres fist, this beast was as black as the pools of flaming oil 
deep under the caves of his home and as large as his own head. Yet the most 
menacing of its features were its red eyes. They shone toward him, not with the 
reflected light of his lamp, but with an inner fire, as if blood itself were the 
oil of its flame.
It hissed at him, instantly raising every stubbled hair on Tolchuks body. The 
demon ratand there could be no question that that was what stood before 
himcrept toward him, nose raised as if smelling not only Tolchuks odor, but 
scenting his very spirit.
Tolchuk backed a step, then tossed the water barrel at the creature. His aim 
was sure, and the barrel crashed atop the rat. Water splashed, and broken slats 
scattered. The rat stepped out from the ruins of the barrel, unharmed and more 
determined. Its red eyes glowed with a deeper intensity. As their gazes met, 
Tolchuk heard the whispered screams and ancient cries of the dying in his ears. 
He felt something of himself being drawn within those fiery eyes. Beyond the 
screams, he now heard wild laughter, two voices sharing a wicked delight. 
Tolchuks vision began to dim as he was drawn into a world of bloodstained 
towers and the wails of the lost.
Then a sudden agony gripped Tolchuks chest, hooks of fire tearing his heart.
Tolchuk gasped but knew this painthe Heart of his people called. Yet he had 
never felt it so strongly. His numb fingers dropped the lamp with a tinkling 
crash. Flaming oil splashed his thighs and the frame of the doorway. The agony 
tore Tolchuk back from the sucking pit of the demon rats eyes. He stamped and 
patted the flames from his skin, but his own bones still ran with an inner fire.
Struggling to breathe past the pain, Tolchuk backed in stumbled steps. His 
fingers fumbled to his thigh pouch, seeking to free the Heart. His hand closed 
over the stone. The Heart had once protected him against an assault by the ogre 
who had killed his father. Maybe it could help here.
F
__j
He yanked the stone free, expecting its blazing red light to blind his eyes. He 
held the stone forth and stared with despair. The Heart was dull: no fire, no 
glow, not even a flicker. He sensed the horrible truth through his fingertips.
The Heart was dead, its magick gone.
By now, the rat had reached the doorway. Its sleek blackness and red eyes were 
lit by the spreading flame from the burning lamp. It seemed to have grown 
larger. Behind it, a score of other rats, twins to this one, crawled out of the 
fog, eyes afire. They all stared at Tolchuk, hundreds of pinpoints of fire.
He could not resist them, not so many. Unaware, Tolchuk fell to his knees. His 
vision dimmed again.
Ancient screams and savage laughter filled his ears.
Elena stared at Mycelle, forgetting for the moment the strands of moss that 
bound her left hand. She studied the planes of the womans face and the crossed 
scabbards on her back. Mycelle had once been like an aunt to her, but now it was 
as if a stranger stood before her. She could not reconcile her childhood memory 
of Aunt My with these poisonous revelations of the role she had played as a 
seeker of the Sisterhood.
While growing up, Aunt My had been one of the few womenfolk who shared Elenas 
interest in the hidden paths and secret treasures buried among the mundane 
orchards of her valley home. While others tried to interest her in needlecraft 
and cooking, Mycelle had walked with Elena, hand in hand, through the fields. 
They had had long talks, and Elena had enjoyed how her aunt treated her like an 
adult, not holding back, honest in all regards, teaching her about her life and 
even bits of woodlore. She had showed Elena how to move quietly through the 
trees to peek at a family of deer; how to start a fire with only a stick and a 
bit of twine; which wild plants were safe to eat, which healed, and and which 
would make one sick.
Elena remembered and suddenly shuddered. Leaf of hemloct, root of nightshade. 
Even then Mycelle had known so much about the natural poisons of the world.
Mycelle, always keen eyed, noticed Elenas distress. She placed a hand on 
Elenas shoulder, and when Elena tried to pull away, she held her tight. Her 
words, though, were for the others. I want
everyone out of here, she said smartly. Plans on how to deal with the 
illguard will wait a few moments.
Erril, of course, objected. If there is danger, we need to leave
now.
Rash actions will only draw eyes and risk all. Presently the illguard do not 
seem aware of Elena, or we wouldnt be speaking now. Mycelle stared Erril 
down. Tonight we plan; by dawns light we move.
Erril seemed about to argue further.
Mycelles razor voice softened its edge. Up to now, you have done well in 
protecting Elena. I cant fault any of you on this. But not all wars are won 
with swords and magick. Some battles turn on the strength of a heart. And there 
are words I sense Elena needs to hear, woman to woman, before she continues. 
Give me this moment
alone.
Elena finally spoke. Please Erril, do as she asks.
Erril stood with his lips drawn thin. He did not like this. Krai
stood up and laid a hand on Errils arm. We could at least pack up
the other room.
Meric and Mogweed were already standing, too. And well go fetch our dinners, 
Meric said, nodding to include Mogweed. Planning works best on a full stomach.
Errils shoulders finally relaxed, and he nodded. Fine. You have your moment. 
The four men filed out of the room. Erril was last. He glanced back before 
shutting the door. But only a moment.
Mycelle bowed her head slightly, both acknowledging his words and conceding her 
thanks.
Erril shut the door. Keep it locked! he yelled through the thin
pine planks.
Mycelle shrugged off her scabbards, then sagged and collapsed beside Elena on 
the bed. How have you put up with him this long?
The way Mycelle rolled her eyes and her expression of tired amusement touched 
old memories within Elena. Here was the woman she knew from her past, not the 
iron-blooded warrior from a moment ago.
Aunt My Elena did not know where to begin.
Mycelle turned to face Elena. For the first time, Elena saw the deep wrinkles 
that now marked her aunts face and the tired, bruised
eyes. Her journeys across the lands had cost her more than her brave words had 
revealed.
Mycelle reached with both palms to cup Elenas cheeks and sighed as she stared 
into Elenas eyes. Then one of her hands lifted to finger Elenas shorn and dyed 
locks. Your beautiful hair, she said sadly.
It itll grow back, Elena said, glancing down.
Mycelle sighed. Yes, but in your eyes, I can see other parts of you have been 
equally marredthings that dont grow back. Pain entered her voice. Youve 
grown, Elena. More than I think you suspect.
Tears threatened, but Elena refused to cry.
Mycelle lowered her hands. I was supposed to be there for you in Winterfell. 
Aunt Fila suspected you might be the one, but we werent sure. The Sisterhood 
had been wrong in the past. When I got word of Aunt Filas passing, I tried to 
make it back to the valley, but by the time I got there, you all were gone. I 
should have been there for you. Someone should have been.
Joach helped me, Elena said, choking on her brothers name. But he but he
Mycelle patted her knee. I know, Elena. The Sisterhood learned what had 
happened. I was sent to search for you.
Why?
Several reasons. Not only to help protect you, but also to instruct you in the 
skills of war. How to handle a sword and a dagger.
But I have my magick.
Some problems are more easily resolved with a sharp blade than a cast spell. 
You were to be trained in all manner of warfare. This we could teach you. But 
this Mycelle lifted Elenas gloved hand and slipped off the deerskin that hid 
her ruby stain. this we know too little about. Over the centuries, so much has 
been muddled in rumor and myth. Im afraid that with the death of your uncle, we 
lost much. He had been assigned to root through the ruined school for any 
ancient texts that taught the intricacies of magick. He was to help you. But 
with his death, the little he had learned was lost, and the skaltum burned his 
cottage, destroying the rest.
Elena spread the fingers of her ruby hand, her heart quailing with hopelessness. 
Then in the ways of magick, Im on my own.
Yes, but some of the Sisterhood believe this might be best, Mycelle said. She 
placed her own hand over Elenas ruby one. And I share this view.
Crinkling her brow, Elena faced Mycelle. But why?
Prophecy has always said it will be a witcha woman mage who will call forth 
the drums of war against the Gulgotha and bear the torch of freedom. She 
leaned closer to emphasize her words. Not a man. The order of male mages could 
not resist the Gulgotha before. So why seek their old knowledge or old ways? 
There must be a reason a woman was chosenwhy you were chosen! A new path is 
neededa womans path!
Elena shrank under her intense gaze.
Mycelle recognized Elenas fear. Her voice softened, and a hand again raised to 
her cheek. Im sorry, she said. I didnt mean to
frighten you.
I dont want this burden, Elena said quietly. She could not stop the tears 
now. Hot trails flowed down her cheek.
Mycelle pulled Elena into her arms and hugged her, gently rocking the girl. 
Something tells me, Mycelle whispered, squeezing her tighter, you havent had 
enough of this on your journey here.
They held each other in silence for several moments. Elena could sense the 
warmth and love in these arms. It was not the love for a prophesied hero, but 
simply the love of family.
Too soon, Mycelle finally lifted Elenas face from her bosom and wiped away her 
tears. You have your mothers beautiful eyes, she
said softly.
Elena swallowed hard and sniffed back her tears. And thats all I really wanted 
to tell you. I didnt mean to scare you or burden you further. I just wanted to 
remind you that youre not just a sword or a ruby hand but youre also your 
mothers daughter. A woman. And this may prove your most important strength 
against the darkness ahead.
With a small frown, Mycelle again fingered Elenas shorn hair. Among all these 
men, she said, her frown becoming a gentle smile, just dont forget youre a 
woman.
They shared one last quick hug. I wont, Elena said, remembering that mountain 
morning so long ago when she had raised both her hands to the dawns lightone 
red, one white. She had clasped her hands together, declaring herself both 
witch and woman. Had she somehow even then known the truth of Mycelles words? 
Woman and witch, Elena mumbled. What was that, hon?
&#9632;&#9632;5
WIT CH 5TORM
Before Elena could speak, a fierce pounding rattled the door to the room. 
Errils voice spat through the pine planks. The wolf brings word! The 
warehouse is under attack!
Without a word, Mycelle flew off the bed and into her scabbards. Hurry, Elena, 
she urged. Then, more to herself as she bustled to the door, Damn my ears, I 
wouldve sworn I sensed something earlier. She threw off the latch and flung 
open the door.
Elena bounced off the bed to follow, her heart in her throat. Erril stood, red 
faced, with his fist raised. He backed a step to make room for them. We must 
hurry.
Whats happening? Mycelle asked, pushing past Erril into the hallway. Elena 
followed her.
Im not sure, he said. Erril turned to lead the way, but the womans voice 
stopped him.
Were not going, she said simply, calm and sure. Erril swung around. Weve 
no time to argue. Tolchuks in trouble!
And you would take the witch into the jaws of a trap? she answered. Into 
danger?
Erril paused at her words. I I We cant just leave Tolchuk. Krai and the 
others are already on their way over.
Krai is a fierce warrior. Ive seen him handle his ax. If what lies at the 
warehouse cannot be handled by an ogre and a mountain man, then it is foolhardy 
to take Elena there.
Elena spoke up, her voice sounding meek in her ears. But I can help.
Mycelle placed a hand on her shoulder. Im sure you could, honey. But using 
your magick here would be like setting a blazing beacon for the Dark Lords 
minions to follow. You are the future, and we cannot take that risk.
But we have to at least try Elena glanced toward Erril for his support.
She did not get it. His eyes blazed with frustration. As much as I detest 
leaving the others, he said, Mycelle is right. You know the contingency plan. 
If danger separated us, we would meet in one moon at Lands End on the coast.
But
Then its settled, Mycelle interrupted. I suspect the illguard in town are 
on the move. We must do the same if we are to survive.
JAMES
Elena raised hurt eyes toward Mycelle. But Tolchuk. Hes your son? Would you 
abandon him a second time?-
Her heartfelt words cracked Mycelles firm resolve. The woman glanced away from 
her, but Elena saw her right hand clench into a fist and her shoulders tremble 
as she held her emotions in rein. Mycelles words were pained. I did it once. I 
can do it again.
Elena watched Mycelles expression slowly harden back to iron. Her eyes dried of 
pending tears, and her lips became firm lines of determination. Elena stared at 
this transformation. On this journey ahead, would she herself ever grow so 
strong? And, worse yet, did she even want to? Elena stepped between Erril and 
Mycelle. No, she said quietly. Ill not leave Tolchuk or the others.
Erril raised a hand to his brow and sighed. Its a wise plan, Elena. If we let 
the others draw the fire here in town, we can slip away undetected. We will meet 
again in Lands End.
No.
Mycelle reached for her, but Elena stepped back. Honey, Mycelle said, we must 
leave or
No. You just told me that there was a reason a woman was fated to carry this 
magick. That it was a womans heart that would make the difference. And, right 
now, my heart says we stand together.
You must not risk it, Mycelle said. You are the future dawn.
Fate be cursed, she said. If Im to battle the Dark Lord, Ill confront him 
as myself, not as some creature of prophecy. Elena turned to look Mycelle in 
the eye. Im sorry, Aunt My, but I will not become you. I will not harden my 
spirit against the world. If I must fight, Ill do it with my whole heart.
Elena marched toward the stairs. I will not leave Tolchuk.
On his knees already, Tolchuk fell to one arm on the dirt floor, his other claw 
still holding the Heart aloft though the stone was dull and dead. Before him, 
flames lapped up the blazing door frame to consume the back wall of the 
warehouse. Even the hungry fire failed to brighten the facets of the stone.
Without the stones strength, what hope did he have to resist the
black magick here?
Past the burning threshold, a hundred red eyes stared at him from the rear yard. 
His head rang with the song of the demon rats, an
WIT CH STORM
ancient chorus of torment and laughter. It sapped his will and his strength. He 
could not.resist.
As he struggled, an inner fire continued to burn through his bones. He knew this 
familiar pain. It was the Heart of his people trying to fight off the black 
magickbut it was failing. He squeezed the stone in his claw with the last of 
his energy. Why would it not blaze?
Too weak, his arm finally dropped. He ground the precious Heart under his weight 
as he fell forward. Just before consciousness fled him, he saw the rats swarm 
toward himand worse, he felt the magick of the Heart abandon him.
Kral was the first through the door. He saw the ogre crash to the dirt floor of 
the warehouse. At first, he could not see any threat here except for the 
spreading fire. Had smoke overwhelmed Tolchuk? Ax in hand, he scanned the 
warehouse. All he spotted was Elenas gray mare backed in a corner.
Fardale whisked forward past Krais thighs.
There! Meric called. His thin arm pointed toward the fire.
His sharper elvin eyes had detected furtive movement near the blazing doorway. 
Huge black rats, dozens of them, flowed through the burning portal.
Fardale was already beside the ogre, hackles raised, a growl flowing from his 
throat. His head lowered as he stared down the creatures. The rats stopped their 
approach toward the ogre, spreading in a line to face the wolf.
Kral did not need to be siluran to understand Fardales meaning. His stance 
said it all. Here was the danger the wolf had scented earlier.
But it was just rats.
Krais ax lowered slightly.
Then the pitch of Fardales growl changed to a high whine. The wolf trembled. 
His whine became a hopeless howl that echoed through the rafters. What was 
wrong?
As the wolf howled and began to teeter on his legs, the rats in front of Fardale 
suddenly swelled larger! Their bodies, huge already, bloated to the size of 
small dogs. Fasdale fell limp beside the collapsed ogre.
r
^-,-,
Meric and Kral had stopped halfway across the warehouse.
Whats happening?
Black magick, Meric answered. The elvin stood beside Kral, his silver hair 
floating in wisps about his face, drifting contrary to the nights breezes. 
Meric had touched his elemental magick. Beware them, he said. They steal the 
life from you and use it for their own.
The rats again approached the ogre.
Meric raised his hands in a warding gesture, and a blast of wind blew out from 
him. The edge of the sudden gale knocked Kral to the side. He had to stumble a 
few steps to keep his balance. The wind blasted through the warehouse toward the 
rats. Straw and dirt billowed into the air, and the flames of the fire flared 
brighter with the
breeze.
Caught by the gale, one rat tumbled back into the fiery wall. Its body instantly 
blew ablaze as if coated with oil. It howled like no beast Kral had ever heard. 
The small hairs on Krais arms bristled at the noise. With its eyes burnt black, 
it raced in blind circles for several heartbeats then lay still, a smoking pile 
of bone and charred fur. The other rats ignored their companion. With claws dug 
deep into the packed dirt of the floor, they resisted the elvins storm. Though 
not blown away, they were at least held at bay. It was a standoff.
The rats noses raised in unison, as if sniffing at the elemental wind. They 
swung their gazes hungrily toward Kral and Meric.
Beware! Meric hissed. A sheen of sweat marked the elvins brow. How long 
could the elvin keep this up? Overhead, the wind-fed flames had raced madly up 
the rear wall and reached the rafters. The heat now was like an open hearth 
before his face. And how long until the warehouse collapsed into fiery ruin?
Ill try to drag Tolchuk and Fardale away from them, Kral said, hitching his 
ax on his belt. Hold them off!
Use caution, mountain man. I sense theyll not let their prey escape them so 
easily.
Kral crept forward, crouching low. The wind at his back threatened to tumble him 
forward into the line of rats. Step by step, he crossed the warehouse toward the 
ogre and the wolf. Once close enough, he saw that his companions still 
breathed. A wash of relief broke Krais concentration. His heels slipped, and 
the wind caught him, driving him to his knees.
Growling into his beard, he pushed up. He kept his gaze away from the rats and 
stared at Tolchuks clawed foot. Just a bit farther.
Three steps later, he was close enough. He reached an arm out. Just as his 
fingers touched the ogres foot, the wind died. The sudden lack of support 
dropped Krai on his rear. He spun around.
The elvin stood, staring back toward the door they had entered. Mogweed had 
been left at the entrance to guard their retreat, but there was no sign of the 
shape-shifter. Instead, a flow of demon rats poured through the opening.
He and Meric were surrounded.
Meric struggled to raise his arms, but the elvin was caught in their spell. He 
backed a step, then fell to his knees. Flee! Meric called to him as he 
dropped. Beware their eyes! The elvin collapsed to the dirt.
Ash rained down from the burning rafters. No longer blown back by Merics wind, 
smoke now choked through the warehouse. His eyes stinging, Krai shoved to his 
feet. He would not abandon his friends.
Nearby, a thunder of hooves startled Krai. He shied away as the girls terrified 
mare bolted from the shadows and flew through the rats that stood between it and 
the exit. One of its iron-shod hooves crushed a rat into a foul smear on its way 
out the door.
The horse vanished into the foggy night.
Overhead, a beam suddenly cracked from the heat, showering ash and drawing 
Krais attention. He made the mistake of looking up.
A huge rat clung to one of the intact rafters above. Its red eyes latched onto 
his own. Krai could not look away. The red eyes grew larger and larger in his 
mind until all he saw was the bloodfire that lit the core of the creature. In 
his ears, he heard the cries of the dying, pleading wails to end their agony. 
Death was the only escape. It was a song of despair, and it wound its way around 
Krais heart.
No!
Krai fought against it. The granite of his mountain home flowed through his 
blood and hardened his heart. His magick fought the despair of the song. Yet 
still he weakened. Krai fell to his knees.
In his minds eye, he saw an ancient tower besieged by dwarf armies. He saw the 
bloodstained stones burn red from the siege fires.
Krai clamped his hands over his ears, but he could not muffle the screaming. He 
saw the towers guardians slaughtered and their blood poured over the stones.
J AMES
See, the song and images urged, even the strongest stone cannot resist the 
darkness. Resistance only prolongs the suffering.
Unable to break his locked gaze with the demon rat, Krai was forced to listen. 
Yet he ground his teeth. Listening was not believing. He was not a tower! He was 
a mountain!
Krai crawled backward across the floor as flaming ash burned his skin and singed 
his beard. The rat followed him atop the rafter, refusing to let Krai escape its 
eyes.
Victory was impossible, the ancient dying cries sang to him. More rats joined 
this one. They circled Krai now. Why flee? Just lie down. Escape was just a 
cruel dream. Krai bit his tongue, using the pain to stay focused. No! The mare 
had escaped!
Drawing on the last of his ebbing strength, he grabbed for one final weapon. He 
raised up on his knees and whistled sharply with the last of his breath. Then he 
fell back to his hands in the dirt. The rats closed in on him. Was he too late?
Suddenly an explosion of cracking planks erupted behind him. Krai, locked by the 
black magicks, could not glance back. Sparks and embers blew in a swirl around 
him as a large shape dove in from the rear yard. It was Rorshaf, his war 
charger. Its huge black body galloped forward and shoved between Krai and the 
demon rat, breaking their locked gazes. The sudden collapse of the link between 
them sent Krais vision spinning. All around him was a blur of flames, hooves, 
and shadow.
Krai fought against this confusion. He felt teeth sink into his right hand. Bone 
cracked, and flesh tore. The pain drew his vision to a tight focus. He saw a 
large rat worrying his hand. He flung it off him with a swinging whip of his 
arm. The rat flew off, one of Krais fingers still in its sharp teeth.
Pain fired his hand, but he became rock and walled off the agony. Krai raised 
his bloody palm and grabbed Rorshafs thick tail, tangling his fingers in the 
coarse black hair. Rorami nom, Rorshaf! he yelled in the tongue of the crag 
horses.
Rorshaf reared, trampling two more rats under his hooves, then leapt forward, 
dragging Krai along behind him.
Krai fought to keep his bloody hold on the horses tail as he was bounced and 
rattled across the warehouse floor. He kept his eyes
Wit ch storm
closed. He could not afford the numbing weakness that accompanied the sick gazes 
of the rats.
Splintered wood ripped into his side as Rorshaf dragged him through the ruined 
doorway. He finally opened his eyes as he felt the cobbles of the town square 
strike his hip and heard his ax blade clatter on the stones. He allowed himself 
to be dragged a bit farther, then let go, too exhausted to hold on any longer.
He tumbled to the street and rolled a few times before stopping.
Krai!
The mountain man opened his eyes and found Erril leaning over him. Elena stood 
beside him, holding her gray mare by a lead. My-celle raised a sword in each 
fist, eyes aglow with the spreading flames of the warehouse. Other townspeople 
bustled behind the trio. Word of the fire had spread quickly through the foggy 
night. Somewhere a bell rang loudly.
What happened? Erril asked. Mogweed came running. Something about rats
Krai fought to free his tongue, lifting his torn hand. Not rats, he muttered 
just before his consciousness fled him. Demons.
Beneath the tower of Rashamon, Lord Torwren crouched over the ebonstone 
sphere, his splayed nose almost touching its polished surface as it lay cradled 
in his wrinkled palms. The dwarf lords eyes were wide in the dim chamber as he 
stared deep into the black orb. Images of fire and shadowy figures danced in the 
ebonstone heart.
As he watched, one of the prey escaped the Pack. Torwren hissed his irritation. 
Three others still lay under the thrall of despair upon the floor of the 
warehouse: a wolf, a man, andif he was not mistaken an ogre! He cared nothing 
for the dog, and though the ogre was a novelty, the misshapen creature was of 
no import. It was the silver-haired man who drew the dwarfs attention.
A seeker for many centuries, Torwren recognized the white fire nestled near the 
heart of this thin man. Here was one of the elemen-tals he had sensed in 
Shadowbrook in these last few days. The fire burned strong in this one, much 
stronger than in the foppish twins he used as tools in the city. This one could 
be forged into a potent ill guard, perhaps one of the most powerful. Maybe 
even strong enough to withstandno, he would not let that thought grow full in 
his
|ames Clemens _-,,
mind, not while he was linked to the ebonstone. His master listened often to 
these links, hanging like a spider above his web of talismans.
No, he dismissed his secret hope and concentrated on the Pack. He merged his 
will deeper into the stone talisman. The shadowy images became crisper as he 
delved for the minds of the twins.
Ryman. Mycof. Listen and obey.
Laughter answered his call. In the warehouse, the rats swept toward the fallen 
prey, ready to slake their blood lust.
No! The feast must wait. The town awakens. Bring me the man
unharmed!
The twins ignored his call, the scent of blood too strong in the
flaming room.
Torwren frowned. As a seeker, he despised the iUguard, even those he helped 
create. They were wild, twisted beasts hiding in the skin of men. He spat his 
orders out to them. The master commands! Disobey and I will rip the Sacrament 
from your hearts.
This gave the brothers pause. The rats stopped, tails slashing in agitation. 
Then slowly they backed away from their meal. Bring the man to the tower.
He watched the rats converge around the silver-haired man. Thin of limb and 
features, the mans inner fire burned that much brighter, almost as if his scant 
flesh was but a feeble excuse to house the elemental magick. He was truly a 
strong one. Lord Torwrens lips spread into a hungry leer as he stared into the 
ebonstone sphere. Bring him to me!
The rats piled onto one another, becoming a squirming, hissing mound of fur and 
teeth. Forged of river mud and life force, the writhing bodies melded together, 
creating a living mass of raw flesh, the Pack in its pure form.
As the dwarf lord urged, the Pack transformed itself. Bone, fur, skin, teeth 
fought for form until a hulking creature arose from the frayhalf rat, half man. 
Covered in black fur, it crouched on two thickly muscled legs and reached for 
the thin man with clawed arms. Its bestial head, snouted and covered in spiked 
whiskers, sniffed at its prey. Thick lips pulled back to reveal row after row of 
shredding teeth, and bloodfire raged behind its eyes.
Torwren sensed its rising lust. He drove his will into the stone. No! Harm him 
and suffer my wrath!
The beast raised its head and hissed at the flaming rafters, its
claws digging at the empty air in frustration. It knew its master but fought 
against the restraint.
Obey!
With a final wicked swipe at the smoky air, it growled thickly and scooped up 
the thin man under one arm. Burdened, it loped across the burning warehouse 
toward the rear door.
A few of the demon rats stationed as guards had failed to merge to form the huge 
beast. As the creature passed, these stray rats shook, and leathery wings 
sprouted from their backs. They took flight after their leader, fluttering past 
its massive shoulders and into the foggy night. One rat, though, still dallied, 
working on something in its jaws.
Torwren looked closer. It was a finger. The prey who had escaped earlier had not 
gone uninjured. A spark of elemental fire marked the blood that seeped from the 
severed finger. Another elemental! The rat seemed to sense Torwrens attention. 
Fearing the dwarfs wrath, it dropped the finger and shook out its buried 
wings, ready to follow the others.
Wait, he sent to this quivering fragment of the Pack. Bring me your meal!
Hesitant, the demon creature retrieved its prize.
Good, good Now follow the others.
With a small squeak, the rat spread its wings with renewed confidence and took 
to the air, carrying the prized object in its tiny jaws. A whisper of elemental 
fire traced its path out into the night.
Torwren watched the progression of the Pack through the back alleys and byways 
of Shadowbrook.
Satisfied that his orders would be obeyed, Torwren allowed his eyes to close. He 
settled the ebonstone talisman into the mud of the tower cellar and removed his 
hands from the sphere. One finger traced an arc of silver along its smooth 
surface.
If only his people had never discovered the vein of ebonstone under the 
mountains of their Gulgothal homeland, then maybe
Torwren shook his head. Foolish, idle thoughts. His people had made their 
choicesjust as he had himself.
He lifted his finger from the stone and sighed. He pictured again the strength 
of the magick in the prisoner caught this night. And what of the one who had 
escaped? If he was just as strong? If Torwren could forge both to his will?
Torwren pictured two illguard with the brutality of potent magick. Dare he 
hope?
Elena watched with a hand over her heart as Erril examined Kral.
Erril wrapped a tight bandage around the mountain mans
bloody fist. Hell live, Erril said, pushing to his feet. He glanced at
the huge war charger standing guard over its fallen master. We
dont have time to move the man, but Rorshaf will watch over him.
Erril tossed a copper coin to a boy gawking at the flames of the
burning warehouse. Keep a hand on our mare, he told the child,
taking Mists lead from Elena and holding it out toward the boy,
and youll get another copper for your trouble.
Y-yes, sir! The boy stared at the shiny copper in his palm as he blindly 
accepted the lead.
Around them, the square now bustled with men bearing buckets and women manning 
the two pumps in the square. A chandlery and a cobblers shop to either side of 
the warehouse were being soaked to protect them from the spreading flames and 
embers.
A large bearded man ran up to their group. It was the man who had rented the 
warehouse to them. What happened? His eyes were fixed on the burning 
structure.
Erril straightened and drew his sword. Thats what we are about to find out. 
Erril turned his back on the man and led the way toward the warehouse.
The front of the building still resisted the fire, but from the roof, flames 
spat high into the night air, and smoke billowed out from the open doorway. The 
warehouse would not stand much longer. Hurry, Erril urged. Mycelle followed, 
hovering beside Elena.
Short of breath from both smoke and fear, Elena gasped as she ran. The heat 
coming from the building swelled like a sudden breeze off a raging bonfire. Her 
cheeks grew ruddy from the heat, and her eyes watered.
Erril stopped a man in an apron who had been hurrying by with a bucket. Douse 
us! he ordered.
The man, sweat and soot marring his face, stared at him as if he were mad, but 
the sword at his belly kept his tongue silent.
WIT un
We have friends inside, Erril urged. We must help them.
The mans eyes grew wide, and he waved a heavyset woman over to him. She bore a 
bucket in each hand. Help us, Mabel! he called. These folks are gonna try 
and see if anyone is alive inside.
The woman shambled to them, a frown on her lips. Daft idea. Theyre just gonna 
git themselves killed, too.
Hush, Mabel! The man took his bucket and dumped it over Errils head. What 
if it were me in there? he said.
The woman soaked down Mycelle. Id let you burn, she said. Be rid of your 
lollygagging ways, I would! Still her eyes shone with concern for them all.
The boy, too, Erril instructed, indicating Elena.
The heavyset woman glanced in surprise.
Mycelle answered her unspoken question. Hes a firebrand, she said, naming 
Elena as an elemental who could control flames. If our friends yet live, we 
will need his skill.
Mabel nodded knowingly and poured her second bucket over Elenas head. Elena 
shuddered at its frigid touch, but the well water instantly washed away the 
fires heat.
Erril studied her for a moment, as if judging Elenas fortitude.
She stared him straight in the eye until he nodded and turned toward the 
warehouse.
Soaked and dripping, they ran toward the warehouse door. Smoke stung the eye and 
burned the nose, but the summer storm that had threatened at sunset finally 
arrived. A stiff breeze blew the smoke across the square, thinning it enough to 
breathe, and a crack of thunder split the sky.
Rain began pelting the cobbles. Behind Elena, cheers arose from the townsfolk.
With her back to the commotion, Elena slipped her glove from her right hand and 
exposed her ruby stain to the flames. It took her a moment to free her witchs 
dagger from its sheath at her belt, the rose-carved pommel catching on the mossy 
strands that bound her left hand. Once free, she notched her thumb and used the 
blood to mark her eyes.
Mycelle noticed her action. Elena, what are you doing?
The blood allows me to see the weaves of magick around me, she answered.
Satisfied, Mycelle nodded, as if this were a common statement for a young woman 
to utter.
As they arrived at the shattered doorway to the warehouse, Elena reached for the 
well of power in her heart. She felt the familiar surge of rich energies, her 
skin tingling. Ahead of her, Erril entered the warehouse, crouching low to 
avoid the worst of the smoke. Elena followed with Mycelle, who watched their 
rear, both swords in hand.
Coughing, Elena waved smoke from her face, the heat drying her cheeks to a burn 
in only a few breaths. She looked around her.
The inside of the warehouse was a smoldering battlefield. Flaming sections of 
roof and rafters lit the chamber, and smoke curled like a living creature 
through the room. A portion of the rear wall had fallen in and crushed their 
wagon. It was a ruin. What had not been smashed had caught flame and burned.
But the loss of their supplies was the least of their concerns. Over there! 
Erril pointed to the large form collapsed on the far side of the building. 
Tolchuk, he said. And I think thats the wolf
beside him.
Elena stared, willing her magick to grow in her fist. Her right hand began to 
glow with a nimbus of energy. Elenas vision shifted as the magick suddenly 
tinged her sight. Mycelle, beside her, bloomed like a white candle in the night, 
her elemental flame strong and clear. The seekers skill was strong in her.
Glancing across the chamber, Elenas spell-cast vision seemed unaffected by the 
smoke and sting. It is them, she said, confirming Errils statement, but I 
dont see Meric. Swinging in a slow circle, she scanned the room.
Nearby, she could make out faint areas of a reddish firenot the red of a clean 
flame, but something more sickly. She crossed to one spot and discovered the 
remains of what looked like a huge rat, a hoofprint smashed clearly into its 
black flesh. But this was no ordinary rat. She leaned closer. Like an ember in a 
dying hearth, a foul fire glowed out from it. A part of her knew its name. 
Bloodfire, she whispered.
Get back from that, Mycelle warned. She sheathed one of her swords and pulled 
Elena away, her nose curling in distaste. With her elemental skills, Mycelle 
must have also sensed the corruption here.
Elena straightened, remembering Krais words. Not rats. Demons.
VV 1 I CM
Theyre gone, Elena said, glancing about the smoldering room as she followed 
Erril. Rain began pelting through several new holes in the roof. Where the cool 
rain met the flames, sizzling steam arose around them as the fires were doused. 
The bloodfire also began to fade from the chamber. Theyve fled.
Who? Erril asked as he cautiously led them around piles of smoking debris. He 
had his sword raised, ready for a sudden attack.
Elena pushed past him, shrugging off even Mycelles restraining grasp. The 
creatures of the illguard. Theyve fled from here. Its clear.
Are you certain? Erril asked. Yes.
I, too, sense their presence has faded, Mycelle added. They end their hunt 
this night. But by tomorrows light we must be gone.
No longer fearing demons, the trio hurried to Tolchuk and Fardale. Their 
companions lay sprawled on the dirt floor, eyes open but unaware. Quick attempts 
to revive them failed.
Erril grabbed one of Tolchuks legs and nodded for Mycelle to grab the other. 
Can you drag the wolf by yourself, Elena?
She nodded, distracted. With her blood-tinged vision, she saw the brilliant glow 
shining forth from the ogres thigh pouch. Its light shone in tiny piercing 
rays through the stitching in the pouchs hide: the magick of Tolchuks 
heartstone talisman, she guessed.
Elena? Erril asked, noticing her pause. He and Mycelle had the ogres legs 
already in hand.
Elena straightened and swung in a circle. If her blood-tinged eyes could see all 
forms of magickfrom Mycelles elemental fire to the glow of Tolchuks 
heartstonethen why didnt she see Merics fire? The shattering realization took 
hold of her. Hes gone, she said, her voice trembling and cracking.
What are you talking about?
Meric. His elemental magick should be a beacon in here. I dont see it!
Maybe hes hidden behind one of these mounds of debris, Erril offered. The 
smoldering fires might be masking him.
Or he could be dead, Mycelle said, coldly practical.
Erril glanced sourly at her. Well search for the elvin after we get these 
others out of here. He began to drag the ogre across the dirt.
We wont find Meric here! Elena suddenly declared. Somehow she knew this was 
true. Hes been captured!
A section of roof suddenly crashed off to the side, startling them all. Though 
the fire seemed to be losing its battle to the rain, the flames had weakened the 
supports to the warehouse. Posts groaned, and the roof bowed ominously.
Captured or not, we need to get out of here! Erril said fiercely. Elena 
glanced one last time around her, grabbed Fardales rear legs, and struggled to 
haul him after the others. The wolf was heavier than she had suspected. Groaning 
and straining, she fought his limp weight across the floor.
Are you all right? Erril called back to her. Ill manage! she spat back at 
him. At least her burden kept her distracted from their missing companion.
By the time they neared the door, a few townsmen had braved the dwindling flames 
and pushed into the warehouse, led by the aproned man who had doused them with 
water. Give em a hand, gents!
The men helped haul Tolchuk and Fardale out to the cobbled streets of the 
square. Elena slipped her ruby hand back into her glove and reined in her 
magick. Her vision returned to normal.
What manner of beast is this? one of them mumbled who handled the ogre.
Some misbirth, another hissed at him. Poor creatures only fit
to be a carnival freak.
Maybe it were best if wed left him to the fire.
No one spoke against these sad words.
Once out in the clear air, Erril directed the men in hauling their injured to 
the Painted Pony.
Ill fetch a healer, one of them offered.
No need, Erril said. All they need is a day or two in a warm
bed.
Erril then left with a few other men to search the warehouse for Meric. Elena 
did not follow. She knew it was useless. She and Mycelle guided the men, 
burdened with her fallen comrades, to their
rooms.
The innkeeper of the Painted Pony watched the parade of men with wide eyes. If 
they be sick, I dont want them in my inn! he hollered at the men. I wont 
have no contagion in my establishment!
As if youre concerned, Heran, about the health of your patrons! scolded the 
aproned man, shoving crusts of bread from underfoot. Elena had learned the bold 
man was the towns cobbler. He owned the shop next to the warehouse.
As the innkeeper grumbled, they continued up the stairs.
Mogweed met Elena at the door to their rooms. I finished packing both His 
eyes grew wide at the number of men and their burden. His eyes settled on the 
limp form of his brother in the huge arms of the towns blacksmith. The emotions 
that warred across the shape-shifters face made it seem almost as if he had 
regained his shifting skills. He backed to let them all in.
Once settled in their rooms, Elena thanked the men and offered them a handful of 
coppers from the troupes reserve.
The cobbler shook his head at her fistful of coins. Here in Shad-owbrook, 
kindness does not have to be bought with coppers.
The other men mumbled their agreement, then left.
Directed by Mycelle, Mogweed went to fetch hot water.
Alone now, Mycelle stepped up to Elena. You should get out of those soaking 
clothes before a chill sets into you.
Nodding, Elena slipped off her jacket. Her eyes were fixed on the trio of 
slumbering friends. Why did they not awaken? Not even the rain seemed to stir 
them.
Behind her, Mycelle gasped. Elena glanced back. Mycelle had frozen midway in 
removing her scabbards. Her eyes were on Elena, her expression shocked.
What is it? Elena asked.
Your your arm! Mycelle pointed to the girls left side.
Elena raised her bare arm. Her own mouth gaped in horror. The mossy strands had 
spread from her hand, coiling and sprouting up to her shoulder. Her entire arm 
now ran with vines and tiny leaves. A small purplish flower even adorned her 
elbow. What is happening? she asked, her throat tightening.
Mycelle tossed aside her scabbards and crossed to Elena. She scrutinized her 
arm. The boy who bewitched you on the street. He said he needed your magick.
Elena nodded.
This is disastrous, Mycelle said, picking at a vine near her shoulder. Her 
face grew dark. I had thought it only a minor nuisance.
What?
When you loosened your magick in the warehouse, it must have given fuel for 
this bewitched growth. She looked at Elena gravely. The swamp vines feed on 
your magick.
Elena pulled back from Mycelle.
The more you use it, the thicker it will grow. Until until Mycelles lips 
tightened. She did not want to voice her thought.
What? Tell me!
Gripping Elenas shoulders, she stared her square in the eyes. You must not use 
your magick anymore. Swear it!
But why?
Mycelle released Elena and turned away. Her firm voice dissolved into tears. If 
you continue to use your magick, the vines will kill you.
Burdened with two crates, Erril pushed into the room to find Elena resting on a 
corner of a bed beside the limp form of the wolf. She had a blanket wrapped 
around her shoulders, her eyes on Fardale. Nearby, Mycelle was bent over Krai, 
working with needle and thread on his injured hand. Her scabbards leaned against 
the walls.
I found no sign of the elvin, Erril said as introduction. Were you able to 
revive any of the others?
His question was answered with a sullen shake of Elenas head.
Errils eyes narrowed. Something was amiss here. Whats wrong? he asked as he 
dropped the two crates he had recdVered from the burned wagon. The horses, 
shaken and sweating, had all survived and were corralled behind the inns 
decrepit barn. A few more crates were stashed in the hall, carried here by a 
couple of helpful townspeople. All else was a ruin. Wheres Mogweed?
Hes gone to fetchhot water, Mycelle answered from where she worked on Krai. 
Ive a few herbs in my suppliesraspberry leaf and dried 
rivenberriesstimulants that may perhaps draw them from this strange slumber. 
Her words were halfhearted, with none of her usual heat. I sent a man to fetch 
my gelding and bags.
Mycelle worked a bandage around Krais fist, then faced Erril. But weve more 
to worry about. Im afraid I poorly misjudged Elenas bewitching. The spell was 
cast with more skill then I initially suspected.
JAMES
Before her words were finished, Erril was already at Elenas side. He knelt 
where she sat on her bed.
Silently, Elena showed him her moss-encrusted fingers. It looks the same he 
began to say. Then Elena drew the blanket up her bare arm. The vines and 
pea-size leaves ran a twisted course around her arm to her shoulder. He could 
not keep his eyes from widening in shock. What does this mean? Mycelle told 
him her suspicions.
Erril sat back upon his heels. But if she cant use her magick, how do we hope 
to reach Aloa Glen ?
Mycelle crossed to them. We dont. Not unless we can lift this bewitching.
Elena dropped the blanket back over her arm. Erril patted her on a knee. How 
do we rid her of the spell?
Only the one who cast it can undo it, Mycelle said. Well have to take her to 
the witch.
Erril stood. He recognized the worry in her eyes. You suspect who cast this 
spell.
Yes, I do. The moss that grows on Elenas arm is a type of vine named chokers 
nest. It grows only in the Innova Swamps. Mycelle looked at Erril intently.
But thats almost a moons journey from here, Erril argued. Mycelle frowned 
at him, clearly tired of his stating the obvious. Before further words could be 
spoken, Mogweed forced his way into their room, encumbered with a pail of 
steaming water and a set of riding packs over one shoulder. Ive your supplies 
and the water you wanted, he said, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the 
room. Where do you want them?
Well talk more of this later, Mycelle said to Erril. Right now, lets see 
about your companions.
Before Erril could object, she waved Mogweed to the space between the two beds 
where the ogre and the mountain man lay. The shape-shifter set the pail down 
roughly, sloshing water across the pine floor planks. Mycelle took the packs 
from him. I need mugs, she said.
Mogweed stared blankly at her a moment. Then his brows lowered. Ill get them, 
he said with an exasperated sigh.
As he left, Mycelle fingered through her packs. Finally, she
Witch Storm
extracted two parchment-wrapped packages. She called Elena to her side. Crush 
these leaves and berries, she said, tossing her two tiny packages.
Erril realized he would get no further information from Mycelle, not until some 
attempt was made to revive their companions. How can I help? he said.
Mycelle tested the water in the pail with a finger. See if you can raise 
Tolchuk a bit. When I dose him, I dont want the elixir to drown him.
Erril nodded and slid to the far side of Tolchuks bed. He pulled the blanket 
lower so he could get to one of the ogres arms. He freed the thick limb from 
the blanket. As Erril gripped Tolchuks wrist, he noticed two things: 
Tolchuks flesh was as cold as a day-old corpse, and the claws of the ogres 
hand clutched a large object in their sharp grip.
Erril immediately recognized the glinting object still stubbornly clasped in 
the sleeping giants fist. It was the Heart of his people. Though unconscious 
and half dragged here, the ogre had never let it drop.
Curious, Erril attempted to pry open Tolchuks massive fist; perhaps here lay 
some clue to what had occurred in the warehouse. It took the strength of all his 
fingers to drag open a single claw.
What are you doing? Mycelle asked sharply.
Erril continued to fight the ogres grip. Trying to free Tolchuks 
heartstone.
Why?
Erril glared up at her, swiping away a fall of his black hair from his face. 
The stone might give us some clue to the threat we face. Erril went back to 
freeing the stone. Finally, with sweat on his brow, he pried open the last of 
the claws. Fully exposed in the ogres palm, the facets of the heartstone 
seemed oddly subdued in the lamplight. Erril reached for it.
Dont! Elena suddenly cried. She had stopped crumbling the dried herb and 
stared at Tolchuk with a studied expression.
Errils hand froze. His fingers hovered over the stone.
What is it, honey? Mycelle asked, drawing nearer.
The Heart usually glows with at least a trace of ogre magicks, she said, 
waving at the stone. In the warehouse, as he lay sprawled, I
saw his pouch ablaze with magicks. I guessed it was just the stone! But if he 
held the Heart in his fist, then it must must be something else. She pointed 
to his blanket-covered waist. Something in his pouch.
Erril pulled his hand back from the stone and grabbed the blankets edge. He 
swept down the woolen covering. The goatskin pouch was still tied around the 
ogres broad thigh. The pouch bulged with something other than its usual sacred 
object.
Glancing briefly to the others, Erril reached for the leather draws. He tugged 
them open just as something in the pouch suddenly thrashed. Startled, Erril 
yanked away his fingers, accidentally striking the heartstone with the edge of 
his hand.
As the stone knocked free of the ogres palm, the opening of the thigh pouch 
suddenly burst forth with a sharp brilliance. Blinded for a heartbeat, Erril 
backed a step. He blinked away the dazzle. The flare of radiance soon died down 
to a smoldering red glow. Yet the light was not quiet. The intensity of the glow 
rose and fell rhythmically like that of a beating heart.
Stand back, Mycelle warned, her voice suspicious.
Elena took a step closer. Somethings coming.
The contents of the pouch wormed toward the opening. As they watched, the 
strange object in the pouch suddenly poked free of its glowing cave. Its 
whiskered snout tested the air. Then its body slid from the pouchs interior.
Its a rat, Erril said.
Krai had mentioned rats, Mycelle said, placing a hand on Elenas shoulder. 
Spawn of the illguard.
Elena shook her head. This is not one of them. Its injured. She pointed to 
the twist in the rats spine as it struggled free. The rat seemed unhampered by 
its injury. Its slow crawl from the pouch was more caution than disability. Its 
eyes seemed to watch everything at once.
The glow Elena began to say.
Erril noted it, too. The radiance followed the rat from the pouch. No, that was 
not exactly right. As its tiny clawed legs drew the last of its body free, the 
source of the rich light became clear.
The rats glowing, Mycelle said, wonder etching her hard voice.
The rat was the usual mud brown of the common river rats. But
WIT CH JTORM
from its lice-ridden fur, a rosy glow ebbed and flowed, a nimbus of light that 
gave the drab creature a certain beauty, as if the radiance highlighted all that 
was good and noble in the beast.
What does it mean? Elena asked.
Both Erril and Mycelle just stared.
Suddenly the door banged open behind them. All of them jumped, even the rat.
That stingy innkeep would only give me one mug! Mogweed said sourly as he 
entered the room.
Quiet! All three of them scolded him, freezing him in place.
The rat, startled by the sudden intrusion, fled up from Tolchuks waist and 
scrabbled across the ogres barreled chest to hide under his craggy chin. It 
cowered there, its light flaring brighter with its fright.
The glow bathed Tolchuks face, casting each rough plane and deep wrinkle of 
the ogre in sharp relief. As the radiance had improved the aspect of the common 
river rat, the glow seemed to highlight the character and strength hidden within 
Tolchuks coarse features.
He is so much like his father, Mycelle murmured, her voice so soft, so unlike 
her, that Erril did not know for a moment who had spoken. He glanced up to see 
a single tear shine in the swords-womans eye.
As they watched, Tolchuks wide-splayed nose twitched. The glow, like pipe 
smoke, was drawn inside the slumbering ogre as he breathed in deeply. His lips 
began to move silently, as if he were speaking in some deep dream. His open 
eyes, which had been staring blindly at the thin rafters above, slid closed.
Whats happening? Mogweed asked.
Mycelle shushed him. She reached a hand to Tolchuks shoulder. I think he now 
slips into normal sleep. The spell is lifting. She leaned closer to the ogre. 
Tolchuk, can you hear me?
Tolchuk snored thinly for a few heartbeats, then spoke in a throaty whisper. 
Mother? Mother, where be you?
Mycelle patted his shoulder. Im here, Son. Its time to wake.
But but Father wanted me to tell you something.
Glancing at the others, Mycelles expression was clearly worried.
Tolchuk continued to mumble. Father says to tell you that he be sorry he made 
you go away. His heart still hears your voice, and his bones still remember your 
heat. He misses you.
Mycelles voice cracked. She did not hide her tears. I miss him, too. She 
gripped Tolchuks shoulder tighter. But, Tolchuk, it is time to come back 
here. There is still much to do.
I remember I remember, he said with rising heat. The Banel Tolchuks eyes 
jerked open, a stifled cry escaped his lips, and his body spasmed as he came 
fully awake. He glanced around him. What happened? Where be I?
He tried to rise, but Mycelle placed a hand on his chest, over his heart. 
Youre safe.
The rat, though, seemed to realize that it was not safe and hobbled down one of 
the ogres arms. Tolchuk glanced at it, his fanged lips curling in disgust. He 
tried to fling it away, but Elena grabbed the rat with both hands and snatched 
it up.
Tolchuk, this little one just saved your life, she said, cradling it to her 
chest. Its scaled tail wrapped around her wrist. It no longer glowed and seemed 
a normal rat again. It chewed absently at the tiny vinelets wrapping her 
fingers, then spat them out.
The ogres eyes grew clearer. I know that rat, he said. That crooked tail. I 
put it in my pouch.
Why? Mycelle asked intensely, as if her question were of utmost impact. Why 
did you do that?
Tolchuk pushed to a seated position. He shivered, finally feeling his chilled 
skin. I dont know. He was injured. Tolchuk shrugged.
Hmm was Mycelles only comment.
What? Erril asked.
Mycelle nodded toward the floor. Give him back his heartstone.
Erril bent and retrieved the priceless gem from where it had been knocked to 
the floor. It was heavy. Erril could barely fit his fingers around it to grip 
it one-handed. He lifted it.
The Heart Tolchuk said. His expression was worried. He held out his palm.
Erril placed the stone in the ogres hand. As soon as it touched Tolchuks 
flesh, the facets of the stone blew to fire. The light sparked and shone 
throughout the room.
Its come back to life! Tolchuk exclaimed. I thought it dead. I felt it 
abandon me.
Mycelle nodded. It did.
All but Tolchuk turned to stare at her.
What do you recall of the attack of the illguard? she asked.
Tolchuks eyes rose to meet hers. The who?
Mycelle explained about what had happened to him and the others. Tolchuks eyes 
seemed finally to focus on his two companions, slumbering and pale, on the 
neighboring cots. Meric is gone? he asked, his voice wounded.
What do you remember about the attack? Mycelle repeated.
Tolchuk swallowed some hard lump in his throat. They came in the form of demon 
rats. Their eyes shone with some sick inner fire.
Bloodfire, Elena said and ignored the others stares. She nodded for Tolchuk 
to continue as her fingers soothed the small rat.
Their eyes drew me into them into a world of pain and despair. I could not 
resist. I became lost and could not find my way back. I weakened with their song 
of screams and hopelessness. I tried to resist with the Heart, but it was dead, 
just a lump of stone in my fist.
No, Mycelle said. The magick was protecting itself. What you describe I have 
heard before. There is a form of illguard black magick that feeds on ones life 
force. In this case, the demon rats sapped your spirit with their despairsa 
most potent magick. And with the Heart storing the spirits of your dead, the 
illguard could have drawn off even these last stray bits of life force 
stealing your ancestors away forever.
Tolchuks eyes widened with her words.
So to protect itself, the spirits and their power fled into another vessel, 
something blocked from the spell-cast eyes of the illguard. Mycelle nodded 
toward the rat in Elenas arms. It stayed there until it could return to you 
and share its energies to revive you. No one said anything for several 
heartbeats.
Finally, Erril broke the silence. But what of Krai and Fardale? he asked. 
Could the stone cure them, too?
Mycelle stepped back and waved Tolchuk toward the other two beds. Lets find 
out.
Lord Torwren crouched lower in the mud, listening. He heard the scrape of stone 
from one of the many tunnels that burrowed out from the cellar region of the 
tower. The Pack had returned. He reached and grasped the ebonstone sphere. 
Pushing a fragment of
his spirit into the stone, he ignited the well of bloodfire within. Tiny flames 
began to skate over its surface, and the room brightened with its sick fire.
Near his feet, the pale forms of Mycof and Ryman lay sprawled in the mud. Their 
naked skin ran bloody with the light of the flames. They were twin shells, empty 
now, that awaited the return of their creations.
A scrape again sounded from a nearby tunnel. The dwarf lord raised his eyes.
Through the dark eye of a tunnel opening, the beast shambled into the cellar. 
Red eyes shone with baleful flames, while oiled black fur reflected the 
bloodfire of the talisman. A scattering of heavy bats flew in behind the 
creature to settle into the mud. Wings retracted, and the bats became rats 
again. One scurried over to offer its prize to its master. Torwren ignored the 
severed finger dropped at his lap. His eyes were fixed on the burden carried 
under a thick arm of the monstrous beast.
The captive was a wraith of a man, all limb and neck. Silver hair, tied in a 
braid, dragged in the mud as the demon beast lumbered into the room. The magick 
in the prisoner struck his senses like a wash of icy water. Over the many 
centuries he had served as a seeker for the Dark Lord, he had never come upon 
one so rich in elemental fire.
Torwren sniffed at the dank air. He smelled ocean breezes and the scent of 
winter storms. An elemental of wind and air! He had never chanced upon one 
skilled in this element. He wondered how the black magick of the ebonstone 
would twist this unique power. What manner of illguard would arise from this 
man?
His heart beat faster than it had in ages. This one was strong! Shackle him, 
the dwarf lord ordered, pointing to the iron manacles bolted to one wall of the 
cellar.
The beast swung its whiskered snout toward Torwren and hissed, its blood lust 
bright in its eyes. But the Pack, even here in its strongest form, seemed weak 
and small compared to the power he had just scented.
Do as I command! Torwren raised the ebonstone sphere, and bloodfire spat 
higher. Wicked flames reached for the creature.
It cowered away, subdued by his show of power. With its shoulders hunched 
against the brightness of the talisman, it stepped over
the pale forms of Mycof and Ryman. Crossing to the far wall, it roughly yanked 
and twisted the thin mans limp form until his two wrists were clamped in iron 
bands. The beast stepped back.
The prisoner now hung from his wrists, his toes unable to reach the mud floor.
Satisfied his captive was secure, Torwren faced the black beast. The hunt is 
done this night, he hissed at it. Return to your slumber!
Resistance was plain in its hungry eyes. It took a step toward him, claws 
rising.
Torwren shook his head at its display. Such a poor tool for his use! He lowered 
the ebonstone talisman, touching first Mycof, then Ryman. With the caress of 
the stone, their limp bodies spasmed tight as drawn bowstrings. Their backs 
arched from the mud, necks stretched back, jaws opened in silent screams.
The beast froze in its approach. Rows of yellow fangs glinted as it hissed its 
frustration.
Begone! the dwarf lord ordered. He ran a wrinkled palm across the polished 
surface of the stone. As his hand quelled the fire, the beast simply collapsed 
into a mound of squirming black worms. Return to your hosts!
The worms twisted and roiled in a mass toward Mycof and Ryman. They rolled over 
the taut bodies of the twins then brrowed home, squirming into their mouths, up 
their noses, and into every opening in the pairs bodies. The pale forms gagged 
and choked on the worms as the Pack returned to roost. Their bellies swelled 
with the worms until the two brothers appeared as bloated corpses.
Then their bellies subsided as the magick given substance returned to its 
original energies. The power ran again through the blood and bones of the twins. 
Mycof was the first to rise from the mud; again his features were those of a 
statue, all emotion drained away by the hunt. The young mans colorless thin 
lips sighed. Ryman arose next, his red eyes glancing briefly at his brother, 
then at Torwren.
Return to your rooms, Torwren said.
The hunt ? Mycof dared.
Torwren pointed to the wall where the prisoner hung. You have done well. The 
master is pleased.
His words raised a shadow of a smile from each. Torwren knew
this was an ecstatic response from the brothers after the Pack had drained them. 
Go to your beds and rest. Torwren retrieved the bloody finger from the mud 
near his knees. We will hunt again on the morrows twilight.
These words raised even a greater smile, a hint of teeth showing. Their blood 
lust had been denied this night, but the thought of another hunt promised 
another chance to slake their hunger.
The two brothers slowly climbed from the mud, helping each other up. With a 
barest bow of heads, they turned and retreated to the door that led to the tower 
stair.
Once gone, the dwarf lord raised the torn finger to his nose and sniffed at it. 
He scented caves of stone and the muskiness of mined ore. Rock magick! Even this 
small token promised another elemental of savage fire. He brought the finger to 
his lips and tasted the blood and tore into its flesh. Its taste and trace of 
magick would help guide him this night. Tonights hunt must not fail.
Not if he was to allow himself a hope.
Two illguard to be bent to his will. Two of such strength! His eyes closed as 
he imagined the power at his command. Power enough to defy the Black Heart and 
seek the Trysil.
He put aside these dreams and raised his gaze to the captive hung in iron on the 
wall. First, he had a spirit to break and cast upon the bloodfire of his 
ebonstone pyre. Like his dwarf ancestors, skilled masters of the forge, he 
would hammer and fold this one into a blade of the keenest edge and fiercest 
steel.
He raised the ebonstone sphere whose hollow heart had been filled with the 
blood of the last defender of Rashamon. Torwren still remembered the screams of 
the soldier as he had cut his beating heart from his chest and used the hot 
blood to fuel the ebonstone sphere.
The dwarf lord reached for the power of the stone, sensing the soldiers living 
spirit trapped in the stone along with his blood. Over the ages, the mans 
bright spirit had been twisted and demented by the horrors in which Torwren had 
employed the fire of the soldiers dying heart. Unable to resist, the stone blew 
ablaze with the fire and despair of this long-dead soldier. His screams sounded 
in Torwrens ears as the dwarf lord climbed from the mud and approached his new 
prisoner.
What he had done to this soldier would be a kindness compared to his plans for 
the captive hung on the wall. Yet Torwren did not falter. He knew the lessons of 
his ancestors.
The hardest steel had to be forged in the hottest flame.
Pulled from a fiery nightmare, Kral opened his eyes to a red flame. Panicked, 
his heart thundering, he beat frantically at the threat, but his arms tangled in 
some clinging netting.
Lie still, Kral!
The mountain man recognized Errils voice, and the world snapped to focus. He 
lay on a cot in one of their rooms, snared in a woolen blanket. His side ached, 
and his hip throbbed. He groaned as he remembered his wild ride through the 
burning warehouse.
Tolchuk lowered his glowing heartstone from Krais face. He awakens.
Kral stared up into the ogres worried face. The last time he had seen 
Tolchuk, the ogre had been sprawled out on the warehouse floor. He glanced to 
the neighboring bed. Fardale sat atop the next cot, leaning into Elenas fingers 
as she scratched the wolf behind one ear. With relief, Kral realized they had 
escaped, too.
The mountain man found his tongue still thick in his throat. What happened?
You were attacked by the illguard, Erril said. They drained your strength 
with a spell of despair, but the magick in Tolchuks heartstone broke its hold 
on you. The plainsmans words were spoken without joy.
Recalling Merics collapse in the warehouse, Kral glanced around the room, 
expecting to see the elvin. Meric?
Hes vanished, Erril said with heat. We were hoping you had some clue as to 
what might have happened.
His thoughts still confused, Kral freed an arm from his blankets and discovered 
his right hand wrapped in a bloody bandage. It throbbed and ached. He remembered 
the rat gnawing away his finger. A shudder traveled through his limbs. He had 
never felt so cold, not even among the snows of his mountain home.
Mycelle stepped forward with a steaming mug. She frowned at Erril as she passed 
Kral the cup. She scolded the plainsman. Hes
JAMES
still weak. Give Kral a moment to clear the dregs of the illguards spell 
before you interrogate him.
Shivering, Kral accepted the hot mug with his good hand, his fingers wrapping 
tightly around the cup to absorb its heat.
Drink it all, Mycelle ordered, straightening. The tea will give you 
strength.
Kral did not argue. At first, he just sipped the sweet tea, but as its warmth 
traveled from his belly out to his fingers and toes, he found himself gulping it 
greedily. He drained the cup and leaned back in his bed, closing his eyes. He 
held out the mug. More?
Mycelle took the mug from him with a grin. There was enough rivenberry in that 
cup for a brace of stallions. Just give it a few moments to work through you.
Her words soon proved true. After a few breaths, a soothing warmth spread 
through Kral, and the blanket began to stifle him. He tossed it back. Even his 
aching side protested less sharply. He pulled himself up higher in the bed.
Erril weighed Kral with his eyes before speaking. Now what do you recall about 
the warehouse?
Kral cleared his throat and started his story. As he related his tale, the 
expressions of the others grew grimmer.  Then the demons surrounded us. 
Already tired from using his magick, Meric dropped quickly. Then the rats were 
upon me. It was only Rorshafs strong legs that saved me from further damage at 
the beasts teeth. He held up his bandaged hand.
Mycelle pushed down Krais arm. Ive knit your torn skin with needled sheeps 
gut and applied a balm of bittersroot to help it heal clean, but you must rest 
it.
Wounds heal, he said, dismissing her warning. He knew from past injuries that 
his magicks would speed his healing. He was rock. Erril spoke next. So after 
you fell, the rats attacked you. Kral nodded. I sensed a bloody hunger in 
their eyes, he said, his brows growing dark. If Meric is gone, I fear the 
worst.
Mycelle sniffed dismissively. Put aside those fears, she said as she hauled a 
pail from beside the bed. Meric lives.
How can you be so sure? Erril asked.
They left Tolchuk and the wolf. If they were simply after meat, they wouldnt 
have left behind such a rich supply.
Elena shifted on the neighboring cot. So why take Meric and leave the others? 
the girl mumbled.
Mycelle answered. Because hes rich in elemental magicks excellent fodder for 
the Dark Lords illguard army. Her voice grew grave. But his abduction raises 
a larger fear.
What is that? Erril asked.
With their purposeful choice of targets, I now suspect that Im not the only 
seeker here in Shadowbrook. Someone else hunts the city. She glanced at Krai 
and nodded at his hand. Theyve had a taste of you and will come after you 
again. Once the Dark Lords seeker has caught your scent, he will not give up 
the chase. Youre too strong an elemental, a prize trophy for any seeker.
Her words silenced the others.
Mogweed was the first to speak. What of Elena? Can this seeker sniff her out, 
too?
Mycelle placed a hand on the shape-shifters shoulder. Mogweed, youre the only 
one whos thinking straight. Its tragic that Meric is lost, but Elena should be 
our priority. I dont believe this seeker is aware of her. Elenas magick is not 
elemental. Its blood magick. She is invisible to my seeking, and I suspect to 
all others, too. But Krai will draw the hounds of the Black Heart like the blood 
of a wounded fox. That we must consider.
What are you suggesting? Erril asked.
Krai found the womans hard eyes settle on him. Krai must not come with us.
Stunned expressions spread through the room. Krais face, though, stayed rock. 
She is right. I will only draw attention to Elena.
Elena stood up from her bed, her face red, near tears. No, we all must stand 
together. We cant leave Krai behind. The blanket fell from her shoulders.
Krai stared wide eyed at the spread of vines and leaves up her arm. He 
interrupted the girls declaration. What happened to Elena?
The girl glanced to her enshrouded limb, and the fire seemed to leave her body. 
She sank back to the bed as Erril explained about the bewitched link between 
the vines and her magick. She must not touch her magick, he finished, or the 
growth could overwhelm and kill her.
J AMtS
Then thats even more of a reason for me to leave, Krai said firmly. She 
cant afford a confrontation with the minions of the Dark Lord. The best way I 
could help is to lead them astray, distract the hunt from her.
No! Elena said, but her voice was now less sure.
Krai sat up straighter and threw his legs to the floor. He stared at the young 
lass. Elena, I would die before I let my blood draw attention to your trail. 
You have no say in this matter. I will travel no farther with you.
But?
He placed his good hand on her knee. No.
Elena stared around at the others for help. None would meet her eye. Her 
shoulders slumped. Then what is our plan?
Mycelle answered, speaking a breath before Erril. Daybreak nears. We must 
leave soon thereafter. To leave before dawn would draw too many suspicious eyes. 
We will leave while the town awakens and the river barges set sail.
Elena turned teary eyes toward Krai. And what will you do after we leave?
I will stay. Meric is somewhere here in Shadowbrook. I mean to find him and 
free him.
But we could help you.
No. Without your magick, you are useless. Krai saw how his words pained her, 
but as a mountain man, he had learned that true words were often hard to hear. 
Youd just be in my way, someone I would have to guard.
Tolchuk spoke into the pained tension. You would not have to guard me, man of 
the mountains. I will stay with you.
What? Krai swung on the ogre.
Tolchuk held his chunk of heartstone. The Heart can fight the spell-cast sleep 
of the illguard. If you find Meric, you may need my help.
No, Tolchuk, Erril said, mirroring Krais own thoughts. Your words are 
noble, but your strong arms and your magick are best used to guard Elena.
Krai nodded.
Mycelle stepped into the argument. Elena is the important
Enough! Tolchuks shout shook the thin, planked walls. He shoved the 
heartstone before him. He pointed it first at Elena, and
the stone grew dark, its bright facets dimming. Then he swung his fist toward 
Kraiand the stone blew to a blinding radiance! The mountain man leaned away 
from its brilliance. Tolchuks arm trembled with his fervor. As it has always 
done, the Heart commands me where I must go. I must stay with Krai. His eyes 
defied anyone to question him further. The display silenced everyone.
Then its decided, Mycelle said, staring at her son with cold eyes. Krai and 
Tolchuk stay and draw off our enemies. Perhaps they may succeed in freeing 
Meric, but if not, their deaths wont be in vain. Mycelle turned to face the 
others. But before we firm plans, is there anyone else who would like to stay?
Krai saw one arm rise, and his mouth dropped in surprise. Mogweed stood behind 
Elena with his hand in the air.
Elena shut her ears from the raised voices around her. The small crook-tailed 
rat nuzzled deeper into the warmth of her embrace. She, too, wished to burrow 
somewhere away from all this commotion. She stared at the wrap of foliage on her 
left arm. Tugging at a coil of vine, she followed to where it burrowed into her 
flesh. Because of this mossy growth, the team was falling apart. As Krai had 
said, without access to her magicks, she was just useless baggage, a burden to 
those around her. She wiped back a tear.
In just a night, all she had practiced, learned, and accomplished was now 
nothing. The witch was gone. She was again only a child to be watched over and 
protected. She had thought the long journey here had forged her spirit into 
something more, honed her sharper than the scared girl who had fled through the 
burning orchards of Winterfell, but now that her powers had been stripped from 
her, what she discovered was that all her maturing had been only as a witch. 
The woman was still the same scared girl.
Krais gruff voice drew her eyes. Mogweed, there is no need for you to stay. Of 
what use are you?
The shape-shifter stood straight before the others stares. Exactly! Of what 
use am I? Am I of any more use in accompanying Elena? I am not a warrior who can 
protect her. But I do have eyes and ears. And here in Shadowbrook I can be of 
use. I can search for
(AMES
signs of Meric just as well as either of you Even better than Tolchuk! Are you 
going to let this monstrous ogre wander through town making inquiries and 
searching for clues to Merics whereabouts by himself? I dont think thats a 
wise course. If Meric is to be found quickly, which he must if the elvin is to 
have any chance of avoiding the corruption of the seekers touch, then as many 
eyes and ears as possible will be needed on these streets. You will need me. 
Elena will not.
Mogweed trembled slightly, whether from the intensity of his conviction or 
simple nervousness, Elena was not sure. Elena sniffed back her tears. Though she 
may not have grown on this journey, the shape-shifter had. The cowering, mousy 
man had developed a certain pride and willfulness, even a nobility.
Why? Tolchuk asked him. Why risk yourself?
Mogweeds tight shoulders sagged slightly. His voice lost some of its firm 
resolve. I claim no great brazenness of spirit. In fact if fighting is needed, 
I will most likely run. I am no warrior. It was my weakness and fears that drove 
me from my guard of the warehouse when the demon rats came. In some small way, 
it was my cowardice that allowed Meric to be captured. I would at least like a 
chance to correct my mistake. Meric is more than just a companion to me. Since 
saving his life, he and Elena are the only two who have shown me true 
friendship. He smiled thinly at Elena. And right now, I am of no use to the 
witch. I never was.
Elena opened her mouth to protest. The shape-shifter had offered her many a kind 
word, boosting her spirit when it was low.
Mogweed held a hand toward her and continued speaking. But here in Shadowbrook, 
I can perhaps offer what is needed to save Merican extra pair of eyes and 
ears.
Erril stared at Mogweed with a measure of respect. You argue your point well, 
he said. Maybe it is best for you to stay, Mogweed.
The shape-shifter bowed his head slightly in Errils direction.
Elena saw Fardales amber eyes flash at Mogweed. She caught a part of the wolfs 
sending: The runt of a litter faces the snahe without trembling. Fardale was 
proud of his brother.
Mogweeds cheeks flushed. He turned away from the wolf, apparently embarrassed 
by the praise.
Mycelle finally spoke, ending the long discussion. It is late. Dawn nears, and 
we could all use some rest before the days trials tomorrow.
For once this night, no one argued.
Lost in their own private thoughts, everyone began drifting to their own beds. 
Elena stood up, heading for her cot in the next room, but Mycelles voice 
stopped her. Elena glanced back at her.
Mycelle stood before Krai, her riding packs over one shoulder. Take this. You 
may need it.
Krai stared sourly at what her palm held. He glanced up into her eyes. Then 
Ill need two, he said. In case I do find Meric.
Nodding, Mycelle reached into a pocket of her riding pack.
Elena turned away, her heart shuddering. She recognized the pair of objects Aunt 
My was giving Krai: two jade pendants carved in the shape of tiny vials.
Later that night, as the other members were settled into their beds, Mogweed 
still fiddled with his bags atop his cot, checking to be sure he had what he 
would need for the days ahead. As he fished through the contents, he pushed 
aside a dogs muzzle made of iron. Long ago, he had collected it from the 
remains of the sniffer that had attacked Fardale in the ogres mountain domain. 
The chains clinked as Mogweed moved it aside. He glanced up. No eyes turned in 
his direction.
As he continued his search, his fingers brushed against the black stone of a 
shallow bowl buried deep in his personal pack. Mogweed had discovered the 
artifact among Viranis belongings in the foothill camp and had stolen it. At 
his touch, the bowl grew colder, almost icy. There was something strangely 
thrilling about its stone surface.
Still, he pushed the bowl aside. He did not know if the iron muzzle or the bowl 
would ever prove useful, but he was a pack rat and collected what interested 
him. He continued his search.
His fingers wormed through the other contents: a moldy acorn from the dead 
rimwood forest; a broken string from Neelahns lute; a sliver of windstone from 
Meric, given as a thank-you for saving his life. Finally, he discovered what he 
wanteda small hide satchel hidden in the deepest corner of his pack.
His fingers wrapped around the bulging pouch.
He had not lost it!
He clasped his prize a moment, not even daring to remove the satchel to confirm 
its contents. He could not risk someone seeing
him. He allowed himself a small smile in the darkness. His interminable wait was 
finally over. The time to act had finally come.
Though he didnt know how his other collectibles would ever prove useful, here 
was something that would prove invaluable. With a seeker here in Shadowbrook, 
someone close to the lord of this land, Mogweed sensed a rare opportunity. If he 
could guide this seeker to Elena, give the witch over to the Dark Lord while 
her magicks were choked by the vines, then perhaps as a boon, this king of black 
magicks might break the curse on Mogweeds body, freeing his trapped spirit to 
shift again, to embrace his siluran heritageand finally be free of his twin 
brother!
For a moment, he thought of Fardale. He remembered his brothers praise for his 
decision to stay. A flash of shame passed through his heart, but he hardened his 
will. Fardale was a fool. Time was running short. If they didnt find a way to 
rid their bodies of the curse, then in less than four moons their forms would 
settle forever into their current shapes.
Mogweed stared down at his wan figure. That must not happen!
He let the satchel drop back into his pack. He must be brave these next few 
days. He must find this seeker hidden behind these demon rats and offer what he 
held in his pack: the shorn hair of Elena, proof of a witch.
From the end of the longest pier, Elena stared at the river. The dawn was too 
bright and cheery for such a somber departing, mocking the heavy hearts gathered 
at Shadowbrooks docks.
The nights storms had washed away the early-morning fog, and sunlight sparkled 
on the wide expanse of the river, a green snake that twisted toward where the 
sun rose. Across the river, a pair of alabaster cranes took flight, the tips of 
their wide wings tapping the water as they flew low across the sluggish current. 
Tall, bobbing reeds waved in the calm delta breezes that traveled up from the 
distant coast. Elena caught even a scent of sea salt in the crisp morning. She 
drew her cloak tighter around her. The morning still had an edge of the nights 
chill, but from the clear skies, the summer sun would soon bake away the slight 
nip in the air.
Behind her, the town was already awake, intruding on the peace of the river 
morning. The gruff shouts of barge captains cracked across the waters as bales 
and crates were loaded. Snatches of work songs rose like vapors from the river 
as dock men hauled cargo and sailors secured the barges that were due to set 
sail today. The excited voices of passengers and families were like so many 
chirping birds around Elena.
Yet one voice broke through the cacophony. Krai was speaking to Erril. So 
youll take the river to the coast? To the city of Lands End?
Mycelle answered him, interrupting any response from the plains-
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man. Our specific plans are best left to our own. If youre captured well 
She did not have to finish her statement. If captured, their plans could be 
tortured or magicked from Krai.
At these words, a sudden worry arose in Elena. She turned her back on the bright 
river and faced the others clustered on the dock. If they dont know where 
were going, she said, drawing their attention, how will we ever meet up 
again?
Ive been thinking on that, Erril said. If we
We must travel separate paths, Mycelle said dismissively. Its too risky. If 
we meet by luck, then we meet. If not Mycelle shrugged.
Elena stared at Krai, Tolchuk, and Mogweed. Tears choked her words. But?
Erril placed a hand on Elenas arm. Hear me out first. He stared at Mycelle, 
then fished a folded map from a pocket and knelt on the ironwood dock. Spreading 
the map, he pinned it to the wood with one of his throwing daggers. The delta 
breeze tugged at the parchments edges. Gather around me.
Careful what you say, plainsman, Mycelle warned as she came closer.
Erril scowled at her. He used a second dagger to gesture vaguely to his map. I 
have a friend who lives on a lonely stretch of the coast; I wont say precisely 
where. That is where I plan to take Elena. We will rest, then hire a boat to 
travel to the Archipelago. He raised his eyes to the trio who would remain 
behind to search for Meric. With his dagger, he pointed to a small town on the 
coast, its name scrawled in tiny letters.
Elena leaned down closer to read the name: Port Rawl.
If we make it to safety, Erril continued, this is our rendezvous. In exactly 
one moons time, I will send Mycelle to look for you in Port Rawl.
I know that place, Krai said with a scowl. Swamptown. Not an easy place to 
meet.
Ive been there before, Mycelle said. A hard glint entered her eyes, 
confirming the mountain mans words.
Elena studied the map, understanding now how the town had earned its nickname. 
The city was nestled in the center of the Drowned Lands, a pie-shaped wedge of 
coastline that lay lower than
the surrounding countryside. Fed by rivers flowing down into it from the higher 
lands, it looked to be a desolate, inhospitable region of bogs, fens, and 
swamps, bordered to the east by brackish coastal marshes and locked from the 
higher lands of Alasea by a ring of towering cliffs called the Landslip. From 
anything she had ever heard, only the foolhardy traveled those poisonous, 
snake-infested lands.
The only town that laid claim to this territory was Port Rawl. Even Elena had 
heard tales of Swamptown. With its natural isolation and easy access to the maze 
of the Archipelago islands, it had become a haven for thieves, cutthroats, and 
those simply wishing to disappear from the world. It was less a town than a 
shabby gathering place for pirates and other hard men. Murderous tales of the 
warring castes that ruled the town and its ill-gotten bounties had thrilled many 
a cold winters night for Elena and her brother.
Why meet there? Krai asked sourly. He cradled his bandaged hand.
No one asks questions in Port Rawl, Erril answered. Curiosity gets one 
killed in Swamptown.
It was an old adage. Those words ended many tragic tales about the town.
And where should we meet? Tolchuk asked. Do you know an inn?
None I would dare recommend, Erril said. Just find a spot and wait. Mycelle 
will search you out with her seekers instinct. He glanced up at the woman to 
confirm his statement.
Mycelle nodded. Ill also be able to tell if any of youve been corrupted here 
in Shadowbrook. The stench of black magicks is easy to sniff on one who has been 
turned.
Elena straightened from her crouch over the map. Then youll do it, Aunt My?
If I must. Errils plan is sound enough. If these others become tainted, I 
will know it from a distance and avoid contact. Even if they catch me in some 
trap She fingered the pendant through her thin shirt. they will learn 
nothing from me.
Her words both chilled and comforted Elena. Since she and Joach had been chased 
from their home in Winterfell, this motley band had become her family. She did 
not want to see them cast to the winds,
,t
separated forever. Still, as much as the thought of reuniting with the others 
bolstered her spirit, the way Mycelle clutched the poison pendant spoke of the 
danger that lay ahead for all of them.
Erril yanked free his dagger and refolded his map. We should be loading on the 
barge now, he said, staring meaningfully at the
others.
Krai nodded and stepped away. Even the name of their barge had been kept a 
secret from the others. Tolchuk and Mogweed began to follow Krai.
Wait! Elena ran up to Krai and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him 
tight. The mountain man was so wide that her arms could not reach completely 
around him. She leaned her cheek into his belly. Come back to me, she 
whispered to his belt.
Krais voice thickened. No tears, Elena. He patted her head with his good 
hand, then broke her embrace and knelt before her. My people are nomads. When 
we break our winters camp, we dont say teary good-byes to each other. We say 
Toba/{ norisull corum. 
Elena wiped at the tears in her eyes. What does that mean?
Krai placed a finger on Elenas chest.  You are in my heart until the roads 
wind us back home. 
Sniffing, Elena could not trust her voice. She just nodded and hugged him again. 
Then she went to the others.
Tolchuk whispered in her ear as she hugged him, his breath tickling her neck. 
Ill watch over them. They will come to no harm. Elena smiled gratefully at 
him. She left him so he could say his goodbyes to Mycelle. Mother and son had 
spoken alone for a good part of the night, and Mycelles eyes now shone brightly 
with threatened tears as they hugged.
Elena approached Mogweed. The shape-shifter was his usual awkward self, plainly 
uncomfortable with her attention. He squeezed her once and stepped back. He 
nodded to his brother, touching Fardale briefly on his head before retreating. 
Mogweeds eyes met Elenas for a brief moment. We will meet again, he said.
Though his words were meant to reassure, Elena had a sudden foreboding. Here on 
this dock was the end of something. From here, different fires would forge each 
of them. When next they met, none would be the same.
Fardale nudged at her hand, and she absently scratched him
behind an ear. The wolf sensed her pain and wished to share it. Beside her, 
Erril and Mycelle stared as the others left the docks and headed into the 
streets of Shadowbrook.
Tobat nori sull corum, Elena whispered as she lost sight of her friends.
Erril supervised the loading of their horses onto the barge; once they reached 
the coast, they would need their mounts again. The barge was a wide, low-slung 
ship with a makeshift corral for the animals built in the center. At first, the 
captain was reluctant to allow the beasts on his ship, but the quantity and 
quality of Mycelles coin quickly changed his mind.
From the rail of the barge, Elena and the swordswoman watched as Erril and the 
dockworkers worried the horses up the planking onto the ship. Elenas mare, 
Mist, went first with little trouble, easily led by a proffered apple in the 
palm of one of the workers. Mycelles golden-skinned gelding put up more of a 
fight until a stern word yelled from the rail by Mycelle quickly doused the fire 
in the horse. The beast was then led by halter up the planking to the corral.
Errils stallion, though, proved most stubborn. Collected from the hunters 
murdered by Virani in the foothill camp, it had still not bonded well to 
Erril, even after the long journey across the plains of Standi. He had selected 
the mount for himself because he knew good horseflesh. With its wide withers and 
thick neck, the bloodlines of this beast could be clearly traced to the great 
wild horses of the Northern Steppes, a most hardy and fierce breed. Its color 
also spoke its heritage: a dappling of golds, blacks, and silvers on a field of 
white, an inbred camouflage to blend with the snowy fields and rocks of the 
steppes.
While two dockhands hauled on a lead from the front, Erril took the risky 
position near the horses rear. He had his hand wrapped around the base of its 
tail and was twisting the tail up, trying to drive the horse forward. Each step 
was hard-won, and when a step was lost as the horse retreated, the dockworkers 
swore their frustration.
Use a whip on it! the captain yelled from the bow of the ship. He was a squat 
man with short, muscular limbs who always seemed to be tossing his arms in the 
air at the antics of his crew. He was doing so now. We lose the light with this 
fools pursuit!
A crewman ran up with a switch in his fist.
Strike my horse, Erril said coldly, and Ill plant that whip so far up your 
arse youll be tasting that switch for years.
The deckhand hesitated. When the man saw the serious glint in Errils gray 
eyes, he backed away.
Turning his attention back to his mount, Erril found the stallion staring back 
at him. It studied Erril for a moment, then snorted and tossed its head; with 
no further coaxing, the great beast clambered the planking onto the barge.
Erril led the horse to the corral and made sure that all the water buckets were 
full, that the hay was fresh, and that their grain buckets were not overflowing. 
It wouldnt do to have the horses get colic while on board. Satisfied, he patted 
his mount on the nose and crossed to join the others.
Were all set, he said as he approached the group by the rail. While Erril 
had bedded down the horses, the barge captain had joined Mycelle and Elena. 
Elena had one hand on Fardales neck, absently running her gloved fingers 
through his ruff.
Then we can be off! the captain said. His face was flushed as he stalked away. 
Obviously whatever discussion he had been sharing with Mycelle had upset him, 
but Erril imagined the woman had that effect on most people.
Erril nodded to where the captain was blustering for his deckhands to cast off 
from the pier, his arms already shaking at the skies. What were you talking 
about?
Mycelle waved the question away. He wanted full payment for the trip to Lands 
End in advance. She shook her head and turned to study the scurrying workers on 
the docks. How dare he think me such a fool?
When you flash so much silver, Erril said, youre bound to entice their 
greed.
Mycelle turned around to face Erril. She leaned against the rail as the crew 
began to use long poles to push away from the docks. You think me such a fool, 
too, she said, her gaze sharp. It was with forethought that I was so generous 
with my purse. Here among the poorly paid workers, talk of a rich couple and 
their son She laid a hand on Elenas shoulder. voyaging to Lands End will 
have spread along the docks. It is a good disguise in which to hide Elena. Like 
your circus, it is sometimes best to hide in the open.
Erril could not fault her logic, but tried anyway. Then to maintain this ruse, 
shouldnt we just pay this captain our passage in full?
Mycelle frowned at him. And pay him for a voyage we are not taking? She 
snorted. Now whos the fool?
Erril lowered his voice. So then youre still considering my plan, the one 
that we discussed last night: to swap barges along the way. He repeated his 
arguments from the night before. Its over an eight-day journey to the coast, 
and though changing barges may slow us down, it will help shake any dogs from 
our trail.
Mycelle just stared at him. Thats a daft plan, she finally said, ignoring 
Errils darkening expression. I have no intention of ever taking Elena to 
Lands End.
Then what:? His voice was sharp enough to draw the attention of a nearby 
deckhand.
Watch your tongue, plainsman, Mycelle warned.
Erril bit his lip to keep from another outburst.
Once the deckhand had wandered away and their corner of the ship was empty, 
Mycelle continued. Wisely, she still kept her voice low. In two days time, we 
will off-load from the barge and head south to the Landslip.
The Landslip? But to follow the cliffs to the coast will take almost an entire 
moon.
Were not going to follow the cliffs. Were going to descend them.
Errils hand clenched into a fist. Surely, this woman was mad! You mean to 
take Elena into the Drowned Lands? Nothing lives among those treacherous swamps 
and bogs but creatures of poison. Not even trappers or hunters venture far into 
there.
You are wrong, Mycelle said. One person lives within the deep swamps: an 
elemental of strong magicks. I have sensed her in the past as I ventured along 
the Landslip. With the help of a swamp guide, I once tried to reach her, but she 
is sly and her lands confounding. After seven days, with my guide near death 
from an adders poison, I was forced to flee the swamps. I figured if I couldnt 
reach her, then neither could the seekers of the Dark Lord. So I left her on her 
own, believing I would never need to search for her again.
Mycelle paused as a pair of deckhands passed, hauling and rolling lines of rope.
JAMES
As they waited, Erril considered her words. He was no fool. He knew what 
Mycelle was thinking. Once their corner of the rail was mpty again, Erril 
spoke. This elemental hidden in the swamp vou suspect this is the one whos 
bewitched Elena.
Mycelle nodded. And the only one who can lift the spell and free Elenas 
magick. She picked at the girls loose sleeve that hid the spread of vines on 
her left arm. This is her message to us. Bring Elena to her or she will kill 
the child.
So we have no choice? Erril asked.
Mycelle remained silent.
Elena, however, answered, speaking for the first time, her voice sullen and 
resigned to her fate. I hate snakes.
From the shadows of the dock, Mogweed watched the barge leave with his brother 
and the witch. Oars rose and fell as the boat drove for the deeper channel of 
the river. He noted the name carved and painted on the stern of the ship: 
Shadowchaser.
Satisfied that no last-minute switch would occur, Mogweed slipped behind the 
edge of a blacksmiths shack. The hammering from inside the establishment echoed 
in his head as he wandered back toward their inn. He rubbed at his temples as he 
walked, trying to erase the seed of a headache that threatened. Still, he 
allowed himself the smallest smile as he reached the town square.
Erril thought himself so sly with all his secret maneuverings, yet Mogweed had 
found it simple to discover both the name of the barge and its destination. 
Almost all the dock workers knew of the haughty woman with her one-armed 
husband. Her generosity with silver had attracted many ears and eyes. A few 
whispered questions and an exchange of coppers had bought Mogweed all the 
information he needed. Among the backstreets of Shadowbrook, gossip was a 
commodity traded as surely as baled tobacco leaf or casks of herb oil. Knowledge 
was a vital trade good, and Mogweed now possessed the most valuable tidbit of 
information in Shadowbrook.
He knew where the witch was headed: to Lands End.
With this knowledge and the satchel of shorn hair, Mogweed would buy himself a 
boon from the king of this land. He strode with a certain authority in his step 
across the threshold of the Painted Pony.
The innkeeper stopped him as he approached the back stairs.
Them large friends of yours be gone already, the pudgy man hollered to him. 
They told me to tell you they would meet you for supper.
Mogweed nodded and felt generous. He fished a copper from his pocket and tossed 
it toward the innkeep. The man snatched the coin from the air and made it 
vanish. Mogweed turned to leave.
Hold on there! the innkeep added. Some messenger boy came runnin in just 
after the others left and gave me this note for you folks that burned the 
warehouse. He held out a folded scrap of parchment with a wax seal in place.
Whos it from? Mogweed asked as he accepted the note. It bears the seal of 
the lords of the Keep. The innkeepers eyes shone with curiosity. Who?
Lord Mycof and Lord Ryman. Thems as live in the towns castle. Odd birds, but 
their familys been lords of the Keep since my great granddad was suckin his 
mammys tit. The innkeeper leaned closer to Mogweed. Now what would the likes 
of them want with circus folk,hmm?
Mogweed hesitated, a spike of fear rising as he touched the seal. Would they 
have to pay for the warehouse? Should he wait until the others returned before 
reading the note? The hungry gleam in the innkeepers eye, though, reminded him 
of the important lesson he had learned in Shadowbrook this morning. Knowledge 
was a vital commodity.
He thumbed open the note and unfolded it. It took just a moment to read it.
Whats it say? the innkeeper asked, all but drooling on the scarred counter.
Mogweed folded the note. They they want us to perform at the Keep tonight, 
just at twilight.
A private performance! By gods, you must have caught them lords attentions. 
Ive never heard of those birds asking for such a thing before. Quite an 
opportunity! The news initially delighted the innkeeper; then the mans piggy 
eyes narrowed. If you think of moving to a richer inn after this, remember you 
booked your rooms for a whole quarter moon. Youll still have to pay.
Nodding, Mogweed retreated on numb legs. He stumbled up the
steps. Behind him, he heard the innkeep already spreading the news.
Mogweed keyed open the door to his room and slipped inside. He
JAMES CLEMENS
leaned back on the door as it latched closed. He took his first deep breath 
since reading the note. He had expected to have a few days to plot and plan. He 
thought it would take some time to discover the whereabouts of the illguard and 
their seeker.
He opened the note again and looked at itnot at the words of invitation, but at 
the seal fixed in bloodred ink on the bottom of the paper. Mogweed had been in 
such a hurry to open the note that he had not paid heed to the same imprint in 
the wax. But he could not ignore the seals clear impression on the parchment.
The crest of the lords of the Keep was two creatures, back to back, scaled tails 
wrapped around each other, raised on hind limbs, teeth bared in menace.
Mogweed touched the crest with a trembling finger. Rats, he mumbled to the 
empty room.
He suddenly knew the identity of the two illguard in Shadow-brook.
He held their invitation in his hands.
As he leaned on the door, he took several deep breaths. A plot began forming in 
his head. He slipped a dagger from his waist sheath and carefully trimmed the 
parchment to remove the inked seal. He crossed to the lamp of the room and held 
the seal up to the flame. Its ink glowed bright red in the flame, as bright as 
the locks of Elenas shorn hair.
He studied the seal. His fingers no longer trembled.
Though their circus troupe was divided, he must convince Krai and Tolchuk to 
attend this command performance. Mogweed laid out his arguments in his mind. The 
lords of Shadowbroot would be powerful allies in their search for Meric. How 
could they possibly pass up this rare chance to gain access to the many 
resources available at the Keep? It could mate the difference between saving 
and losing Meric.
Mogweed grinned sharply at the scrap of parchment.
How could Krai or Tolchuk refuse?
He held the paper closer to the lamps flame until it caught fire. Then he 
dropped the burning scrap to the floor and ground its black embers into the 
planks.
Only he would know the real invitation behind the words written on the notean 
invitation to death.
Mogweed rubbed the ash from his fingers.
Knowledge truly was power!
Do YOU THINK THEY WILL COME, BROTHER? MycOF ASKED AS HE
lounged back on his reclining sofa, a pillow cushioning his head.
How could they not? Even if they suspect us, they will still come nosing for 
their friend. Either that, or theyll simply flee from the city and solve our 
problem anyway. Ryman lay on a matching sofa of the softest silks and down of 
goose. His brothers constant questions began to grate on him. But I still 
believe they will come, he added. They fought hard and will not flee.
Mycof knew he irritated his twin, but he could not silence his concerns. Do you 
think the the dwarf suspects?
He is surely too busy with the new plaything we fetched him last night. 
Rymans voice edged with exasperation. He will think us too exhausted by last 
nights hunt to plot against his goals.
Are you sure?
Our inquiries were discreet. Only we know the prisoner was the magician from 
the circus that rented the warehouse. Surely this other elemental whom the 
dwarf seeks is also among this troupe. Ryman sat up straighter on his sofa and 
looked Mycof in the face. His brothers smooth brow contained a single wrinkle 
of worry. Rymans heart went out to his younger brother. He had not suspected 
how deeply this scheme had unsettled his twin. He reached a hand to the 
neighboring sofa and touched Mycofs silk sleeve. This is just like a game of 
taiman, he consoled. Moving pieces hither and yon to our best advantage. 
Because of our skilled hunting last night, we must now contend with another who 
will share our private Sacrament. Ryman could not keep the disgust from his 
voice.
That is, Mycof offered, refusing to consider this horrible prospect, if the 
thin man survives the ebonstone.
Ryman patted his brothers sleeve. Yes, that would be nice if he died, but if 
we mean to keep yet another from intruding on our nightly hunts, then we must 
take matters into our own hands. Ryman leaned back into his couch. Before the 
hunt is called tonight, all in the circus must be dead and disposed of. The 
dwarf will think his prey have been spooked and run off, and we will again have 
the hunt to ourselves.
As long as the prisoner from last night dies.
Sighing, Ryman closed his eyes. Even that is being taken care of. Remember how 
skilled I am at taiman.
Mycof remained silent. He did not voice his private concern. Just yesterday, he 
himself had beat Ryman at taiman.
So might not another?
Sweat ran in rivers and streams across Lord Torwrens naked flesh, a brackish 
swamp that stung his eyes and collected in the folds of his skin. In chest and 
belly, his two hearts hammered in discord as the ebonstone sphere hovered in 
the air, spinning with furious fires. He wiped brusquely at his eyes and swore 
under his breath.
A seekers work required both strength of will and stubbornness of bone. To 
forge an illguard warrior out of a pure elemental was difficult work. Torwren, 
however, knew better than to complain. Being a seeker was far better than being 
an illguard. He, at least, had a measure of free willunlike those bent to the 
stone.
Torwren studied his victim.
His prisoner hung in manacles upon the wall. The mans shredded clothes lay in 
the mud under his hanging toes. With the first searing touch of the ebonstones 
flames, the spell of sleep had been burned from the mans eyes. In the 
prisoners gaze now, the dwarf lord sensed that the man knew what was 
happening. The prisoners silver hair had been singed from his scalp, and his 
lips had blistered from the heat. Even now his muscles spasmed and quaked from 
the dwarfs last assault upon his inner barriers, yet he still stared with a 
cool indifference at Lord Torwren. He did not scream; he did not plead for 
mercy.
Scratching at his belly, the dwarf planned his next attack.
The thin limbs and sallow skin of the prisoner were deceptive. Where he should 
be weak, the dwarf lord found only strength. The man had a font of inner 
fortitude that had nothing to do with the richness of his elemental abilities. 
As Torwren worked on him, the flavor and depth of this mans elemental fire was 
like a tantalizing prize dangling just out of his reach, but before he could 
possess this gift, he must dig free the prisoners spirit and give it to the 
stone where the dark magicks would twist it to his will. Then the magick would 
be his to possess, his to forge into the mightiest of illguard.
J 1 UKM
Torwren frowned at his prisoner. The man confounded him. His stubborn spirit 
still refused to burn with the bloodfire. Still, Lord Torwren knew the value of 
patience and persistence. A slow drip of water eventually wore through rock, and 
the power at his fingertips was much stronger than mere water.
Yet, to be so close to his centuries-long dream
He pictured the Trysil and let his thoughts wander to what he could do once he 
retrieved the lost treasure of his ancestors. He shook his head. He must cast 
aside these stray thoughts, especially as he worked so intimately with the 
ebonstone talisman. He must not raise the attention of the Dark Lord.
He firmed his thoughts as he reached once again for the stone.
Wh-who are you? the prisoner mumbled, his cracked and blistered tongue forming 
words with difficulty.
The voice stopped Torwrens fingers. Few of his subjects were ever capable of 
speech after the initial testing. Intrigued, he lowered his palms away from the 
sphere. Perhaps a bit of conversation might reveal a weakness in this prisoner. 
Besides, he had the time, and seldom did he come upon the pleasure of a true 
adversary.
He bowed his head slightly in greeting toward the shackled man. I am Lord 
Torwren, he said with a wave of a wrinkled hand. And I dont believe Ive had 
the pleasure of your introduction.
Even though his scalp still curled with tendrils of smoke, the mans eyes were 
cool. Lord Meric, he said, his voice stronger, proud. Of the House of the 
Morning Star.
Hmm of noble birth, Torwren grinned, his thick lips revealing the wide teeth 
of his people.
I know you, Meric said. You are a dwarf lord.
Torwren bowed again. You are keen. Few of my people still live, and I am the 
last of the lords. How do you know my people so well?
The prisoners head began to sag with exhaustion. The pain had finally weakened 
him. We were once allies, he said with a trace of sorrow. We once called your 
people friends.
His words crinkled Torwrens brow. A knit of worry began to rise in his chest. 
Who are you?
The prisoners sky blue eyes rose to stare at Torwren. Have you forgotten your 
honor? Your allies? I am of the elvin people.
A stormrider! Torwren could not keep the name from his lips. Surely this man 
was mad. Dwarves were long-lived, known to
reach an age numbered in centuries, yet none of his ancestors spoke of the 
elvin as anything but fanciful tales, creatures of myth. And the most crucial 
story surrounding the stormriders concerned the gift that the elvin had 
bestowed upon his people. Stunned, Torwren dared to speak its name aloud for the 
first time in centuries. The
Trysil.
The Hammer of Thunder, the prisoner mumbled, his head again falling. Its iron 
forged by lightning borne in our magick-wrought thunderheads.
Torwren backed from the prisoner. The man knew the secrets of his dwarf 
heritage! Could what he claimed be true? Could he truly be one of the ancient 
elvin?
The dwarf lord studied the scorched and blistered figure: the thin limbs, the 
delicate features. His twin hearts rallied as he began to believe. Hope surged 
through his bones.
The prisoner had to be a sign. It could not be mere chance. Surely this elvin, 
so rich in raw elementals, had been delivered into his hands by destiny, crude 
material for him to forge into a baleful weapon.
In his ears, old memories of his home in Gulgotha echoed up from the past: the 
strike of hammer on iron anvils, the sighing song of the bellows, the roar of a 
thousand forges. Since the rise of the Black Heart among his people, the forges 
of the dwarves had gone cold, the smithies now empty and silent. At the bidding 
of the Dark Lord, his people had cast their lives upon these foreign shores 
until only a scattered few still lived.
Now, as the last of the lords, it was up to him to reclaim his heritageand to 
accomplish that he must first possess the Trysil.
With the fervor of one who knew his task was righteous, Lord Torwren reached for 
the ebonstone sphere.
As his fingers touched the talisman, he merged his mind into the stone. His will 
became bloodfire, and wild flames swept out from the stones polished surface 
toward the elvin. Black magicks crackled in the flames. Torwren saw the flames 
reflected in the prisoners blue eyes.
It was destiny!
No! the prisoner screamed, seeming finally to recognize his fate. Torwren 
ignored his plea and swept his flaming will at the prisoner, forcing his way 
into the elvins wracked body, working into his mouth, up his nose. The man 
spasmed with the touch of fire. With
TT 1 1 LH
its burn, the prisoners heels beat at the stone wall of Rashamon. The flames 
flowed into the mans body, burning their way inside of him, violating him, 
carrying Torwren into the heart of the elvin.
Once inside, the dwarf lord began his forging. Flame and hammer were the tools 
of the ancient blademasters, and they would be his, too. With centuries of 
skill, he burned at the stubborn spiritual attachments of the elvin and 
hammered away at his barriers and resistance. Somewhere far off, he heard the 
prisoner howling at the assault.
A tight smile stretched the dwarfs lips.
Long ago, elvin nobles had granted his ancestors the power of the Trysil. And 
once again, it would be the hands of an elvin that would return the sacred 
Hammer of Thunder to its rightful heritage.
Such a balance of fate could not fail!
Torwren renewed his attack, like a mad dog upon the flesh of a newborn. 
Somewhere deeper in the ebonstone, something scented the dwarfs new fervor. 
Something ancient and corrupt of spirit twisted in Torwrens direction, drawn by 
the sudden blood lust. Blind to his task and wrapped in the surety of his 
action, the dwarf ignored the red eyes that cracked open to stare out from the 
stones blasted heart.
Buried in the volcanic creches under Blackhall, the Dark Lord stirred.
As THE SUN TOUCHED THE WESTERN HORIZON, KrAL LED THE OTHERS
toward the massive gates of the Keep. Tolchuk followed, cloaked to hide his 
ogre form and burdened with their half-singed gear. Mog-weed hung behind.
With their approach, Krais eyes appraised the fortifications: The moat was too 
shallow with too many trees growing nearby. Archers could easily harry the 
battlements. The mortar that set the stones had too much sand and would poorly 
resist a good battering by catapults. The iron portcullis that protected the 
gate of the Keep was more decorative than substantial. He scowled at the 
construction. It would not stand against a determined assault.
Still, his party had not come to lay siege to the battlements. They had come 
under the ruse of entertainment to try to win a favor from the lords of this 
town. Surely these leaders would understand the danger that lurked and hunted 
their streets, and they would want to protect their people. Krai again eyed the 
fortifications of the Keep. Then again, perhaps not.
But what choice did they have?
Krai, accompanied by a cloaked-and-hooded Tolchuk, had wandered the dockside 
bars and inns, seeking information about the demon rats. Met with laughter and 
ridicule, all they had learned was that the town of Shadowbrook, like most river 
cities, had always been plagued by rats. Yet, after a few coppers had exchanged 
hands, darker stories arose. Over the past seasons, bodies had been turning up 
half chewed by the vermin. Unusual activity, the townsfolk
claimed, but the past winter had been both harsh and long. What hungry creature 
would not seek imaginative means of rilling its empty stomach ?
Krai had clutched his wounded hand under the table. He knew it was more than 
mere hunger that drove these ravenous beasts. With heavy hearts, Krai and 
Tolchuk had returned to the Painted Pony. At the inn, their arrival had been 
met with strange well-wishes and pats on the shoulders. When Krai had asked 
about the source of the commotion, the innkeeper had given him a knowing wink 
and told him to speak to their mate upstairs.
Mogweed had been waiting with the news: Their troupe had been graced with an 
invitation to perform at the Keep tonight. Krais first response was to dismiss 
it. They had no time to waste clowning for some pair of lordlings. But Mogweeds 
arguments proved wise. Another day spent in fruitless questioning would get them 
no closer to Meric. But here was a chance to gain strong allies in their search 
for the illguard. Perhaps the lords would even offer a battalion of armed 
guards to accompany them.
The shape-shifters reasoning had won him over, but now Krai questioned his 
decision. He shook his head as his boots stomped across the drawbridge over the 
moat. The two guards stationed to either side of the Keeps entrance looked as 
decorative as the fortifications. He could only hope that the lords employed 
more hardy stock inside the Keep than these two fanciful, thin-limbed guardsmen.
Dressed in dark blue, with flourishes of tufted lambs wool and even a spray of 
crane feathers, the pair of guards began a synchronized dance that involved much 
clicking of boot heels and slapping of sword sheaths. They ended this play with 
their swords crossed before the entrance to the Keep, as if this would truly 
stop Krai or Tolchuk from entering the castle. Krai suspected even Mogweed 
could give this dandified pair a good fight.
Krai cleared his throat and spoke to the guards. We come at the request of the 
lords of the Keep, he said as introduction.
The two guards repeated the dance in reverse until the way ahead  lay unbarred. 
You are expected, one of the guards intoned with exaggerated grandness.
The other guard continued the memorized litany. One of the castles housemen 
awaits you beyond the gate to take you to the Musicians Hall.
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Krai nodded and led the way through the massive wooden gates of the battlements. 
Tolchuk and Mogweed followed.
They be like puppets playing at warriors, Tolchuk grumbled, waving back 
toward the twin guards. Only puppets be more real.
Krai grunted his agreement as they passed under the battlements to reach the 
Keeps yard. Paved in cobbles, the courtyard was at least neat and tidy. An 
orderly stable lay to one side, and a low-roofed stone barracks was on the 
other. Directly across the yard were steps that led up to the castle proper.
Like the battlements, the castle was clearly built for the comfort rather than 
the protection of its lords. The balconies and balustrades that adorned the 
front of the castle would all but invite the hooks and ladders of a marauding 
force, and the windows were wide and many, making for easy access into the heart 
of the castle.
Krai shook his head. This was no keep as much as it was a pretty plaything, a 
bauble to please the eye. Krai began to doubt the wisdom of this nights plan. 
Surely there was no real support to be garnered from the lords of such a place.
Scowling, he met the tall, scrawny houseman who stood fixed in a half bow in the 
center of the yard. At Krais approach, the man straightened. Dressed in silks 
and slippers, the mans perfume struck Krais nose before he was within three 
steps of the fellow.
Mogweed sneezed like a cannon.
The sudden noised seemed to awaken this lanky marionette. Ah, youve come, the 
man said graciously, one hand raised in solicitous greeting. His eyes ran over 
the three men. We were perhaps expecting more performers?
Krai kept his voice even. Im afraid a few are sick in bed. But we will 
manage.
The mans brows rose a bit, eying Krais bandaged right hand doubtfully. Ah, 
good. Yes, yes, resourcefulness is a virtue. He spun on a heel. My name is 
Rothskilder. I will be your liaison with Lord Mycof and Lord Ryman. If you will 
follow me, I will take you to the hall where you may set up He glanced over 
his shoulder. and clean up before the lords attendance this evening.
Mogweed had sidled forward. You are most generous.
Krai could not tell if the shape-shifter was honest or sarcastic. Mogweeds 
tongue could be as slippery as the belly of an eel.
They followed Rothskilder to a small alley that lay between the
barracks and the castle. Apparently circus folk did not use the main stair. They 
passed a wide side door propped open to the night. The familiar squabble and 
clink of a kitchen greeted them.
Come, come, their guide insisted, leading them into the commotion of this 
nights dinner preparation.
Glancing around him, Krai wondered for a moment if dinner was included with 
their performance. The savory aroma of roasting beef and boiling potatoes almost 
made him forget about the true goal of this night. Even if they could not 
convince the lords to help, maybe they could at least get a meal of something 
other than their usual staple of salted fish.
Tolchuk, too, seemed to drag as he passed through the kitchen. Krai caught the 
ogre staring at a rack of lamb spitted above glowing embers. Their eyes met, 
sharing their appreciation of the cooks skill. Too soon, they were led to a 
wide hall and away from the scents of the kitchens hearths.
With thoughts on his belly, Krai followed the slender figure of Rothskilder 
through the back halls of the Keep, the paths and byways of the servants who 
kept the castle running. The halls narrowed, and the ceilings lowered. Krai 
glanced to the poor construction of these dim halls. Apparently little was spent 
on the servant wings.
The man hummed and whistled as he led them deeper into the Keep.
How much farther? Mogweed asked, his breath sounding winded from the single 
crate he carried.
Just a bit. Im afraid only noble guests and their manservants are allowed in 
the main halls, so I must take you on a circuitous route to the Musicians Hall. 
I apologize for the inconvenience.
As they rounded a bend in the halls, the walls on the left side abruptly changed 
to rough blocks of stone. These were not mortared together but hewn and stacked.
The houseman must have noticed Krai pause by the wall. Yes, Rothskilder said, 
slowing his step and frowning at the stones. This is the most ancient section 
of the Keep. Such crude construction. He waved dismissively at the wall. I 
dont know why the craftsmen didnt just tear it down when the castle was 
built.
Krai, though, could not keep his eyes from the stones. Even as their guide 
continued forward, Krai lagged behind. Tolchuk and Mogweed were soon a few 
steps ahead of him.
James l-lemens
Krai raised a hand to the stone. His fingers trembled. His blood responded to 
the stones. He sensed the force throbbing forth from them. As a single finger 
touched the stone, his mind exploded with the ancient voices of dying men.
Man the fires, you good men! The dwarves have breached the south wall! Beware 
their lords! They come with blact magicts!. .. Archers to the west! The 
bloodstone! The bloodstone!
Krai weaved on his feet. He reached to the wall with his injured hand to support 
himself. It was a mistake. With its touch, his mind was taken from him.
The castle hall vanished, and Krai found himself alone atop a high tower. A 
sickle moon looked down upon him, offering little light. But a reddish glow lit 
the horizon on all sides as Krai spun around. He ran to the towers edge and 
leaned over the parapet. Below, a river glowed red with a thousand siege fires. 
Cries of the tortured climbed with the smoke from the fires. Krai lifted his 
hands from the stone of the parapet. They were wet with blood. The whole tower 
was drenched in the blood of the slain.
A noise, a scrape of heel on stone, sounded behind him.
Dreading to look, but unable to resist, Krai turned.
In the center of the tower crouched a naked figure. It stood no taller than 
Krais belt buckle but was as heavy as the large mountain man. Krai knew this 
creature. Here squatted a monster from the past. He remembered the oft-repeated 
tales of the bloody Dwarf Wars, like the story of Mulf, the ax master who had 
held the Pass of Tears for an entire day and night against the dwarf armies. It 
was said these sickly creatures had driven his ancestors from their homes in the 
far north, destroying and forever fouling their ancient mountain homeland, 
casting them forever as nomads among the lands of man. Legend around the clan 
fires was that only after the last dwarf was dead could Krais people ever 
return home.
Krai reached for his ax. He knew that these fires and screams were from 
centuries past, that this was all an ancient nightmare trapped in the 
blood-soaked stones and that only the magick in his blood allowed him access to 
this ancient tragedy. Still, dream or not, he would kill this dwarf.
On the tower, the dwarf leered at him. Now who are you? it spat out with a 
sneer. A black stone sphere spun in the air over the dwarfs shoulders. Bloody 
fire crackled along its surface. In brighter
spats of the stones flames, a different scene, ghostly and vague, cracked 
through the dream. A man hung in chains in some dungeon, his skin blistered, his 
body wracked with burns.
Somehow Krai knew this scene was not a part of the ancient nightmare. It was 
happening now! This dwarf was not a figment of the past, but as real as the 
mountain man himselfand Krai suddenly knew the man who hung in those chains. 
Meric! he gasped, raising his ax.
Krais outburst startled the dwarf. A moment of uncertainty crept into his 
sunken eyes. Where are?
Suddenly the scene was wrenched away. Krai found himself back in the castles 
hallway. Tolchuk leaned over him and lifted Krai to his feet. Mogweed stood 
nearby, a hand raised nervously to his throat.
Rothskilder, their guide, hovered a step away. Is he sick, too? Like those 
others in your troupe? The fear of contagion was trembling in his voice.
Krai cleared his throat and pushed free of the ogres arms. He raised a hand to 
his feverish brow. No, Krai said. I simply tripped and struck my head.
Suspicion bright in his eyes, Rothskilder nodded and turned. It is not far to 
the hall.
After a narrow-eyed glance at Krai, Mogweed followed their guide. Tolchuk kept 
even with Krai, obviously concerned he might collapse again. What happened? he 
whispered as low as an ogre could manage.
Krai studied the rough-hewn stone wall. They passed a door of beaten brass that 
stood in the center of this ancient section of the tower. Krai nodded to it and 
walked past it without another glance. Meric is beyond that door.
Tolchuk stumbled a step at his declaration but caught up to Krai. What are we 
to do?
When the time is right, well tear this place down to its roots, he growled.
Whats down there? Tolchuk asked cautiously. He seemed to sense the seething 
fury in the mountain man.
Krai pictured the squat toad of a creature. Something blacker than the hearts 
of demons.
A GENTLE TAPPING AT THEIR DOOR DREW THE TWINS EYES. A RAISED
voice spoke with measured respect from beyond the threshold. Their manservant 
Rothskilder knew better than to expect them to answer, but he was forbidden from 
entering uninvited. As you requested, my lords, I have made your guests 
comfortable in the Musicians
Hall.
Mycof glanced at his brother. As usual, dear brother, you were right. They have 
not fled the city. Mycof straightened the lay of his green silk robes. Pity 
that we must foul our own fingers with such
unpleasantness.
Ryman snugged the sash of office over one shoulder, positioning the crest of 
their house over his heart. One finger traced the two snarling animals. It is 
our duty. House Kuradom has always had to dirty their hands to keep Shadowbrook 
in the family. Once again, we protect what is rightfully ours.
And protect the purity of the hunt, Mycof said, a trace of lust in his voice. 
Twilight was near, and the nightly ritual already called to
his blood.
Yes, Ryman said proudly, throwing his shoulders back, it must
stay in the family.
Mycof loved it when his brother waxed noble. He touched his crest with two 
fingers. To House Kuradom.
To the blood of our people, Ryman finished, mirroring his brothers stance. It 
was an ancient family slogan.
Mycofs mouth grew dry, and the slightest tremble shook his shoulders. The blood 
of Shadowbrook was their heritage! How dare the dwarf ask them to share the 
hunt with strangers! To the blood of our people, Mycof repeated. A bright bead 
of perspiration stood
on his brow.
Calm yourself, Brother. You mustnt let fury rule you. The best plans are 
carried out with a cold heart.
Mycof sighed, releasing his anger. Ryman, as usual, was wise. He forced a 
relaxed pose. All is prepared then?
Of course. Ryman led the way toward the door.
Mycof followed behind his older brother. As they proceeded across their room, he 
studied the fall of the robe and cloak about
Rymans shoulders. His brothers white hair was striking against the dark green 
of the cloak, perfect in form and movement.
Ryman opened the rooms door to find Rothskilder bowed before the threshold.
My lords, their manservant intoned, awaiting their order. Lead the way, 
Ryman instructed, his lips barely moving. Mycof knew his brother, like himself, 
found it distasteful to speak to another. Their voices were meant only for each 
others ears. When they must speak, they whispered, sharing as little of their 
voices as possible with their servants.
Rothskilder knew their manners and engaged them in no conversation as he led the 
way toward the Musicians Hall. Still, nervousness kept their guides tongue 
wagging. I have the guards posted, and the exits secured as you ordered.
As the twins walked shoulder to shoulder, Ryman glanced to his brother as if to 
say I told you so. Everything was in order.
In acknowledgment, Mycof bowed his chin ever so slightly. Still, Mycof asked 
their manservant, We will not be disturbed?
His whispered voice, unexpected, startled Rothskilder. The man almost glanced 
toward Mycof, then caught himself and continued down the hall. Just as you 
requested, this is a private audience, he said humbly. You will not be 
disturbed.
Behind Rothskilder, the twins glided like two silk ghosts, their slippered feet 
moving in step together, their green cloaks swishing in unison as they 
proceeded.
Neither twin spoke, but each knew the others thoughts. Mycofs and Rymans eyes 
met briefly as they turned the last corner. Both brothers already had their 
fingers touching the hilts of the poisoned daggers hidden in sheaths strapped to 
their wrists.
The House of Kuradom knew how to protect what was theirs.
Lord Torwren crouched in the mud of the cellar. Near his toes, the ebonstone 
talisman lay half sunk in the muck. Its polished surface no longer ran with 
flames. After the axmans blunt intrusion into the spheres dreamscape, Torwren 
had been unable to maintain the concentration necessary to keep the fires lit. 
Who was this strange hulking man? The dwarf had recognized him as the elemental 
who had escaped last nights trap, but by the dancing gods,
how had he entered the stone? The talisman was bound only to Torwren. No one but 
he should be able to enter it freely.
Nearby, the elvin prisoner groaned in his shackles.
Yes, yes, he waved in distraction at the wracked man, Ill get back to you in 
a moment. He had only begun to forge the elvins spirit. There was still much 
left to do, but the oddity of the intruder kept Torwren distracted.
You you will never have me, the prisoner gasped weakly.
Torwren glanced in his direction. A seed of an idea began to form. Meric, 
wasnt it? he said, stepping toward the prisoner.
The elvins face darkened. His eyes grew colder, and blood dripped from his 
cracked lips.
It seems that a friend of yours is prying where he shouldnt,
he said.
Sullenly, Meric lowered his head. I dont know what youre talking about.
The other elemental, the bearded giant. Torwren saw the glint of recognition 
in his prisoners eye. Tell me about him.
Ill tell you nothing. Meric spat in his direction.
The stone can make you talk, Torwren bluffed. But the fires touch wont be 
as pleasant as it has been thus far. Once the elvin was converted to the 
illguard, he would be unable to keep any secret from the dwarf, but the 
process took too long; Torwren wanted to discover this other elementals secrets 
now. He smiled warmly at Meric, satisfied that his statement had paled the 
elvins features. The threat of pain was often worse than the experience 
itself. He remained silent and let the elvin dwell on his words.
Finally, in a trembling voice that lacked the fire of a moment ago, the prisoner 
gasped, Take that cursed stone of yours and
Now, now, is that any way to speak to your host? Torwren ran a finger along 
the elvins exposed ribs.
The prisoners skin shuddered at his touch. The elvin could not keep a small 
moan from slipping past his lips. The display of weakness unmanned the prisoner; 
Torwren saw despair in the hang of
his head.
He stepped back and went to reach for the stone half sunk in the mud: Just a 
push and the man would be singing like a split-tongued raven. But as soon as his 
fingers touched the sphere, Torwren knew something was wrong. He gasped and 
snatched his hands away. The
stones surface, usually warm with its inner fires, was as cold as the dirt of a 
winters grave. It felt as if he had touched his own frozen and dead heart. The 
dwarf shuddered and backed from the stone.
As he stared, the dank mud around the sphere began to freeze, ice and frost 
sheening in the torchlight. The mud cracked as it froze. Then the ice spread 
from the stone in ripples.
What was happening? Torwren retreated from the ice, his wide feet sinking into 
muck. Soon his back was against the wall.
The prisoner, hanging on the stones beside him, raised his head, his eyes 
suspicious and wary.
Torwren met his gaze. Was this some elvin magick? Had he misjudged the extent 
of this elementals skill? Or did it have something to do with the bearded 
strangers intrusion within the stone? He glared back at his prisoner. What do 
you know of this?
Behind the glaze of pain, confusion was evident in the elvins expression. 
What ?
Torwren turned away, realizing the elvin was unaware of what was happening. The 
ebonstone still lay in the center of the room, a pool of ice flowing out from 
it. As the ice finally reached the dwarfs feet, the mud froze around his 
sunken ankles, locking him in its frigid embrace, the cold so intense that it 
felt more like fire. The shock of its touch drew a moan from the dwarf lord. He 
suddenly understood what was happening. Oh dancing gods of the Forge! He crashed 
to his knees in the mud. His left ankle, trapped deeper in the mud, cracked. 
Terror gripped his heart so fiercely that Torwren did not even feel the pain of 
his wailing ankle. With his lips pulled back in a rictus of fear, Torwren 
watched the ebonstone rise from its nest in the cracked and frozen mud. It 
floated in the air and began to spin. This time, Torwren had nothing to do with 
the magicks that drove the stones flight.
No, he moaned. Not when he was so close! His hands scrabbled at his ears, as 
if trying to block his realization. Not after so long! Tears rose from eyes that 
had not cried in centuries. He knew his mistake, felt it in the ice that 
clutched his ankles. After discovering the elvin heritage of his prisoner, he 
had engaged the stone without his usual caution. He had been so certain that the 
elvins appearance was a sign of his destiny, a divine portent that the Trysil 
would soon be his, that he had let his guard drop.
He ground his fists at his throat and groaned. After so long a vigil,
all had been lost in a single moment of hope. Despair ran like the muds ice 
through his veins.
The ebonstone sphere slowly flew toward him.
Its black surface no longer ran with bloodfire. Instead its surface 2rew 
blacker; the faint lines of silver impurities disappeared until the stone sphere 
was a hole in the world. It sucked the warmth and feeble torchlight from the 
room.
Torwren knew it was no longer a sphere of stone, but the pupil of the blackest 
eye, a pool through which a monster stared out from his volcanic lair.
It was now the eye of the Dark Lord.
Awakened to Torwrens traitorous heart, the Black Heart had come to exact 
vengeance. The Trysil, the Hammer of Thunder, was the only tool that could 
break the bond that held his people thrall to the Dark Lord. Torwren had been 
his peoples last hope. His elemental skill at seeking had kept him from the 
tight leash that bound the other dwarves to the Black Hearts will. With only a 
narrow room in which to maneuver, he had plotted and waited centuries for his 
chance to reclaim his heritage.
He cried his despair to the stone roof of the cellar. As with the original 
defenders of Rashamon, no one answered. But this time, the roles were reversed. 
He was not the one wielding the black magicks and smiling at his suffering 
victims. No, this time, he was the one crying to the blind heavens.
He stared at the black eye and despaired.
With his death, all hope was lost.
Resigned to his fate, he spread his arms as the ebonstone approached. Death 
would at least end his pain. Once within arms reach, the stone stopped its 
flight and hovered before him. Torwren closed his eyesand waited.
For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Torwrens breath grew ragged, and his 
knees began to quake. He remembered how he had toyed with the prisoner: Agony 
threatened was often a worse torture than the actual pain.
Frightened, Torwren opened his eyes.
The ebonstone sphere still spun in the air before his chest, but now its 
surface was again afirenot with the red flames of bloodfire, but with the 
midnight flames of darkfire.
Before he could wonder at this, the fire burst forth to envelop him.
WITCH STORM
At its touch, every bone in his wrinkled body blew to flame. Tor-wren fell 
backward, welcoming his death at long last.
Yet, as the pain grew more intense, his hearts still continued to beat. He 
willed them to stop, knowing that the coolness of death lay just a thin curtain 
away. He let himself go, releasing his spirit to the grave. Just as his last, 
weak grip on his essence loosened, he realized his error.
No!
His eyes whipped open. Blind to all but the darkfire that lapped and crested 
over his body, he still saw clearly what was happening. It was not death that 
welcomed his spirit, but the twisting magick of the ebonstone.
He writhed and screamed, but it was too late.
The Black Heart was not destroying him. He was forging him, perverting his 
spirit as Torwren himself had done to so many others, changing him into one of 
the Dark Lords creaturesinto one of the foul illguard.
As Tolchuk and Mogweed unpacked their meager supplies, Kral glanced around the 
Musicians Hall. A small raised dais decorated in gilded roses occupied the far 
wall. Two tall-backed chairs of oiled ramswood and silk pillows stood atop the 
dais, the two cushioned thrones of the lords of the Keep. The rest of the 
chamber was empty, just polished marble floors reflecting the many bright lamps 
along the walls. Overhead, a crystal-and-silver chandelier lit with a hundred 
candles draped across the arched ceiling like an intricate spiders web 
sparkling with drops of morning dew.
Kral could imagine the lavish minstrels and parading guests who usually occupied 
this room. It was a chamber that called for extravagance and fanciful 
productions.
With a growing frown, Kral judged his own troupe. Dressed in road-worn clothes 
and gear singed black at the edges, the three circus performers seemed lost in 
the large hall. Something was wrong here. Kral sensed it in the same way he knew 
when the ice of a frozen lake would crack under him.
Tolchuk came up to him. We be about ready. Mogweed will start with a few of 
Merics tricks just to set the lords at ease.
Kral nodded. They had no intentionor even the abilityto
perform a complete show. The crates of gear were just decoration, a thin guise 
in which to gain access to these two lordhngs.
Tolchuk, Kral said, be wary this evening. Something rings
false here.
The ogre nodded. I now wonder, too, why we truly be called
here. Did you see the guards at the doors?
Kral nodded.
Nearby, Mogweed was fishing through a crate. Kral saw him slip a small goatskin 
satchel in a pocket. Then he pulled forth a small bowl of the blackest stone and 
set it upon another crate. Krais brow crinkled. He did not remember ever seeing 
such an item among Merics magickal paraphernalia. Just the sight of the stone 
made his skin crawl. Kral rubbed his arms to collect himself. He was too edgy.
It was just a bowl.
Suddenly, the large wooden doors near the main entrance were swept open by two 
stately armsmen. Standing in the threshold was Rothskilder, the man who had led 
them here. Behind their thin-limbed guide stood two men of shocking visages.
Like a trick of mirrors, the two men were identical reflections of each other. 
Draped in matching green cloaks and silks, the pair moved in synchronous step as 
they entered the Musicians Hall. Their faces were disturbingly foreign, and 
Kral could not help but stare. Hair whiter than virgin snow and eyes a reddish 
pink, like those of cave newts, told Kral the birthright of this pair. Among his 
people, an occasional babe was born with such features. It was considered a bad 
omen. In the past, such babes had been considered to be touched by ice demons 
and were often abandoned on the snowy mountaintops to die. Such ingrained 
superstitions were slow to fade; even now Kral could not help but shudder 
slightly at the sight of the twin lords. He stared at their skin, pale as 
bleached bones. It was bad enough to birth one such cursed child, but to birth 
an identical pair of them struck Kral as a bad omen for the lineage of the Keep.
Tolchuk grumbled beside him, keeping his voice low. I do not like the scent of 
these two.
The ogres nose was keener than his. Kral did not argue. Rothskilder bowed. 
The Lords Mycof and Ryman, he announced in a formal nasal cadence, viceroys 
of Shadowbrook and princes of the great Keep, inheritors of the House of 
Kuradom. Without a word, the two lords crossed to their pillowed chairs.
The guards stood straight backed, with swords in hand. Rothskilder stood just 
inside the doorway.
The pair ascended the dais. As they sat, one of the two raised a single finger 
from where it had settled on the thrones carved wooden arm. With this signal, 
Rothskilder backed out of the room in an extended bow. The guards followed, 
sweeping the doors closed behind them, and soon the two lords were alone with 
Krais group.
From across the hall, the eyes of each group studied the other.
Around them, the sounds of bars dropping into place sounded from behind all the 
doors. They were being locked in with the two lords.
Finally, one of the two pale figures spoke, his words quiet but reaching Krai 
quite clearly. His words were soft and did not attempt any false pretenses. 
Thank you for coming. Now which of you circus performers is the elemental who 
escaped our hunt last night?
MOGWEED HEARD THE SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH FROM KRAL. THE
shape-shifter had sensed Krais edginess after his strange faint in the back 
halls. Since then, the mountain mans suspicions had been high. Mogweed had 
feared for a while that he might call off this evenings meeting. Luckily, the 
man had a fools courage and had continued forward.
Now come, the lord continued from the dais, if you step forward, well let 
the others live.
While Krai and Tolchuk recovered from the shock of the lords casual revelation 
of their illguard status, Mogweed thought quickly. He had a dozen plans worked 
out in his head. None of them supposed the lords would speak so boldly and 
openly. He had expected artifice and trickery. Still, Mogweed twisted a way to 
use this to his own advantage. He cleared his throat. He would have to be just 
as bold. He stepped forward. I am the one you seek, he stated simply. If you 
know of our troupe, then you must know of my talents in controlling our wolf. It 
is my magick. I can beast-speak. He placed his fists on his hips. Now let the 
others go free.
The twins glanced to one another briefly, the smallest smile thinning their 
lips.
Krai hissed beside him, Dont do this, Mogweed. Their tongues lie. They mean to 
kill us all.
Mogweed, with his back to Krai, rolled his eyes. The fool thought he meant to 
sacrifice himself. Such honorable men as Krai were quite blind to any subterfuge 
under their noses. He ignored the mountain mans further protests. Let the 
others free, he said, and I will give myself to you freely, without a fight.
Tolchuk snatched at his sleeve, but Mogweed shook loose and took another step 
toward the dais. He needed to convince these two minions to take him to their 
master. Once there, he could reveal the whereabouts of the witch and gain not 
only his freedom but the gratitude of the king of this land.
Mogweed saw the amusement in the twins eyes at his veiled threat. This pair 
would need more convincing. As he stepped forward, he snatched up the black 
stone bowl from where it rested on a nearby crate. Do not be deceived. I 
escaped you before when you had the advantage of surprise. Dont think that I 
cant harm you now. Shuddering at the touch of the foul stone, he held up the 
bowl like a trophy. This I took from one of your illguard brethren after I 
destroyed her and ground her bones to dust. Be warned! He thrust the bowl 
toward the pair.
With satisfaction, he saw fear dampen their frozen smiles. Ebonstone, one of 
them mumbled to the other in recognition.
Mogweed pushed his slim advantage. He needed to get this pair of lords alone. 
When he spoke his betrayal, he wanted it to be a private conversation. He did 
not know where this evening would end and wanted to maintain the ruse of his 
loyalty to Elena for as long as possible. Let the others go, and you will have 
what you want without bloodshed. This I swear.
Krai had crept up behind him. Dont do this, he whispered. We will fight our 
way from here together.
Mogweed watched the lords lean toward each other. Their lips moved but no words 
reached him. Mogweed had a few moments. Just as it was necessary to trick the 
lords into freeing the others, he had to convince Krai and Tolchuk to leave. If 
they tried to fight these demons, there was a likelihood Mogweed could get 
killed in the melee. He swung toward Krai. If these twins are the illguard, 
he whispered to Krai, then Im sure Meric must be held somewhere here in the 
Keep.
Krai nodded. I know where he is.
This revelation shocked Mogweed. He blinked a few times and
almost lost the weave of his lies. You How? He clenched his teeth and 
collected himself. Then all the better. I will distract them as long as 
possible. You two go for Meric.
What about you?
Mogweed allowed himself a small smile. He knew better than to lie to Kral. I 
will manage. I have a plan.
Kral studied him a moment, his voice full of respect. You surprise me, 
shape-shifter.
Mogweeds cheeks blushed. Free Meric, he urged, then faced the lords. !
As he turned, the lords rose from their private counsel. One of the lords used a 
polished fingernail to brush back a strand of white hair. We accept your 
generous offer, he said.
The other slipped a small silver bell from a hidden compartment of his chair and 
rang it twice. Before the echo of the ringing chime faded, the main door was 
unbarred and swung open.
Rothskilder stood in the threshold, head bowed. You called, Sires?
The two larger performers have fallen ill, the lord with the bell stated 
softly. Guide them from the Keep and back to their inn, please.
Of course, my lords. Right away. Rothskilder waved two guards from deeper in 
the hall forward. Do as our lords command, he instructed with a snap of his 
fingers, then quickly faced the chamber again. And the third performer?
Once the others are gone, we will be enjoying his company in private. Mogweed 
caught the twitch of a leer on the other lords face. Then his features settled 
back to calm.
Mogweeds knees trembled. For several heartbeats, he had to restrain himself 
from calling the others back to him. Tolchuk must have sensed his discomfort 
and glanced toward him. The shape-shifter offered the ogre a weak smile. 
Tolchuk touched a claw to his heart and then to his lips. Mogweed knew the 
sign. It was an ogres good-bye to a friend.
Mogweed found his own fingers repeating the sign.
As much as it suited his schemes to free the others from this trap, somewhere 
deep in his heart, Mogweed felt a twinge of relief that Tolchuk would live.
Mogweed pushed aside these feelings. He must be strong. Now he
would need all the skill and cunning he had learned along the difficult road to 
this room. In his minds eye, he pictured a mustached man dressed in a 
red-and-black uniform. Silently, he mouthed the name of his initial teacher in 
the ways of trickery: Rocfyngham. But even such a skilled practitioner as 
Rockingham was finally destroyed by the black magicks of the Dark Lord. If 
Mogweed was to survive, he would have to surpass his teacher.
As the doors to the hall swung slowly closed, Mogweed set the stone bowl on a 
nearby crate. Alone with the two nTguard demons, he reached to his tunics 
pocket for the pouch hidden inside. No coins lay within the goatskin satchel, 
but he prayed its contents would buy him his hearts desire.
Swallowing hard, he pulled free the pouch. What do you have there? one of the 
lords asked. What the Black Heart hunts, he said calmly. He had somehow 
thought his betrayal of Elena would be more difficult, but he discovered no 
remorse in his heart. He smiled at the lords of the Keep. He had their full 
attention now. Their pale faces had blanched further at the mention of the Dark 
Lord.
Opening his satchel, he drew forth several strands of red hair. I
can lead you to the witeh.
Kral stood up from where he crouched over the two collapsed guards. Theyll 
live, he said, hitching his ax to his belt. He had used the haft to club the 
men unconscious. He flexed his bandaged hand. It ached, but he had still managed 
the ax well. Now lets go. He led the way along the hallways at a half run. 
They passed the occasional startled servant. One young girl burdened with an 
armload of folded linen screamed, threw her work in the air, and ran. Kral could 
only imagine the picture the two of them made: a bearded mountain man barreling 
through the halls with an ax in hand followed by a loping ogre, fangs bared and 
claws scraping at the scatter of rushes on the floor.
Kral had no time for niceties or subtleties. He had to reach the brass door that 
led into the old tower before
Suddenly a loud ringing echoed through the halls. Though unacquainted with the 
ways of the Keep, Kral knew an alarm when he heard one.
They know we be loose, Tolchuk grumbled behind him.
Its just a bit farther, Krai answered. Hurry! By now, the halls had 
narrowed, and the ceilings were lower. They were close. Half crouched, they sped 
down the passages.
Crossing a side hallway, a voice yelled from down the intersecting corridor as 
they passed. This way, men! They flee toward the old tower! Cut them off! The 
sound of booted feet thundered toward them.
Krai swore under his breath. It was not far, but they needed time to get past 
the brass door. He prayed it was unlocked but knew better than to put much hope 
in this, especially since he knew who and what lay below. It was doubtful a 
prisoner would be kept behind an unlocked door.
Tolchuk called to him just as they rounded a corner and found themselves racing 
along the crumbling stone of the ancient tower. They come from both 
directions!
As if the ogres words had cleared his ears, Krai suddenly heard the clatter of 
boots and yelled orders arising from both behind and in front. Troops were 
working to pin them in the passage.
Krai shifted his ax in his bandaged palm. There! he yelled as he spotted the 
glint of brass. They rushed to the door as the calls of the men grew clearer 
around them. Krai tried the latch. Locked. He backed and raised his ax. No, 
Tolchuk said. Let me.
The ogre took a few steps back. Then, with an earshattering roar, he flew at 
the door. His legs, thick as tree trunks, shot his rocky shoulder like a 
battering ram at the door. The collision sounded like thunder in the narrow 
hallway.
Krai gasped a bit. He had not thought an ogre could move so fast. Tolchuk 
bounced off the door. Dented, the brass door had bent but still held fast, 
crooked on its hinges. The ogre pushed back to his feet, rubbing his shoulder. 
Stubborn door, he muttered as he stood. The hallways now lay silent around 
them. Both the inhuman roar of the ogre and the loud crash had given their 
pursuers pause. But for how long?
Throwing back his shoulders and shaking the kinks from his neck, Tolchuk 
crouched for another run at the door.
Hold on there, Krai said. He grabbed the iron handle with both hands, and 
rather than pushing, he yanked on the handle. The door
JAMES CLEMENS
y /
had dented inward enough that the locking bar was bent and loosened from the 
frame. Krai struggled with it, iron scraping stone. Lend me your back, he 
groaned as he pulled. Krais boots began to slip on the stone.
Tolchuk wrapped his claws around the top of the handle beside Krais fingers. 
Together, they hauled on the door, arms trembling, backs arched as they fought 
the stones hold on the door.
Finally, with a loud screech of metal, the door popped open, throwing both of 
them to the floor. Just as they fell, an arrow shot over the tops of their 
heads, almost grazing Krais scalp. It struck the wall and clattered to the 
floor. Krai and Tolchuk glanced at each other, then rolled through the open 
portal to the tower stairs beyond.
The armsmen were wary, but the arrow was a sign that their fears were fading. 
They would soon be upon the intruders.
Ill guard the door, Tolchuk said as he reached and yanked the bent door back 
in place. Iron again scraped stone. It be their strength of arm against mine to 
open it. Tolchuk took a wide-legged stance, the handle gripped in both his 
claws.
Krai clapped the ogre on the shoulder. Knowing his back was well protected, he 
raised his ax and started down the stair.
Tolchuk called to him. Be wary. This tower stinks of blood and fear.
Ive my ax and my arm, Krai mumbled. Theyll cut me a swath to Meric. His 
stride ate up three stairs with each step as he rushed toward the root of the 
tower. As he ran, the stones called to him with ancient cries and the clash of 
swords. He ignored their song, refusing to be overwhelmed again. Only despair 
lay behind the towers music.
He reached the bottom of the stairs, his boots splashing in water, and ran 
toward the flickering light from a chamber ahead. Only when he was a few steps 
away did he slow and ready himself. He ran the haft of his ax up and down his 
palm, heating his grip and his blood. He remembered his ancient teacher Mulf and 
the stories the old man would tell when well into his tales of his own battle 
with the dwarf armies. Amid drunken flourishes, Mulf had instructed the young 
Krai in the ways of battling dwarves. He could still hear the old mans slurred 
words. They have two hearts. Belly and chest. Difficult to kill with a swords 
thrust. But an ax, my boyah!now that is a weapon to fight a dwarf. The old 
man had then lifted his long white beard and made a slicing motion across his 
exposed throat.
Cut his head from his body, then two hearts make no difference. His ancient 
masters laughter carried him forward into the cellar chamber.
Krai burst into the room, boots sinking quickly in the icy mud. The roar on his 
lips died to a squeak as he saw what lay within the cellar chamber.
Meric, burned and bloody, hung from shackles on the wall. The elvins eyes did 
not even turn in Krais direction; they were fixed on the play of forces in the 
center of the chamber. And Krai quickly found his attention drawn there as well.
Half sunk in the mud stood the dwarf from his dreams, a wrinkled pale slug of a 
creature. Ice hung from the folds of his flesh, and his feet were trapped in 
frozen mud. His arms were raised in supplication above his headnot to the gods 
in heaven but to an inky stone sphere that hovered above his raised fingers. 
Flames of darkness crackled over the spheres surface.
Krai stared, frozen, unable to move, as if he too were trapped in ice. Just the 
sight of such mindless evil numbed his body. If he could have moved his limbs, 
he would have fled; but unable even to breathe, he just stood with his ax half 
raised.
It was as if a black sun had risen from some netherworld. As he watched, the sun 
began to set, lowering toward the raised hands of the dwarf. Black flames blew 
lower, lapping along the dwarfs skin. Krai saw his nemesis face contort with 
fear and agony. Then the sphere swelled with darkness and descended upon the 
dwarf, swallowing up the pale creature.
Krai knew it was not just magick that lay within the darkness, tormenting the 
dwarf, but something so foul that the mountain mans spirit quailed against its 
mere shadow. If he could have closed his eyes, he would have.
As he stared, the darkness swirled and tightened around the dwarf, seeming to 
sink into his wrinkled flesh. In only a few heartbeats, the blackness had drawn 
fully into the toadish figure, leaving only a few wisps of darkfire dancing 
along his foul skin. The sphere was gone, and in its place stood the same squat 
dwarf, no longer pale of flesh, but black as the darkest midnight, a shadowy 
statue carved by a depraved hand.
Somehow Krai knew that the dwarf was no longer flesh, but some type of foul 
stonethe same ore as composed the bowl Mog-
weed had stolen from Virani. He remembered the twin lords name
for it.
Krais lips formed the word: ebonstone.
As if his silent word was heard, the dwarfs eyes snapped open. The eyes raged 
red with an inner fire. Lips of stone parted to reveal yellow teeth. How nice 
of you to join us, a voice whispered up from the statues throat. Stone flowed 
again, and a beckoning arm raised. Come join your friend.
Krai recalled the few words he had shared with the dwarf lord atop the dream 
tower. He knew the creature that spoke through that stone throat was not the 
same dwarf. Something else had merged with the creature as surely as the stone 
had merged with the dwarfs flesh.
Raising his ax, Krai heard his own voice tremble. Who who are you?
Meric seemed finally to notice the mountain mans appearance. Flee, Krai! You 
cannot fight this this creature!
The elvins voice, though, freed something within Krai. His heart, weak with 
fear, suddenly hardened to rock. His fists clenched the haft of the ax, his 
knuckles whitening. A dwarf, black or not, was still a dwarfand could surely 
die like one!
Giving no warning, Krai rushed the foul creature. His ax swung in a deadly arc. 
The dwarf could not even raise a stone arm in time to block his blow. Mulf had 
taught him well, and Krai knew where to strike.
With all the strength of his shoulder and back, Krai swung his ax into the neck 
of the dwarf. The shock of the impact jolted up his arm, numbing his limb and 
raising a gasp of surprise from the mountain man. Krai rolled to the side and 
twisted his ax for a second strike.
The dwarf still stood where he had been. In streams of darkness, stone flowed, 
and the creature raised an arm to rub at its neck. Thank you. That felt good. 
My stone skin is still hardening, and a few more strikes like that will temper 
my ebonstone flesh quite well.
Krai raised his ax, determined to hammer his way through the magick stone, but 
as the numbness in his arm finally faded, he noticed the change in balance of 
his weapon. He glanced at his ax. The blade was gone. He held only an empty 
haft. Near the feet of the
WIT CH STORM
dwarf, he spotted where his ax head lay shattered in fragments upon the thawing 
mud. Its hard-forged iron and finely honed edge were now just shards.
The dwarf lord smiled at Krais shocked face. It seems your usefulness in this 
matter has ended. Oh, well, we will have to make do with what we have. The 
creatures arm began to rise.
Meric called weakly to him. Krai, run!
It was too late.
The dwarf pointed his arm at Krai, and darkfire burst forth like a black 
fountain from his hand. As if the flames themselves were fingers, the fire 
clutched Krais neck and lifted him off his feet. He was thrown to the wall and 
pinned with his toes dangling above the mud. The fingers of flame dug into his 
flesh, reaching for his bones.
No! Meric yelled.
Enough of your noise! the dwarf scolded.
As Krais vision dimmed, he saw the stone dwarf raise his other arm and point 
it at the elvin. Darkfire burst forth to grip Merics neck just as tightly as 
Krais.
Now lets finish what I began earlier, the dwarf said, his eyes flaming with 
burning blood. The Black Heart has shown me the foolishness of hope, burning 
away my ridiculous notions of resistance. I shall teach you each the same. You 
both shall serve the Dark Lord faithfully as his newest illguard soldiers. His 
rasping laughter chased Krai into oblivion.
Do YOU BELIEVE HIM? MyCOF ASKED, UNABLE TO RESTRAIN A TREM-
ble from his whispered voice. Even the mere uttering of the Black Hearts name 
struck a chord of terror that shook his placid demeanor. Ryman glanced to his 
brother, his neck slightly bent in Mycofs direction. Surely he lies to save 
his skin, he answered, but Mycof heard the hesitation in his twins voice and 
saw Rymans left eye
twitch.
This nervous display further set Mycofs teeth on edge. Still, it is one thing 
to slink behind the dwarfs back, but to betray the the Mycof could not even 
speak his name. What if the man does not lie? Do we kill him and risk it?
Rymans hand fingered the hidden dagger in its wrist sheath. How he itched to 
plunge it into thir sallow-faced elementals heart. He stared at the little man 
holding a goatskin satchel in one hand and a few strands of red hair in the 
other. How dare this rabble ruin his finely crafted plot to eliminate any rivals 
to the hunt! Whether this man could lead them to the witch or not, he refused 
to share the Sacrament with such filthy vermin. The mans clothes were drab and 
worn, to say nothing of his tangled hair, crooked teeth, and cracked, yellowed 
fingernails. Ryman suppressed a shudder. To share the inti- macies of the hunt 
with one such as this! Ryman pulled free his dagger. Never!
Mycof placed a finger on Rymans arm, fearing any rash action from his brother. 
Remember your words earlier. The best plans are carried out with a cold heart.

Ryman remained silent for several heartbeats, then lowered his dagger. Yes, you 
are correct. My words were most wise. Still, Ryman did not sheathe his dagger. 
Shifting his position on the pillows, he leaned toward the man standing before 
the dais. Now how are we to know these old hairs are from the witch, as you 
claim?
His question had been meant to upset their adversarys tight resolve. It failed. 
The man just maintained his half smile. Take me to your master here in the 
Keep, he answered. He will judge the truth of my words. He is a seeker, is he 
not, one skilled at sensing the magick in others?
The dagger in Rymans hand trembled. How he wanted to carve that grin from that 
foul face. Yet he forced his wrist to steady. This one may be a skilled taiman 
player, but Ryman was a master of the board. Give us a few strands, and we will 
take it to the seeker.
I would prefer to show him the proof myself. Only I know where the witch 
hides.
And what do you wish in exchange for this knowledge?
Only my life and a boon from the Black Heart: a small reward of magick as 
payment for my work, a small pittance of the vast magick he wields. The man 
then lowered his voice. And it is a mighty magick, too. I have seen those who 
have gone against the wishes of the Dark Lord even in minor matters. The man 
shook his head sadly. I can only imagine how he would treat a greater 
betrayal.
Mycof again touched his brothers arm. Perhaps its best if we take him to the 
dwarf, he whispered.
Rymans fingers clenched on his dagger. If we take him to the dwarf, then 
Torwren will know we were planning to thwart him. Either way, we put ourselves 
at risk of punishment. Ryman sensed that the trap he had so artfully set was 
now closing in on him.
I would rather suffer the wrath of the dwarf, Mycof countered, his shoulders 
shuddering, than face the ire of the Black Heart.
Ryman sat undecided on his pillows. Was there another way out of this tangle? In 
the past, he had been in worse situations upon the taiman board and, through 
sly plotting, had eventually achieved a victory. Of course, then he only risked 
his pieces. Here, he played with his life. Now he would need all his skill.
Rymans eyes searched the room for some answer. They settled on the ebonstone 
perched on a crate. His left eye twitched. He sensed an answer might lie within 
that bowl. If they could bypass the dwarf
JAMES LLEMENS

and take this matter directly to the Black Heart himself, then by the time the 
dwarf learned of the twins betrayal, they would have the Dark Lords sanction 
as a barrier between them and Torwrens wrath. Rymans lips thinned. I have a 
new plan, he said, his usual humor returning. We have no need to disturb our 
master here in the Keep. He nodded toward the bowl. With that, we can take the 
matter directly to the Black Heart.
The slightest gasp escaped Mycofs lips. Ryman allowed his grin to grow a bit 
wider. He always enjoyed it when an unexpected move on the taiman board shocked 
his younger brother. But even more, Ryman relished the surprised look on his 
adversarys face. The fool did not know with whom he matched wits.
H-how? the man stammered. How do we use the bowl to speak to him?
Blood, Ryman answered, again delighted by his opponents look of horror.
Whose?
Any elementals blood will suffice. He raised the dagger. Yours will do 
nicely. Since, as you so boldly announced, you are an elemental.
The profoundly sick look on the mans face actually raised a chuckle from Ryman. 
How he loved a good game of taimanespecially when he won.
No FURTHER YELLS ROSE UP FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE TOWER. TolcHUK
was certain he had heard Merics voice a moment before. Grinding his teeth in 
frustration, he stood by the brass door. Should he go investigate the fate of 
his companions or maintain his post?
The Keeps troops had long given up attempting to draw the door open. After only 
a few failed tries at yanking the door loose, they had pulled back, swearing and 
yelling that the door was soundly locked and would not budge. Someone had called 
for a battering ram. Someone else had called for them to wait the thieves out 
since the tower had no other exit. Starvation will drive their sorry arses out 
of there or kill em for us, someone had finally declaredand so the matter had 
been decided. It seemed none of the troops were all that anxious to chase the 
armed men into the crumbling tower anyway.
As Tolchuk had waited, his keen ears had occasionally heard
WIT CH OTORM
some murmuring or spats of raucous laughter from beyond the brass door, but no 
further assault was made.
He slowly unwrapped his claws from the iron latch. He saw no good reason to 
maintain his post, and the silence from below wore on him like the gnawing beak 
of a mountain vulture. Tolchuk started down the curving stairs. He had promised 
Elena to watch after her companions. He would not fail her.
He sped silently down the steps, fearing to alert whatever lay below. As he 
reached the last step, his wide-splayed feet splashed in the water covering the 
floor. He paused, his ears cocked for any evidence he had been heard. Faintly, a 
moaning arose from the chamber ahead. Steeling himself against what he might 
find, he continued forward. The air had grown colder, more than the darkness and 
the sunless halls warranted.
He edged toward the opening and peeked inside. It was best to know what he faced 
before he burst into the room. His eyes grew wide at the sight.
A squat figure painted in black oil stood in the center of the chamber with its 
arms raised. Twin fountains of dark flames flowed from the creatures hands to 
pin his two companions to the wall. Meric and Krai writhed under the grip of the 
black magicks touch. Horrified, Tolchuk pulled back around the corner. He had 
to stop this somehow. This he knew! At the sight of his companions so foully 
trapped, he needed no tugging from the Heart of his people to call him 
forwardyet the fiery hooks had again blown to flame in his chest.
One claw clutched his thigh pouch. The Heart seemed to burn through the hide. 
What was he to do? Would the magick of the heartstone vanish as it had before?
Suddenly, as if to chide him for his doubts, a rat ran across his foot, half 
swimming in the brackish waters covering the floors. Out of instinct, he began 
to kick it away when he noticed its crooked tail. As it swam away toward the 
cellar door, Tolchuk saw it was the same rat that had carried the Hearts 
magick for a brief time. Frowning at it, he wondered if it had somehow followed 
him.
Seeming to sense the ogres scrutiny, the rat glanced back at him. Its eyes 
glowed in the dark hall, the ruby red of the heartstone. With a shock, Tolchuk 
realized the rat still harbored a trace of the Hearts magick. The animal 
chittered at him, scolding him, then swung around and crawled into the cellar 
chamber.
Tolchuk waited a heartbeat. He did not know the meaning of the rats 
appearance, but he would not let the little beast contest his own bravery. He 
swung into the opening. The rat, even injured, was quick on its tiny feet. It 
flew across the mud, already half the distance toward the black demon.
As Tolchuk stepped into the room, the toadish creature swung its gaze toward 
the ogre. Eyes of flame stared at him briefly, then turned away as if Tolchuk 
were no threat. Another guest, the demon said in a voice that seemed to echo 
out of stone. Come join us. Im just about finished with these two.
Leave them be! Tolchuk bellowed. He stepped farther into the light so the 
creature could see him fully: few were undaunted by an ogre. Tolchuk bared his 
fangs, exposing their full lengths.
Yet it was not his fangs that drew the black figures eyes. The tiny 
crooked-tailed rat, now almost near the legs of the demon, suddenly screeched 
wildly. Glancing at the small attacker as it reared on its hind legs, the 
demons expression was at first mildly amused; then its eyes suddenly flared 
with fire. It pulled back from the rat, and the twin fountains of darkfire 
collapsed back to their foul source.
Freed of the flames grip, Krai crashed to the mud, and Meric slumped on the 
wall, hanging from iron shackles. Neither companion moved.
Tolchuk did not have time to go to their aid. The demon pulled its thick legs 
from the mud and retreated from the rat. Tolchuk knew that there was no way 
this tiny creature had panicked the demon. It had to be the trace of magick in 
its beady eyes. The black demon must fear his Hearts magick!
Reaching to his pouch, Tolchuk freed the chunk of heartstone and pulled the 
blazing Heart forth. Even Tolchuk was blinded for a moment by the radiance. Its 
bright light burst through the room. The flickering torches on the walls seemed 
like the mere glow of fireflies before the brilliance of the heartstone.
The demon raised its black arms before its face and fled the light. Tolchuk 
followed it farther into the room. He sidled toward Krai to see if he still 
lived. The demon made no approach to stop him. It matched Tolchuks pace as he 
crossed the chamber, keeping its
distance.
Stay back, or I will destroy you! Tolchuk growled with as much threat as he 
could manage. He had no idea why the Heart
J 1 UKM
intimidated the demon or how to use it, but the demon was unaware of his 
ignorance, and Tolchuk meant to keep it that way. Back! he said, thrusting 
the stone forward.
He did not need to maintain the ruse for long. Once the doorway was clear, the 
demon bolted for the exit. It had to pass closer to Tolchuk, but the ogre made 
no move to stop it. Let it flee. He had his injured companions to worry about.
The demon paused at the doorway, glaring back at Tolchuk. Its black lips pulled 
back in hatred. We are not finished, it said.
Tolchuk lowered the stone, knowing the demon had no intention of attacking. It 
meant simply to flee.
I will not forget thisor you! The demons raging eyes stared Tolchuk full in 
the face as if memorizing his features. Then the hatred in its black face 
shifted like molten stone. Its eyes grew wider, and it stared with a mixture of 
horror and awe at Tolchuk. It stopped and took a step toward the ogre. You! 
It cannot be. How ?
Unnerved by the demons strange attitude, Tolchuk raised the stone. Begone! 
he thundered. Still the demon hesitated.
Suddenly the small rat was again at the demons toes, harrying him with squeaks 
and squeals. The fierce intrusion of the little beast broke the demons gaze on 
Tolchuk. It glared at the rat, then in a fury of motion, it vanished out into 
the hall. Tolchuk listened to the splashes of its footsteps as it ran off, then 
waited to be sure the demon had truly fled. After a few breaths, a flurry of 
screams suddenly rattled down from above. The guards stationed by the door were 
obviously quite surprised at what lurked at the root of their tower stronghold. 
Seemingly satisfied, the rat groomed its muddy paws. Satisfied too, Tolchuk 
lowered his heartstone and returned it to its pouch. He bent to Krai. At his 
touch, the mountain man groaned, and his eyes opened. What happened?
The demon has fled. If you be living, I must check on Meric.
I be living, Krai said sourly, sitting up with a coarse groan. But Im not 
sure thats a good thing.
Tolchuk nodded and crossed to Meric. He yanked free the shackles and settled 
the elvins limp body in the mud. The reek of burned hair and flesh clung to 
his wracked form.
How is he? Krai called to him, climbing to his wobbly feet.
James Llemens
He be weak and sorely injured. But he breathes!
His voice must have reached Meric. The elvins eyes fluttered open. I more 
than breathe, ogre. It would take m-more than a few burns to kill elvin 
royalty. Even these few words split Merics burnt lips, and blood welled at the 
corners of his mouth. Pride or not, it would take a long time for the elvin to 
heal.
Rest, Meric, Tolchuk warned. I will carry you from here.
Meric protested at first, but even his attempt to sit up on his own failed. The 
elvins face darkened with embarrassment.
Tolchuk scooped him up. It be no weakness to ask a friend for help.
Meric reached and squeezed the ogres wrist, silent thanks clear in his touch.
Standing up with the elvin in his arm, Tolchuk faced Krai. Can you manage on 
your own?
Krai was retrieving fragments of iron from the mud. Just point me toward that 
dwarf and see how fast I move.
Tolchuk nodded, relieved at the strength in the others voice. For now, let 
the demon flee. We have one more friend still to rescue.
Krai straightened. Mogweed. I almost forgot.
Suddenly, the tower walls groaned, and dust billowed down around them in choking 
clouds. The walls themselves began to quake.
Whats happening? Meric muttered.
The dwarf, Krai said, waving them toward the exit. The mountain man explained 
as he led them in a rush up the steps. I saw it in a dream. He led the savage 
troops that besieged this tower long ago and slaughtered its defenders. He used 
the mens dying blood to bathe the stones and perform arcane acts. I wager the 
blood magick of the ebonstone was the only mortar that kept the tower standing 
all these years. When the dwarf lord fled, he took his magick with him. At long 
last, the tower will fall, and its defenders can finally rest.
The rat, now finished with its grooming, noted the tremoring of the tower and 
dashed away through a crack in the wall.
Tolchuk appreciated its wisdom. If we dont hurry, he said, we be resting 
forever with those long-dead defenders.
Krai grunted acknowledgment and hurried up the steps. Stones began to crash 
behind them, and the stairs shook, trying to betray their feet.
They fled faster. Behind them, amid crumbling stones and clouds of dust, the 
ancient battle for Rashamon finally ended.
MOGWEED FELT THE FIRST TREMBLE OF THE CRUMBLING TOWER AND
thought it was his own fear wobbling his feet. Certain his death was near at 
hand, he watched Lord Ryman rise from his chair, dagger in hand. In the 
candlelight from the chandelier, the blades surface glinted an oily green. 
Mogweed could almost smell the poison on the dagger.
Lord Mycof whispered from where he sat. Brother, did you feel?
Then the hall rocked with a grating groan. Mogweed had to wave his arms to keep 
upright. Whats happening? he cried out, giving up any pretense of hiding his 
fear.
But Rymans eyes were also wide with fright. He turned to his brother as if an 
answer could be found in his twins pale features. Check with the guards, he 
ordered.
Mycof fished out the silver bell. He rang it and waited. Nothing happened. He 
looked to his brother with a confused expression. Apparently a summons had never 
been ignored before. Mycof picked the bell up again and shook it violently. 
Ryman? he called over the ringing chime.
Ryman strode on his thin legs to the main door and pounded a fist upon it. 
Guards! Attend your lords!
A small voice answered him. My lords, the guards have fled! Mogweed recognized 
the voice of their foppish manservant. I cant lift the bar on my own!
Then go to one of the smaller side doors, Rothskilder, where the bars are 
lighter.
Yes, Sire. Right away!
Wait! The floor again shook. Overhead, the chandelier danced, raining hot wax 
from the drip pans of the many candles. What is happening out there? Ryman 
yelled.
Mogweed yelped as a large drop of wax struck his cheek. He dashed from under the 
chandelier, placing himself closer to the dais.
Rothskilder!
No answer was forthcoming from beyond the door. The manservant had already run 
to obey his lords order.
I
Ryman swung to face Mogweed as Mycof cowered in his chair, the ilver bell 
gripped like a weapon in his small hand. What do you know of this commotion? 
Ryman asked, his face a mask of anger.
Mogweed took a step away. Me?
The lord threw back his cloak and raised his dagger. This talk of witches was 
all a ruse. What have you done?
Mogweed thought quickly. This fellow was beyond reason. Madness lurked behind 
those wild eyes. Mogweed retreated from the dagger. He found himself back among 
the crates of gear. I did not lie. I came here to alert you of the witch.
Liar!
Mycof had risen from his chair, his lips trembling. Suddenly a violent shake 
cracked one of the gilded rafters near the rear of the hall. It smashed to the 
marble floor with a terrible boom. Ryman! Make
it stop!
I will, dear brother. The murderous glint in his eyes left no doubt as to his 
intention as he stalked toward Mogweed. By killing
this traitor.
Hurry! We must find the dwarf. Hell know what to do. Hell give us the 
Sacrament and free the Pack. Well be able to escape.
Mogweeds mind worked on Mycofs words. These two seemed dependent on their 
seeker to free the beasts within them. This gave him a bit of courage. If their 
demons were trapped, maybe he could fight these pampered lordlings. Or better 
yet Wait, he called to Ryman. I can help you free your demon rats. You dont 
need your dwarf master.
Rymans eye twitched, but he kept his dagger high. Mogweed could see the lust in 
this ones eyes, a frothing desire to fight the iron bit that controlled him. 
Ryman had been yoked to this dwarf; now he strained to be released, to act on 
his own. Neither of these silk-draped lords were accustomed to taking orders. 
What do you speak of? Ryman spat at him.
The ebonstone bowl was not the only item I stole from the female illguard. 
She bore talismans that granted her the Sacrament any time she wished. Mogweed 
backed into one of the open crates. Let me
show you.
Mycof climbed from his dais. Is what he says possible, Brother?
I have heard the like. Not all illguard are slaves to their seekers.
Ryman turned narrow eyes toward Mogweed. Show us this magick.
Yes, yes, of course. Mogweed dug through the packed supplies, keeping one eye 
on Rymans dagger. Mycof had crossed to stand beside his brother. He prayed the 
objects he sought were somewhere in here. He moved a fold of magicians cape and 
spotted the familiar gleam. Luckily, I have a pair.
Mogweed turned, holding a glittering prize in each hand. He held them out, but 
when Ryman reached for one, he snatched them back. You must swear to let me go 
free.
Mycof answered, a thin trail of saliva on his lip. The muscles of his face 
spasmed as he stared at the magickal items. I we swear.
How do we know this will work? Ryman hissed. That this is not some trick ? 
I have the ebonstone bowl, do I not? Who but the illguard have such items? 
Mogweed hoped this last statement was correct.
Ryman considered this. Perhaps you speak the truth, but before we let you go, 
we will sample your supposed magick. If it works, you are free to leave. If not, 
you die.
Mogweed nodded sagely. He knew Ryman was lying; the bastard had no intention of 
letting him leave either way. Still, Mogweed pretended to ponder this offer. He 
held up his bribe, then snatched it back again, delaying the exchange. Wait. I 
want one more concession.
What is it? Ryman clenched his fist in impatience. Afterward, I want to be 
taken to your master. I must let him know of the witch.
Fine. Once were free, you can tell the dwarf whatever you like. Mogweed 
nodded. In both the lordlings eyes now, desire had become a raving lust. 
Mogweed had held out long enough to draw their hopes to a fevered pitch. He 
stared at the pair of hungry eyes for several silent heartbeats, then tossed one 
gift to each lord. Careful! Ryman scolded. I almost dropped mine.
Sorry. Mogweed bowed his head. You must care for them as your most prized 
treasure. It is your freedom.
How do they work? Mycof held the pendant up by its twisted thread. The jade 
vial dangled and sparkled in the halls light.
You drink the contents. Refill the vial with plain water by dawns light, and 
by nightfall the magick in the jade stone will have changed the water again to 
the Sacramental elixir.
Ryman glanced suspiciously at Mogweed. Youd better pray it
works.
Oh, I am, he mumbled. Trust me, I am. Please try it. As if on cue, the hall 
shook again. The chandeliers crystals tinkled overhead.
Mycof unstoppered his vial. Hurry, Ryman! Ryman did the same, then took his 
brothers hand in his own. He raised the vial in a toast to his twin. To 
freedom, he said soberly. To freedom, Mycof echoed.
In unison, the two brothers raised the jade vials to their pale lips and 
swallowed deeply. Once done, they both wore thin grins.
Keep the vials around your necks, Mogweed encouraged. He mimicked placing an 
invisible pendant over his own head.
Ryman nodded, and both brothers hooked the pendants around their necks.
Good, good, Mogweed continued. Now wait for it. Mycof was the first to blink 
a few times. A hand raised to his throat. I I feel something! Its its 
happening!
Ryman was swallowing hard and suddenly coughed. He raised panicked eyes to 
Mogweed as he fell to his knees. Mycof toppled straight backward, his head 
striking the marble hard. Blood welled in a small pool on the polished floor.
Panic faded from Rymans eyes as he died. He fell back to join his twin brother, 
two toppled statues.
Mogweed sighed loudly. To freedom, he mumbled to the twins. Suddenly a loud 
commotion erupted near one of the side doors. Mogweed turned, expecting to see 
Rothskilder unbar the exit. Instead the thick oaken door blew into the hall. 
Mogweeds eyes grew wide as the door crashed and splintered on the marble tiles.
He had not expected such an explosion, but he was correct about Rothskilder 
being at the door. The limp and bloody body of the manservant was clutched by 
his thin neck in the monstrous grip of a thick squat creature carved of black 
stone.
It stalked into the hall, its eyes ablaze with inner fury. Its sick gaze settled 
upon Mogweed, then on the dead twins. What have you done with my servants? it 
asked, throwing aside the lifeless corpse of Rothskilder.
Mogweed stepped back.
Here was the dire master of the Keep, the seeker who had controlled the 
illguard. Mogweed knew better than to try lies here. They were in my way, he 
said, fighting to keep his voice even. I came here to see you, but they had 
other ideas.
The black dwarf strode toward him. It crossed to within an arms length of the 
shape-shifter. Mogweed held his position. Now was not the time to show weakness. 
The dwarfs voice was molten lava. What news was so dire that you had to slay 
my creations?
Mogweed reached to his belt and slipped the goatskin satchel free. He fingered 
out a pinch of Elenas hair. I know He had to swallow a hard lump in his 
throat and start again. I know the Black Heart seeks the witch. I can lead you 
to her. He raised the strands of hair. Here is proof.
The dwarfs gaze narrowed, intrigued. As the floor quaked under him, he held 
out his palm, ignoring the rumbling stones.
Mogweed reached the strands toward the open palm. As his fingers neared the 
black flesh of the dwarf, Mogweed felt the same queasiness as when he handled 
the ebonstone bowl. He dropped the hair into the black hand, then snatched his 
own hand back.
Hmm The dwarf raised the hair to his wide nose. He sniffed at it 
suspiciously, like a dog on a rotted salmon. One eye grew wider. He lifted his 
face to Mogweed. You do not lie!
Suddenly relieved, Mogweed grinned foolishly. I can lead you to where she goes. 
I spied on her She went by boat You see, it heads um Mogweed could not seem 
to stop blathering.
Enough, the dwarf said. He sniffed again at the piled strands, drawing the 
thin hairs into his thick nostrils. The dwarf closed his eyes and leaned his 
head back. A moan somewhere between pleasure and pain groaned from his lips. His 
skin began to flow like thawing ice, swirling in patterns of black stone and 
veins of silver. Flames of darkfire flared in spurts along his skin, growing 
larger until they cracked like raging torrents over rock. Soon flames of the 
deepest red mixed with these black flames. The dwarf became a pillar of warring 
fires.
Suddenly the eyes of the dwarf snapped open.
Mogweed gasped. He knew it was not the dwarf who now stared out at him, but 
something far fouler. He had no resistance against the evil that pulsed from 
those black orbs. It washed over him like the oily hands of some intimate lover.
As Mogweed tried to pull away, words, low and hissing, flowed out from its 
flaming throat, words that ate at Mogweeds brain like hungry eels. What do you 
seek?
Terrified and unable to answer, Mogweed fell to his knees. Bile filled his 
throat. What had he invoked with the witchs hair? As he shuffled back, flames 
suddenly lanced forth from the dwarfs mouth, curling and twisting like some 
fiery tongue. Mogweed screamed, but once the flames brushed his chest, his 
breath froze in his lungs. His fingers rose to rip at his stricken throat.
Then the flames were gone, and he could breathe again. Gasping and choking, he 
fell to his hands on the marble tiles.
The dwarf leaned closer to Mogweed. The black lips parted to smile without 
warmth. Flames blazed like breath as it spoke. I know your craven heart, 
shape-shifter.
Mogweed cringed. He knew nothing could be hidden from this black spirit. Games 
of sly tongues and misdirection would be laid bare by searing flames. Mogweed 
bowed his head to the tiles, showing his fealty to one so dark.
Through your deceit, you have delivered to me the scent of my most prized prey. 
For that we will let you live. But the boon you came begging afterthe return of 
your siluran heritagethat we deny you.
Tears of despair ran down the shape-shifters face.
Only the witch at my feet will free you, the Black Heart grated.
Mogweed dared to raise his face. But I can lead you
The flaming eyes settled on Mogweed, sickening the shape-shifters stomach and 
numbing his tongue. Weve forged this vessel of ours, this dwarf, into a blood 
hunter. It has no need for your guidance, shape-shifter. Once the hunter scents 
a magick, he can follow its trail anywhere.
Mogweed bowed his head, despairing. Then what do you ask of me? You will have 
your witch without me.
Flames tickled his neck, freezing his flesh, as the dwarf leaned closer. 
Trails sometimes grow cold. So for now, stay with those who aid the witch. A 
time may come when I will ask more of you.
Suddenly a thunderous boom echoed from somewhere deeper in the Keep. Dust and 
smoke washed through the open door into the hall. The floor shook, knocking 
Mogweed flat. He covered his head with his arms as debris rattled down from the 
ceiling. Deeper in the
hall, a bronze sconce clattered to the floor. When the rumbling subsided, 
Mogweed pushed up.
Nearby, the dwarf still stood as if nothing had happened. The flames had faded 
from his skin, and Mogweed sensed the dwarf was once again in possession of his 
black body. The black figure simply squinted at the clouds of debris. Youd 
best leave the Keep, the dwarf rumbled. What is built on a poor foundation 
seldom stands for long.
What?
The dwarf ignored him and strode for the main doors of the hall. As it neared 
the barred doorway, an arm raised and black flames leapt out to strike the thick 
planks. The fanciful doors exploded outward in a storm of splinters and smoke. 
Without a glance back, the dwarf vanished out of the hall.
Mogweed pushed to his feet just as a new eruption arose from the back of the 
Musicians Hall. He swung around in time to see Krai burst into the chamber with 
Tolchuk at his heels, Meric in Tolchuks arms.
You found him! Mogweed enthused, trying his best to fake his relief past the 
icy numbness from the touch of the Dark Lord.
Krai glanced to the bodies of Ryman and Mycof. How did you manage this feat?
Mogweed used his toe to shift the amulet resting on Rymans chest. Remind me to 
thank your mother, Tolchuk. Her gift of poisons proved of substantial merit.
Krai clapped Mogweed on the shoulder, almost knocking him to his knees. You 
continue to surprise me, shape-shifter.
As Krai grabbed a box under each arm, Mogweed stared dully at his back. If you 
only knew he mumbled.
The blood hunter had been on the trail now for two days, tire-less, needing no 
sleep. Only the occasional stray trapper or farmer alone near the river 
sustained him: The meat of a fresh heart kept his inner fires burning for a day 
and a night. So he ran, keeping near the rivers edge, slogging through the mud 
and reeds of the south bank. The scent of his prey was strongest in the delta 
breezes of the river, so he kept close to its source. He must not lose her 
scent.
Torwren forged across a small tributary that left the Shadow-
T
brook River to wind its way south. Once free of the small stream, he hastened 
along the Shadowbrook. Nothing would block his chase. Running along the bank, 
trampling through a nest of crane eggs, he had traveled another half a league 
before he realized the scent was gone from the river winds. He stopped and 
raised his nose to the
breeze. Clean.
He stared back up the river. Why had she left the river? It was the fastest 
means to reach the coast. Suddenly questioning his new ability, Torwren again 
lifted his nose. Still nothing. He backtracked up the bank until again he stood 
in the nest of the crane, amid broken shells. He tested the air. Still nothing.
Panic began to fuel his foul heart. Where had she gone?
He continued up the river until he reached the shallow tributary and splashed 
his way across again. The sun was almost gone; the shadows from the forest south 
of the river crept from the woods.
If the Dark Lord should learn of his error
Then he sensed it, a scent like lightning from a summer storm. It was her! He 
swung around. Where had she gone?
Then he spotted it. The mud by the bank of the stream showed a single hoofprint. 
The blood hunter knelt by the print and sniffed. A grin split his black lips.
He stared south along the narrow tributary. I smell you, he mumbled as 
darkness descended. You cannot escape me. I will chase you to the coast if I 
must.
He stood up and began to lope along the stream into the forest.
Even if you reach the coast, he said with glee, I have a surprise waiting for 
you. Torwren pictured the two elementals pinned by his black magicks to the 
wall of the tower cellar. He had been interrupted in the forging of them into 
illguard soldiersbut he had not totally failed.
While one had escaped unscathed, his other elemental captive
had not.
A most potent and black illguard had been forged in the cellar that night. None 
would suspect the evil now cloaked behind the face of one of the witchs 
trusted guardsmen.
Upon stone lips, Torwren tested this traitors new name, his illguard name.
Legion.

The morning after encountering the pair of strange brothers on the tower stair, 
Joach lay awake on his thin pallet, staring up at the wood rafters. The sun was 
near rising, and he had not slept the entire night. The words of the two men 
still whispered in his ears, especially one word: Ragnart. Why did the word 
hold such an odd fascination to him? Was it a name? A place? He could not seem 
to loosen the word from his mind. He glanced across the room, searching for any 
distraction.
On the far side of the cell, Greshym lay on his back atop the blankets, hands 
folded across his chest like a corpse laid out for viewing. Unlike Joach, the 
darkmage slept soundly, a coarse snore marking each breath; but like Joach, his 
eyes were open, too. His milky globes glowed red throughout the night, and not 
just from the reflection of the embers of the hearth. Somehow Joach sensed the 
mages eyes watched throughout the night while his body rested.
Yet as strange as this was, Joach had grown accustomed to. it. He had learned 
Greshyms habits and patterns. The darkmage would continue to sleep until the 
suns light reached the slitted window of their room. Then, like the dead 
rising, he would awaken and order Joach to fetch him his morning meal.
This day Joach did not have the patience to wait for the sun. He was anxious to 
return to the staircase in the east tower, to search for clues of the two men. 
Yet, he knew he could not move from the bed until ordered. The darkmages eyes 
would see him.
Trapped, he stared back up at the ceiling. Silently, his lips formed the word 
that nagged his slumber. Rag nar/^.
When he shaped the last syllable, Greshym snapped upright on his bed, as if 
somehow the silent word had stabbed through his slumber. To reinforce this 
impression, his ancient face twisted toward Joach. For the first time, he saw 
confusion and fear in the wrinkled features.
Joach continued his blank-eyed stare, praying for the mages gaze to leave him. 
He needed something to convince the mage of his continued enslavement, something 
to distract those prying eyes. A burning in Joachs belly reminded him of one 
way to perhaps accomplish this, a way to debase himself in such a way that the 
darkmage would not question his lack of will. As he lay on his pallet, Joach 
loosened his bladder, soaking his clothes and bed. An acrid smell swelled in the 
tiny cell from the soiled bedsheets. Joach continued to lie still, un-moving in 
the spreading wetness.
The odor must have reached the darkmage. Curse you, boy! Greshym swore. You 
grow more like a babe each day! Now get out of bed and clean yourself up.
Joach did as he was ordered. He slid from his pallet and slipped out of his 
dripping underclothes. Slack jawed and naked, he dragged his feet in a slow 
shuffle to the washing basin. Using a rag soaked in the cold water, he wiped 
himself clean.
Get dressed and fetch my morning supper, Greshym ordered as he stared up at 
the still-dark window. He grumbled sourly under his breath and lay back down. 
Wake me when you return.
Still damp, Joach had to keep from hurrying when he donned a dry set of 
underclothes and pulled into his breeches and brown shirt. It was early, and the 
halls would be nearly deserted: a perfect chance to explore. As his heart raced, 
he kept his movements dull and fumbling. With his shirt buttoned wrong and only 
half tucked in his breeches, he shambled toward the door.
As his hand reached for the latch, Greshym mumbled something to himself. Frozen 
in stone and thrice cursed Ragnark will not cannot move Just dead 
prophecies.
Joachs hand froze on the iron latch at the mention of Ragnark. Had the mage 
somehow sensed his thoughts? His ears strained for meaning in the darkmages 
rumblings. What did it mean and
JAMtS
Greshym suddenly barked, obviously noticing his pause. Get going, boy! Before 
you foul yourself again!
Joach jerked and almost gasped at the sudden eruption. He fought to maintain his 
dull attitude, but Greshym had already dismissed him and stared again at the 
rafters. Joach yanked on the latch and hauled himself from the room on legs that 
trembled for real. He closed the door and leaned upon it, sighing softly in 
relief.
It took him a few deep breaths to calm his laboring heart. Stretching a kink 
from his neck, he followed a familiar path among the twisting halls of the 
Edifice. Few others were awake this early, so he kept his pace mostly hurried, 
only stopping briefly to collect the scrap of parchment and sliver of charcoal 
from a cubby hidden in a crumbing section of wall. His mapping tools vanished 
quickly into his pockets, and he continued toward his destination, the tower 
named the Broken Spear.
The mystery of Ragnark nagged at him, and though he knew not why, he somehow 
sensed that great importance lay in solving this riddle.
Without any significant delays, he reached the stairs that wound up the 
easternmost tower. He listened for voices or footsteps. Nothing. Satisfied that 
he was alone, he clambered up the stairs, taking two steps with each stride, and 
climbed to the landing where the two mysterious brothers had spoken the night 
before.
Joach again glanced into the halls that led out onto this level. Had the men 
gone this way? In the early-morning gloom, the halls were murky and the dust 
thick on the floor. Dust! Joach bent closer to the floor. If the men had gone 
this way, there should be tracks on the stone. He cocked his head and squinted. 
The dust lay undisturbed for as far as he could see. The two brothers had not 
left the staircase. He straightened, scratching his head. He knew they hadnt 
come down, so that left only up.
Joach stared at the winding staircase and fingered the map in his pocket. There 
was only one level above this one. It was the floor he had explored and mapped 
yesterday. That level, like this whole wing of the Edifice, was just crumbling 
stones and lonely spiders. What manner of business did these two have above?
There was only one way to find out. Joach climbed the remainder of the stairs to 
the last level. He started out into the halls but stopped as his eyes scanned 
the floor. He saw one set of footprints leading out

and one set heading in. Joach placed his shoe onto one of these tracks. They 
were his own prints from yesterday. No other steps marred the pristine layer of 
dust.
They didnt come this way, he murmured to himself, his brow furrowed.
Stepping back into the stairwell, he frowned. Where had they gone? He crept down 
the stairs more slowly, his mind grinding on the riddle: not up, not down, not 
into the halls. So where? His mind came up with only one answer. They went in 
between.
Reaching a finger to the outer wall of the stairwell, he pondered the 
possibilities. Among the servants, he had heard rumors about secret passages and 
chambers long bricked closed. He had overheard maids whispering about hearing 
voices in the walls. Ghosts, the women had feared. But were there perhaps other 
secrets buried deep within the stones of the Edifice?
He continued down the steps, dragging a finger along the wall. The bricks seemed 
to be fitted snugly together. He reached the landing again and laid both palms 
upon the wall of the staircase. He felt only smooth stone. Studying the floor of 
the landing, he knelt closer but saw nothing. Even rubbing his palms and fingers 
along the floor, he almost missed it. If not for his dogged search and his 
certainty that the men had left the stairwell via a hidden door, Joach would 
never have discovered the fine scratch in the stones surface. He traced his 
finger along the arc of etched rock as it led to the wall again.
If a door swung open and rubbed slightly against its stone porch, it might leave 
just such a mark. He stood up and again studied the section of wall. Now he at 
least knew where the hidden door lay, but how did it open?
Suddenly, from the lower stairway, he heard the slight rub of heel on stone. 
Joach swung around. Two figures stepped around the stairways curve. He froze, 
sure it was the two brothers come to capture him. But as the shadowy figures 
approached closer, their faces were revealed in the feeble light of the 
landings single lantern. It was not the brothers, but two others whose hard 
faces and cruel smiles nevertheless meant trouble.
See, I told you I saw that drooling idiot come this way. It was Brunt, the 
mean-spirited urchin who had tormented Joachs trips to the kitchens over the 
past seven moons. At his shoulder loomed a
more muscular brute of a boy at least four winters older than Joach. This other 
boy was unknown to Joach, but the cruel set to his thick lips and the mischief 
that shone in his piggy eyes were a twin to Brunts expression. These two were 
looking for trouble, and unfortunately, they had found Joach, an easy target for 
their cruelties. They crept toward him like dogs upon a wounded fox. Joach kept 
his posture slack and his face expressionless. If he fought or tried to run, 
they would know his secret, and with Brunts tongue, it would only be a short 
time until word of his subterfuge reached Greshym.
Joach stood on the landing. He would have to accept whatever torment was 
inflicted upon him. He had no other choice. In the kitchens, Joach had learned 
to keep a watchful eye on Brunt, suffering the occasional burn or knuckled punch 
from the boy. So far, vigilance had kept him from serious injury, but in his 
excitement this day, he had slipped; now he would have to pay the price.
Brunt stepped up onto the landing beside Joach. Look at this, Snell. He cant 
even button his shirt. The boys fingers lashed out and ripped a button from 
Joachs shirt.
The boy named Snell snickered. Cant he talk? the other asked. Brunt leaned 
closer to Joachs face. His breath stank, and Joach had to struggle not to 
cringe back. He kin talk, but only like a dumb parrot. He keeps repeating the 
same words over and over. He then stuttered in imitation of Joach. M-m-master 
wants m-meal. This earned more snickers from Snell.
Brunts chest puffed out with his audiences approval. I always wondered if I 
could git him to say something else, even if it is only to git him to cry out. 
Brunt slipped a small carving knife, obviously stolen from the kitchen, from a 
pocket. Maybe Ill slice him up like a haunch of beef.
Give him a poke, Brunt, the other boy encouraged, a gleeful lust in his voice. 
Go ahead and make him bleed a bit.
Or maybe more than a bit, Brunt added.
Joachs mind spun. He would be of no use to Elena dead, and from the feral gleam 
in Brunts eyes, Joach did not doubt the boy would go so far. Brunt liked 
causing pain, and in this abandoned section of the Edifice, the boy might try to 
see how far he could carry out his cruelties.
Brunt raised the knife to Joachs cheek and dug its tip into his skin
with a twist of the blade. Joach held still, though his right fist clenched 
tight behind his back. Brunt pulled the knife away and studied its bloody tip 
with obvious fascination.
Let me try, Snell said, reaching for the knife.
Brunt yanked the blade away. No, that was only a nick. I want to wet the entire 
knife with his blood.
Then Im next, right? Snell asked huskily, his hands opening and closing with 
blood lust.
Brunts voice had become throaty and low. Oh, dont worry. Well each take 
several turns.
Joach now knew that the two had no intention of ever allowing him to leave these 
stairs. Here in the sprawling Edifice, there were plenty of places to dispose of 
a body. Joach had no choice. He had to survive. Brunt came at Joach again with 
the blade.
Joach straightened from his slouch and slammed his clenched fist into Brunts 
face. Bone crushed under his knuckles.
Brunt squealed, dropping the knife and clasping his hands around his bloody 
nose. Snell, who had already fled two steps away, was stopped in a crouch, 
waiting to see if he should run or attack.
Joach snatched up the knife and spoke clearly. Brunt, if you ever
touch me again, Ill cut your manhood from you and feed it to Snell.
Joachs sudden words seemed to shock Brunt even more than the
pain from the broken nose. The realization that he had been duped
bloomed in Brunts expression, and the boys eyes grew red with
rage. Lets see you try, fool, he spat. Cmon, Snell, it looks like the
games getting a bit more interesting.
Without a word, Snell ran down the stairs, abandoning Brunt. The boys hurried 
footfalls faded to silence as the two remaining combatants stared each other 
down.
The betrayal of his companion did not seem to faze Brunt. He just shook his head 
and faced Joach. A hand reached into a second pocket and removed another knife. 
I dont know what game youre playing, but Im gonna end it.
Joach backed a few steps up from the landing. Brunt followed. Ill make you 
scream before Im done with you. Joach continued to retreat as his mind fought 
for ways to deal > with this situation. If Brunt vanished, Snell would likely 
stay silent, i fearful of being tied in any way to the disappearance. Joach 
fingered t
his knife. With Brunt gone, Joach could again resume his role as the dullard 
without worry of exposure.
With a sudden growl on his lips, Brunt rushed up the steps toward Joach, his 
jagged-edged knife raised. Taught the ways of sword and knife fighting by his 
father, Joach recognized that Brunt held his weapon too high, leaving his belly 
exposed. Brunt had more fury
than skill.
Crouching swiftly, Joach jabbed at Brunts soft midriff with his own knife. But 
at the last moment, Joach turned his wrist, driving his fist rather than the 
blade into the boys belly.
Stunned, with the breath knocked from him, Brunt made a halfhearted slash at 
Joach, but Joach easily caught his wrist with his other hand and bent it 
savagely back. Pain numbed the boys fingers, and his weapon clattered to the 
stone steps.
Joach twisted Brunt around until he held the boy tight, the blade pressed to his 
scrawny throat. With Brunt silenced, Joachs masquerade could continue. His hand 
trembled as he held the knife. Do it, coward, Brunt choked out. Tears ran from 
his eyes. It was instinct that had caused Joach to turn the knife from Brunts 
belly a moment ago. He was not a killer. But now he had time to ponder his 
leniency. Brunt would surely expose his charade if he were left alive, so any 
hope of helping his sister lay in this boys death. Joach closed his eyes.
He had no choice. He shoved Brunt away from him. He was not a cold-blooded 
killernot even for his sister. Im sorry, Elena, he whispered to himself.
The boy stumbled down the steps to the landing below, falling hard on his knees. 
Brunt twisted to face Joach. Ill tell everyone! he screamed up at him. 
Theyll all know youre a fake! Joach did not answer.
Youve ruined yourself! Brunt yelled as he pushed to his feet. Ill tell!
Then, behind Brunt, a section of the landings wall swung open. The brush of air 
must have alerted the boy, drawing his attention to the huge white-robed brother 
who filled the doorway.
The dark-skinned man threw gray dust into Brunts red face. Youll tell no 
one, the large man said softly. Now sleep.
Brunt waved the cloud of dust from his face, then slumped to the floor limply. 
With a thud, his head struck the stone.
The brother ignored the unconscious boy and stepped over him. He stared up at 
Joach, his silver earring flickering in the lantern light. Come down here, 
young man. Its time we talked.
As DAWN NEARED, KaST LEANED HARD INTO THE RUDDER. SaLTY SPRAY
bathed his face as he brooded in silence, his lips narrow and bloodless. Flint 
still refused to explain the meaning of his earlier words from the prior night. 
How could the fate of the mythic city of Aloa Glen lie with the Bloodriders? He 
had never set eyes on the island and doubted it even existed.
Kast shook his head and swung the sails to help turn the boat. Responding to his 
skilled touch, the skiff curved into the narrow channel between the twin islands 
of Tristan and Lystra. The islands two volcanic peaks towered to either side, 
the rock of their mountaintops aglow with the suns first rays.
A gasp of wonder arose from the merai girl as she stared forward. Kast knew 
what triggered her response. Directly ahead, a towering span of weathered stone 
bridged the narrow channel between the islands, a sweeping arch of volcanic rock 
carved by wind and rain. It is called the Arch of the Archipelago, Flint said 
to the girl, sliding closer to her by the prow. Have you heard any of the songs 
about it? Songs of the doomed lovers Tristan and Lystra? The girl shook her 
head and turned toward the old man. Kast could tell from Flints worried glances 
toward the seadragon that he was trying to keep the child distracted from the 
failing health of her beast. The dragon could barely raise its snout above the 
waves; its eyes had dulled and its wings fluttered weakly as it struggled to 
keep even with the boat.
At one time, Flint continued, the two islands were joined as one. Only a 
small river valley divided the two mountains. He pointed to the northern 
island. The young man, Tristan, lived among the clans that claimed the slopes 
of that peak, while Lystra was the daughter of the clan leader who declared the 
southern peak as his property. Their two peoples were often at war. Flint shook 
his head sadly.
What happened? Sy-wen encouraged him.
One day, while out hunting, Tristan found Lystra bathing in the
river between the two peaks. She sang so sweetly as she swam that in a single 
breath, he fell in love with her. Hiding in the tree line, he added his voice to 
hers, singing his love to her. Enchanted with his music, Lystras heart was 
swayed, and she called Tristan to her. Within the river, the two lovers 
embraced, lingering in each others arms until the men of each clan dragged them 
apart. Flint leaned close to the girl and lowered his voice. But their love 
could not be denied. In midnight trysts, they would meet by the river, their 
love growing ever deeper.
By now the girls eyes had grown large.
Then their forbidden love was discovered, and they were once again torn apart. 
Lystras father cast a spell that called the sea to swell up and separate their 
two peaks and keep his daughter forever from the son of his enemies. Unknown to 
her father, the night the spell was cast, Lystra and Tristan had met for one 
last kiss by the river. As the spell took hold, the young lovers refused to 
break their embrace as the sea rose between them. While the swelling waters 
tugged them apart, they still tried to hold tight. With arms reaching for each 
other, they sang of their unending love. Their music and pain flowed up to the 
gods themselves, who took pity on the young lovers and changed them to stone so 
Tristan and Lystra could be forever united, forever embracing across the channel 
between the islands. Sy-wen sighed and glanced toward the span of stone. To 
this day, the Arch is a special spot, Flint finished. In boats adorned with 
flowers, lovers come to recite their vows of love and be united under the Arch. 
In the hearts of these fresh lovers, the ancient song of Tristan and Lystra can 
still be heard.
How beautiful, Sy-wen mumbled.
Kast had heard enough of this nonsense and cleared his throat. Its just 
stone, he said sourly. Just rock carved by wind and rain. Flint groaned. 
Does a Bloodriders heart have no room for
romance?
Kast ignored the question and nodded ahead. Weve reached the
Arch, as you instructed. What next?
But Flint would not let his words pass so easily. You think the Arch is mere 
stone, nothing more?
Kast just stared straight into the old mans eyes.
Flint waved toward the Arch. Then sail on through it.
Kast adjusted the spread of the sail and straightened the rudder. He aimed for 
the channel that passed under the Arch. He had traveled this path a few times 
with boats of the fishing fleet. The Arch marked the end of the chain of islands 
and the beginning of the Great Ocean itself. It was the gateway to the open sea.
Sy-wen made room as Flint slid toward the prow of the skiff. From inside his 
sealskin jacket, he removed what looked like an ivory knife. As he held it up 
toward the cresting sun, Kast saw that it was not a blade but the tooth of some 
large beast. It was a handspan long, slightly curved, with a chipped, serrated 
edge. Kast could not imagine what manner of beast the tooth came from. Whatre 
you doing, Flint? Kast called to the man. Just trying to remove the scales 
from your eyes, he said. Kast now had the boat squarely pointed toward the 
center of the Arch. The edge of the sun lay directly ahead, just peeking up from 
the curved blue horizon.
Look! Sy-wen suddenly called out, pointing ahead. Kast had already seen them. 
In the open waters beyond the Arch, a group of familiar boats rounded the cliff 
head of the Isle of Tristan and bore full sails toward them. It was Jarplins 
hunting fleet. Kast had thought he had lost the boats by skimming through a 
network of channels too shallow and too narrow for the larger ships. Whether 
through dumb luck or skill, the fleet had found them again.
They mustve been circling the deeper channels around the Archipelago hunting 
for us, Flint commented.
Kast bore down on the rudder, trying to make a sharp turn before reaching the 
Arch. Maybe they had not been seen yet.
But Kasts hope was short-lived. Across the far waters, raised voices echoed to 
them. They had been spotted.
At the prow, Flint swore. Kast thought he was mad that the fleet had cut them 
off, but his next words made the focus of his anger clear. Damn it, Kast! he 
yelled over his shoulder. Straighten this boat around. We must cross the Arch.
Well end up smack in the middle of the fleet, he argued. Is that what you 
want? Stealing Jarplins dragon will not make us welcome guests aboard his 
ships.
Just do as I say, Bloodrider! Flint glanced at him, his eyes hard. If youve 
ever trusted a man, trust me now!
For a flash, Kast pictured his teacher, the blind seer of the
Drerendi. Then it was his turn to swear loudly, his voice pained as he made his 
choice. Why was he always a fool for a madmans words? He hauled on the rudder 
and yanked the sail, and again the skiff sped straight toward the span of 
volcanic stone.
Kast stared ahead as spray spat at him from the waves, mocking him with salty 
stings. Past the Arch, the seas filled with the billowing sails and sharp prows 
of the fleet. As he aimed the skiff toward them, Kast wondered who was the real 
madman on this boat.
Hurry! Flint called out. We must reach the Arch before they do! Kast swung 
the sail, seeking stronger breezes, tacking with the skill of his people. But 
the bigger boats had the better winds and swifter speed. The fleet bore toward 
the Arch like a surging storm of sail and rigging. Kast struggled with the 
skiff, but they would never win this race. And he knew why. The dragon slows us 
too much, he mumbled to himself.
He had meant his words only for himself, but the girl heard him. She turned hard 
eyes toward him for a heartbeat, then swung to the starboard rail. Lowering a 
hand to the water, she sang out across the black waters. Within a moment, a nose 
reached toward her from the water.
She leaned over the rail. Conch, we must be swift to escape these sharks. She 
nodded toward the rolling fleet.
Though unfamiliar with seadragons, Kast recognized the pain in the creatures 
black eyes. The Bloodrider also saw the understanding. Conch puffed explosively 
and nudged Sy-wens hand aside. His body heaved in a huge swell beside the skiff 
and dove forward. In humps of undulating muscle, he swam to the front of the 
boat, now dragging the skiff behind him.
Kast fell backward as the skiff jumped forward. Flint, at the prow, finally 
realized what was happening. No! he yelled. The exertion will kill him. That 
must not happen!
Sy-wen answered him. He will die anyway if captured again. This is his only 
chance, and he knows it. Conch would rather die in the sea than in the nets of 
the hunters.
Flints lips were tight as he considered her words. He turned
forward.
Silence descended upon the skiff. The seas ahead were a wall of gnashing prows. 
Kast used all his hard-earned skill to tack with the wind, trying his best to 
ease the dragons burden. Yet his efforts

seemed minuscule compared to the power of the seadragon. Kasts long braid of 
black hair now waved behind him as the skiff sped across the waters.
Sy-wen cowered near Flint, her eyes fixed on the other ships cutting through the 
waves to intercept them.
Almost almost Flint intoned at the prow.
The sea channel beyond the Arch was now so crammed with boats, Kast did not know 
if even the small skiff could maneuver between them.
Ahead, as the dragon crossed the Arch, Flint leaned over the front of the boat, 
one hand holding him from toppling into the sea, the other extending the long 
white tooth forward like some miniature battering ram before the prow. 
Godspeed! he yelled.
The man was surely mad.
Then the skiff, dragged by the dragon, reached the Archand time slowed to a 
thick syrup. Kast saw the tip of Flints tooth pierce the space under the span 
of rock. And where the tooth touched, the view through the Arch changed! Like a 
drop of dye dripped into water, this new image spread out from the tip of the 
tooth. It grew large enough to swallow the skiff as it sped through the Arch.
Once they passed under the stone vault, Kast released the guide rope, and the 
sail fluttered slack to the single mast. The skiff slowed its glide across the 
waves. Kast stood up near the boats bow. This cannot be!
He searched around him, his eyes wide, his lips parted. Mindless of the boats 
balance, he swung in a circle. The Arch was gone! Jarplins fleet was nowhere in 
sight. Around him, very distantly, he could make out other islands of the 
Archipelago. He would swear to the south of them stood the Isle of Maunsk, but 
that island lay a thousand leagues away from their last position.
Kast swung around to stare astern. The sun now rose behind the boat, not in 
front of it. His legs began to tremble.
Sit down, Kast, Flint said. Youll capsize us.
His legs, weak already, obeyed. Kast sat down and found Flints eyes upon him.
Sy-wen sat straight backed in her corner of the skiff, her green eyes large and 
moist as she too searched the waters around her. The blanket over her shoulders 
had fallen away, exposing her bare chest.
Kast glanced quickly away. Wh-where are we? he asked.
Flint pointed to a large island directly ahead of the skiffs prow. Kast had 
been through these waters before and did not remember this island. Squinting, he 
peered at it.
It was shaped like a large horseshoe, its curving shore open like inviting arms. 
Three mountains marked its silhouette, one at each end of the island and the 
largest in the center. Yet as unique as this island appeared, it was what 
sprouted up from the centermost peak and spread outward toward the other 
mountains that captured Kasts gaze. Hundredsno, thousandsof towers and domed 
buildings sprouted and dotted the island. Near the shore, the broken tips of 
some spires rose from the sea itself, like some man-made reef. Is it Is it ? 
Kast could not find his words. It is, Flint said with a nod. There stands 
Aloa Glen. Sy-wen tested the name on her own lips. She was obviously stunned, 
too. Aloa Glen ?
Kasts mouth was too dry, his tongue stuck in his throat. How did we ? His 
next words had an edge of anger in them. Ive been through these very waters!
Yes, of course you have, Flint said. But the island is cloaked in sorceries. 
Its shores can only be seen or approached via three paths, and even those secret 
ways require certain keys. Flint held up the
curved tooth.
Kast could not tear his eyes from the sight of the mythic city.
The the Arch ?
And you thought it was mere stone, Flint said with a tired smile. Now if you 
two are done gawking, maybe we can sail to port and get some help for this 
childs wounded dragon.
Sy-wen jumped slightly and leaned over the boats edge. She blushed, obviously 
embarrassed at having forgotten her friend in the excitement. Conch? she 
called in a worried voice, a hand reaching
toward the waves.
With a huff of expelled air, Conchs flared nostrils rose from the water, but he 
was too weak to reach her palm, exhausted by his run for the Arch. Hes in poor 
shape, Sy-wen said, stating the obvious.
Were almost to safety, Flint consoled, but his worried brow weakened the 
reassurance in his words.
Kast took a deep breath, then reached for the sails rope. The simple routines 
of sailing always calmed his heart. As he worked the ropes and rudder, the sail 
caught the wind again and swelled out.
With the: skiff under way, he found his tongue again. Flint, yousaid bytha 
W JUdgC thC f3te f thC ty- What dld yu me^n
Flint turned toward the sunken towers of the city. Youll find all your answers 
at Aloa Glen, he said, then lowered his voice to a cryptic mumble. But I hope 
you know the right questions, Kast 
JOACH SUPPRESSED A SHUDDER AS THE STONE DOOR SWUNG SHUT BEHIND
him. He was now trapped within the narrow, dimly lit passage with the large, 
white-robed brother. The dark-skinned man had introduced himself as Brother 
Moris and, after hauling the snoring Brunt under one muscled arm, he had waved 
for Joach to accompany him inside the secret passage.
For a moment, Joach regretted accepting the brothers invitation. He pushed one 
hand against the door behind him. It was snugly locked. The tunnel ahead of him 
was blocked by the large man, now burdened with Brunt.
What what are you planning to do with the kitchen boy? he asked, shying 
around the bigger questions for the moment.
He has a sick spirit and could grow to be a threat to the island. After using a 
potion to cleanse his memory, we will dump him at the orphanage in Port Rawl. 
Hell be no further threat to you.
Though Joach shared no love for the cruel boy, he was taken aback by the casual 
manner in which the brother planned to orphan the boy. His parents ?
Moris glanced over his shoulder at Joach. The brother had his cowl thrown back 
in the tunnel, and his bald head shone in the flickering lamplight. His low 
voice reverberated in the hallway. Dont worry, Son. The boy has no parents. 
All the servants here have been scavenged from orphanages across the lands or 
were folks rejected by the world at large. The brother continued down the hall. 
We only choose those without a past to join us here.
Joach followed the brothers wide back to a tight staircase that wound down 
toward the bowels of the Edifice. And what of me?
That waits to be seen. Moris spoke as he marched ahead. Why did you return 
here this morning?
Joach swallowed hard. I heard you yesterday on the stair
You were eavesdropping.
Y-yes, but I had to. I dont know who to trust here.
So while acting a lie, you sought the truth? Joach heard the doubt in the 
others voice. I guess
Who sent you here ?
Sent?
Yes, who sent you to spy upon our Brother Greshym?
Joach stumbled a step and stopped. Did these cloaked brothers not know about the 
darkmage, or worse yet, were they in league with him? If the last was true, he 
was doomed.
Moris heard him stop and swung around, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Do you 
serve the Dark Lord? he said harshly. Did you come at the bidding of that 
nesting serpent in the towerthe
Praetor?
Joachs eyes grew wide. So these brothers knew of the evil that masqueraded as 
their leader! Joach found his tongue twisted as he tried to speak. Here truly 
were allies! No no, not at all. Just the opposite. I know he is evil. I was 
stolen from my home by the one you name Greshym. But like the Praetor, he is a 
creature of evil, a darkmage. They are in league together. Joach stood on the 
steps in the secret staircase and spilled forth his story. Like a river bursting 
its dam, words tumbled from his lips. He told of his abduction, his enslavement 
by Greshym, the cruelties he had endured, and his eventual release in the Grand 
Courtyard. Tears now flowed down his
cheeks.
Moris listened to his tale in silence, seeming to know that any interruption of 
the story would lead to Joach collapsing in blubbering tears. It was a tale that 
needed telling, and Brother Moris simply let it
flow from the boy.
 I didnt know who else worked in league with the Gulgotha, so I continued 
acting like the dumb servant while I explored for a way to escape. I didnt know 
who to trust. Joachs words finally ran
dry in his throat.
Moris reached his free hand to Joachs shoulder. You can trust me. Joachs 
legs trembled with the brothers touch. It had been so long
since any kindness had been shown to him.
Moris leaned closer to his face. Can you make it down the stairs?
I think this is a tale that needs sharing with my brothers.
He nodded.
You are one tough boy, Joach, Moris said, clasping his shoulder
t_j l. r. lvj. l. >- 
if1:.!
tighter. Braver men would have folded under the assault you endured. You should 
be proud.
Joach sniffed back his tears and straightened his shoulders. I did it for my 
sister.
Ah, Brother Moris said with a slight smile on his lips. And where is she now? 
Is she still back home in Wintertown?
Winterfell, Joach corrected. He had only glancingly mentioned Elena in his 
story. Feeling protective of her, he was hesitant at revealing the true role she 
had played, so he had skipped over parts of the story that dealt with witches 
and blood magicks. But was his decision wise? Here was someone who could be 
trusted, and if Elena was headed to Aloa Glen she would need allies, too.
If able, well get you back to your sister, Moris said as he turned away and 
started down the stair.
Joach did not follow. Wait, he called. My sister is not in Winter-fell 
anymore.
Moris stopped, swinging back around once again. A trace of impatience twitched 
his cheek. Where is she then?
Joach lowered his face, ashamed at having to reveal the part of the story he had 
left out. She is coming
Suddenly a deep resonant intoning throbbed from far below. It reached up through 
the stones and rattled his bones. He found further speech impossible. Each tooth 
in his skull ached with every rumble. He covered his ears, but it did not help. 
It was not a noise heard with the ears as much as it was an assault on the whole 
body.
From Moris narrowed eyebrows and cocked head, the brother heard the rumble, 
too.
What was happening? Joach wondered. Fear finally freed his tongue. What is that 
noise? he muttered, his voice sounding meek and dull compared to the bottomless 
tones reaching up from below.
His voice broke the spell that had swept over Moris. The brother shifted his 
burden higher under his arm and glanced with suspicious eyes in his direction. 
You hear something?
A fleeting thought that the man was perhaps mad passed through Joachs mind. How 
could he not hear it? His entire frame vibrated like some plucked bowstring with 
each note. How could I not? Its its huge. He knew it sounded stupid to use 
that word, but it best described how it affected him.
Moris climbed a step closer to him. You truly hear! he said with
wonder. Then, in a more contemplative tone, What are the odds of
that?
What is it?
Moris did not seem to hear his question. We must hurry. It is the
summons.
I dont understand, Joach said as Moris swung around.
Only a handful of people born can hear this music, he explained as he led the 
way down the stairs again. He kept the pace brisk. It is the single trait that 
separates a Hifai from the others of
the Brotherhood.
You mean no one else can hear this? Joach asked, having a hard time keeping 
the doubt from his voice. The whole Edifice must be shaking with this noise.
No, only those born with a certain elemental ability in their
blood, a magick born of the land.
Joach pictured his sisters blazing red hand. But I hear it It almost tears at 
me.
Yes, the magick must be strong in you. I would love to explore your genealogy 
sometime, but right now we must answer the call. He increased his pace. We 
must hurry.
Still you havent answered my question, Joach persisted as he followed, almost 
trotting to keep up. What is that noise? Where
does it come from?
Moris glanced one last time in his direction and silenced Joach with his answer. 
It is the song of the stone dragon, the voice of Ragnark.
The summons!
Greshym awoke with his heart thundering for the second time this morning. He sat 
straight up on his bed. Earlier he had thought he heard the name Ragnart 
whispered in his ear, pulling him from sleep. But only the spell-cast boy shared 
his cell. Dismissing it as just an echo of some deeply buried memory, he had 
settled back to his bed. But once reminded, the old memories could not be so 
easily hidden away.
None but the Hifai knew the ancient name of the stone dragon, and that sect had 
been disbanded ages ago, drummed from the Brotherhood, its members long dead. 
Greshym would have been among them, too, had his cowardice not saved him. Deep 
under the Edifice, he had dabbled in divining the future, but his visions had 
frightened him. Ripping the star from his ear, he had fled, afraid to face his 
own auguries. It had proven to be a timely act of cowardice. A moon later, the 
elders ordered the exile of the Hifai from Aloa Glen. Greshym had then watched 
from the docks as his fellow brothers were led off in shackles.
He never saw any of them again.
No, none but he still lived who knew the name of Ragnark.
Finally content that the whispered name was nothing but a fragmented dream, 
sleep had found him again. He had rested deeply until, rippling up from the 
bowels of the Edifice, the summons had torn into him.
He had flung himself upright, expecting the ancient feeling to dis-
J A M UK
appear like the ghostly name of Ragnark, but it had not! The raking call 
followed him from his nightmares into the waking world. It was the call of the 
stone dragon!
The shuddering wail did not fade as he slid his feet to the threadbare rug 
covering the cold stones.
Something was amiss. With the sinking of Aloa Glen, the lower regions of the 
Edifice had flooded. When he had first arrived with Shorkan ages ago, curiosity 
had driven him to seek out the passages that led to his old warren of cells 
below the castle. What he had found were just halls drowned in brackish waters 
and doorways bricked closed. There was no way to reach the chambers below the 
Edifice. Greshym had assumed that the mysteries of the nether regions were 
secrets lost in the past. That was, until now. But what did it mean?
He stood up. His legs trembled slightly. Grabbing his poiwood staff, he sensed 
the black energies that wormed within the wood of his crutch. It stoked his 
confidence. He knew not what trick was being played here, but he must let 
Shorkan know.
As he swept into his white robe, a passing concern that his boy had not yet 
returned skated across his mind, but he let it glide away. It was still early, 
and the kitchens were probably just completing their morning cooking. The 
kitchens had been running slow for the past few weeks. He pictured Joach 
standing dull eyed by the hearths, awaiting the preparation of his masters 
meal. If Joach returned before him, the boy would simply wait in the cell for 
his masters next
order.
Greshym crossed to the door and left his room. Following the twisting corridors 
and dusty halls, he reached the Praetors Spear and climbed to the roost of his 
fellow darkmage. The guards as usual ignored him as he worked his way up the 
tower stairs. Even as his heart pounded with each rumble from Ragnark, he had 
to rest frequently on his climb; his old body tired so easily. Finally, he 
reached the huge ironbound oak doors and rapped his knuckles hard.
Shorkan was not expecting him, and it took two more series of knocks before the 
door finally swung open before him. Greshym bustled into the room, appreciating 
its warmth and thick carpets after the drafty chill of the halls.
But his reception by Shorkan was anything but inviting. Why do
Of all the islands, this is his home. He was here before the first tower was 
built.
Who is this person?
Not a person. He is a creature of pure elemental power, a nexus of weaving 
energy buried in the heart of the island. Like a lodestone, his power attracted 
the mages who went on to build on this island. None knew of his existence until 
he called out to the mages gifted with elemental magicks and gathered them to 
him. Deep under the rock of the island, the sect of the Hifai was forged by his 
summons.
And what matter of creature is this Ragnark?
Im not entirely sure. Half buried in the volcanic rock of the islands core is 
a crudely carved statue of a dragon. Posed as if curled in slumber, it is more 
just a rough outline than a true rendering. Some say Ragnark is a spirit 
trapped in this statue; others say he truly is a sleeping dragon, lost in 
slumber for so many ages that he has forgotten his own shape, letting it fade 
into this crude form. Continually asleep, his spirit lives in the dreaming, 
outside time itself, no longer fixed in the present but flowing throughout time. 
When we communed with him, we could see glimpses of the future and the ancient 
past.
Shorkans eyes had grown huge. And you told me none of this before?
We were sworn to secrecy. After the fall of Aloa Glen, I thought Ragnark long 
dead, drowned in his subterranean lair. What do ancient histories matter today?
So why tell me this now?
Ragnark is not dead. He has begun to call again. His voice speaks to the 
magick in my blood.
Shorkan began to turn away. Then let us seek out this Ragnark. He could prove 
a useful tool in the hands of the Gulgotha.
Greshym snatched at the cuff of the Praetors robe, surprised at how sick such a 
thought made him. His emotions confused him. What did he care if Ragnark was 
consumed by the Dark Lord? Still he did not let go of Shorkans sleeve. We we 
cant do that. The paths below are all flooded or blocked off. There is no way 
to reach him.
I will find a way. With you guiding me, Im sure we can forge a new path. 
Black energies began to crackle along the edges of the
JAMES ^LtMtK) JT
praetors red robe. The master has granted me gifts to keep nothing
from my reach.
Greshym let go of the robe and wiped his hand on his white cloak, aS if removing 
a sticky foulness. As the call of the stone dragon echoed in his head, he 
regretted his decision in coming here. For some reason, he did not want Shorkan 
near Ragnark. His hesitation kept his tongue silent on one last matter 
concerning the dreaming dragon, one other prophecy concerning Ragnark.
Actually it was more a promise than a vision: When he was most needed, it was 
said that Ragnark would wake from his eternal slumber, shake off the rock of 
the island, and move again. His awakening would mark the beginning of the Great 
War, heralding its first conflict: the battle for Aloa Glen.
Greshym shuddered. No, he did not want Shorkan near Ragnark, fearing he might 
disturb the giants sleep. But was the dragon truly slumbering? Why, after so 
long a time, had Ragnark begun to
call again?
And why, behind the song of the stone dragon, could Greshym hear the horns of 
battle and the clash of steel?
Greshym followed Shorkans broad shoulders as he headed for the oaken door, but 
his knees shook. Somewhere far below the roots of the tower lay a beast Greshym 
had fled long ago.
And centuries later, he was in no hurry to return.
Some beasts were best left sleeping.
A FOREST OF STONE TOWERS GLIDED PAST EITHER SIDE OF THE SKIFF.
Here stood the mythic city of Aloa Glen. Sy-wen had to lean far back to see the 
tops of the shattered structures. Craning her neck, she stared up at the ancient 
monuments of the drowned city. Algae and moss choked the bricks of the lower 
levels, while nesting terns and gulls argued for territory among the crannies of 
the higher levels. Windows long open to the wind and rain stared back at her, 
almost accusingly. How dare she disturb the graves of the dead?
Sy-wen found herself cringing slightly from the sight.
Swing a bit starboard! Flint called from the tip of the prow. The older man 
leaned over the edge of the boat and studied the waters ahead for obstacles. He 
had an oar across his knees that he had been
using to slowly paddle them through the ancient byways of the sunken city. They 
had cut the sail as soon as the boat entered the watery graveyard of leaning 
towers, cracked domes, and crumbling walls. It was too dangerous to allow the 
wind alone to guide them through the treacherous maze.
Near the bow, Kast swung his own oar to the opposite side of the skiff and 
gently prodded at the algae-slick brick of a nearby pillar. Crabs clinging to 
the ancient stones skittered away from the tip of his oar. The boat spun a bit 
to the right, and Kast began to paddle again.
Conch surfaced with a weak huff of expelled air near Sy- wens elbow. She 
reached for his nose, but he sank again, too tired to keep his head above water 
for longer than a breath. He weakened rapidly as he swam through the choking 
kelp beds and reefs of brick and stone to keep up with the slow skiff. Emotions 
warred within Sy-wen. She knew they needed to hurry if Conch was to reach the 
healers while he still breathed. But at the same time, she wanted to slow and 
allow the exhausted Conch to rest. Even this dragging pace severely taxed her 
dear friends heart.
Sy-wen rubbed at the tender webs between her fingers, nervous and fearful for 
her mothers bondmate. If Conch should die
Almost there! Flint called with a renewed vigor in his voice.
The boat rounded the bole of an immense tower to get a clear view of the 
coastline ahead. The city climbed out of the sea in a series of terraces that 
led up the slopes of the centermost peak of the island. Now closer to the shore, 
Sy-wen saw that what had seemed the crown of the mountain was actually a huge 
castle built on the peaks . summit. Sprouting from the top of the massive, 
towered structure [, were the skeletal branches of a monstrous tree, leafless 
and long dead t like the city itself.
A stray sea breeze chilled her skin. She shivered as the boat glided closer to 
the shoreline. To either side of the city rose high, sheer cliffs that seemed to 
reach out toward the tiny boat. Her eyes wide, she studied the world of the 
landwellers. Except for the rare times she would sun herself on an isolated 
sandbar, she had never walked on land. Though her heart began to beat fiercely 
in her throat, a part of her thrilled at the chance to explore the paths walked 
by the banished. She continued to stare at the countless windows that opened
onto abandoned homes. I never imagined there were so many, she mumbled.
What was that? Flint asked from nearby.
Sy-wen shrank shyly from his gaze, but his concerned eyes loosened her tongue. 
It helped to talk. I was just surprised that there were so many of our people 
banished from the sea.
Banished?
Sy-wen waved her arm to encompass the city ahead and behind them. All those 
homes. I never knew so many of the merai had been forced from the sea onto the 
land.
The old mans eyes crinkled in confusion for a heartbeat, then relaxed into 
amusement. He chuckled under his breath. Oh, my dear child, who ever gave you 
the idea that the shores were only populated by exiled merai?
Her cheeks reddened with his laughter. She was half angry, half embarrassed.
He reached a hand and patted her knee. Sy-wen, not a single merai has walked 
the shores of the Archipelago for over five centuries.
The shock must have been obvious on her face. But ?
Before the fall of Alasea, the merai and the fishermen of the shorelines lived 
alongside each other, working the seas together in harmony and cooperation. It 
was a time of peace and shared prosperity. But then the Gulgotha came, and 
darkness claimed the land. To escape the reach of the Dark Lord, your people 
fled to the deep oceans, exiling themselves forever from the corruption of the 
land. For the five centuries of the Dark Lords reign, no merai has since 
returned to the shores of Alasea.
Sy-wen sat back upon her pile of blankets, stunned by his words and story. Five 
centuries? But the banished of my people, where did they go if not to the land?
Flint shrugged, but Sy-wen caught a quick glance toward Kast before the old man 
turned away. I dont know, but your people were always harsh in their 
punishments, unforgiving as the sea itself.
Wrapping the blanket tightly over her shoulders, Sy-wen sank deeper into her own 
thoughts. So then where did the banished go if not expelled to the world of 
stone and rock? She remembered how a dragon bonded to one of the banished merai 
would pine for many
moons, the seas echoing with its lost, forlorn cries. The great-hearted beasts 
only did this one other timewhen their bondmate died.
Sy-wens heart grew cold. A stony realization began to settle in her chest. 
Tears came to her eyes. If what Flint said was true
She choked back a sob, her heart unable to deny his words. If the old man spoke 
the truth, then those who broke merai law werent banishedthey were filled.
Remembering the pining wail of the dragons, she stared up at the cliffs ahead. 
Tears blurred her sight, and her stomach began to sicken. She was suddenly less 
concerned about leaving the sea.
Behind her, Kast spoke up into the silence. Where to now, Flint? he asked. I 
see no port, no dock.
The citys piers are over yonder, Flint answered, waving toward the opposite 
side of the city. But we arent going to the main port. Too many eyes, too many 
questions.
Kast lifted his oar from the water. Then where? Flint pointed toward one of 
the sheer cliff walls to the left of the city. Guide us over there, Kast.
Sy-wen kept her arms wrapped around her belly as the boat slid toward the 
towering wall of rock. She listened to the little paddled splashes as the skiff 
was propelled.
Head toward that fall of rock just ahead! Flints words drew Sy-wens eyes. 
His arm pointed to where a section of the cliff wall had cracked and tumbled 
into the sea. We need to get to the far side of the rubble and out of sight of 
the main city.
Kast grunted his acknowledgment and adjusted his paddling to round the boat 
toward the rockfall. He used the paddle as a rudder to turn them into a tiny bay 
formed by the boulders and cliff walls.
Sy-wen glanced behind them. With the view blocked, she no longer saw the towers 
of the terraced city. She twisted around. Even the sunken section of the city 
was out of the direct view of the tiny bay. It was as if the city had vanished 
in a blink. Now what? Kast asked gruffly.
Sy-wen studied the cliff face. Were they to dock here and climb the jagged, damp 
rock?
This is the entrance to the Grotto, Flint explained. He raised a hand to his 
lips and made a sharp, warbling whistle.
James Siemens ^ .j ^ _
Not more magick, Kast grumbled sourly. He gripped his paddle on his lap with 
white knuckles.
Sy-wen shrank down, not knowing what to expect. She prepared for another jump in 
location like at the Arch. Still, what actually occurred startled her.
A section of the cliff face suddenly shimmered and parted into huge folds, 
revealing the mouth of a sea tunnel behind it. She cringed back from the 
miracle. Then she spotted the two robed men on either side of the entrance with 
long hooked poles in their arms. She blinked a few times as the men used the 
poles to draw wider the entrance to the tunnel. It took her a few moments to 
recognize what
was happening.
Kast put into words her own surprised realization. Its not magick, just a 
camouflaged leather drape.
Sealskin actually, Flint corrected. It takes the dyes better when painted to 
match the rock of the cliff, and weathers well, too.
Kast swore under his breath as he turned the prow of the boat to point at the 
opening.
Not everything requires magick, Flint continued. It is a precious commodity 
and not to be wasted when a simple trick works
better.
Wh-where does it lead? Sy-wen asked as the boat swung
toward the tunnel.
Flint squeezed her hand reassuringly. It is only a little ways. Flints words 
proved to be somewhat false. The sea tunnel led deep into the island, twisting 
this way and that. It took a moment of coaxing to encourage Conch to follow. But 
Sy-wens touch and soft words finally convinced the weakening dragon. She saw 
the shocked look, mixed with awe, on the faces of the silent entrance guards as 
they glided into the tunnel.
As they traveled, Sy-wen studied the walls, which were aglow with occasional 
torches. To either side of the channel was a stone walkway used by the entrance 
guards. Behind the boat, Sy-wen could see Conchs nose occasionally surface. The 
passage was too narrow for the dragon to swim beside them. Even this bit of 
separation made her edgy. She kept glancing back to her friend to ensure he 
still followed.
Finally, after a time that seemed like forever, the tunnel em]
into a fair-size subterranean lake. The crystal-calm waters were wide enough to 
accommodate even one of the larger fishing boats that hunted the sea.
There is a dock directly ahead, Flint said, pointing.
Sy-wen sat up straighten The far side of the lake ended at a small rock beach. 
She spotted a wooden jetty protruding like a tongue at them.
Kast guided the boat toward it. Where are we? Flint had his ear cocked as if 
listening to something other than the tattooed mans question. He held up a hand 
for silence, then turned to them, his face much more dour. We must hurry. Time 
runs short. The summons is already well under way.
What are you talking about? Kast asked. The dragon awakens, Flint said, a 
trace of fear in his voice. Sy-wen stared behind her at Conch. What did he mean? 
Of course the seadragon was awake.
Paddle toward the pier, Flint insisted.
A group of white-robed men appeared from a nearby tunnel and rushed down the 
wooden dock. Their clopping steps echoed across the still water. Even from 
across the lake, Sy-wen could see that their arms were burdened with red, 
steaming pots.
The healers, Flint said with a nod toward the gathered men. He dug his paddle 
deep into the water to encourage the skiff to a faster speed. Theyve been 
waiting since dawn.
Kast also lent his strong arms and back to propel the boat toward the dock. 
Within a few anxious moments, hands were reaching out for flung mooring lines, 
and the skiff was secured to the piers end.
A relieved sigh flowed from Sy-wens chest. They had made it! She allowed 
herself to be hoisted from the boat, keeping the single woolen blanket wrapped 
over her bare chest.
Flint spoke at her side, his voice hurried. We have no time to lose. You must 
get your bondmate to beach himself up on the shore here so the healers can work 
on him.
Sy-wen nodded. Throwing the blanket from her shoulders, she dove cleanly into 
the shallow water. Ignoring the frigid snap of the sunless pool, she swam to 
where Conch rolled listlessly beside the skiff.
He swung a large black eye toward her as she touched his neck. His scales were 
so cold. Her fingers found the rope tether tied
James ^, lumens.
around his withers. He needed to be cut free. Her fingers reflexively sought her 
knife sheath. Empty. She had forgotten it was lost when
she had been captured.
She kicked to the surface and found the eight healers staring back at her. Flint 
stood among them, while Kast was finishing securing
the skiff.
Cut his tether! she called. He cant reach the shore while tied to
the boat.
Kast! Flint called out, but the tattooed man had already heard. A flash of 
silver, and the knot that held the dragon to the boat was
severed.
Conchs snout surfaced beside Sy-wen. He snorted and shook his
head slightly, as if sensing his freedom.
Come with me, Sy-wen urged her friend.
Reaching a hand to his chin, she encouraged him to keep his nose above water and 
follow her as she swam toward the pebbled shore. There are healers here who 
will help you mend.
Conch snuffled and bumped at her hand. He would do as she
asked.
As she guided her friend, Sy-wen soon felt the shore rise under her feet until 
she could stand in the shallows. Wobbling a bit, she backed until only her 
ankles were still in the water. Free of the sea, her body seemed weighted with 
anchors. Both the slippery rocks and her own inexperience with walking on land 
kept her balance shaky.
Conch followed her, heaving himself in short bursts of energy until he finally 
lay exhausted at the shores edge. He tried to raise his head for one final 
push, stretching his neck toward Sy-wen. But it was too much for his weakened 
body, and his head sank back down
to the smooth pebbles.
That is far enough, Flint said at Sy-wens shoulder. My healers
can work on him from here.
Already the white-robed men were splashing through the shallows, the edges of 
their robes tied high around their thighs. Stone pots of steaming liquid lined 
the shores. The smell from them reminded Sy-wen of stewing seaweed, but an acrid 
sharpness underlay
the herbal scent.
Flint must have seen her gaze and curled nose. Balm of willow-bark and 
bittersroot. It will give Conchs wounds strength against festering and will 
ease his pain.
Sy-wen nodded, barely hearing his words. The gaping gash on Conchs chest from a 
spear thrust held her attention. The scaled edges had curled back from the wide 
wound, exposing the muscles and bone underneath. Sy-wen knew the dangers of even 
minor injuries in the sea. Parasites and contagion soon took root in open 
wounds, leading to pestilence and the rot of flesh. As she stared, sea-water 
drained out from the ragged-edged hole in splashing gouts with each shuddering 
breath of the dragon.
Witnessing the extent of his injuries, Sy-wens heart sank. To confirm her fear, 
she caught one of the healers glance to another and shake his head mournfully. 
They, too, knew death when faced . with it.
Oh, Conch! Tears flowed down her cheeks, and her knees began to give way. Flint 
caught her before she fell. He waved Kast to his side. Help me. She does not 
need to see this.
No, I want to stay and But her words died into sobs. She felt Kast scoop her 
in his arms again.
I know somewhere warm, Flint said. She can rest while the healers work their 
medicines.
Lead on, then, Kast said in his coarse, thick voice. Flint nodded. As he 
turned away, he mumbled something under his breath. Though the words were 
unclear, from his strained and sullen tone, the regret he felt was quite 
evident. He cleared his throat and nodded forward. Its just a little ways.
The passage from the lake chamber reeked of the healers willow-bark potion. Its 
scent was a constant reminder of Conchs dire health. No one spoke as Flint led 
them through the twisting corridor. Sy-wen lay still in Kasts arms, too tired 
and scared for her dear Conch to protest being treated like a child.
They crossed other side passages as they journeyed on through the maze of 
tunnels. Sy-wen tried to pay attention to the path they fol lowed but soon lost 
count of the twists and turns. Even the reek of the healers medicinals finally 
faded.
Kast glanced frequently behind him and crinkled his brow in concentration. He 
hitched Sy-wen higher in his arms. I thought you j said it was only a little 
ways, he said after a while. :
Flints only answer was an arm pointed forward. He seemed pre- ; occupied, 
listening, his head cocked to whispers only he could hear.
Kast followed with a grumble in his chest. Sy-wen suspected the big-boned man 
was just as lost and confused by the passages as she. But with no other choice, 
he followed Flint.
After a time that seemed endless in the narrow passageways, the old sailor 
finally stopped by a torch sizzling in an iron sconce. The tunnel exit was just 
ahead. From the echo of their footsteps, the chamber beyond sounded large.
Flint turned to them, his words and manner odd. Here is where we need to be, 
he said. The boldness in the old man had faded to a sullen attitude. He would 
not even meet either of their eyes. Come. It is time to see how this endgame 
plays.
What are you saying, Flint? Kasts voice had an edge of menace.
Come. He led them into the neighboring chamber.
Kast followed, though his eyes searched ahead warily.
Sy-wen shrank farther into Kasts arms as they entered the large cavern. It was 
roughly circular in shape, the walls imbedded with glowing crystals of varying 
sizes. The source of the glow was the reflected light from a twisted column of 
woody growth, its cracked and gnarled surface dancing with flows of light. It 
reminded Sy-wen of the glowing algae beds that lit the deep reefs of the ocean 
trenches. The light had a quality that seemed unnatural for this landfor this 
world, even.
Wh-where are we? she asked.
The room was also occupied by other people in white robes-close to fifty, Sy-wen 
estimated. They were all positioned at various stations along the walls, hands 
raised to the glowing crystals. Were they other healers?
Sy-wen wiggled free of Kasts arms. It took her a few moments for her legs to 
support her. She leaned on Kast. The robed menand Sy-wen spotted a few womens 
faces among the cowlsglanced toward them as they stepped within the chamber.
I must show you something. Flint led the way across the room.
Kast and Sy-wen followed. Sy-wen kept one hand on the large mans arm to keep 
her feet steady, but she soon found her land legs. She took a few steps on her 
own but stayed near Kasts side just in case. Around her, the eyes of the robed 
ones followed their course. Whispers passed among these others; not all of them 
sounded friendly.
Flint paused near the glowing trunk that pierced the center of the
chamber. He touched his thumb to his lips in respect. The ancient root of the 
koakona, Flint explained, then continued to the far side of the room.
Rounding the thick root, Sy-wen kept a wary watch on its glowing surface. But 
once she was past it, her eyes saw the far wall of the room. A gasp escaped her 
throat.
Etched upon the wall was a monstrous relief of a seadragon curled up on itself 
as if asleep, its wings folded back in slumber. The carved sculpture encompassed 
the entire back wall of the cavern. The dragon depicted, carved of a stone 
blacker than the surrounding rock, was gigantic, three times the size of any 
dragon that ever had swum the oceans. But even this estimate was questionable 
since it lay curled up on itself, its body wound round in a snaking spiral until 
the tip of its tail touched its snout. Its huge head, with its eyes closed, lay 
buried in the center of the coil. Even if she jumped, she did not believe she 
could touch that stone head.
Ragnark, Flint whispered, awe evident in his tone. The single spoken word 
drew the attention of a small, robed man nearby. He removed his fingers from a 
crystal the size of a whales eye and pushed closer to them. His eyes ran like 
cool water over Kast and Sy-wen, then settled on Flint. He pushed back his cowl 
from his bald head. He, too, wore a silver star earring. Brother Flint, you 
should not have brought them. The mans voice was chilly. They are not of the 
Hifai. They have not been summoned.
Brother Geral, Flint said, matching the ice in the others voice, I truly 
wish this burden was not mine, yet it is not Ragnark that has called them 
herebut prophecy.
You and Brother Moris are fools, the other hissed, glancing nervously at the 
dragon sculpture. Ive already communed with Ragnark, and his dreams this 
morning are confused, agitated. Something has disturbed the dragons rest. He 
glanced significantly at Sy-wen and Kast. Nothing will be prophesied this day. 
If Moris ever answers todays summons, he will find no support for his claim.
Just because you dont share Moris vision does not make it false, Flint 
answered.
But he was never a strong weaver. To put so much credence on his visions is is 
foolish. The man now almost trembled with anger.
Flint placed a hand on the others sleeve. I know his words frighten, Geral, 
but they cant be ignored. Other weavers have had similar visions throughout the 
ages. Ragnark will awaken. I can tell from your face that you know it to be 
true. The dragons dreams are confused because already he no longer slumbers as 
deep. Like a sea-dragon rising to the surface, his spirit wakes.
Geral tore his robe free of Flints fingers. You and the others should have 
been cast out from the sect.
Flint shook his head sadly. Do we repeat history, Brother? The Hifai were once 
cast out of Aloa Glen because of words of doom. Do we now do the same?
Flints words seemed to shake the man, whose voice receded from his rage. But 
Moris speaks of our own doom, the death of our sect. The other obviously sought 
some consolation from Flint.
He did not get it, We are doomed, Flint said. The Hifai have protected 
Ragnark for countless centuries. After today, we will no longer be needed. It 
is the time for someone new to take on our burden. Flint reached a hand and 
gently touched Sy-wens arm.
The others shoulders slumped, resigned. Is she merai? he asked in a tired 
voice, finally recognizing her presence. His eyes, cold before, had softened 
into sympathy as they settled on her.
Flint raised Sy-wens hand. Confused by their words, she did not object as Flint 
parted her fingers to reveal her webbing.
You were always a good fisherman, Flint, the other conceded with a quiet 
snort. I heard you netted her dragon, too.
In the Grotto, injured but alive. The healers work to save her
bondmate.
Sy-wen tired of this misinterpretation and cleared her throat to draw their 
attentions. Conch is not my bondmate, she said meekly.
Flint patted her shoulder. Just because you havent actually conceived a child 
does not preclude him from being your bondmate. It is your moons blood that 
bonds you.
I I know. She blushed a bit with the intimacy of the conversation. Conch is 
my friend, but we are not blood-bonded. He is my
mothers dragon.
Flints expression grew wide with shock. But the prophecy was clear the spell 
of release He sank to the stone beside her and gripped her shoulders. Conch 
must be your bondmate!
She shook her head while the small man pulled up his cowl. I told you Moris was 
wrong, Geral said. Relief had raised the pitch of his voice.
A deeper voice boomed behind them. I am not wrong. All turned to stare at the 
huge, dark-skinned man who had come up behind them. He threw back his cowl, his 
bald pate reflecting the glow of the root. Ragnark wakes. This is certain. I 
can hear it in his voice. But the prophecy was precise. When the stone dragon 
moves, the merai and her bonded must be present for the spell to work or Aloa 
Glen is doomed.
A red-haired boy suddenly bumped his way beside the hulking, dark-skinned man. 
His hands covered his ears. Its so loud, the boy cried, his voice raised as 
if trying to call above the sounds of a storm. He winced in pain.
Sy-wen studied the boy. He seemed to be her own age, and his green eyes 
contained as much confusion as her own.
Its the boy from the stairs! Geral said with sudden heat. Moris, how dare 
you bring him here? Hes a creature of the Dark Lord!
No, he is a strong weaver, the dark-skinned man said. Ragnark calls him, 
too.
Geral backed from all of them. You break our laws, Moris! Flint! You expose our 
most sacred secrets to foreigners. And for what? Some diddled vision! The 
prophecy is not coming true. He pointed a ringer so angrily toward Sy-wen that 
Kast stepped in front of her protectively. She arrives without a bonded dragon. 
The prophecy is proven false!
As the man retreated farther, others gathered around Geral. His rage seemed to 
be igniting those near him. Mumbled words of agreement began to spread. They 
must be cast out! Geral finally declared in a booming voice, bolstered by the 
others and his own fear. Even more robed men came to support him. Flint tried to 
argue with them, but the dark-skinned man placed a hand on the old mans 
shoulder. We have failed, Moris said calmly to Flint. The vision was precise. 
Without the bonded dragon, Ragnark will die as he wakes. He will drown in the 
very rock that has held him safe for these many centuries. He cannot be pulled 
free of the stone without the strength of a merai and her bondmate.
Im sorry, Flint said. I just assumed She was a merai, and she protected 
the wounded dragon.
Pi
Suddenly a loud crack exploded across the room. All eyeseven Geralsturned to 
the carved dragon.
Sy-wen knew, regardless of the arguments otherwise, that all here expected the 
stone dragon to move. But it was the boy who pointed out the true source of the 
noise. Over there! His sharp voice drew
all their attentions.
To the left of the dragon, the stone of the wall churned as if made of molten 
rock. As it eddied and swirled in slow, heavy circles, it grew blacker, a bruise 
upon the wall. Soon, where once rock stood, an oily shadow now stained the 
stone. As they all watched, a fist suddenly burst from the shadowy, churning 
blacknessa fist that gripped a long staff with black energies crackling down 
its shaft. The staff seemed to draw the light and the warmth from the cavern. 
Sy-wen sickened at the sight of the malevolent force that danced along the 
shaft. Her belly began to churn to match the swirling shadows. She backed away, 
bumping into Kast. The strange boy now stood near her shoulder. Only she heard 
his whispered words. Hes found me. Ive led him here. Terror laced his words.
From the wall stepped a robed man cloaked in inky shadows. He was hunched and 
bent over his staff. His face was wrinkled and blotched, his eyes milky with 
age. Behind him followed a second, taller man, a contrast in form to the first. 
Straight backed with smooth features, he surveyed the chamber. His face might be 
considered handsome, but it was the beauty of a carved stone: cold, hard,
and cruel.
Sy-wen shuddered at the sight of them. Her insides quaked.
It is the Praetor! Geral called from behind Sy-wen. Weve been
betrayed!
Flint spoke without hope. Our doom is upon us. His words reached inside Sy-wen 
to her shuddering, queasy belly and lit her innards on fire. Gasping, Sy-wen 
suddenly clutched her stomach and fell to her knees, her eyes blind with the 
rising pain. She rocked back and forth, her arms tight. It had never been this 
bad.
The boy was the only one to bend to her aid. We must run, he said, trying to 
get her to stand.
Answering him was beyond her; even standing was impossible as the searing pain 
lanced through her lower belly. Mother below, please not now! Her prayer was not 
answered. A final spasm gripped her belly.
Blood spilled from between her legs, soaking through her skintight leggings, 
more blood than she had ever shed on any of her moons cycles.
Youre bleeding, the boy said, letting go of her shoulder. Hey you, shes 
bleeding! We need to get her out of here.
Kast bent over her, pulled down by the boys tugging arm. His eyes grew wide at 
the sight. He hurriedly took the scarf from around his neck and reached to 
stanch her bleeding.
Sy-wen shoved his arm away, but her eyes fell upon the tattoo of a diving 
seahawk. Free of the scarf, it once again lay exposed on Kasts neck. She froze, 
her breath held in her throat, her eyes fixed by the red-and-black tattoo. Her 
gaze met the hungry stare of the hunting hawk. She could not stop herself, not 
with her heart thundering so loudly. Unbidden, her hand rose toward Kast.
Flint suddenly yelled from nearby, but he sounded far away. No! You must not!
He was too late.
Her fingertips touched the seahawk.

As Joach stooped at the foot of the carved dragon, chaos swirled through the 
cavern. He seemed tossed upon a sea of white robes. Some fled past him, trying 
to escape the two darkmages, while others surged toward the foul men, knives 
appearing from folds in their robes. It seemed not all were so willing to 
forsake their cavern sanctuary to the Dark Lord.
From the far side of the cavern, black flames snapped and spit among the white 
robes. In all the fury, Joach had lost sight of Greshym and the Praetor. Screams 
and rallying yells echoed across the cavern, but more chilling than the crackle 
of black fire was the occasional icy laugh that rose from the battle. It was the 
mirth of a black-hearted conqueror amused by the slaughter and the blood on
his hands.
Unsure in which direction to flee, Joach simply remained crouched beside the 
young girl. His mind spun, and his heart wailed with guilt. How had Greshym 
followed him? The darkmage must have known Joachs act was a ruse all along, and 
he had used Joach as a cat to flush out the rats in the Edifice.
As he crouched, the song of the dragon continued, throbbing and racing through 
the marrow of his bones. It sang to his own heart; it sang of release, of 
escape. Joach wished he could answer it.
Beside him, Joach saw the bleeding young girl reach a hand toward her large, 
black-haired protector. She touched the mans tattooed neck, almost like a 
lover. Kast, she mumbled softly, I need
you. But the man suddenly spasmed as if her fingertips were hot coals. A 
mixture of a gasp and a sigh escaped his throat.
Joach reached toward the man to see if he needed aid, but as his own fingers 
touched Kasts sleeve, his mind suddenly swelled with dragon song. The room 
vanished around him, and Joach found himself floating high above a midnight sea. 
Below him, he saw waters dotted with sleek, red-keeled ships, their prows 
depicting fierce dragons. Thousands of lanterns swung from the ships riggings, 
lighting the boats and the seas around them. Yet this was not the sight that 
caused his blood to thrill. Among the boats, riding the waves like horses in a 
prairie, were countless seadragons, smaller twins to the one named Ragnark, and 
atop their backs were sleek, barechested riders. Joach knew the old fables and 
put a name to these dragonriders. The mer.
Suddenly the view swung closer, as if he were a falcon diving toward the scene. 
He landed upon the deck of the largest of the ships. Weatherworn and 
sea-hardened men surrounded him. But he focused instead on a tall man standing 
on the foredeck. With dark hair peppered in gray, he could have been an older 
brother of the one named Kast. Yet somehow Joach sensed this was no brother but 
an ancestor. He knew that what he viewed now had occurred in the distant past. 
The players were long dead, the boat long rotted and sunk.
A smaller, thin-limbed woman stood before this hard man. Her silver-green hair 
matched that of the girl in the cavern. As the woman raised a tiny hand toward 
the others neck and touched the tattoo, Joach noticed two things: Her hands 
were webbed, and the tattoo some type of hawkmatched the one on Kasts neck. 
The man, who Joach somehow knew was the leader of these ship-bred men, arched 
back from the small mer womans touch, his mouth open in ecstasy. Then the woman 
spoke. Mark all your male children as they come of age with the poison dyes 
from the blowfish and reef octopi as we have taught you. There will come a day 
when we will call you again to our sides, again to be our sharks above the 
water. Do you make this oath willingly and bind your people to us?
I do, the man gasped. Our blood is yours to cast upon the seas. She removed 
her fingers from his neck. Then be free until we call you again to claim your 
dragon heritage.
Suddenly the vision snapped away, and Joach was once again in the cavern. 
Someone had grabbed his shoulders and was yanking him away from Kast and the 
girl. Disoriented, Joach could not find his footing and fell hard to the stone 
floor. He glanced up, rolling away a bit, expecting to see Greshyms hoary face. 
But it was Moris who grabbed at his arm.
Keep back from them, the dark-skinned brother warned. Whats happening? 
Flint asked.
Moris eyes shone brightly, almost as if tears threatened. Dont you see? I was 
wrong. Ragnark warned that a merai and her bonded must be present for him to 
survive his waking. Since Ragnark is a dragon himself, we both just naturally 
thought this meant one of their bonded dragons. But cant you see how we were 
wrong? He pointed at Kast.
The Bloodrider picked up the girl.
Joach regained his feet and watched the eyes of the girls protector glaze over. 
Joach recognized his dull, slack expression. It was a form of the spell that had 
enslaved him to the darkmage.
Joach could not keep silent. Hes bonded to her, he said. Just like in the 
past. The ancient oath. Both brothers glanced briefly at him.
Moris spoke first. I told you the boy was a strong weaver. Kast carried the 
girl away from the conflict still raging on the other side of the chamber. He 
hurried toward the exit.
We should follow them, Joach said nervously. He saw how few of the white-robed 
people still resisted the darkmages. The smell of charred flesh filled the 
cavern. Bodies lay scattered across the stone floor, their whife robes singed by 
darkfire. Joach spotted Shorkan and Greshym, two black islands in a sea of 
white. Black flames danced out from them to lap at those who threatened. So far 
the darkmages had ignored Joachs group. They seemed more interested in the huge 
glowing root in the center of the chamber.
What should we do? Flint asked as he watched Kast stride away. Go to the aid 
of our besieged brothers? Flee?
Joach liked this last choice, but kept silent by Moris side.
No, Flint, Moris answered; his voice had a tone of exultation.
The winds of prophecy blow through this cavern. Nothing we
do from here will change the outcome. He waved his arm to
encompass the entire cavern. All this is just so much sound and
fury. The purpose of the Hifai is ended. It is the time for new warriors to 
carry on the battle for the Light. We are finished.
But we must Shouldnt we ? Flints hands were clenched into fists. Joach 
could tell Flint resisted Moris words. He was not a man used to inaction.
Watch, Moris said simply. He pointed toward the wall behind them all.
The sculpted dragon was the same as ever. Joach did not know what to expect. The 
dragon still called, but since the strange dream of the ships, the song no 
longer seemed directed at him.
Suddenly a small, white-robed man darted in front of the carving. Joach was 
startled to recognize him as the one who had been speaking with Moris on the 
stair, Geral.
You have destroyed us all! Geral screamed, his red eyes drilling at Joach. 
You led the demons to us!
Moris placed a large hand on Joachs shoulder and faced the raging brother. 
Geral, it was over ages ago. This morning was foretold before Aloa Glen had a 
name. Be at peace.
A dagger slid into Gerals hand from a hidden wrist sheath. Not until I cut 
this pestilence from our home. Geral leapt at Joach.
Stunned, Joach found his legs frozen. He raised his arms and winced down, 
expecting the mans weight to slam atop him. But it never happened. After a long 
heartbeat, Joach looked up. A gasp choked out of him, and he scrambled backward.
Geral was stopped in midleap, held above the stone floor by a smoky claw. Geral 
struggled within its grip until he was tossed aside. His head struck a wall, and 
he collapsed in a tangle of limbs.
Stand back, Moris warned, pulling Joach with him. Ragnark comes.
Free of its burden, the claw reached farther out from the wall. It was a 
sculpture of the blackest smoke. It stretched toward the floor of the cavern and 
touched a small wet stain on the rock near the carvings base.
Of course, Moris whispered with sudden insight. Her blood calls the dragon 
forth. The merai girl has not bonded. As with all dragons, her scent lures 
Ragnark. He cannot resist her call. It is the ancient instinct of his 
bloodline.
As they watched, a dragons head carved of smoke rose from its
slumber to extend toward the blood. Its snaking neck unwound from its coil. 
Vague in form, it silently edged toward the blood, wisps of smoke trailing up 
from it as if from a spent fire. It seemed to have no real substance, but 
Gerals unmoving body warned otherwise. The dragon hunched over the small pool 
of blood, drawing forth the rest of its body from the rock. Forelimbs bent tight 
to the rock, and it snuffled at the scent. Then it raised its huge head and 
seemed to spot the girl retreating in Kasts arms.
The pair had reached the large root and were skirting its edge. On the far side 
of the root, Joach saw Greshym raise a hand and point. Even with his weak eyes, 
the old mage had spotted the awakening dragon. Shorkan turned to study the smoky 
beast. Joach enjoyed the look of surprise on the Praetors usual placid 
features.
We are powerless to interfere from here, Moris said behind him. What will 
happen now is beyond our ability to change.
As he spoke, the beast continued to pull free of the rock. Wings of smoke spread 
from its hunched back to reach for the roof of the cavern. As more of the dragon 
escaped its rocky prison, it bunched up on itself, its tail snaking free of the 
stone to whip back and forth like an angry cat. It was a monstrous, hulking 
shadow crouched over the blood of the girl. Its nose followed the path of Kast 
across the
chamber.
Then it opened its cavernous jaws and screamed its lust. Joach fell to his 
knees, his hands over his ears. The pain ripped through his head. He notieed 
others fall to the stone, too, some rolling with the agony of the screech. Joach 
saw even Greshym collapse, his poiwood staff rolling from his stunned fingers.
Hes killing us! Flint exclaimed, bent over in agony. No, Moris said. He had 
somehow kept his feet, though his face was a mask of pain. He bellows his 
challenge.
Joach noticed that three people seemed unaware of the ripping scream. The 
Praetor was unaffected by or simply deaf to the dragons roar, as were two 
others: Kast stepped over the white-robed brothers as he headed for the exit. 
The girl lay curled in his arms, her gaze fastened to the tunnel opening.
The Praetors attention focused on the pair as they crossed the cavern. Shorkan 
strode forth to intercept them, drawn to these two, obviously suspicious of the 
strength that kept them untouched by the
mysterious assault. He raised his arms. Black fire coursed the length of his 
sleeves.
Joachs vision began to blur from tears of pain. The cavern became blotches of 
lightsome dark, some bright. Then as suddenly as it had struck, the roar ended, 
leaving a quaking hollowness in his assaulted skull. He wiped at his tears just 
in time to see the monstrous, shadowy beast surge across the cavern. One moment 
it was a hulking, seething wall of shadows; then in a blink it was gone.
It flew in a streak of smoke, a maelstrom of tendrils and clouds as it bore down 
upon the unsuspecting pair. It banked around the gnarled root in a swirling eddy 
of smoke. Joach winced, knowing that blood would be shed here.
The Praetor also spotted its flight and backed suspiciously from it. Behind him, 
Greshym struggled to rise, using his staff as a crutch. Without turning, Shorkan 
reached a hand back, and Greshyms staff flew from the old ones weak fingers to 
the Praetors fist. Greshym, suddenly unsupported, fell to his arms and knees. 
Shorkan raised the staff before him. His black magicks, drawn like lightning to 
an iron rod, flowed out from the Praetors body to encase the staff in flame.
Shorkan held the blazing weapon before him defiantly, ready for battle.
But his challenge was ignored. The shadow dragon sped without hesitation past 
the darkmage to descend upon its true quarry. Just before it struck, Kast must 
have sensed the approaching menace and swung around, the girl under one arm, a 
knife appearing in his fist as if from the air. It was a poor match for what he 
faced, but Kast did not falter. He crouched in readiness as it struck.
Kast and the girl vanished into the heart of the smoky cloud. Whether consumed 
by the dragon or crushed, Joach cringed against what would be revealed. As he 
pushed finally to his feet, assisted by Moris, he watched the outcome with wide 
eyes.
The cloud roiled about the pair, occasional glimpses of the dragon a snaking 
tail, an unfurled wing, a claw that grasped toward the roofsprouting like 
sudden blooms. But nothing was revealed of the two buried at its heart.
Near the struggle, Greshym had pushed to his feet, still bent with his one hand 
resting on a knee. He hissed at Shorkan, his words loud enough to reach Joachs 
ears. Kill them all before its too late!
The Praetor stood his ground with his staff of darkfire raised before him, but 
he made no move to obey the other.
Now is the only time you can stop Ragnark, Greshym implored. If he takes 
root, he will become flesh!
At that moment, the smoke dragon drew tighter around the pair; its tendrils 
coalesced, and its pall darkened. The swirling smoke became an eddying black 
pool around them.
Strike now! Greshym screamed. Destroy it!
No! Shorkan said. I will have it for my master. The Black Heart will find a 
use for this magickal beast.
You fool! Greshym stumbled forward and tried to grab his staff
from the other.
Shorkan elbowed him away. Stand back!
As they argued, the smoky fog suddenly surged up to form the figure of a dragon, 
its head raised toward the ceiling, its wings spread wide. It screamed once 
again, a piping roar of triumph.
The noise blasted through Joach, closing off all his senses. Blinded, he did not 
even feel himself fall to the stone floor. One moment he was standing, staring 
in awe at the dragon triumphant, and the next he was pushing himself off the 
floor, his teeth aching. He rubbed at a tickle on his neck. His ear bled.
This time, even Moris had not been able to keep his footing. The hulking brother 
shoved to his knees with a groan. Blood welled
from his ears^too.
Joach raised his head, his temples throbbing with even the slightest motion. 
Across the chamber, Greshym fared no better. He lay sprawled upon the floor, 
unmoving. Hopefully dead, Joach prayed.
But as before, the Praetor stood untouched. He searched around himself, 
mystified, still unsure what assault kept knocking the room to its knees. He 
then studied the only other pair untouched by the onslaught. Nearby, Kast 
crouched, the girl still in his arms. But Sweet Mother, the dragon is gone! 
Joach blurted. Flint rolled to his knees. Where did it go?
The Praetor was the first to respond in a coherent fashion. He still held 
Greshyms staff, which was afire with black magicks. I dont understand what 
quality of magick you two possess, he said coldly, obviously believing the two 
to be the source of the smoke trickery, but my master will find you both 
fascinating.
Kast spoke up. Who are you?
Ah, you speak.
The bond between Kast and Sy-wen has been sundered, Flint mumbled beside 
Joach.
The girl spotted the darkmage and struggled to free herself of Kasts arms, but 
he held her secure. Though no longer obligated by magick, he still protected 
her. Youd best let us pass, Kast said with menace. He still had his knife in 
his hand.
Greshym groaned and crawled toward the Praetor. You you cannot defeat 
Ragnark, he warned. We must flee.
Shorkan kicked aside his groping hand. Flee? They have revealed their magick; 
now it is time to demonstrate mine.
With these words, Shorkan pointed his staffnot at the pair but at the glowing 
root. Fire lanced out and struck the thick stalk. At first, the roots glow 
seemed to hold the darkfire at bay, but then fingers of flame spread open like 
some loathsome black claw and grabbed the roots trunk. The chamber jolted 
violently with its contact.
Moris and Flint both gasped.
From its foul grip on the trunk, a river of darkfire now linked root to staff. 
The staff then began to suck the energy of the root to itself, bleeding the tree 
of the last of its ancient magick. Under the assault, the taproot began to 
crumble to dust, its very substance dependent on the magick at its heart.
Overhead the roof groaned as its single support faded. Boulders crashed to the 
floor.
As the last of the roots magick was consumed, the well of darkfire could no 
longer be contained to the staffs length. Black flames cascaded down in fiery 
torrents and bathed the darkmage in a robe of fire. His entire body now flowed 
with power. The air grew frigid as the darkfire drank the heat from the cavern. 
Black ice rippled across the floor from the mages toes. Where it touched the 
collapsed forms of any of the white-robed Hifai, their flesh cracked and 
shattered.
Who could hope to withstand such a creature?
Kast stood his ground. Stand back, he warned again and raised his small dagger 
higher. Its blade reflected the sick light of the black flames.
prom inside the tower of black flame, mad laughter echoed forth, the sound 
drawing the last of the warmth from the room. The Praetor stepped toward them.
Sy-wen watched the creature sculpted of fire stalk toward them. She shook her 
head to clear the spell-cast glaze from her eyes. How many other nightmares 
hunted this cursed cavern? She vaguely remembered that some smoky demon had 
threatened them, but where had it vanished? And now this fire demon laughed at 
them and blocked any chance of escape.
Kast held his dagger higher and backed away, but she knew what approached could 
not be defeated by a quick wrist and a sharp blade. She had only to look to the 
cavern floor littered with singed bodies to know the true danger they faced. She 
wriggled in Kasts arms. Put me down, she scolded. Let me at least fight 
before it kills us.
Kast hesitated a heartbeat, then lowered her to the stone floor. Sy-wens legs 
betrayed herher weight out of water tricking her limbsand she fell hard on her 
backside.
Thats helpful, Kast grumbled under his breath. Even when faced with his own 
death, he had time to insult her. A second dagger had appeared in his other 
hand.
Red faced, Sy-wen scrambled to her feet, scuttling backward while doing so. i  
I can fight.
She straightened and reached to her belt. No dagger lay sheathed there, but she 
was not weaponless. Her fingers found the star-shaped crustacean attached to her 
belt. The stunners poisonous sting could stop a full-grown rockshark, and 
Sy-wen was a skilled wielder of the weapon. She narrowed her eyes and pulled the 
stunner free, using a finger to flip off the protective shell that housed its 
stinger.
Cradling it in the webs of her hand, she pulled her arm back and stepped in 
front of Kast. Fie, girl! Stand aside!
She ignored him and studied the figure for a weak spot. It was best to strike a 
rocksharks eye.
So the little one thinks she has claws, the demon hissed. Sy-wen ignored his 
words, too. Studying the creature, she noticed the only part of the demon free 
of flame was its face. Just as well! She
swung her arm, and with an experienced flip of her wrist, the stunner shot from 
her webbed fingers. It spun and flew true.
Sy-wen had only the feeblest hope the weapon would immobilize the demon, but 
perhaps it could at least delay the creature enough for Kast and her to escape. 
Her strange attack caught the demon off guard. He tried to block the stunner 
with the staff, but he was too slow, and the arc of the spinning sea star curved 
deceptively. It struck him just below the eye, fastening immediately to the 
demons flesh.
What is this th? Then the demon crashed to his knees. He dropped his staff 
and dug at his face with both hands.
Sy-wens blood quickened. She had done it! Glancing back at Kast, a look of 
pride shone on her face. Get back, girl! he yelled.
Sy-wens breath caught in her throat as she swung around. The demon had managed 
to rip the stunner from his face. But that was impossible! A stunner always 
buried its five legs deep into the tissue, too deep to remove without a blade. 
Then she saw her answer. Where the stunner had struck, black flames shot out of 
the demons face. His magicks had driven the tiny beast from his flesh.
The demon rose to his feet, but did not stop there. He kept rising on a pillar 
of black fire. His face was sculpted rage, his eyes pools of black energies. He 
spread his arms, and fire lanced forth to shake the roof. Loose rock rained down 
and rattled like hail upon the floor.
I would kill you now, he boomed, his voice as black as his flames. But 
placing you at my masters feet will be a greater punishment!
Kast leaned over to protect her from the falling rock. Im sorry, he 
whispered. I shouldve kept you on Jarplins ships.
Sy-wen leaned closer to him and did not object to his sheltering embrace. They 
were doomed, but before they were destroyed she would seek the small comfort of 
his arms. She raised her face to his. No apologies, Kast. If I couldnt have 
gained my freedom, she said, I would rather have died anyway.
She saw the tears that marked his eyes, like rain on rock. His voice was a 
strained, choked whisper. Yes, but did I have to deliver you to it?
She reached a hand to his cheek. This time it was no spell that drew her 
fingers. She wanted to wipe away his tears. No man should die with such guilt in 
his heart. As her hand touched his face, her
ju;)
eyes grew wide. She finally saw what lay new upon the mans skin. Her fingers 
brushed across it.
The tattoo of the hunting seahawk was gone, and in its place was the finest 
rendering of a fierce dragon, black wings raised for battle, red eyes ablaze 
with the hunger for blood.
She stared into the dragons gaze and recognized him, knew him as her mother 
knew Conch. Her heart leapt toward the dragon as her hand stretched toward him. 
The tattoo was her bonded, and like all merai, she knew her bondmates name.
Kagnart.
With her fingers touch, the world blew out from under her.
JOACH JUMPED BACK, SLAMMING INTO MoRIS BEHIND HIM. SwEET
Mother! His eyes could not make sense of what was happening. He had thought the 
dark-haired man and the girl doomed. Shorkan rode waves of flame and crested 
above them like a striking snake.
But now
He had seen the girl reach to touch the mans cheek and neck, perhaps in a 
tender good-bye or something deeper. But at her touch, the mans flesh blew out 
from him in sheets and tangles of black scale. His clothes ripped so savagely 
that a torn shoe landed near Joachs toe. The frenzied motion was a blur of wing 
and claw.
Shorkan shied away from the maelstrom of scale and bone, skirting backward atop 
his column of flames. Greshym rolled away, almost caught in a splash of the 
Praetors fire. I warned you, the old mage hissed at the leader of the 
Brotherhood.
A roar raked the cavern walls and washed away any further words from Greshym. 
All eyes turned to where Kast and the girl had once stood. A second roar split 
the cavern stillness.
The girl was still the same, though wearing a dazed expression. She rode atop 
the back of a monstrous dragon. Thick black legs ground silver claws into the 
stone itself. Scaled wings, scintillating with sparks of rich colors, swept 
upward like huge ribbed sails, reaching for the roof. Yet all this was nothing 
compared to its huge head: eyes aglow with a red fire; jaws open, revealing 
curved fangs longer than a mans forearm. It stretched its neck again and roared 
at
the two darkmages.
This was no smoke dragon, no magickal wail. It was flesh and fury.
With the force of its roar, the black flames of foul magicks were blown back 
like a candles flame before a gale. As Shorkan cringed away, the flames were 
snuffed and stripped from the Praetors robe, swept away to dash harmlessly 
against the far wall. The cavern shook with the dragons thunder and the play of 
wild forces.
Greshym crawled to his knees and grabbed at Shorkans doused sleeve. Hes too 
strong. You cant defeat Ragnark without a heart-stone. We must retreat to your 
tower.
Shorkans hands clenched into fists; his shoulders shook. His black eyes bore 
murderous hatred at the great beast.
Greshym pulled harder on the Praetors sleeve. You once taught me to know my 
battles, to know when it was best to fight. Heed your own words, Shorkan!
Shorkan unclenched his fists and backed beside Greshym. The younger mage kept 
his eyes on the dragon, but the hulking beast kept its place, claws dug deep in 
the rock. Right now, it simply guarded the girl. As long as the darkmages did 
not threaten, it only watched them warily, muscles tensed and ready, head low 
with menace. Shorkan seemed finally to recognize the danger here and pulled 
Greshym to his feet. You have much to explain, was all he said to his fellow 
mage, but his voice was iced venom. He waved a hand to the floor, and a well of 
swirling blackness opened at their feet. Wait! Greshym yelled.
But it was too late. The two darkmages fell like heavy boulders into the 
darkness, vanishing and taking the cursed doorway with them. The floor was once 
again ordinary stone.
The cavern suddenly shuddered violently. Rock dust and fair-sized pieces of the 
roof crashed to the floor. What was left of the mighty root cracked and 
crumbled. The walls groaned.
Moris gripped Joachs shoulder. We must get out of these lower levels. Come. 
He led Joach and Flint across the chamber, aiming directly for the dragon. The 
handful of surviving Hifai in their stained white robes were already hurrying 
toward the single exit.
The dragon seemed to sense the trios approach. It swung its head menacingly at 
them. Its wings, which had relaxed slightly once the darkmages had vanished, 
twitched farther up. Eyes glowed red with warning. Words, unspoken by any 
tongue, bloomed in Joachs head: Come no farther.
Joach stopped, as did the others. Moris and Flint exchanged glances. They had 
heard the silent words, too.
The girl spoke from atop the dragon. Her voice shook. He says to come no 
farther, she warned.
Flint answered her. We heard, Sy-wen. Its dreamspeak, the tongue of Ragnark. 
Weve listened to his dreams and muttered words for ages. But Im surprised you 
can hear him, too. Youve no weavers blood in you.
We have bonded, she said simply, quietly. Bonded, the dragon echoed.
Moris stepped forward and spoke to Ragnark. We do not mean you or your 
bonded any harm.
The girl named Sy-wen swallowed hard. What is happening? Who were those demons? 
What happened to Kast?
Im not sure, my dear, Flint answered. I want to get off this dragon, she 
said, a trace of worry in her
voice.
Fear not; I dont think he would ever harm you.
Never harm you, the dragon again echoed.
The room shook again, and a large boulder crashed only a few
spans away.
We need to leave here, Moris said. Its about to collapse. Joach eyed the 
exit longingly, then looked back at the dragon. I
dont think Ragnark will fit through those passages.
We cant leave him, Flint said. But the boy is right, Moris argued. Hell 
never fit.
Im getting down, Sy-wen said, reaching and beginning to slide
around the dragons neck. She shook all over.
The dragon snuffled at her but did not try to stop her. Bonded, he
repeated and nudged her chest. His nose flaps parted to take in her
scent. Smell good.
Whether from the tickle of its nose flaps or his dreamspoken words, Joach saw a 
ghost of a smile play about her lips. Then her feet touched the stone, and she 
almost fell, catching her weight just in time by grabbing an edge of wing. I 
must get used to this, she said,
straightening.
As she pulled her hand from the dragons flesh, Ragnark blew inward with a 
folding of scales and flesh. Neck and tail coiled in on
themselves. Wings snapped down and melded into a spinning cocoon of rippling 
textures.
Sy-wen yipped in fright and stumbled back into Flints arms.
Steady, my dear, he consoled.
In a handful of heartbeats, the flurry of bone and flesh settled into a familiar 
form. Kast again stood before them, naked as a newborn. All eyes were wide in 
surprise, but Kasts were narrowed in suspicion.
He ignored his own nakedness. What happened? He searched around the cavern. 
Wheres the fire demon?
So many questions, Flint said with a wry twist to his lips, but before we 
search for answers, youd best cover yourself, Kast. There are ladies present.
The large man seemed finally to recognize his nakedness and the red-faced girl 
who was trying her best to avert her eyes. He grumbled and accepted a cloak 
Moris retrieved from one of the dead brothers.
What now? Kast asked, cinching the cloak. It was miserably too small for him, 
barely reaching his knees.
Much strangeness has happened this day, Moris said as the cavern shuddered 
again. But this place is no longer safe, and I dont mean just this cavern, but 
all of Aloa Glen. We need space to piece this all together, to figure out what 
truly happened here, and more importantly, to plan. A dark time lies ahead. The 
Praetor knows he is exposed and will lock down the city with his black magicks. 
I, for one, dont want to be here when he calls the beasts of the Gulgotha to 
the islandnot until were prepared.
I think we all agree with that, Flint said. All heads nodded.
Then lets be off, Kast said, heading for the tunnel. Wait, Joach said, his 
eye falling on an object he did not want to leave here. He ran quickly across 
the floor and reached for Greshyms discarded staff. It still lay on the stone 
where Shorkan had dropped it. Joach remembered Greshyms agonized cry just 
before he was whisked away. The darkmages eyes had been on his abandoned staff.
Perhaps its best if you leave the foul thing, Flint said. No. Its his focus 
of power. He covets it, Joach said as he carefully picked it up. It felt like 
ordinary wood, if not a bit oilier than
y
most. Tears rose to his eyes, and his words began to choke. He stole my home, 
my parents. So Ill take this from him now, and one day Ill return and make him 
truly pay. Joachs voice hardened. But first I must find my sister before they 
do.
What do they want with your sister? Flint asked.
Joach strode past him. He was tired of secrets. Shes a witch.
Kast followed last behind the others. None spoke. All of them were lost in their 
own reveries. Kast still could not fathom what had happened to him. He 
remembered the demon in the flaming cloak descending upon them; he recalled 
Sy-wen reaching for his cheek then nothing. The next he knew he was standing 
naked before the others, staring dumfounded around him.
As he strode behind Sy-wen down the passages, he rubbed at his neck and cheek. 
It still itched with a mild burn, as if his tattoo had been freshly needled into 
his skin. What did this girl have to do with all this? On Jarplins ship, they 
had shared some strange spell-cast union. He remembered the events in great 
detail: the death of the Hort brothers, the bloody dagger in his hand, Sy-wens 
cool bare skin against his arms as he carried her from the ships kitchen. All 
this he remembered with a fresh clarity, but this time, he recalled nothing. 
There was a gaping hole in his memory. And he hated it.
What had truly transpired? Why did the merai girl now glance back at him with a 
trace of fear in her eyes?
The passageway gave a sudden, violent shudder. Kast barely kept his footing. 
Ahead, Sy-wen fell to her knees. A cracking roar echoed to him from behind, 
followed by a roiling wall of rock dust that flew up from the deeper corridors 
to swallow the company. Choking, Kast pulled Sy-wen to her feet as the dust 
cleared. He meantto keep a supporting hand on her. But she pulled from his 
grip, shying away from him.
Thank you, she mumbled, stumbling forward, not meeting
his eye.
Flint called back. The dragons chamber must have finally given way! Wed best 
hurry. This whole level may go!
The pace increased. The group bunched together in their haste, almost running 
down the winding passageway.
Urgency washed away Kasts noisome ponderings. The Bloodrid-ers knew when to 
focus on a task, and right now, freeing themselves of this subterranean maze was 
critical. Answers to the mysteries of todays events would have to wait.
The passages were still hazy with floating dust. Kast could barely see the large 
dark-skinned man who led them, but his words traveled back clearly. The Grotto 
is our only hope, Moris said, breathless from the run. Pray the sea channel is 
still open.
Flint answered him. We may have to swim. Theres only the one
skiff.
What about Conch? This from Sy-wen.
Well just have to wait and see, my dear. After all that has occurred, I dont 
know if the healers if they had enough time to mend your mothers dragon.
Kast understood the meaning behind the hesitation in Flints voice. The seaman 
feared the healers may have abandoned the dragon, fleeiog for their own lives.
The redheaded boy named Joach spoke into the long silence that followed Flints 
statement. So theres another dragon?
Kasts brow crinkled with the boys words. What did he mean by
another}
No one answered the boys question. The party became silent except for their 
raspy, dust-choked breaths as they ran.
Just when Kast was beginning to wonder if Moris had gotten them lost, they 
rounded a bend in the corridor, and the acrid tang of medicinals struck his 
nostrils. But under its bitter odor was the scent of home: the smell of the sea.
They had reached the Grotto.
The company poured out of the tunnel onto the pebbled shore of the underground 
lake.
Red-glazed pots lay tipped or broken on the shore, obviously hastily abandoned. 
Only one of the eight healers still stood in the ankle-deep water beside the 
huge jade-scaled dragon. Bald like the
others, but with skin as red as a peeled plum, he raised scared eyes toward 
them; then his expression settled into relief when he recognized Flint.
Where are the others, Brother Ewan? Flint asked. Gone back into the tunnels, 
the healer said, wiping a damp palm over the crown of his head. Some ran to aid 
the others. Some simply ran. One tried to make off with your skiff, but my 
knifes edge changed his compulsion toward thievery.
And the dragon? Flint asked, his eyes on the girl, who had already waded into 
the water to lay a hand on the beasts nose. The dragon was too weak even to 
raise its head, though it did acknowledge her presence with a weak nudge at her 
fingers. Joach had wandered near but kept his distance from the pair.
He still breathes, the healer declared, then added in a lower voice, but 
barely. The balm of bittersroot has eased his pain, and he rests; but I fear he 
will not survive.
Moris approached Flint. We must be off now. If the dragon is too sick, it would 
be best to leave him. To survive this day, we must move quickly. An ailing 
dragon will slow us.
The healer, Ewan, supported his words. If he moves, hell die. I doubt he could 
make it out the sea tunnel before he expires/
Flint took their dire news with a darkening frown. I told her I would save her 
dragon, he mumbled.
Moris laid a hand on Flints shoulder but remained quiet. Kast knew there were 
no words that would help. Sometimes life offered only cruel choices. Bloodriders 
knew this all too well. Still Kast could not ignore the tears on Sy-wens face 
as she knelt beside Conch, pressing her cheek to her friend. Then theres no 
hope? Flint asked. Silence was his answer.
I will tell her, Kast heard himself say before he knew his tongue had moved.
Flint glanced at him with a slightly surprised expression. Then his eyes grew 
serious, and he nodded.
Kast walked toward the girl, his legs suddenly heavy.
Behind him, Ewan mumbled to the others. Its a shame that the healing 
properties of seadragons blood cant heal a dragons own wounds.
J-Iis ruminations were ignored until Flint suddenly blurted out, Can the blood 
of another dragon help Conch?
K.ast slowed his pace toward the girl. Did Flint have a plan?
The healers voice was hopeless. Certainly, but it would take quite a bit. The 
seadragons injuries are severe, and weve only a few drops in the Edifices 
apothecary not nearly enough to help this
one.
Kast sighed. The dragon would die. He continued walking, his
boots splashing at the waters edge.
Wait, Kast, Flint called to him.
He stopped and glanced back.
Flint hurried toward him, his eyes bright. Moris followed. Sy-wen, Flint 
urged, come over here.
She raised her head from her friends side at Flints words but did not stand. 
Hes dying, she said with such despair in her voice that Kast took a step 
toward her.
I know, I know, but this is no time for crying. Your tears will not help him, 
but something else may.
She sniffed and wiped at her nose. What?
Just come here. If you want to save Conch, youre going to have
to help.
Sy-wen looked at him doubtfully, then pushed to her feet. Joach helped her over 
the slippery stones to join them. What do you want me to do?
I need you to call forth the dragon again.
Kast saw the frank terror in her eyes. What was Flint blathering about?
Sy-wens voice shook. I couldnt I dont know how.
Flint persisted. What did you do to call Ragnark last time?
Sy-wen glanced at Kast. He frowned back at her. Did she expect him to have an 
answer? Then he felt her gaze shift from his face to his neck. She raised a 
finger and pointed to his tattoo.
All eyes swung toward him. Involuntarily, he took a step back. What? he 
muttered. What are you all gawking at?
Flints eyes had grown wide; then he snorted a laugh. So thats where the 
little snake ran off to?
What? Kast repeated.
Flint reached for Kasts sleeve. Come, he said and tugged him to
the waters edge. He pointed to Kasts reflection in the still water Look at 
your tattoo.
Kast scowled. What did this fool? Then it was his turn for his eyes to widen. 
His hand reached up to touch the tattoo etched into his skin during his manhood 
ceremony. The seahawk was gone. A dragon blazed upon his skin now. He glanced at 
Flint. Whats going on?
Flint pulled him back to the girls side and explained what they had all 
witnessed in the cavern.
As he listened, Kast found it harder and harder to breathe in the moist cavern 
air. Are you saying I changed into this dragon this Ragnark? Disbelief was 
thick in his throat.
Flint ignored him. Child, how did you trigger the transformation? She refused 
to look Kast in the face. I touched him She waved her fingers, almost 
apologetically. on his tattoo.
Moris spoke next. It makes an odd bit of sense. They were oath-bonded when 
Ragnark merged with them. His essence must have been caught up in the spell.
Touch! Flint added, his expression wide with sudden understanding. Ragnark 
vanished back into the tattoo once the girl dismounted from his shoulders. Just 
as touching is necessary to maintain the original oath-bond, it must be 
necessary to keep the dragon in the flesh. Flint turned to Sy-wen. Can you 
call him forth again? Sy-wen took a step away.
Kast was too stunned to move. He did not know how to wrap his mind around the 
idea that some dragon lay inside him.
The boy Joach, fingering the mages staff in his hands, asked a question that 
must have been in all their minds. Why do you want the dragon back ? 
I want his blood, Flint said simply, as if it were obvious. I believe 
Ragnarks blood might cure Conch.
Sy-wens nervous fear faded. Do you think Conch might live?
The merai use dragons blood to heal wounds, do they not? Flint kept his 
voice calm and quiet.
Sy-wen nodded, then shot a quick glance at Kast. But I cant ask him ask him 
to become that dragon again. What if he gets stuck that way?
The same thought had been rolling in Kasts own head. He balked
T
at letting the beast take him over again. What if it refused to return t0 the 
tattoo?
Then Sy-wens eyes found his own. He watched hope and fear mix in her eyes. She 
refused to ask this of him, but her silence was stronger than a thousand pleaded 
words.
Kast reached out to her and grabbed her hand. His haste made his fingers rough. 
He did not want to retreat from his decision. Do it, he said, and pulled her 
fingers toward his neck. She resisted at first, struggling to free her wrist. He 
stared her in the eye, and suddenly old words, buried deeper than flesh, 
appeared in his mind: There will come a day when we will call you again to our 
sides, again to be our shares above the water. Do you make this oath willingly 
and bind your people to us?
He answered aloud in the old tongue of his people. My blood is yours to cast 
upon the seas.
She started at his words. He could see something stir in her, her expression 
glazing over. Their two peoples were forever linked by blood oaths, promised 
words, and ancient magicks. He saw an ancient midnight sea appear in her eyes. 
Thank you, she whispered, no longer resisting him.
He let her wrist free, and she reached to touch him.
Sighing, he closed his eyes.
Her fingers torched his skinand he was gone.
Sy-wen sat atop the dragon again, its flesh hot through her thin leggings. The 
others had scattered to all sides as, at her touch, Ragnark had unfolded and 
spread around and under her, lifting her atop his scaled back. She looked down 
upon the others and could not clearly explain the tears that trailed down her 
cheeks.
Sy-wen, the dragon whispered to her, almost a purr, as if tasting her name on 
his tongue. Bonded.
She found one of her hands reaching to rub his neck, finding the spot Conch 
liked scratched.
Good. Fingers good. The dragon stirred under her, then Others are here. The 
dreamspeak held a note of menace.
Theyre friends.
He seemed to accept her statement, changing his attention quickly. Hungry. Blood 
scent strong. Sniffing, the dragons snout lowered and
swung toward the lake. His voice boomed in her head. Little dragon will taste 
good.
Sy-wen noted with alarm that it was referring to Conch. Cannibalism among 
seadragons was not unknown. No, the little dragon is a friend, too.
Flint approached closer to them, Moris at his side. Sy-wen, can you explain to 
Ragnark what we want? Flint asked. I think youll have to convince him.
Sy-wen swallowed hard. Ragnark, the little dragon is hurt and needs help.
His fierceness and hot hunger touched her. Pain strong. I will eat the little 
dragon, and it will not hurt anymore.
Sy-wen tightened her voice. No. I wish him healed. Your blood will help the 
little dragon.
An intense feeling of irritation and exasperation entered her from the dragon, 
but she also sensed resignation and acceptance. Bonded, he said simply, 
acknowledging her wish.
She waved Flint over. Hell do it.
Flint drew a blade, but Ewan was at his side and pushed the old mans hand down. 
I have a bleeding lance, he said, his eyes huge as he stared at the great 
beast. It will leave less of a wound.
Nodding, Flint waved the healer forward.
Grab two of those pots, Ewan ordered. That should be enough to help the 
seadragon.
Sy-wen watched the healer cautiously approach the thick neck of the beast. He 
mumbled something under his breath about drawings in old texts. He slipped a 
long, slender glass tube wrapped in cotton from a pouch at his waist. One of its 
tapered ends came to a sharp point.
He raised an eye questioningly toward Sy-wen. Tell him this will hurt a bit.
Pain?
He can hear you.
Ewan laid a hand on the great beasts neck. The dragon flinched under the girl. 
She soothed him, both with her hands and with messages of calm.
Searching landmarks on Ragnarks neck, the healer finally positioned his glass 
lance. Are you ready? Sy-wen probed the dragon and nodded.
He struck fast and sure, deep under a thumb-size scale. Sy-wen gasped and 
swatted at her own neck. It felt like the sting of a sea nettle. The dragon did 
not flinch, though his eyes closed a bit, indicating he felt the prick. Sy-wen 
rubbed at her neck. So she shared more than just his thoughts.
She watched the bright red blood flow down the glass funnel into the awaiting 
bowl that Flint held. In a short span, both bowls were brimming full. Thats 
enough, Ewan finally said, withdrawing the glass lance. He pressed his fist 
against the wound.
Moris and Flint each held a pot of dragons blood. What do we do with this? 
Smear it on Conchs wounds?
No, the healer said. He removed his fist from the dragons neck, then leaned 
closer to inspect his handiwork. He nodded in satisfaction and with a final pat 
on the dragons neck turned to face the others. He sighed loudly. According to 
old texts on the merai, the other seadragon must drink the blood.
Great, Flint said with a frown. With a shrug, Moris led the way into the 
shallows. The boy went
with them.
It all went smoothly. Just the scent of blood revived the dying dragon. Conch 
raised his head as the men approached with the two pots. He slurped hungrily at 
the thickening blood as the pots were dumped betweeji his sharp fangs. Flint and 
the boy helped hold Conchs head up as he drank. Soon both bowls were empty.
Is that enough? Sy-wen asked as Conch searched the dregs left in each pot with 
a long tongue.
My blood is strong, Ragnark answered her.
His words proved true. In only a scatter of heartbeats, Conch was able to raise 
his neck fully from the beach. He even struggled to get his forelegs under him. 
His injured wings shook and spread, knocking the boy into the water.
Look at its chest wound, Ewan exclaimed. The edges pull together like a 
summer flowers petals at night.
Is he going to live? Sy-wen asked with her breath held.
My blood is strong, Ragnark repeated, an edge of scorn at her
doubts.
Conch piped loudly, trumpeting his returning strength. His nostril flaps opened 
wide as he drew air deep into his chest. He slid back into the lake until he 
floated its surface like a dragon-prowed ship.
Flint stared out at him. Hell live. He should be able to dive safely now and 
return to your peoples leviathan.
Then we can go? Sy-wen asked, beginning to slide from her perch.
Flint held up a hand. Conch can go. He turned his intense eyes upon her. But, 
Sy-wen, you are bonded now, to Ragnark. It is time to let Conch return to his 
own bonded.
My mother
Yes, Ragnark has another path to take. You sense this, dont you?
She lowered her head. How she wanted to deny the old man. But Kasts words 
echoed in her head: My blood is yours to cast upon the seas. She somehow knew 
they were not to be parted. She, Kast, and Ragnark were bound tighter than the 
strongest iron chain. Where do we go then? she asked timidly.
Flint scratched the thin gray hair atop his head. We need a place to rest and 
collect ourselves. I have a home on the Blisterberry Cliffs south of Port Rawl 
on the coast. Its not far from the Blasted Shoals. I chose it for its 
isolation. It should prove a good place to plan.
Plan for what?
Moris answered her. For the Battle of Aloa Glen, the opening rally against the 
darkness that has overtaken Alasea. Prophecy said Ragnark would unite your two 
peopleDrerendi and merai and forge a mighty army. It is this legion upon 
which the fate of both Aloa Glen and all of Alasea will rest.
Hungry, the dragon sent, interrupting them. Sy-wen felt an echoing gnaw in her 
own belly.
We should be going, Flint said.
Sy-wen prepared to dismount, but again the old seaman held up a hand. Perhaps 
it would be best if Kast stayed as Ragnark for now. The skiff is small and will 
fit only a few people. If you rode Ragnark
Hesitating, she chewed her lower lip. Sea feeds dragon, Ragnark argued.
She was outnumbered and reluctantly nodded her agreement. The dragon did not 
wait. Scuffling over the pebbled beach, his claws dug deep, and he slid smoothly 
into the water. She slipped her feet into the folds by his forelimbs. He was so 
much bigger than
Conch that she could barely reach them. But once she was in place, he tightened 
his folds snugly, holding her firm against his back.
He swam closer to Conch, who waited in the center of the lake. The two dragons 
eyed each other warily. Little, very little dragon.
Sy-wen bristled a bit at Ragnarks insult of her friend. He brought me to you. 
He almost died saving me. I saved him with my blood. Now even.
Sy-wen frowned and let the subject drop. By now, the skiff was rowing toward 
them. Flint, Moris, and the boy shared the boat. Sy-wen glanced behind her and 
saw Ewan waving to them from shore. Flint caught her look. He wanted to stay. 
He hopes to help from the inside. Sy-wen saw the worried look in the old mans 
eyes. He
waved her on.
Moris was at the oars. He had his robe pulled down to his waist to free his 
hugely muscled arms and shoulders. He had the skiff skimming behind the two 
dragons as Flint manned the rudder.
Flint called to her. Sy-wen, can you let Conch know where were going? Would he 
be able to tell your mother?
Yes, I can have him tell my mother the name of the place. But
why ?
For her to send an emissary there to meet with us. It is time for
the merai to return to the shores again.
Sy-wen nodded. She would do as he asked and so signaled Conch closer to her, but 
she doubted her mother would listen or respond. Her people had drifted so long 
in the Great Deep that landwellers and the world of rock were no longer a 
concern to them.
She told Conch the message for her mother as they traveled the sea tunnel. 
Occasionally the rock walls around them would shake, and the sea would swell 
with tiny, agitated waves.
But the walls held long enough for them to reach the end of the channel and 
escape the tunnel.
Bright, Ragnark commented on the days sun. Sy-wen stared out at the sunken 
city. A large, leaning sculpture of a woman in a flowing robe greeted her as she 
glided free of the bay. The statue seemed to be staring at her with sad eyes. It 
seemed as if days had passed since she had entered the sea tunnel with Kast and 
Flint.
In silence, they glided past the towers and half-submerged domes
of Aloa Glen, winding themselves away from a city that now faced a greater 
menace than the creeping sea: a corruption that would swallow the island whole. 
No one dared speak lest the darkness reach out to them.
Once free of the city and into deeper water, Moris ran out the sail with the 
help of the boy and then led the way. Sy-wen only had a brief moment to say her 
good-byes to Conch; Ragnark would not let him even close enough to nuzzle her 
extended palm. With slightly wounded eyes, her mothers dragon swung from her 
and sank below the waves.
She had been right. By bonding, she had lost a part of her that would never 
return.
Hunt now. The dragon rolled a huge black eye at her. Flint must have heard 
Ragnark, too.
Let him eat! he called out to her. Weve a long way to go! She waved her 
acknowledgment. Slipping the dragons breathing siphon from between the blades 
of his shoulders, she slipped it to her lips. She patted Ragnark three times on 
the neck, indicating she was ready, then realized this was Conchs old signal. 
But Ragnark sensed the meaning behind the motion and dove.
Her inner lids blinked up as she leaned closer to his neck. She watched Ragnark 
stretch to his full length and marveled at his size. He had to be over three 
times as large as Conch. His black wings were rippling shadows to either side.
Ah, good water, good hunting
She found herself drifting into the dragons senses. Just as she had felt the 
jab of Ewans glass lance when he drew Ragnarks blood, now she experienced the 
rush of water over scale, the varied scents mixed in the sea: squid ink, spoor 
of a school of yellowfin, even the tang of poison from a nest of sea snakes. She 
heard the echoes of distant whales in the water and, closer still, the noisy 
chatter of porpoises. She also sensed the strength in his body, his wings, to 
move with such grace and power. She gloried in the new sensations.
How blind she had been to the sea before!
Then a new scent was shared with her. It smelled like the finest rare perfume 
her mother wore. What was it?
Ragnark answered her: Shares blood.
She cringed lower to the dragons back. Suddenly Ragnark darted to the left. 
Sy-wen, sharing his mind, knew his move in ad-
r
vance and compensated by shifting her weight. He spun suddenly over a ribbed 
reef line and, snaking his neck down, jabbed his muzzle into the black shadows. 
He snapped his head back, a young male rockshark trapped in his fanged jaws.
In a flurry of razored teeth, the shark was shredded into pieces that could be 
swallowed. Ragnark skimmed the area, collecting every morsel. Sy-wen did not 
urge him otherwise. She savored the kill, the taste of blood in her throat, the 
satisfaction of a full belly. But mostly, she enjoyed how she and the dragon 
were united: one heart, one mind, one will.
She wanted to experience more.
The dragon sensed her wish. / will show you more. He, too, enjoyed the union. 
Come see, come see
Suddenly he sped in a tight, dizzying circle, flaring out his wings,
then shot away.
She saw where he intended to go!
Laughter echoed in her head, but she could not tell if it was her
own or the dragons.
Did it really matter anyway ?
JOACH SAT IN THE PROW OF THE SKIFF. The HUGE DRAGON AND THE GIRL
had been gone a While now. Moris had kept the sails slack, waiting as the dragon 
fed. The sun beat warmly on his face. It seemed like forever since he had 
enjoyed the warmth of the sun.
Flint spoke behind him near the rudder. Whats keepin the dang girl? We dont 
have all day waiting for the dragon to fill its belly. Weve still a lot of sea 
to cross to reach port.
Moris just grunted, winding rope into perfect coils at his feet. Joach did not 
care if they took the whole day. He stretched his body across the prow, the 
darkmages staff across his knees, and worshiped the sun. He silently prayed 
that somewhere, across the many lands of Alasea, Elena was enjoying the same 
sun. He closed his eyes, dreaming his sister safe.
For now, the sun drained all his worries away.
Suddenly, an explosive eruption blew from the water near the
boat. Joach jerked up, a cry of surprise on his lips. The boat rocked
back as a huge swell caught the prow. He rolled toward the bow just
as the dragon lunged from the water only a few spans from the boat.
It shot its entire length clear of the water, a tower of sinuous dragon 
displayed against the sun.
With an explosive beat of its huge wings, the black dragon swung in the air. It 
twisted and banked, revealing the girl on its back. With another beat, it sailed 
into the air. It winged high above the tiny skiff, a huge black shadow against 
the sun. From its glossy scales, sparks of brilliance outlined its flight. Its 
jaws were open, and a huge roar flowed from its throat.
It was not a cry of challenge, but of joy.
It headed west toward the coast.
From the stunned expressions of the two brothers, it seemed something else had 
been hidden from their prophetic visions.
Ragnark was more than just a dragon of the sea.
Im getting too old for all these surprises, Flint mumbled as they all stared 
at the receding dragon.
tjfffllfll. fwm ^J


At dawn, Elena stood at the edge of the towering cliff. She stared down at the 
fog-shrouded landscape far below. It was as if the world ended here at the 
Landslip. For as far as she could see, roiling mists spread to all the horizons, 
a dirty white blanket that hid the swamps and bogs of the Drowned Lands. Nearby, 
a hushed roar echoed in her ears from where the stream they had been following 
for three days cascaded over the rocky lip. Its waters fell in sprays and 
torrents to disappear into the blanket of mists.
Mycelle stepped beside her, Fardale at her heels. Erril has the horses ready.
Aunt My, youve not spoken much about what to expect below.
The older woman placed a hand on her shoulder. Its difficult to describe. It 
truly must be seen to be understood. It is a harsh land, but not without its own 
dark beauty.
Elena turned her back on the sight and followed Mycelle to where the trio of 
horses stood saddled, their packs secured. They would not be riding the horses 
along the narrow trail that led down the cliff face. The grade was too steep and 
the switchbacks too sharpa slip of hoof could kill both horse and rider. From 
here, they would walk the horses.
The trailhead was only a quarter league from the waterfall.
Erril finished stamping out their campfire and crossed to join them.
Hows your arm? he asked Elenaas he had every morning for the past five days 
since they had left Shadowbrook.
She sighed in exasperation. Its fine. The moss has not spread any farther.
Mycelle tried to deflect Errils continuing worry. Why do you keep asking? As 
I said before, as long as she doesnt use her magick, the vines will stay 
quiet.
Erril grumbled under his breath. It harms no one to ask. He gave one final 
survey of the nights campsite, then waved them on. Lets be off while the 
light is still early. Its a good days trek down the cliff.
Mycelle nodded, apparently concurring with his assessment. With her crossed 
scabbards in place, she led the way with her golden-maned gelding. Elena had 
learned his name was Grisson, a fierce-hearted horse loyal to Mycelles every 
word.
Elena followed behind with Mist. The small gray mare seemed a pony compared to 
the two larger mounts, especially Errils dappled steppe stallion, who guarded 
their rear.
Cmon, Horse, Erril urged. He had not bothered naming the beast. He simply 
called him Horse. Still, this seemed to satisfy the. stallion, and the mount 
responded well to his orders. The stallion followed the plainsman without even a 
tug on the lead.
Such was not the case with Mist. As long as no one was in Mists saddle, the 
horse felt no compulsion to resist grazing. She kept grabbing at stalks and 
leaves from bushes at the forests edge as they marched in file toward the trail 
head. Elena had to tug repeatedly on the mares lead to keep her moving.
Soon they reached the beginning of the cliff trail. Mycelle glanced back. The 
path from here is steep, but there are generally few stones to trick a hoof or a 
heel. Move with care and keep an eye to the trail. Elena nodded.
Fardale, surefooted and quick, took the lead. And so they began
the days journey down the face of the Landslip. It was a slow trek,
but even the plodding pace wore on the nerves. The anxious horses
nickered continuously at the drop by the trails edge, seeming to
sense the long fall that awaited a misstep. As Mycelle had stated,
there were few loose stones on the path, but the rock was damp from
the mists that rose from the swamps at night, and care had to be
taken with each step. Occasionally alcoves in the cliff face offered
spots to rest where the horses could back away from the cliffs edge
and the party could sit and rub sore knees and calves.
At one of these small caves, Erril ran a hand along the stone wall of the 
alcove. This has been dug out, he said. Who built these way
stations?
Swampers, Mycelle said. A rangy and hardy lot that thrive at
the edges of the Drowned Lands. They trade in wares collected from
the swamps: medicinal herbs grown only in the bogs, the scaled skins
of the swamp creatures, feathers from exotic birds, a variety of poisons.
Poisons? Elena asked.
Yes, thats one of the reasons I initially traveled here: to study their art of 
poison. It was during my first journey here that I sensed the strong elemental 
forcea sly, fierce witchlurking deep in the swamps. Swampers tell tales of 
her: how strange, naked children would be seen moving through desolate areas of 
the bogs, but when approached, they would simply vanish. Occasionally one of 
these swamp children would even enter their raft camps, seeking information. 
Such a child was once caught and caged, but the next morning, only a mound of 
moss and vines was found in the trap.
Elenas face grew worried with the stories. She scratched at her left arm. 
Mycelle noticed the motion. And these caves? Erril persisted.
Built by the swampers. This is one of their trade routes to the upper lands.
Erril nodded, seemingly content with the explanation. For once, Elena was glad 
when Erril called them to move along. She had had enough talk for one day.
So the day wore on. By noon, the summer sun had dried the stone trail, making it 
easier to march, but the rays beat mercilessly upon them. Exposed on the barren 
cliff face, there was no relief, no shade, no cool streams to bathe a face. By 
late afternoon, they welcomed the swamp mists that eventually enveloped the 
lower trails. The suns intense rays were finally quieted, and the heats edge 
was dampened, but their relief was short-lived. As they worked farther down the 
trail, the moisture in the air became oppressive. Clothes clung; sweat ran in 
rivers down their faces. The deeper fog seemed to collect the summers heat and 
trap it down here. Even breathing became oppressive, not only from the moist 
heat, but also from the rotting
smell of the swamps.
Swamp gas, Mycelle explained as she noticed Elenas curled nose.
Youll get used to it.
Elena scowled, doubting she ever would. She breathed through her mouth as she 
walked the last leg of the trail down the Landslip.
Even Fardale seemed bothered by the stink. He sent her an image of a skunk 
spraying a trail. She had to concur.
Soon they reached the bottom of the cliff, and the ground spread out before 
them. Finally being able to separate from one another was a relief. The mists 
had a certain suffocating feeling, and a bit of free space lessened the cloying 
sense.
Elena glanced around her. The late-afternoon light, blocked by the vapors, 
seemed more like a strange yellow twilight, giving all she saw a sickly cast. 
Ahead of her, the cliffs base was a tumble of rock and soil. A few scraggly 
bushes with huge thorns dotted the landscape. Farther ahead, hazed by the mists, 
was a shadowy wall of darkness, a huge slumbering beast hidden in the fog. 
Strange birds called from there, and unseen creatures croaked and splashed. 
Elena suddenly knew what lay ahead, recognizing the slumbering beast for what it 
was.
It was the swamp.
Over her shoulder, the towering cliffs of the Landslip disappeared into the 
mists. There was no retreat.
Suddenly Fardale began a low, throaty growl. At the wolfs warning, swords 
appeared in Mycelles and Errils fists.
A figure appeared out of the mists, seeming to detach from the greater darkness 
ahead. As the swamp vapors shifted, it was clear that the shadowy form was 
simply a man. Dressed in knee-high boots of a scaly gray leather and outfitted 
in a tight-fitted jacket made of some strange oily material, he approached their 
party. Elena cringed back. He was a youngish man with his head shaved to a 
coarse black stubble. Above a broken nose, his eyes were oddly slanted in a 
continual squint. But what startled and honestly frightened her was that the 
side of his face was a boiled mass of scars. One ear was gone, and the left edge 
of his upper lip was caught in the scars and drawn up in a perpetual sneer.
Mycelles reaction was the opposite of Elenas. She sheathed her swords and 
dashed forward to scoop the man up in her arms. Jaston! Sweet Mother, what are 
you doing here? Before he could answer, she swung to face Elena and Erril, one 
arm still around the scarred man. This is Jaston, the guide who led me into the 
swamp before. Elena remembered the story. This was the man who had almost
iven his life during Mycelles first attempt to hunt the witch. She Jtared at 
his ruined face. Such is the fate of those who venture too ep into the swamps, 
it seemed to warn.
Mycelle swung back to face the man. What are you doing here, Taston? she 
repeated. 
His attempt at a smile drew a shudder from Elena. His words did nothing to calm 
her misgivings. The swamp witch sent me.
By midnight, the blood hunter reached the deserted campsite beside the stream. 
The dwarf bent to sniff at the scattered ashes of the dead hearth. It stank of 
the witch, a lingering scent no older than a half a day. Torwren straightened 
and stepped toward the cliffs edge ahead. He raised his nose to the breeze 
rising from the swamps. Poison, the winds cautioned, and decay. In the snatches 
of gusts, the swamp warned all away with threats of death.
Torwren crouched at the lip of the towering cliff. His red eyes tried to pierce 
the blanket of mists below. With the suns setting, the swamps shroud began to 
rise, reclaiming the sun-baked cliffs.
As he sat still, his stone skin began to harden. Over the past day, the 
stiffening grew worse with each idle moment. It was the curse of the Dark Lord: 
If he stopped for too long, the stone would stop flowing, and he would be 
trapped in an ebonstone shell forever. To make matters worse, this sluggish 
effect was more pronounced if he did not feed. The stone was always hungry for 
human blood, and it had been two days since he had feasted on a fresh heart. But 
traveling through such isolated lands south of Shadowbrook had offered little 
chance to slake this ravenous thirst. As punishment, his skin grew sluggish 
whenever he paused, warning him against slowing his pursuit of the witch and 
scolding him for not feeding.
Torwren straightened with difficulty from his crouch. He moved his limbs, 
bending his knees and working his arms. Slowly the stone gave way, and he found 
movement less of a struggle.
He sniffed at the air. The witchs scent traveled east along the cliffs edge. 
He followed the trail, smelling the musky scent of horse, wolf, and the two 
others who traveled with the witch. One reeked vaguely of poison, almost like 
the swamp. The other gave off a scent that seemed a mix of Standi loam and 
forged iron. His nose wrinkled at the scent: a most ancient iron.
He shook his head and continued on his hunt. In less than a league, the scent 
trail led to a path that headed down. He stopped. He had been sure she intended 
to follow the Landslip all the way to the coast. Why were they heading into the 
Drowned Lands? Why risk the fanged, slithering beasts of the endless bogs and 
fens? For a moment, a worry ran through his heart. Did they know they were being 
followed? Were they thinking to lose him among the thousand scents of the 
swamplands?
Impossible. They could not know he followed. The black dwarf continued toward 
the trail, having to force his stubborn legs to obey after even such a brief 
stop. He must feed soon. Even this thought sped his legs down the narrow trail 
as night fully descended upon the Drowned Lands below.
The blood hunter did not need sunlight to guide his stone legs. The dire flames 
in his eyes lit his path. Nothing would stop his pursuit of the witch.
Yet, somewhere deep inside the ebonstone shell, wrapped tight around the white 
elemental flame that fed the black magicks of the blood hunter, laughter echoed 
up. A tiny sliver of the old Torwren, powerless and trapped from interfering, 
eavesdropped on the thoughts and actions of this creature forged by the Black 
Heart. The dwarf lord had sought to craft a cadre of illguard soldiers bent to 
his own will, illguard who could do what Torwren could not: who could free the 
Trysil from its prison. He had failed and become an illguard himself instead. 
He laughed, not at the irony of this situation but at where the blood hunter was 
heading. How could he have anticipated such a twist of fate?
With this thought, he remembered his fathers sage words: Loot no farther than 
your own nose for answers to your prayers.
How blind he had been!
Deep inside the blood hunter, wild laughter accompanied the creature down the 
cliffs of the Landslip.
Amid glowpots that kept the nights insects at bay, Elena sat cross-legged upon 
a woven reed mat and eyed the platter of odd fruit placed before her. Erril and 
Mycelle sat to either side of her, while Fardale hung a bit back. Elena did not 
know what to make of this offering. She had never seen such fruit and could not 
even fathom
JAME
how to eat some of the weird-skinned fare. Did you peel that green bulbous gourd 
or just bite into it? And what of that fruit shaped like
a star ?
Elena glanced to their host. Jaston was pouring an equally strange brew into 
mugs before his guests. By the light of the lanterns, the scarring of their 
hosts face appeared even worse. It was a storm on his skin, a roiling mix of 
wrinkled pink flesh streaked with white bands. Elena kept her eyes averted as 
Jaston left to retrieve the last of their meal. He must have sensed her 
discomfort and had raised a hood to shadow his face.
Erril, his brows dark, scrutinized the man as he left. The trip from the cliffs 
to Jastons home had been a strained journey for Erril. Jaston had refused to 
explain further about his startling statement that the swamp witch had sent him 
to meet them. The story is long and best told over dinner, he hac| said, then 
turned to lead them away. Only Mycelles insistence that Jaston could be trusted 
had finally convinced Erril to follow. Even so, the plainsman marched with one 
hand on the pommel of his silver sword.
Luckily, it was not a long walk to the trading town of Dry water perched at the 
swamps edge, though town was an odd word to describe the ramshackle 
accumulation of rafts that supported the crude homes of Drywater. These raft 
homes were interconnected in a maze of floating piers and rope bridges. A few 
larger homes of brick and stone were built on the firmer ground above the 
waters, but most of Drywater grew from the rafts themselves, lopsided dwellings 
of scavenged wood and woven drapes. Some were even built in the towering limbs 
of the monstrous cypress trees that overhung the town, the lamps in their 
windows appearing like will-o-the-wisps in
the branches.
By the time the party had reached Drywater, true night had fallen. After leaving 
their horses in a stable at the edge of town, Jaston had led them over a network 
of floating piers that bobbed atop large, fibrous pods. Bog weed, Jaston had 
explained, catching Elenas curious gaze at the pods. Grows everywhere, but we 
plant it throughout Drywater to help keep us afloat. Wont do to sink in these 
waters.
With only these words, he had continued leading them through the maze of piers 
and bridges. As they traveled, Jaston would wave a hand to occasional fellow 
townsmen, a wary-eyed bunch with features worn hard by the swamp. But these 
rough men were not the
only denizens of Drywater. A few children peered from behind drapes as the 
strangers passed. Somewhere a dog barked a warning, seeming to scent the wolf 
among their party.
Around them, as they had slipped through the outskirts of Dry-water, the swamp 
awakened with nightfall, a cacophony of croaking, hissing, and the nesting calls 
of birds.
Even now, as they settled to a late meal on Jastons home raft, the chorus of 
the swamps continued unabated. Occasionally something larger would grumble from 
deeper in the swamps, hushing the chorus for a short time. Elena knew from the 
quality of the sound that it echoed from far over the waters. Elena shivered. 
For the beast to make such a far-reaching cry, it must be huge. She noticed even 
their hosts face would darken whenever this creature howled through the 
darkness.
As full night swallowed them up, the lights of Drywater began to dwindle around 
them, lamp by lamp, until only a scattering of lanterns dotted the maze of the 
town. Somewhere nearby a woman was singing softly to the night. She sang in a 
language Elena did not recognize. Some lullaby, Elena supposed from the mellow 
sweetness of the singers voice, though the melody had a melancholy strain to 
it. The song touched upon the worries Elena had for her companions abandoned in 
Shadowbrook.
She spoke her concerns to Erril, keeping her voice low. Do you think the 
others found Meric?
If the elvins still alive, theyll discover his whereabouts. Krais an 
excellent tracker, and Tolchuk has a keen nose.
Mycelle patted the girls knee. She nibbled on a thick-skinned fruit with a 
purplish flesh. In a moon, we will know. Once were through the swamps, Ill go 
to Port Rawl and seek them out.
Elena lowered her face. She wished she knew now what had befallen their 
companions.
The wooden planks swayed slightly as Jaston returned to them, his arms laden 
with another platter. The smell of roasting meat momentarily drove away her 
worries. Jaston knelt upon his own mat and placed the tray next to the others.
Even Erril, who had remained sullen and cautious around Jaston, sat up a bit 
straighten Whats that? he asked with his usual manners.
) AMES
Jaston smiled, his scars twisting the effect into a gruesome sight. Filet of 
swamp python.
Fingers that had been reaching for the meat paused.
Jaston stared, baffled at their hesitation. Its fresh, he assured them.
Mycelle reached for a slice of the steaming python first. And if I remember, 
you know just the right way to prepare it. Not too spicy, but with just a touch 
of tarragon. From Jastons blushing and sudden concentration on dishing out 
some boiled root, there was some hidden meaning behind this memory. Mycelle 
turned to them, the ghost of a smile on her own lips. Try it. Its quite good. 
Tastes much
like spring quail.
Erril used his knife to stab a slice of meat and flop it on his own plate. 
Hunger drove Elena to do the same. She watched Erril cautiously sample a bite 
first, and only after seeing his satisfied nod did she nibble at the tender 
offering. The seasonings and sweetness of the meat were quite a surprise. Elena 
needed no further encouragement to devour the remainder of her slice.
Mycelle passed a slice to Fardale, who swallowed the sample in one bite. In 
silence, they consumed their meal, hands reaching for more. Fardale nudged 
Elenas elbow with his nose, and she tossed
him another slab.
Jaston, his eyes wary, stared as the wolf devoured the meat. Mycelle had already 
explained about Fardale, but the revelation of his shape-shifting nature had not 
lessened the mans concern.
Erril was on his fourth slice before he finally brought up the question that 
had been nagging him. Jaston, your hospitality has been most generous. He 
wiped at his chin with the back of his hand. But we need to know about this 
swamp witch, and why you claimed that she told you to meet us by the cliffs.
Jaston lowered his mug. It is no claim. Just this day, one of her swamp 
children, naked and filthy, appeared on one of the outlying rafts of Drywater. 
The child asked to speak to me. This last statement was said with baffled 
confusion. When I came, the boy told that visitors would be arriving at the 
Landslip and that I was to meet them. Then when my back was turned, the child 
vanished. Not knowing what his message heralded, I decided to obey. I had no 
idea why I was chosen for this duty until I saw Mycelle standing by the
cliffs. The two of us had searched for the witch several winters back. His 
fingers wandered to his scarred face. The witch obviously knew of our 
connection.
And this child told you nothing else? Erril asked. He had one message from 
the witch. Jaston glanced to the darkness beyond the lanterns and glowpots. 
By dawns light, you must enter the swamp. And I Im to guide you.
Mycelle spoke up. Wed thought to rest a day before facing the swamp. Weve 
journeyed hard and fast to reach here. Jaston shrugged. That was the message: 
by dawns light. The pleasant taste of.python had soured in Elenas mouth. 
How how did she know we were coming? she asked.
I suspect, Mycelle answered, that it has something to do with the vines on 
your arm. Its magick must be like a beacon to the witch, marking our progress.
Then there is no way to surprise the witch in her lair, Erril said sullenly.
Jaston answered his concern. If the witch does not want to be found, youll 
never find her among the swamps, let alone get a chance to surprise her.
Erril frowned at the truth in his words.
It does not matter anyway, Mycelle declared forcefully. I suspect the witch 
will not hide from us nor harm us on the journey. She wants Elena for some 
reason, marking her with the vines to ensure she comes.
And what about after we find her? Erril asked. What then? No one answered. 
Around them, the swamp croaked and growled. After a hushed few moments, Erril 
cleared his throat. If we are to leave at sunrise, perhaps the women should get 
some sleep. Jaston and I will make preparations for our departure.
No need, Jaston said. After the message from the swamp child, I prepared for 
a trek, just in case. I have my pole boat already outfitted for the trip.
Good, Erril said, standing, then lets check out your supplies. Mycelle 
still sat on her mat. There is no need for that, Erril. Jaston is an 
experienced swamprat. He knows better than you what well need on this journey.
Errils cheeks darkened with her words. Id still like to see for
myself. He glanced at Jastons scars. Even an experienced swamp-rat can make 
mistakes.
Now it was Jastons back that stiffened, but he kept himself civil. If the 
plainsman wishes to see how Ive stocked my boat, he said in a clipped tone, 
he is more than welcome. Jaston led the way.
Mycelle persisted. Jaston, there is no need to bow and scrape to this this 
buffoon.
Jaston pulled his hood farther over his head. It is only a short walk to the 
boat.
The two men left with Fardale trailing behind them while Mycelle scowled at 
their backs. Men, she grumbled under her breath. Then, with a loud sigh, she 
turned to Elena. We should get as much sleep as we can. Tomorrow will be a hard 
day.
Elena nodded. She wondered silently when a day wouldnt be hard.
Mycelle helped her spread their bedrolls on the deck near Jastons one-room 
shack. The woman frowned at Jastons home. Its walls leaned as if about to 
topple, and the drapes in the single window were tattered and threadbare. Once 
he had a much finer house, she muttered sadly. Hes not done well for himself 
since I last saw him.
Whys that? Elena asked, rolling out her bedding.
Her response seemed to startle Mycelle, as if her aunt had not known she had 
been speaking aloud. She shook her head and joined Elena. Im afraid its my 
fault. I should not have tried to reach the witch before. But he was such a 
brave swamp tracker, full of pride and quick smiles that disarmed my 
trepidations. His scarring One hand waved to her own face. should have been 
mine. He saved me by sacrificing himself to the poison spit forth from the jaws 
of the king adder. She lowered her face. I dragged him back to Dry water and 
helped heal him, but a part of him died out there.
Elena paused in opening her roll. What do you mean?
Ive seen him looking at the swamp. He used to love the swamp like a man loves 
a woman. He knew all her secret paths and faces. He showed me sights that took 
my breath away: ponds of glowing algae in a rainbow of colors, areas where the 
waters steamed and bubbled to soothe sore muscles, regions where moss grew so 
thick on water that one could walk on it. One time, on one of those beds, we 
even made Mycelles soft smile dissolved as she realized to whom she was 
speaking. But now it scares him, unmans him. I suspect the
reason for his poor dwelling has something to do with this fear. A swamper will 
not fare well if his livelihood frightens him.
Elena remembered how his face had darkened with the grumbling of the large swamp 
beast, the spark of fear in his eyes. Why doesnt he just leave?
She shrugged. I wager his scarring had something to do with that decision. He 
was once a handsome man. Mycelle must have seen the doubt in her eyes. He 
truly was. I think his wounds reached deeper than just the skin. He hides here 
now, fearing to leave, fearing to stay.
Elena wondered at her words. Will he be able to lead us to the witch? Perhaps 
a less nervous guide would be better.
No. He was chosen by the witch just as surely as you were. He needs to take 
this journey. Still, Elenas question seemed to bother Mycelle. She turned 
away. Lets rest, Mycelle said. Therell be plenty of time to talk in the 
morning.
Elena did not argue. She slipped off her boots and got into her bedroll. She lay 
on her back beside Mycelle and pondered all she had learned that day. Overhead, 
the mists had lifted and thinned with nightfall. The moon and stars could be 
seen as vague ghosts in the skies above. To the north, the stars were cut off by 
the towering wall of the Landslip. In the distance, lit by moonlight, the 
cascade of a waterfall was a flow of silver across the black cliff face. Elena 
wondered if it was the same stream they had followed to the Landslip. As she 
watched, the foggy veil shifted. Suddenly a soft glowing arc of moonlight 
crested the mists of the falls.
Mycelle must have heard Elenas hushed gasp of wonder. Its a moonbow, Mycelle 
explained somberly. As I said earlier, there is much beauty hidden here, an 
inner magnificence that even the poisons of the swamp cant hide forever.
Elena remained silent. She knew her aunts words did not refer just to the 
shining moonbow.

Erril was up before the suns rays had even pinked the eastern skies. In truth, 
he had hardly slept. After returning from Jastons boat, he had crawled into his 
bedroll, satisfied that their guide had outfitted them well. Still, slumber had 
escaped him. Instead, he had stared at the mists as the moon set, listening to 
the swamps constant song.
Nagging worries kept him from rest. The journey ahead was a treacherous one, and 
Erril feared he had made the wrong choice. Why had he so readily accepted 
Mycelles claim that only this swamp hag could cure Elena? He could have taken 
the child to Aloa Glen and let those brothers who practiced the art of healing 
attempt to free the bewitching from her. And now here was this scarred man sent 
to take them to the witch. Erril had been around thousands of warriors about 
to go to battle. The eve of war soured many a soldiers will and heart, and 
Erril sensed that just such a weakness resided in Jaston. Erril had insisted 
on seeing the mans boat not just to recheck his supplies, but also to study the 
man further, away from Mycelle. He knew better than to voice such a concern to 
the swordswoman, since she and Jaston shared a history that seemed more than 
just seeker and guide, so he had pulled the man aside.
As Erril inspected the flat-bottomed boat, his concerns about Jaston were 
proven valid. Besides stocking the boat with more weapons than seemed necessary, 
the man was a sack full of jitters. Any sudden noise jolted him, and when Erril 
accidentally brushed against his
side, the man jumped back as if stung. There was no doubt that Jaston bore a 
timid heart and would fare poorly as a guide on such a risky journey.
So, after returning from the boat, Erril lay awake in his bedroll and pondered 
his choices. He could either follow this frightened man into the swamps or leave 
with Elena in the morning and travel by horse along the Landslip to the coast. 
As he weighed his options, the moon set, and the stars to the east winked out. 
Finally, he fled his useless bedroll and faced the approaching morning, no 
closer to answering his nighttime questions.
He stepped carefully around his sleeping companions. Fardale, ever vigilant, 
raised his head, his eyes bright in the night, but Erril waved him back down 
and crossed to the darkened rear of the raft. As he relieved his bladder over 
the side, someone cleared his throat behind himnot in warning, but simply 
announcing his presence. Erril glanced over his shoulder to see a smoldering 
pipe glowing in the deeper shadows behind Jastons dwelling.
Its only me, the man said. Erril recognized the scarred mans voice. Dawns 
still a bit away, plainsman. You could have slept longer. I wouldve woken you 
with the suns rising.
Erril finished and crossed to where Jaston sat in the shadows with his pipe. He 
leaned one hand against the wall; the wood groaned and tilted under his weight. 
I couldnt sleep anyway, Erril said gruffly. From the other mans clothes and 
tired voice, he doubted Jaston had slept either.
The swamp does that to you. Its a constant presence. Even when you shut your 
eyes, it still paints itself in your minds eye with its noises. A small 
shudder passed through the man.
Erril slid down the wall to sit beside Jaston. The man offered a puff from his 
pipe. Erril accepted and drew a long, slow drag from its stem. The smoke 
settled like an old friend in his chest. It was good Standi tobacco, an 
expensive leafthe best he had sampled in a long time. Considering the state of 
Jastons living quarters, Erril suspected that tobacco of this quality was a 
rare treat for the swamp man. He passed the pipe back and reluctantly let the 
smoke loose from his lungs in a long, low sigh. Mighty fine leaf, he said.
An awkward silence arose between them until Jaston finally spoke. I know what 
youre thinking, plainsman. I saw your face earlier. Dont think I cant tell 
when a man has judged me worthless.
Erril stayed quiet. He would not lie or pretend otherwise. Elenas safety was 
too important for any false sentiment.
Since I was scarred, the man continued, Ive had five winters of such looks. 
The other swampers smell my fear and treat me as if I lost both my legs. They 
wave and nod, but none will go swamping with me. These lands are not a place 
where you want a man whose hands tremble guarding your back.
Erril knew these words had festered in Jastons chest for a long time and 
needed to be released before any healing could begin.
When I was ten, my daddy was killed by an angry mother krocan. Tore his arm 
clean off the shoulder. He died before his punt could be poled back to Dry 
water. Jaston took a puff on his pipe, as if dredging up old memories. Yet, 
even his death did not make me curse the swamp. I grew up among its sinking 
sands, quagmires, and bogs. They were my playground, my school, and eventually 
my livelihood. The swamplands became a part of me as surely as my hand or my 
foot. Dont get me wrong. I loved the swamp, but I never lost my respect for her 
poisonous side. Only a dead man ever does so. We have a saying among us 
swampers: You dont hunt the swamp, the swamp hunts you. 
Jaston let his words sink in. The embers in his pipe glowed redder as he drew 
smoke deep into his chest.
So what happened? Erril finally asked.
Ive always known that life and death were a part of the swamp, he explained. 
And I fully expected someday to die in its embrace. Every swamper knows she 
will eventually claim you. Jaston paused, pondering his pipe, then pointed to 
the scars on his face. But death is easy to face. This was not.
His voice cracked as he continued speaking. After the attack by the king adder, 
children shunned me, women would shudder as I passed, even men would only speak 
to me with their eyes cast down. I had known the swamp was a harsh mistress, but 
I had never suspected the true depth of her cruelty. To let me live but only as 
this
half man.
Erril nodded toward his own missing arm. Not all men are whole. He began to 
push up from the planks. The eastern sky was beginning to blush with the 
approaching sun.
Perhaps, he mumbled, but you still have the face of a man.
Erril frowned and turned to leave.
Jaston grabbed at his leg. I must go with you, he said, seeming to sense 
Errils indecision about him. I dont go to die or to prove something to 
myself. I go to answer the witchs call. She is said to be the heart of the 
swamp. Five winters ago, my life was stolen from me in a spray of poison. I will 
face this witch and make her answer for this even if it means my death.
Erril saw the determination in the mans eyes and heard the steel in his voice. 
Here was probably a glimpse of the man Jaston once had been. Still, brave words 
did not stoke a weak heart for long. If they were to risk the swamps, they would 
need some sign that this man would not become a hazard to their mission, some 
proof other than his mere word.
A small voice spoke from behind Erril, startling the plainsman. Whatcha all 
doing?
Erril turned around to find a small bare-assed boy standing at the rafts edge. 
He had a finger dug deep into one nostril. We have to go, he said as he 
extracted his probing finger. The suns up, and a monsters coming to eat you 
all.
The blood hunter had reached the base of the Landslip just as the dawns light 
brightened the eastern sky. Torwren paused to get a bearing on his preys scent. 
The swamp filled his nostrils, trying to overwhelm his keen nose. Still, the 
witchs magick was like a thread of silver in stone, bright and clear among the 
myriad odors of the Drowned Lands. Crouching, he sped along the scarp of broken 
rock and thorny growths at the cliffs base, his nose tracing the path. She was 
close.
Though fearless, the black dwarf still moved cautiously; he did not want to 
spook his prey. With the suns rising, the shadows would be few. Through the 
mists ahead, he saw the buildings of a ramshackle town. He followed the scent 
trail cautiously. It led first to a stone stable at the edge of town. Torwren 
smelled the horses he had been following for days. He smiled, his yellow teeth 
bright against his black lips. His prey were on foot now. Only the fleetness of 
their mounts legs had kept the witch from his grasp. Now that advantage was 
over.
Still, to be sure, he slipped around the edge of the building and crept toward 
the door. If he slew their mounts, there would be no
JAMtS
chance of escape. He worked the door open and wormed into the stables. Instantly 
the horses erupted around him with whinnying cries and stamping feet. The first 
horse kicked savagely at its door, the crash like a thunderbolt in the narrow 
confines. He had to work quickly before an alarm was raised.
Torwren followed the scents to the second stall. Inside he spotted a small gray 
mare. A trace of the witchs magick clung to it like the moss on a tree. The 
beasts eyes were rolled white with fear. It backed from him as he pulled open 
the stalls door.
He meant to step inside when a small voice rose from near his feet. Youre not 
supposed to be here.
Torwren glanced down to see a small human child standing in the crisp hay of the 
stall. He wore not a stitch of clothing. And worse yet, as filthy as the child 
was, he gave off no odor. The dwarf backed a step to study the boy. Who are 
you? he asked, curiosity staying his hand from snapping the childs neck. The 
boys heart would make an excellent fuel for his chase.
The child removed a stem of hay from his mouth. He waved it at the hulking 
dwarf. Go away. You dont belong here.
Torwren scowled. Already he had paused too long. His skin grew stiffer and his 
limbs sluggish from lack of blood. Curious or not, he needed to feed. He reached 
for the boy. But his hands ended up gripping only piles of damp moss. The boy 
was gone.
Shaking the slimy strands from his stone palms, he caught a whiff of magick 
hanging in the air. He sniffed at it, trying to capture its scent. But it faded 
too fast. He rubbed at his thick nose. Why did that brief whisper of magick seem 
familiar to him? It was like stepping into a room and suddenly getting an 
inkling that you had been there
before.
Cursing, he backed from the stall, forcing his sluggish limbs to obey. By now, 
the horses were wild around him. Both the escalating noise and the strangeness 
of the boy drove him from the stables. The witch was close. What did it matter 
if her horse lived? The witch would never again see these stables.
Skirting the edge of town, Torwren crept toward the shadowy fringe of the 
swamps. Ahead, a thousand creatures woke to the morning. He meant to circle the 
towns border by traversing the swamp, staying cloaked by the night until he 
discovered where his prey hid among this maze of shacks and rafts.
But first
An older woman stood near a section of trampled-down reeds at the bank of the 
swamp. She was busy pulling crab cages from the shallows. Her back was to him as 
he crept up on her. Only at the last instant did she suspect something and spin 
around. Her eyes widened with terror at the sight of his monstrous black form, 
but before her horror reached her lips, one of Torwrens fists clamped her 
throat. She dug at his flesh, tearing her nails on his hard skin. He did not 
have time to play with her. A sharp snap and the battle was over. He dragged her 
carcass over to the shade of a low-slung cypress.
Ripping open her chest, he fed quickly upon her. For a heart so old, it was 
especially tender, but perhaps his appreciation was exaggerated from supreme 
hunger. He feasted, then licked his fingers. Old or not, it warmed his core and 
loosened his limbs. The fire in him was stoked for the last leg of his long 
chase. He rolled the body into the water with a small splash. Let the denizens 
of the swamp share in his bounty.
He straightened from his crouch and wiped his hands on his belly. It felt good 
to feed.
Suddenly, from a branch overhead, a snake struck at his face, but its poisonous 
fangs broke upon the dwarfs stone skin. The bright-colored viper dropped dead 
onto the muddy bank of the swamp, having finally met something more lethal than 
its own fangs.
The dwarf ground the snake under his heel as he stepped into the swamp. Even 
among these treacherous lands, nothing was more poisonous than the blood hunter.
On the dock, Elena shied away from the swamp child. The boy stood shorter than 
Elenas waist and wore a blanket around his nakedness at Errils insistence. 
Though he was not the same urchin who had accosted her in Shadowbrook, the boy 
bore a strange likeness to him. His hair was a different color, more blond than 
dark, and his nose was smaller, but something about his eyes marked this 
youngster as a sibling of the other. Like any other boy, his gaze was bright 
with curiosity, but behind his eyes, Elena sensed something much older staring 
out at her.
The boy caught her appraising study of him and stuck out his tongue.
JAMES
She blinked at his insult. Before she could react further, Erril called to her. 
Elena, join Mycelle in the boat. We need to shove off.
Backing with a final glance at the boy, she stepped toward the flat-bottomed 
boat. A punt, Jaston called it. To Elena, it seemed more like a small raft with 
short raised sides. The scarred man stood near the stern with a long pole in his 
hand. Bundles of supplies lay stacked at his feet.
A few onlookers hung around on neighboring docks, watching their departure and 
pointing to the odd boy. They all seemed to know this child was a minion of the 
swamp witch, and they had come to see what was happening. One blunt voice 
echoed across the misty waters as Elena climbed aboard the punt.
The swamp witch has come to fetch Jaston, a bearded man said. Finally shell 
put the sorry bloke out of his misery.
Elena saw how these words tightened Jastons grip on his pole. She stepped over 
a few swollen water flasks and crossed to join Mycelle on a seat near the bow of 
the boat. Her aunt, too, had stiffened with the mans words. She glared over at 
the bystanders as Elena sat beside her.
Fardale seemed to sense her aunts tension and glanced back from where he stood 
at the prow of the punt, his front paws on the short raised rail. Mycelle patted 
his rump reassuringly, and he returned to monitoring the scents of the swamp 
ahead.
Erril untied the rope from a stanchion on the dock and hopped into the punt. He 
raised a hand to help the boy into the boat, but the child simply threw his 
blanket at Erril and stood naked on the dock.
I dont like boats. With these words, the boy jumped into the swamp and 
disappeared under the green waters. Jaston began to pole away from the dock.
Wait! Erril said, his arm reaching over the side to fish for the boy. Hell 
drown!
A few chuckles arose from the neighboring raft at the plainsmans words and 
actions. Jastons voice, though, was sober. The boy is of the swamp. He cannot 
die.
Still Erril searched, his eyes determined to discover the boys whereabouts.
I wouldnt do that if you want to keep your last arm, Mycelle said to him. 
One of the first rules Jaston taught me was to keep my limbs out of any water 
that wasnt clear.
Erril pulled away just as the back of something large and scaled humped out of 
the water where his arm had been. Missing its meal, the creature sank out of 
sight.
Krocan, Jaston said. A young one.
Eying the water with more respect, Erril slumped to the bench seat behind 
Elena. He slid out of his shirt and wrung the foul water from his soaked sleeve.
Elena watched his muscles work as he struggled one-handed with his shirt. Again, 
she was amazed at the smoothness of the scar that marked his shoulder. It must 
have been a sharp blade that cut his arm from his body. Never once during their 
long journey had he said how hed lost that limb. As curious as she was about 
this, she found her eyes lingering on the thin layer of dark, curled hair that 
marked his chest and ran in a trail down his belly. Her cheeks blushed hotly 
when she found Errils eyes on her own.
He held out his shirt. Drape this over the bow to dry, he said. Numbly, she 
took his wet garment and spread it out across the wood rail beside Fardale. The 
wolf sniffed at Errils shirt. She was glad to find something to divert her 
attention.
The sharp noise of a slap, though, brought her gaze around once again. Cursed 
bugs! Erril slapped his palm again at his bare chest. Two spots of blood 
marked where he had squashed a pair of biting insects.
Light one of the glowpots, Jaston said. Or soon well be swamped with blood 
feeders. The heaviest swarms lurk just outside Dry-waters pall of glowpot 
smoke.
Mycelle used a taper to snatch a flame from one of the lanterns, then lit the 
wick of a ceramic pot filled with perfumed wax. A curl of pungent smoke arose. 
Its scent reminded Elena of boiling razorleaf, used to soothe aches. She felt a 
sting on her neck and struck at it. Her fingers came back with a drop of blood. 
Another unseen insect bit her arm. Soon the boat erupted with sharp gasps and 
the sound of palms striking flesh. Even Fardale whined and pawed at his nose.
Only Jaston seemed unaffected as he poled them deeper into the swamps. Ive 
been living so long in Drywater that the smoke of its thousand glowpots has not 
only sunk into my skin but also into my blood, he explained. The feeders dont 
much care to take a meal from a swamper, not when they have fresh targets. 
Elena thought she detected a hint of amusement in the mans eyes.

Grimacing, she swatted at another bite. She could not imagine traveling the 
entire swamp like this. Soon, though, the glowpots smoke grew into a thin cloud 
about them, driving away all but the most determined insects.
Jaston continued to pole slowly through the green waters. Theres also a salve 
made from the herb thats in the glowpots, he said. Its not as effective but 
itll help. Once we reach one of the swifter currents, youll need it, since 
well be moving quicker than the smoke can keep up with us.
Elena settled back to her seat, relieved that the plague of stinging bites had 
abated for now. She studied the swamp around her. Dry-water had vanished behind 
a curtain of moss and cypress branches that brushed the oily waters. Again the 
mists had lowered with the suns arrival. The light became a hazy, yellow-tinged 
glare off the water that soon made her eyes ache. Nearby, branches reached for 
their boat, but Jaston was a skilled poleman and kept them from the lowest of 
the overhanging limbs, where nests of coiled snakes hung like Winterfest 
decorations, bright yellows and vibrant reds, writhing slowly as the punt 
passed. Occasionally she would spot one of these fancifully colored snakes 
swimming in sluggish whips of its tail through the dark waters.
Jaston saw her attention on one of them. Sweetheart adders, he named them. 
Their bite hurts like a flaming brand on the skin but will only make you sick 
for a day or two.
So why call them sweetheart then?
Because their bite doesnt kill you. Among the denizens of the swamp, their 
bite is nothing more than a kiss.
Elena settled deeper into the center of the punt. Mycelle put one arm around 
her. Dont fret, Elena. The snakes are nothing to fear. As long as you dont 
disturb them, theyll leave you be.
But there are other creatures that arent so generous, Jaston added. So, once 
were deeper in the swamps, keep your eyes and ears alert. As they poled around 
a slow curve in the channel, a sweet scent flowered the air. It drove back the 
smell of rotten eggs from their noses. Elena was startled at how accustomed she 
had become to the constant stink. The scents of daffodils and lilacs were a balm 
on her spirit, a reminder of home among these treacherous lands. Jastons voice 
grew grim. Keep your heads down. Mycelle glanced over her shoulder to him. Is 
it a moonblossom?
Yes, and from the stink, Id say its a large one.
Mycelle hunkered down lower in the punt and pulled Elena off the bench seat to 
sit on the bottom of the boat. Stay there, honey.
Fardale joined her, on guard.
Strange to find it still hunting this late in the morning, Jaston mumbled.
They glided slowly around the bend. Ahead, the source of the sweet scent 
appeared: a monstrous purple blossom the size of a small calf overhung the 
channel. Its huge petals were curled back invitingly from its center. The boat 
would pass under those petals, but Jaston poled the punt as far away as 
possible. As they drew closer, Elena saw the reason for his concern. The stem of 
this huge flower, as thick around as her thigh and wrapped like a creeper around 
the branches of a huge cypress, was festooned with hundreds of thorny vines. Yet 
it was not the long, barbed spikes that drew her eyes, but the poor creatures 
that hung impaled in their grips. Wrapped in the thorny coils were a few 
white-plumed birds and a scatter of small furry animals with bushy tails. 
Nothing moved. As she watched, the vines slowly crept and uncurled, like snakes 
coming awake with the heat of the day. Elena suspected it was not the warmth of 
the sun but the smell of their blood that awakened this giant.
Frames of old skeletons dropped from its grip to splash in the water as it 
reached for fresh meat. Vines swung toward their boat, but even Elena could tell 
they were too short to reach them. She allowed herself to relax. Then, the 
flowers stalk suddenly convulsed. Its stem lurched farther along the cypress 
branch, dragging its blossom and vines closer to the punt. A small squeak of 
fear escaped Elenas lips.
Get down, Mycelle warned, planting a hand atop her head and forcing her lower. 
Yet the sides of the punt were so low that Elena could still see the creeping 
flower reach for them. Hundreds of vines, some thicker than her arm, unfurled to 
probe at the passing boat.
Jaston used his pole to push aside these reaching fingers as the punt glided 
along. Where his pole touched, the vines snapped around the wood, but its smooth 
and polished surface offered no purchase for the thorns. Determined, a thick 
vine slid past his pole and tried to wrap itself around their guides chest, but 
Erril was there, sword in hand. His silver weapon flashed, and the flowers 
limb splashed to the water, severed clean with the one strike of the blade. 
Jaston nodded his thanks to the plainsman. Once past the last
of the vines, Jaston shook off the clinging remnants of the moonblos-som from 
his pole and rinsed off its surface. Sleep poison, he explained. Wouldnt 
want to get it on a cut.
Elena stared behind her as the moonblossom vanished around the bend, its vines 
curling in frustration, its petals closing for the day. It would wait until 
nightfall to bloom again and lure the unsuspecting with its sweet scent. Elena 
shuddered. Was there nothing out here
that didnt want to eat you?
Soon they reached a wider channel, where a small current caught their boat and 
drew it languidly toward the deeper bogs. Jaston now only used his pole to guide 
them, rather than propel them forward. With the easing of his burden, he became 
more talkativethough Elena suspected he talked more to keep himself distracted 
than for companionship. He told them which plants contained healing oils and 
which fruits could kill with a nibble. He spoke at length about the krocan, one 
of the larger swamp predators, an aggressive, scaled carnivore with razor-sharp 
teeth that hunted the waters but nested on mud banks. They were a prized kill. 
Their skin made an excellent leather, and their meat was rich with fat. He even 
explained their mating habits. A pair bonds for life, he explained. When you 
hunt them, you must kill both male and female, or the surviving mate will seek 
you out. They are vengeful beasts. But the worst is a nesting female. She will 
attack a boat merely for passing too near her eggs. Only a skilled swamper 
tackles a krocan hunt.
Hopefully we wont encounter any, Elena said. Jastons eyebrows rose with this 
statement. Weve passed fifteen
so far.
Elenas lips parted. She had not seen a single one.
They hide in the muddy reeds. Jaston pointed his pole. Theres
one now.
It took further clues to finally discover the pair of black eyes peering from 
between bunches of rushes. Its scaled snout barely poked above the water. It lay 
stone-still, the bulk of its body hidden in the water, but its thick armored 
tail lay draped on the bank behind it. It had to be as long as the boat.
Just a young bull, Jaston said, appraising it. I doubt its even bonded yet. 
A full-grown adult can grow twice that length, and Ive heard tales of krocan 
giants that can be even largerbeasts that could swallow this boat whole.
Elena leaned closer to Mycelle.
Erril tired of these nature talks. Do you know where were going? he asked 
Jaston.
The scarred man nodded. These are well-traveled byways. I plan to take us as 
far as the swampers have mapped. Beyond that, well have to trust Mycelles 
seeking to guide us.
How much farther until we reach these untracked lands?
Well be there by nightfall. A swamper knows he risks his luck to spend more 
than one night out among the sloughs and bogs. One day out and one day back is 
an old hunting rule.
Whys that? Erril asked.
After a night, the swamp has your scent and begins to hunt you. Swampers that 
are gone for more than five days are mourned. Only a handful of men have 
survived longer than that in the swamp, and most have come back missing limbs or 
badly poisoned.
How long were you and Mycelle out while searching for this witch the last 
time?
Seven days, he said sullenly, glancing to his feet. The longest anyone has 
risked the swamp.
And how far do you think you penetrated?
Mycelle answered. We traveled for three days into the swamp before we were 
forced back. Even that hard-won distance, I believe, only touched the fringe of 
its dark heart. To reach the core will take easily twice that.
Erril pondered this news with dark brows.
But this time the witch wants us to come, Elena said, rolling back her sleeve 
to expose the vines of chokers nest that wrapped her arm. She marked me with 
her calling. She wont be hiding from us.
Mycelle nodded as Elena shook her sleeve back over the vines. Perhaps, she 
mumbled. But who knows the mind of someone who could live so long in these 
poisonous lands?
Does anyone know how long shes been here? Erril asked. Jaston answered. 
Tales of the witch go back for generations. Hundreds of years. Some say since 
the Drowned Lands were first formed. Others say it was the witch herself who 
sunk this region long ago.
Elena sat straighter in her seat. What do you mean sunk? Hasnt this always 
been swamp?
f
JAMES ULEMENS
No, Erril said, his voice a pained whisper as he stared at the poisonous 
lands. It was once a part of the plains of Standi.
The blood hunter crouched, hidden among the tall reeds in the shallows near the 
edge of Drywater. He had circled the ramshackle pile of rafts to its southern 
point. His preys scent left the town here and headed into the swamps. He 
stopped to ponder the path that the witch chose to follow. Why was she risking 
the dangers of these treacherous lands? It made no sense, not when it was an 
easy trek to follow the Landslip to the coast.
Torwren slipped into the depths of the swamp, his head sinking below the green 
waters. His limbs moved easily as he plodded through the muck at the bottom of 
the channel. He marched steadily, the fresh blood heating his skin. He relished 
the new strength in his limbs as he pushed aside tangling roots that snagged at 
him. Large predators swam toward him, blacker shadows in the murk, bared teeth 
like beacons in the gloom. But as they neared, it only took a glance of his red 
eyes to twist them away. A flash of their thick, scaled tails, and they were 
gone. Swamp eels writhed around his ankles and up his legs, then were poisoned 
by his touch. Their carcasses floated up, leaving a foul trail in the wake of 
his passage.
As he followed the waterway, he rose to the surface occasionally not to 
breathe, since his body had passed beyond that need and blood fueled him nowbut 
to sniff at the witchs trail, to make sure he did not stray from her path. 
With little resistance from the denizens of the swamp, he moved well. He would 
soon catch this witch and taste her heart.
As the sun crested to midday, he reached a stronger current in the waters. He 
cursed under his breath. The swift waters would carry the witch farther away 
from him, faster than he could march. Scowling, he increased his speed as the 
sun began its slide toward the western horizon. Still, where the current gave an 
advantage to the witch, the night was a blood hunters friend. His prey needed 
to sleep. He did not. He would use the midnight hours to close the gap. So, like 
a boulder rolling relentlessly down a mountainside, he continued, unstoppable, 
determination smoldering in the flames of his red eyes.
As he continued, Torwren again wondered why his prey had
J 1UKM
chosen this route. Did she perhaps think to lose him among the bogs and fens?
He rose and sniffed at the trail. Her spoor was sharp and clear in the humid 
air. No, he would never lose her trail.
Never.
Night had fallen by the time the punt glided up to a small island. Rope in hand, 
Jaston hopped to the small dock protruding from its muddy bank. Well overnight 
here, he said, tying off the punt.
A stone shack stood atop a short rise. Elena stared longingly at the cottage. It 
seemed much more substantial than its watery surroundings. The stacked rocks 
that composed its walls must have been ferried here to build this stout 
structure; nowhere in the swamps was there such solid building material. Even 
the door appeared to be ironwood, a tree foreign to these lands.
Erril stepped out next to their guide. He had his sword in his fist as he 
studied the island for any threat. Satisfied, he waved Elena out next. Mycelle 
followed, her arms burdened with their packs. Fardale guarded their rear.
Jaston led the way, kicking aside a snake from the path. It slithered into the 
reeds. Still, Elena kept her eye on its last location as she was led to the 
cottage. Snakes were sneaky.
Their guide pushed open the thick door; there was no lock. But then again, Elena 
thought, who would be thieving way out here? Jaston raised the lantern and 
surveyed the interior before allowing anyone to enter. He shone the light into 
every corner and even up into the rafters. His search was quick, since there was 
not a stick of furniture. The room was an empty cell. Not even a window pierced 
the walls. Its safe, he declared, and allowed the others to enter.
What is this place? Elena asked, creeping carefully inside.
Fardale loped past her thighs and did his own search, using his nose for a more 
thorough survey of the cottages corners.
Its a hunters lodge, Jaston said. A place to rest with stone protecting 
your back. A few other such lodges are built along the edges of the swamp, none 
farther than a days journey from the Landslip.
 One day in, one day out,  Erril mumbled.
Jaston nodded. Beyond here are areas rarely traveled by any but the foolhardy.
With his dire words, the party set up camp inside the stone hut. Bedrolls were 
spread, and a cold dinner of dried fish and hard bread was served in silence. 
Weve an early start, Erril declared, dusting off the crumbs from his lap. 
Ill take the first shift.
The lodge is secure against predators, Jaston said. There is no
need to post guards.
Erril stared at their guide. Youll take the second shift. Elena crawled into 
her roll, glad to leave the others to watch for snakes and krocan. Though she 
had spent most of the day seated in the punt, exhaustion nagged at her. The 
constant tension of their journey wearied her even more than the hike down the 
Landslip had. As she recalled the previous days events, an unanswered question 
arose in her mind. She rolled to her back and spotted Erril by
the lantern.
He twisted the lanterns wick to a low glow.
Erril, she said, drawing his eye, you said earlier that the swamps were once 
a part of Standi. How is that possible? she pressed.
Mycelle paused from climbing in her own roll to glance at Erril.
He sighed, apparently resigning himself to this tale. Before the Gulgotha came 
to Alasea, there was no Landslip. This region was as flat as the rest of Standi. 
Even the neighboring Archipelago once numbered twice as many islands before the 
region sank. His voice grew distant, his gaze wistful. This was beautiful 
country here, scattered with wooded hills and countless brooks that flowed from 
the Teeth to the coast. When I was young, I used to hunt deer among these lands 
with my father and once even a long time ago His voice trailed off with some 
private memory.
Then what happened ? Elena asked, pulling him back from his
memories.
Errils eyes focused back on her. He scowled. We were naive, blind to any 
thought that Alasea could ever be conquered. But one day, tremors and quakes 
shook the lands, heralding the arrival of the Dark Lord to our coasts. It was as 
if the very land were repulsed by his foul touch. At first, we thought it only a 
natural phenomenon. Quakes were not uncommon in the coastal areas. To further 
this misconception, word reached Aloa Glen of a huge volcanic eruption far to 
the north. It was told that the sun disappeared under a blanket of soot for 
almost an entire moon, and whole forests were turned to stone by its ash and 
heat. When the smoke finally cleared, a
monstrous cone lay where only flat land had once spread. Barren and burnt black, 
it was a smoldering blister along the coastline.
What was it?
It was the birth of Blackhall.
Gasps met his revelation. Blackhall was the seat of the Dark Lord, a great 
mountain that had been carved and hollowed into a sprawling subterranean city.
Erril continued his story. As the clouds of soot faded and the tremors calmed, 
we assumed the worst was over. Then after a time, rumors were heard of strange 
and vile creatures spreading forth from the mountains. Horribly deformed 
monsters and pale, winged creatures.
Skalturn, Elena said in a hushed voice.
Erril nodded. Our leaders investigated, sending out scouts, but they never 
returned. By the time we realized that Alasea was under assault, it was too 
late. The Dark Lord was firmly entrenched in his volcanic fortress. It was at 
this time that his Gulgothal armies arrived in massive fleets that stretched 
across the horizons. They attacked Aloa Glen first. For many moons, the oceans 
of the Archipelago ran red with blood, yet still we prevailed. The magick 
sustained us. The plainsmans eyes were bright with past glory.
Then slowly the fire in his gaze soured. But Chi abandoned us. As we fought, 
mages lifted their hands for power but pulled back only stumps. Without our 
magick, the tide of battle slowly turned. Dwarf armies and Gulgothal dog 
soldiers reached the coasts and began their march to the Teeth, aided by the 
Dark Lords beasts and black mag-icks. We could not withstand their forces. 
After ten winters of slaughter and bloodshed, only Aloa Glen still stood 
against their ravages, with enough pooled magick in her to sustain a long siege. 
From this last bastion, we struck at the Black Hearts dominion of our lands. As 
long as Aloa Glen stood, there was hope in the people.
Erril faced the floor. Then one day a mighty quake tore into this region. 
During this upheaval, not only did the Archipelago sink until only the tallest 
mountaintops remained above the waves, but even this wedge of coastline tore and 
slumped from the higher plains. Rivers tumbled over the new cliffs and swamped 
this region. Ripped open by the cataclysm, hot vents heated these waters, and 
the creatures of the coastal marshes and bogs spread inland to claim this new 
territory. And so the Drowned Lands were born.
JAMES CLEMENS
Silence met his tale. Finally, Mycelle asked, But what happened to Aloa Glen?
Erril grew somber. During the assault, we thought the whole island would sink, 
but at the last moment, the quake ceased and the highest levels of the city 
still stood above water. Fearing further attacks, the mages sought to hide the 
island, to let the Dark Lord think the city sunk and defeated. The Brotherhood 
used almost all the remaining magick to build a cloaking wall against prying 
eyes, impenetrable without the magick of one of three wards. From this hidden 
post, the surviving mages thought to wage a war of stealth against the 
Gulgotha. But it was a mistake. With the disappearance of Aloa Glen, the 
people of Alasea lost their heart. Errils face hardened, his brows furrowed 
deep. By hiding, we handed the final victory to the Dark Lord.
But h-how did he sink these lands? Elena asked.
Erril shrugged. It was never discovered.
Jaston spoke up for the first time, his voice a worried murmur. As I said 
before, some say it was the swamp witch.
Erril rubbed his stubbled chin and straightened. Whatever the cause, it grows 
late.
No one spoke against this statement. Each was left to his own thoughts as 
bedrolls were pulled up to necks. Elenas left arm itched with its vines, 
keeping her awake for a long time. As soft snores rose around her, Elenas 
thoughts were still plagued with all she had learned.
If the witch was powerful enough to sink these lands, what did she want with 
Elena?
Nearby, Jaston moaned in his sleep and thrashed against invisible attackers.
And if the witch had been hidden for so long, scarring and killing those that 
approached, why reveal herself now?
Outside, the swamps nightly chorus of hunters and prey was a constant reminder 
of the dangers that lay ahead. Elena pulled the edge of the bedroll over her 
head to muffle the keening screeches and warbling croaks, and she tried to 
imagine she was home in her own room in the orchards. She failed. Still, after a 
time, exhaustion did finally claim her, and sleep swallowed away her fears.
She slept deeply, too tired even to dream, until someone grabbed her arm. Her 
eyes flew open, a gasp on her lips.
Hush, Erril whispered, and pulled her from her bedroll.
Elena struggled free of her blanket and stood. She had no idea how long she had 
been sleeping but sensed it was well past midnight, yet still far from morning.
Erril shoved her behind him as he faced the ironwood door. Jas-ton and Mycelle 
were already out of their bedrolls. Her aunt had her two swords, and Jaston 
clutched a long skinning knife.
Beside them, Fardale stood with his hackles raised. The wolfs silence was 
unnerving as he stared intently at the door.
Glancing around her, Elena did not understand the danger until the quiet of the 
room penetrated her. Not a sound disturbed the nightnot a single croak, 
whistle, or hiss.
Beyond the door, the swamp lay dead quiet.
Pushing aside a wall of dense reeds, the blood hunter crept onto the island, 
ropes of soggy moss clinging to his shoulders. A flutter of frogs fled from his 
step, splashing into the shallows.
Ahead, the stone cabin lay at the top of a short hill. He approached its rear 
cautiously. The scent of the witch led here. He stepped to the rock wall and 
sniffed at it. Even through the rock, he scented her spoor. His lips pulled back 
to grin at the night. He had finally caught up with his prey.
He circled the cabin, pleased by what he discovered. No windows opened in the 
walls, only a single door. There was no escape. His quarry was trapped within 
this stone prison. He crossed to the only entrance and crouched before the 
ironwood door. Here her lingering scent was strong. He straightened, glancing 
behind him to ensure that their boat was still tied to the dock. Through the 
mist, he saw the punt rocking gently in the night breeze.
Grinning, he faced the threshold, savoring his victory. Raising his arm, he let 
fire dance in his stone palm. His polished black features reflected back the 
flames as they grew fierce. Once satisfied, he thrust his hand to the door. As 
his ebonstone flesh met wood, the door exploded away from him, shredding into 
thousands of ironwood darts that blasted into the chamber ahead. Before the 
debris settled, Torwren stalked through the cloud of trailing smoke. He found 
the cabin empty of all but a scattering of rumpled bedrolls. Dismayed, he 
marched into the room and searched its cor-
f
ners. No one was here. As flames ran in streams across his stone skin, he turned 
to the door, staring out at the night.
She may have slipped his snare this time, but now he knew his prey was wary. He 
took a step back into the swamps, determined to show her the skills of a true 
hunter.
Soon, he thought as he entered the dark waters. Soon I shall taste
her heart.
JAMES
In the distance, a muffled explosion echoed across the swamp. Elena did not need 
to turn around to know it came from the stone lodge they had just fled.
The boy spoke the truth, Mycelle whispered. Someone is stalking us.
Elena stayed ducked down as the strange boat sped along the swamp current. She 
stared at the small naked boy who stood at the bow of the vessel. Redheaded and 
freckled, he was clearly one of the witchs swamp children. This time, she did 
not shy from the dirty child. If it had not been for the boys timely arrival, 
all of them would have been trapped in the stone cabin.
The child had come knocking softly on the lodges door shortly after Elena had 
been pulled from her bedroll. Erril had warily peeked out to discover the boy 
standing there. The fiery-headed youth had hissed at them to leave before they 
could even collect their supplies. Leave it, he had scolded. Dead men dont 
need bedrolls.
At first, no one had moved. Finally, Mycelle had sighed and sheathed her twin 
swords. The witch knows these lands. If she says run, wed better heed her 
minion.
The boy had grabbed her aunts arm, obviously relieved to find an ally, and 
practically yanked her toward the door. The monster comes. Hurry!
Erril was less convinced. He kept a hand gripped on Elenas shoulder. At the 
door, the boy had raised his gaze to the tall plains-
man. I do this to save your witch. If you wish to die, then stay. But let the 
girl live.
Even Elena could tell it was not a mere boy that spoke. It was the
swamp witch.
Grumbling, Erril had finally relented and pushed Elena forward. The boy quickly 
led them out the door and away from the dock. This way! he had insisted. He 
guided them to a crudely constructed craft nestled among the reeds. It was 
smaller than their own punt, but with no supplies, the boat was roomy enough. It 
seemed to be constructed of tightly woven strands of some thick vine and was 
encrusted with a layer of yellow moss.
While Fardale sniffed at it, Jaston had studied the craft doubtfully, then 
shrugged and stepped into it The others followed as Jaston searched for the pole 
to work the boat. Before he could finish his search, the crude vessel had simply 
slipped away from the bank on its own and glided into the deeper waters.
Now, as the echoes of the explosion from the lodge died around them, the small 
boat picked up speed.
Its traveling faster than the current, Jaston commented, wonder and fear 
equally mixed in his expression.
Without a lantern, the swamp was a black cave around them. Even the stars and 
moon were masked by the nights clouds and
mists.
Only a fool travels the bog at night, Jaston mumbled near the
stern.
The boy glanced back at his words, his face twisted with exaggerated fear. Then 
Id better run home, he said, and toppled overboard.
Errils arm reached out for the boy; then he caught himself with a dour shake 
of his head. I hate when they do that, he said under his
breath.
I think the witch tires, Mycelle said from beside Elena. I wager it takes 
immense concentration and strength to create one of her moss children. If shes 
forced to move and guide the boat, she probably cant maintain the child any 
longer. There are limits to an ele-mentals ability.
We shouldve used more caution, Erril said. Who is to say the
boys talk of monsters was real?
I felt a stirring, Mycelle argued. Something strangely muted,
but corrupt. I couldnt tell for sure what it was, except that whatever pursues 
us has been touched by black magicks.
Her statement silenced the conversation. It felt uncomfortable to speak in the 
darkness anyway, as if their mere voices would bring some new foul creature into 
their midst.
Yet the swamp held no such qualms. The music of the night returned to claim the 
darkness. Strange, warbling cries echoed back and forth across the waters, and 
under it droned a constant croaking, chirping, and creaking.
Something huge suddenly splashed into the water only a stones throw awayor at 
least it sounded that close to Elena. She huddled closer to Mycelle. Her aunt 
put an arm around her. Why dont you try to sleep? she whispered in Elenas 
ear.
Darkness hid Elenas incredulous expression. Sleep would never claim her this 
night.
As the boat glided through unknown dangers, her eyes slowly grew accustomed to 
the blackness. The darkness was not as complete as Elena had first suspected. In 
the distance, strange glows would shine forth in the mists for a few heartbeats, 
then fade away. Closer, swarms of sparking insects swept away in huge clouds 
from their passing boat. Occasional hanging ropes of moss glowed a soft green 
from branches overhead; some even pulsed languidly in the night breeze. At one 
point, the vessel swept through a dark pond, but in its wake, the disturbed 
algae blew bright with an azure hue, leaving a brilliant trail behind them.
The wondrous sights were not lost on the others. There is much beauty here, 
Mycelle whispered.
But beware its pretty face, Jaston answered her. Among the bogs and fens, 
beauty is often used to lull the unwary to their death. Remember the pleasing 
scent of the moonblossom.
As if to support his claim, a viper swam past the bow of the boat, its body 
gleaming a radiant crimson as it twisted through the waters. Still, beauty is 
beauty, Mycelle said with a sigh. So the night passed. No one slept. But as 
nothing directly threatened them as they traveled, they were able to relax and, 
in some small way, appreciate the wonders hidden among these lands. For brief 
moments, Elena could almost understand Jastons ability to call the swamps home.
At long last, the skies to the east began to lighten with dawn. And
while the sun was welcome, the calm of the night was shattered by what the new 
light revealed.
Around them, trees had grown so high that their crowns vanished into the foggy 
clouds above. Boles of these swamp giants were as big around as the stone lodge 
they had fled, and monstrous tangles of huge roots rose from the waters, 
creating twisted arches over the channel. Creatures of leathery wings and sharp 
claws hung upside down from these roots as they passed beneath them, wings 
wrapped like cloaks around their sleeping bodies. Walls of webs also lay draped 
across the snarls of heavy roots, with spiders the size of small dogs hunched in 
their center, fangs dripping a red oil as their boat passed.
Elena glanced away. The spiders reminded her too much of Vi-ranis poisonous 
demons that had plagued them last spring, like an ill omen warning them away. 
She turned to study the swamp channel.
Under them, the waters were no longer green but a deep black like a starless 
night sky. In the dark channel, beasts churned and swam. Schools of fish darted 
around the boat, and even from above, their sharp teeth could be clearly seen. 
Wide wakes marked the paths of unseen beasts, obviously curious and drawn by 
their boat. For a brief moment, a huge white fin rose from the waters ahead, 
then sank back down.
A gurgling splash drew Elenas eyes to the right of the boat. A striped python 
as thick around as an ogres chest was writhing from its perch in a fork of a 
tree and slipping into the black waterway. Before its full length slid into the 
depths, the boat had passed out of sight. But other snakes lay around them on 
all sides. Nests of pale vipers lay as thick as piled snow along the muddy 
banks, while their more colorful cousins hung in choked tangles from low-lying 
branches. Everywhere Elena looked, the swamp squirmed and crawled with deadly 
menace. Yet nothing approached the boat directly or threatened immediate harm.
They they let us pass, Jaston mumbled. The witchs magick, Mycelle said. 
It must be keeping them back.
Erril spoke from behind Elenas shoulder. And what if this witch decides not 
to be so accommodating after we meet? How will we ever get out of here? No one 
had an answer.
As the boat shied around a slow bend in the channel, what Elena had thought was 
a small island buried in a bed of floating moss opened a huge black eye and 
stared at her. It then sank from view in a swirl of bubbles.
Elena hugged her arms around her body. Even the rising warmth could not dispel 
the chill that had settled around her heart. Her hand rubbed at the moss under 
her left sleeve. How were they ever to escape these swamps, especially without 
her magick?
Jaston stood near the stern of the boat and grabbed at fruit hanging from a vine 
overhead. He managed to collect half a dozen, dropping them at his feet, before 
the boat slid past the fruited canopy. Fen apples, he named them, settling 
back to his seat. Though Ive never seen them so large.
He passed them around. Without their supplies, they did not even have water to 
share. While Fardale rolled one of the large red-skinned fruits across the 
bottom of the boat with his nose, sniffing at it, Elena needed both hands to 
grasp her own. Her eyes crinkled. This was like no apple she had ever seen. 
Following Jastons example, she simply bit into it. As her teeth pierced the 
fruits skin, sweet juices ran down her chin, and she found the flesh of the 
apple crisp and oddly cool. It wasnt until her mouth was full that she 
realized how hungry she was. She devoured the fruit in silence, as did the 
others. Too soon, she had gnawed it down to its core. But even then she did not 
stop. She chewed on the seeds inside and discovered they tasted a bit like 
hazelnuts.
Satisfied and full, she found the nervous chill in her chest strangely abated. 
Just the act of eating, this small achievement of survival in these poisonous 
lands, fortified her resolve. She leaned back, the tension fading from her 
shoulders. She would live today. So the remainder of the day passed.
Elena even found herself dozing during the late afternoon as they glided, 
undisturbed, past horrors that would turn a brave man to stone. As she watched, 
now less concerned with something attacking her, she was able to appreciate the 
cycle of life in this strange place: the mother krocan with her tail wrapped 
around a nest of eggs, a pair of long-legged cranes with beaks like swords 
leading a line of fledglings and showing them how to hunt the shallows, the 
obvious courting ritual of a pair of rock turtles as big around as
mountain boulders. Even here, poison could not keep life from
continuing.
Eventually night again swallowed away the swamps, and Elena sought truly to 
sleep. Her belly was full from a late meal of something Jaston called a potato 
weed, a fibrous tuber growing in chains that he had snatched from the waters. 
It was not all that tasty, but it was filling. Content, she drifted toward 
slumber, her head cradled on Fardales side as the wolf lay curled at the prow 
of the boat.
At least this night, nestled among friends, Elena felt safe. Still, deep inside 
her, she suspected this peace would not last for long. So she would savor this 
moment. Tomorrows worries could wait on
the dawn.
She closed her eyes and let the poisonous lands lull her to sleep.
The blood hunter pushed through the deeper swamps. Here the waters ran with 
creatures far larger than himself, but still they shied away when he drew near. 
The foulness of his stone skin repelled the beasts keen noses.
Torwren surfaced again to check the scent of the witch. A trace of lightning 
burned in the air. Back at the island, he had soon enough caught his preys 
scent. He had studied the trampled rushes and reeds. Another boat had awaited 
the witch, one hidden in the shallows.
After tearing apart the muddy bank for further clues about her unknown support, 
he had discovered nothing. He was forced to pursue her on foot, slogging through 
muck and fighting the ever-thickening growth of roots and moss. He had trailed 
her throughout the remainder of the night and the following day. From the way 
her trail grew faint, she traveled faster and was leaving him far behind.
Still, as night descended again, he pursued her. As long as there was a trace of 
scent, she would not escape him. Eventually she would slow or stop, and again he 
would catch up. But this time, he would be better prepared.
With these thoughts clouding his attention, he failed to notice a huge predator 
that had swept closer than most dared. It was only when the beast was upon him 
that he finally grew conscious of the attack. Before he could move, its huge 
jaws clamped around his waist, dragging him from the muck. Teeth with serrated 
edges wore
at his stone skin. Torwrens flaming eyes stared into the large black eyes of 
the scaled creature, monster studying monster. The swamp lizard used the weight 
of its tail to thrash and twist at the stone dwarf.
Torwren found himself tossed about like a childs doll in a dogs mouth. The 
creature weighed easily five times his own bulk. Any ordinary dwarf would have 
been long dead. But Torwren was no ordinary dwarf. He was at no risk of 
drowning, and his stone skin resisted the teeth of the creature. As its clawed 
front legs scrabbled at him, searching for a weak spot, he simply waited. Like 
most coldblooded creatures, this beast was designed for a sudden attack and a 
quick kill. Prolonged fighting was not in its nature. It would soon tire.
The dwarfs assessment proved true. Soon the creatures thrashings subsided. 
Yet it was not exhaustion that weakened the monstrous lizard but the touch of 
poison in the blood hunters skin. Now the creatures waning struggles were 
aimed at dislodging the foul prey from its mouth, seeming to sense the 
corruption it held as its blood lust faded. But Torwren would not be denied his 
kill. He hung on to the beasts snout, refusing to allow himself to be tossed 
off.
In only a few heartbeats, the beast lay still and floated to the surface with 
Torwren caught in its dead jaws. He pried himself free and pushed the lizard 
away. Near the bank, he spotted the lair of the scaled creature in the muddy 
reeds. Eggs like big speckled rocks filled the hollow of a shallow nest.
No wonder the beast had attacked when no other creature would dare. The mothers 
instinct to protect her offspring had doomed her. Torwren shoved the 
she-lizards bulk out of his way. Dumb beast.
He stalked back into the swamp. The witchs trail had grown even fainter while 
he had battled the monster. Silently he cursed the creature and its maternal 
instinct. How awful it must be to be guided by forces beyond your control, to be 
a puppet to primitive instincts.
The blood hunter rose to the surface and sniffed at the air.
Near dawn, the bull krocan nosed its dead mate, then searched its nest. The 
eggs were still intact, but without his mate, the clutch would not survive. His 
nest was as dead as if it had been trampled.
He raised his nose to the sky and trumpeted his pain and rage. His thunderous 
call silenced the swamps for leagues around with its echoes.
Once done, he returned to his mate, nuzzled her, and wrapped his tail one last 
time around her. Massing three times her size, he held her tenderly, pulling her 
close to him. He lay in her embrace until the rage in his heart would not let 
him hold still.
He broke free with a thrash of his mighty tail, striking a tree near shore and 
snapping it in half.
He sniffed at her snout, confirming the scent of the one who had killed his 
bonded.
Then he sank beneath the waters.
His death hunt began.
The sun awoke Elena just after dawn. She uncurled from Fardales side and 
stretched to greet the morning. The wolf stirred at her motion but did not wake. 
Elena glanced at the rest of the party; Everyone slept. She was the only one 
awake. Even though it was obvious that Jaston had been left to guard the last 
watch of the night, he had not made it to morning. He sat near the stern of the 
boat, his  chin resting on his chest. Gentle snores rose from his sleeping 
figure.
Elena worked a kink from her neck and glanced at the morning mists around the 
boat. Nothing but walls of swirling fog encircled their vessel. Her first 
thought was that the mists still hid the surrounding trees and banks. But as her 
eyes cleared of sleep fog, she realized the mists were not that dense. She sat 
straighter and, in a slight panic, glanced all around her.
Her sudden motion stirred Fardale enough that his head rose from his paws. He 
yawned so large that all his teeth shone bright in the dawns light. He pushed 
slowly to his own feet as his eyes surveyed the waters around the boat. Then he 
stiffened. His gaze swung to Elena. A picture formed in her minds eye: A wolf 
flies off a high cliff and falls through empty air.
She knew what he meant. She shook Mycelles shoulder and woke her aunt with a 
start. Mycelle sat up, instantly alert. What is it, hon?
Elena waved her arm to encompass their surroundings. The swamp is gone. Around 
the boat, the growing sunlight revealed the proof of her words. The mists were 
thin enough that their view
stretched for at least a league in all directionsand nothing lay around them. 
Even the hue of the waters had lightened from a deep black to a clearer blue.
By now, the rest of their party had awakened.
The channel must have emptied into some lake, Jaston said as he stared around 
him. His voice was low and embarrassed. He would not meet Errils intense 
stare; he knew he had failed his watch.
Erril sighed loudly at the featureless surroundings. The swamp noises still 
carried to them across the waters, but the croaking and screeching were clearly 
some distance away. The boat had traveled deep into the lake.
Mycelle settled back down. The witch still draws the boat. Swamp or not, we 
are heading toward her.
Or she might be chasing us off, Erril said harshly, getting us lost when we 
werent looking. He glanced meaningfully to the stern where Jaston sat.
The swamper did not acknowledge Errils words. He just stared out at the 
waters, but Elena saw his cheeks redden.
Suddenly Fardale growled from the prow of the boat. All eyes swung in that 
direction. Through the mists ahead, a large dark mass appeared. The boat sped 
toward it. As the fogs parted, it soon became clearer. Sheer steep cliffs rose 
straight from the waters to reach for the skies.
Its an island, Elena said. Her eyes strained to pierce the mists. No, 
Erril said, its not.
The mists lifted with the suns warmth to reveal more of their destination. What 
had initially appeared to be cliffs were now revealed to be walls. Stone and 
mortar climbed from the lakes waves, their ancient surfaces draped in curtains 
of moss and lichen. Black holes of old windows stared down at them as the boat 
curved around the huge structure. From these windows, huge leather-winged 
creatures burst forth, disturbed by the boats passage. Their cries raised the 
tiniest hairs on Elenas arms.
She craned her neck back. The structure rose high into the morning skies. Far 
above, Elena spotted battlements topping its crown. As the boat glided around 
its base, the walls curved so gently that it became clear the structure was a 
tower of immense girth.
I know this place, Erril hissed.
You do? Mycelle said, her neck bent back.
Its Castle Drakk, Erril said coldly. Or whats left of it. This is the tip 
of its highest tower. The rest of the foul place must be drowned below us. He 
studied its mossy walls with his lips curled as if ready to snarl. As much as I 
hated losing these Standi lands when the plains sank, it was a consolation to 
know Castle Drakk had been destroyed.
Why? Elena asked.
Erril shook his head. It was the keep of the Assassins Guild: a caste of 
poisoners and men who moved in shadows. Unwanted children of many landsbastard 
children, babes born into hardship, deformed birthswere sold like cattle to the 
lords of the castle.
What became of them?
They were apprenticed as assassins, though some tales said a portion of the 
children sold were used for the training of the others, living targets for the 
black skills.
Elenas eyes grew round while Errils brows darkened further. But that was 
just one of the rumors surrounding Castle Drakk, he continued. Some stories 
spoke of treasures buried deep in the castles roots, stored blood money from 
the centuries of exorbitant fees collected by the castes assassins. And other 
tales warned of weapons so sinister of nature that only the skilled hands of an 
assassin could wield them without harm to their bearer.
As Erril finished, the boat glided around to the far side of the tower, where a 
stone stair curved out of the water to wind up toward the distant battlements. 
The vessel glided to the narrow staircase and finally stopped its voyage.
The boat was silent as everyone stared up the mossy stairs. The days heat had 
already begun to build, and a sheen of sweat glistened on their upturned faces.
It seems that something survived in Castle Drakk, Mycelle said.
The witch, Jaston added needlessly.
No one made a move toward the stairs until Elena noticed water seeping into the 
bottom of the boat. Were sinking!
Erril and Jaston quickly hopped from the vessel and helped Elena and Mycelle 
out onto the narrow stairs. Just as the boat sank into the depths, Fardale leapt 
free. On the stairs, the wolf shook his legs to dry his paws.
The party stood clustered near the base of the staircase and watched
-n o 1 u K JM
their only means of escape drift down into the depths of the lake. Huge fins 
soon cut through the waters, curiosity drawing predators to the sinking craft. 
Erril herded the party farther up the steps as one of the beasts briefly 
surfaced. A large black eye rolled into view, its huge maw lined by hundreds of 
shredding teeth.
It seems weve arrived where the witch wants us, Mycelle said. And means to 
keep us, Elena mumbled, eying the circling fins. Erril waved Mycelle forward. 
Lets see what this witch wants. Her aunt led the way, with Fardale at her 
heels. The stairway was only wide enough to allow two persons to walk abreast, 
so Erril kept close beside Elena as they climbed the stairs. Jaston followed 
last, guarding their rear with his long skinning knife.
They climbed in silence until the waters of the lake were far below, and yet the 
tower staircase still continued into the mists. The steps had to be trod with 
care since moss slickened the heel and vines threatened to betray a toe. Due to 
their cautious pace, it was well past midday when they finally reached the top 
of the stairs. There, they found a large iron door blocking their way into the 
tower.
Elena glanced up. The battlements crowning the tower lay only a few stories 
farther up the structure. Above these fortifications, a large brass cauldron 
hung over their heads, stanchioned between two stout posts. The brass was green 
with age, and ropes of moss hung from its supports.
Mycelle noticed Elenas stare. The cauldrons were used to pour flaming oil upon 
the towers attackers. Any army that attempted to take the tower would find 
these stairs to be a trap. Did you notice the small holes along the walls as we 
climbed?
Elena nodded. She had thought them just old mouse burrows. Mycelle explained 
their real use. Defenders would thrust sharp pikes through those holes at the 
enemy as they climbed the stairs, stabbing at them and shoving them from the 
staircase to topple to their deaths.
With her nose crinkled, Elena shied away from both the cauldron and the mouse 
holes as Erril tried the iron door. He found it latched tight.
What now? he asked, facing the others. Maybe we should knock, Elena offered.
Erril glanced at her as if she were daft, but Mycelle merely shrugged. Why 
not?
JAMES
Shaking his head, Erril unsheathed his sword and used its silver pommel to 
strike the door solidly three times. This close, the clang of silver on iron 
stung the ear. Its call echoed over the still lake waters. Once the ringing 
sounds died down, Erril faced them. Any other ideas that youd
The sharp click of a latchs release from behind him halted any further comment. 
All eyes turned to the door. With the tortured screech of rusted hinges, it 
slowly pulled open.
They needed no orders to retreat down a few steps. Erril moved in front of 
Elena, his sword still raised, its tip pointing at the door. At his side, a 
tight growl flowed from Fardales throat, while Mycelle stood beside Elena, both 
swords in hand.
From the doorway, a tall vision of slender legs and supple curves stepped forth. 
She wore a white silk gown finely embroidered with green leaves, yellow buds, 
and twisting curls of tender vines. Her hair, framing a heart-shaped face 
adorned with full red lips and large blue eyes, hung in a fall of auburn curls 
to her waist. Her smile was warm and inviting. Not a flicker of guile marred her 
features. Welcome, she said, her voice soft and even. She did not even seem to 
see the swords or knife pointing in her direction, but simply stepped back and 
waved a sculpted china hand toward the towers entrance. Please feel welcome. 
My boys have prepared a warm meal for you weary travelers.
Even now the odors of baked bread and honey flowed out from the open doorway, 
and somewhere a roast was smoking above a
hot fire.
As tempting as the smells were, no one moved. Who are you?
Her smiled faded to a bemused grin. Why, the witch, of course. Now please do 
not fear. I mean no harm.
Mycelle moved first, but suspicion ran thick in her words. For someone who 
means us no harm, to bewitch an innocent child with a chokers nest makes us 
doubt the sincerity of your heart.
Her aunts words seemed to wound the woman. Her smile faded to a serious 
expression. I must apologize for the crudeness of my invitation. But to reach 
all the way to Shadowbrook tapped my resources to an extreme, and it was vital 
that the witch come here before proceeding to Aloa Glen.
The mention of the sunken city, their secret destination, loosened Errils 
tongue. How do you know so much about us?
WIT CH JTORM
Come inside. I will explain all during dinner.
Still no one moved. Free the child of your bewitching first, My-celle said. 
Then we can talk.
The witch bowed her head and beckoned Elena forward. Come to me, child. Let me 
see your hands.
Elena glanced to Mycelle, who nodded. Cautiously, Elena climbed the stairs to 
the doors landing, slipping off her gloves. Mycelle and Erril followed her. 
Her aunt sheathed one of her blades and gripped Elenas shoulder in one hand.
As Elena reached the landing, two swords guarded her: Errils gleaming silver 
to her left, Mycelles steel blade on her right. Still she had to force herself 
not to flinch as the witch reached for her bare hands. But the womans touch 
proved gentle and undemanding as she knelt before Elena and examined her 
fingers, palms, and wrists.
She first studied Elenas ruby hand. Witchfire, she muttered, and glanced 
briefly at the sun. It was sinking toward the western horizon. Sighing, she 
picked at Elenas vine-encrusted fingers for a few moments. Finally, she clasped 
both of Elenas hands between her own and gazed into Elenas eyes. You dont 
know half your true strength, child, she whispered so quietly that Elena 
doubted the others even heard the words. As the witch pulled back, Elena caught 
a whiff of her perfume; the scent was oddly familiar.
Before Elena could recall where she had smelled the scent before, the witch 
released her hands and straightened up to face the others. She took a step back. 
Im sorry. I will not be able to lift the spell until nightfall.
To either side of her, the two swords raised higher. I tell you the truth, she 
said with sincerity. I have not expended such energy and brought you all this 
way just to kill you. I have a need of this childs magick. But to aid me, she 
must have access to her powers. The weed, she said with a nod toward Elenas 
left hand, is not a means of stealing her magick. It was the only way I could 
ensure she would come and hear me out. Once free of the spell, the choice of 
whether or not to assist me will be hers and hers alone. Either way, you all 
will be free to go afterward. All I ask is that she first hear my plea.
The swords pulled back slightly.
Mycelle spoke first, her words directed at Erril. She is the only
t_
Ine who can lift Elenas spell, she argued. We can at least listen to er story 
until the sun sets.
Erril scowled, but even Elena knew the problem could not be olved on the point 
of a sword. He lowered his blade.
The gracious smile returned to the witchs face. Come then. Dome inside and 
let us exchange stories over dinner. She led the vay into the tower, moving 
with such grace that Elena felt like a plodding cow behind her.
Again Elena was struck by her tall lithe figure and cascade of curled tresses. 
Jastons prior warning repeated in her head: Among the bogs and fens, beauty is 
often used to lull the unwary to their death.
As Elena followed Mycelle past the iron door and into the shadowed entry of 
Castle Drakk, it was more than just the stony coolness of the hall that shivered 
her flesh. In the enclosed space, Elena again caught a whiff of the womans 
scent and finally recognized its pleasant fragrance. She recalled the deadly 
flower that had smelled so sweet and again pictured its vines embracing its prey 
in a thorny grip. Silently, she named the source of this scent: tnoonblossom.
Erril studied the woman across the oaken table from him. As the others sampled 
the delicacies offered to them, he found no stomach for the assortment of dark 
breads and jams, or the slender pods of a swamp bean swimming in butter and 
lemon, or even the roasted steaks of a wild boar. Instead, he sipped at his mug 
of bitter ale and
studied their hostess.
The witch had tied back her auburn curls with a green braided ribbon as she 
oversaw the serving of their dinner. As they made their introductions, she had 
given her name as Cassa Dar but offered nothing more as she went about checking 
on the spitted boar or stirring a kettle. Once the meal was under way, she 
settled in a seat opposite the table from Erril, but her eyes were only on 
Elena. The girl sat next to him, nibbling at a slice of bread slathered in berry 
jam. From the girls tense shoulders, Erril suspected the weight of the 
witchs gaze unnerved the girl, but she need not have been so worried. Mycelle 
was seated to Elenas far side. The girl was safe between their two swords.
The rest of their party, Jaston and Fardale, shared the witchs side

Wit ch Storm
of the table. The wolf crouched on the floor beside the witchs chair, nosing 
his plate, while Jaston sat stiff beside the handsome woman and tried his best 
to keep his scarred features away from the light.
The only other occupants of the huge dining chamber were the witchs servants, 
three of the swamp boys clothed in brown pants and white shirts. The trio now 
watched from beside the crackling hearth, eying the table like hungry hawks, 
awaiting a mug to refill or a dirty plate to replace with a clean one.
The womans eyes finally met Errils stare, a bemused smile on her lips. You 
teem with so many questions, plainsman. Perhaps I try your patience and should 
now talk.
You misjudge me, he replied. All I wish is for Elena to be rid of your 
bewitching. I care nothing for your story or your words. ,
His harsh statement did nothing to remove the amusement from her eyes. So you 
have no curiosity about a witch living in Castle Drakk?
He just stared.
Well, if he doesnt, I do, Mycelle said. Cassa, how did you come to live in 
these swamps?
Her gaze moved to the swordswoman. Come to the swamps? Why, Ive always been 
here. It was the swamps that came to me.
Mycelles eye twitched with this declaration. Are you saying youve been here 
since the lands sunk?
Even longer, Im afraid. I was apprenticed to the assassins caste a decade 
prior to the great cataclysm.
All seated at the table wore shocked expressions, but it was Mycelle who spoke. 
That would make you over five hundred years oldas old as Erril. But thats 
impossible Or does some magick sustain you?
Cassa Dar shrugged. I am rich in elemental magicks. But you know this and know 
my power. Though vast, it cannot stop times aging.
Then how did you?
The witch held up a hand. You dwell on the trivial.
Yes, she does, Erril said. He knew a way to test the veracity of this 
witchs statements. If you speak the truth, then prove your words. Show us 
your assassins mark.
He had expected her to balk and seek some excuse, but instead she leaned over 
the table closer to one of the thick candles and tilted her
head to the side. She fingered back the trail of curls from behind her right ear 
to reveal a small tattoo of a bloody dagger done in red and black dyes hidden 
there. She ran a long painted nail along the hilt of the tattooed blade, tracing 
a vine wrapped around the handle. A small flower bloomed just at the apex of the 
hilt. Nightshade, she said, naming the deadly plant. I was a poisoner.
The disgust could not be kept from Errils face and was clearly noted by Cassa 
Dar. Poison is just another weapon, she said. Like your sword or Elenas 
magick. Why do you judge it so harshly? It takes as much skill to master the art 
of poisoning as it does to master your sword. How much nettleburr will kill a 
man versus incapacitating him? Which poisons kill quickly and painlessly, and 
which kill slowly and torturously? How do you lace a blade so the merest scratch 
will either fester a wound or kill instantly? She nodded toward the spread of 
food. And how do you prepare poisons that
the tongue cant taste ?
She smiled at their glances of horror. Fear not, she said. I told you I meant 
you no harm, and my word is good. If I wanted you all dead, I could have done it 
in a thousand ways. So, Erril, if you are done testing me, perhaps we can move 
to more appropriate topics.
Erril was undaunted. One more question. What happened to the other members of 
your foul caste?
Foul caste? You do seem a well of prejudices, plainsman. I would have you know 
that the master who ran this keep was as noble a soul as you. He cared for the 
rejected, cast-out children of both Alasea and lands beyond and paid good coin 
for the honor. He fed us, clothed us, treated our injuries, and taught us to 
survive. And at the last, he gave his life freeing the surviving members as the 
waters rose to claim the castle. So I will not have you disparaging his good
work.
Good work? Erril said. He created killers.
And what do your schools of swordplay teach? Do they teach you how to use your 
swords to knit wool into sweaters? Death is death, and the art of stealing a 
life is no nobler at the point of a blade than from a powder mixed in a drink.
But what of rumors that some of the weaker children were used
as sport in training?
Just that, swordsmanrumors. In the libraries here, I have read the histories 
of the assassins caste as far back as the foundation of
Castle Drakk. We served the land and its lords as justly and evenly as any 
knight. The assassins here were oath-bound to our elder members. The elder 
council judged the worth of any assignment before undertaking it. We did not 
kill on the whim of some errant lordling who needed an inconvenient person 
eliminated.
Erril snorted. So you stabbed folks in the dead of night, but you did it 
nobly?
Some matters are better dealt with quietly. Sometimes a battalion of mounted 
swordsmen is not the best way to solve a problem. Sometimes it takes a 
well-placed knife or a hidden poison to make a problem go quietly away. Cassa 
Dar nodded toward Mycelle. Sometimes poison in tiny jade vials solves many 
future dangers. Mycelles eyes widened. So you know of my work? The swamp 
witch waved one of her boys over to her and placed a hand on his shoulder. 
These are my children, constructs of moss and illusions. They are my eyes and 
my ears in the swamp and around its edges. There is little I dont know that 
occurs in my lands, including the city of Shadowbrook. When the witch arrived, 
I watched and listened and suspected that in her magick lay a chance of 
salvation.
Salvation for whom? Mycelle asked.
She held up a hand. In due time. What I can tell you now is that your other 
companions in Shadowbrook did escape the destruction of the Keep and are already 
on a barge toward the coast.
Elena sat up from where she slouched in her chair. Did they find Meric?
The elvin? Yes, he is injured but lives. I am afraid I cant give you much 
more detail than that. It taxes my strength to stretch my reach that far. But I 
can tell you this: When they broke the Keep, something escapedsomething that 
has since been trailing your party.
The thing that tried to attack us at the lodge? Jaston asked.
She nodded. I have been unable to get a clear look at it something black and 
foul of form. Its dark magick obscures my vision. And after being thwarted at 
the lodge, it grew more wary and stays hidden in the waters. I lost it somewhere 
in the deep swamps. But little passes through that area without my help.
A grudging respect for this witch grew in Erril with her tale. She had managed 
to hone her elemental gift over the centuries into a for-
midable tool. Yet could she be trusted? He wished he had Krai here to judge the 
truth of this womans tongue. So why did you help us?
To offer your witch a bargain.
And what is this offer? Erril asked.
I will free her of the bewitching no matter what she decides, but I can also 
offer her a tool that will prove invaluable in her war upon the Black Heart. All 
I ask in exchange is a small promise. Errils eyes narrowed. What is this 
promise?
That when you are finished with this tool, you return it to its original lands 
and its rightful place.
Where is that? Elena asked meekly.
Cassa Dar stood up from the table. She glanced sadly at Elena. Before we 
bargain, I must first put aside all illusions. Standing, the witch reached up 
with her arms, and with a slight shake of her body, as if slipping from loose 
clothing, her illusions fell away from her. Trailing vines and mounds of moss 
fell away from her body until her true form was revealed.
Before them hunched a misshapen creature, squat of form and pale of skin. Her 
back was bent with age, and her pendulous breasts drooped like rotten melons. 
Her face, as she shied from the light, was more wrinkles than features. Only her 
ebony eyes still shone with the keenness and intelligence of the one named Cassa 
Dar.
Erril knew what he was looking at. He had fought such creatures on the 
battlefields with the coming of the Dark Lord. Youre a dwarf!
Elena watched Fardale and Jaston dance back from the revealed witch. The wolf 
growled and retreated around the table. Soon their entire party clustered on the 
far side of the room. The stout oaken table stood between them and the dwarf.
I am a dwarf, Cassa Dar admitted as she kept her face in shadows. Even her 
voice was a harsh gravel compared to its smooth tones from a moment before. But 
as you disparaged the assassins a moment ago, you now misjudge my people.
Misjudge? Erril spat. He had his silver sword in hand. It was your armies 
that ravaged our lands.
She lowered her head, as if its weight were too heavy. I know. But before you 
lay blame, hear my story. I
Wit ch storm
We have no time to hear your sick tale, Erril declared hotly. His cheeks had 
darkened to a deep red. Elena had never seen him so disturbed. Between your 
people and the dog soldiers, we were slaughtered. I saw a cousin of mine torn to 
shreds by the beasts leashed to dwarf overlords. They laughed at his screams. 
And you ask me to hear your tale? Errils voice had risen to a sharp pitch. 
May your people be forever cursed!
Elena saw how his words wounded the witch, how her back seemed to bend under 
his assault. Finally she raised her face toward him; tears ran in rivulets 
across her marred features. If it gives you any relief from your sorrow, we 
were cursed, plainsman. The pain rang clear in her hoary voice. We were cursed 
before we ever set foot upon your lands.
Before Erril could vent more bile, Elena placed a hand on his arm. He glanced 
down at her, his eyes aflame with rage. She had to tense her knees not to balk 
from his gaze. I wish to hear her story, she said softly.
He started to argue.
She squeezed his arm. No, I will hear her out.
Erril pulled back and could only nod, obviously fearful of even speaking lest 
he lose control.
Satisfied he would mind his tongue, Elena turned to the dwarf. I will listen 
to what you have to say.
The creature nodded but remained quiet, collecting her thoughts and composing 
herself. When she finally spoke, her voice was hushed. In the southern 
mountains of Gulgotha, we lived in peace, trading our forged goods to the human 
settlements of northern Gulgotha and sometimes even across the waters to 
neighboring lands. That is how I remember my people and our homeland. I still 
remember racing in the tunnels as my brothers and I played games of 
sneak-and-seek. I remember our scolding mothers and proud fathers. I remember 
the strike of hammers on anvils echoing through the valleys, and the flames of a 
hundred forges glowing like stars across the mountains.
She dwelt in her memories in silence for several heartbeats. When next she 
spoke, her voice had hardened. But then it all changed. A troupe of deep miners 
discovered a vein of ore leagues under the mountain. They had never seen such a 
stone: blacker than the darkest tunnel and impervious to any tool. Undaunted and 
determined to
mine this vein, they used the kingdoms strongest hammer to attack the stone. 
They employed the Trysil, the Hammer of Thunder. Its magick-wrought iron was 
said to shatter any stone. And this claim proved true. The stone was mined and 
given the name ebonstone by its discoverers. At first, it was greatly 
treasured; every dwarf lord lusted to work a piece, to prove his skill at 
fashioning the new ore. Bowls, cups, plates, swords, even statues were carved 
from the
material.
But then something happened. The stone began to warp and bind our people in 
ways we did not understand. The lands, too, began to sicken and poison. 
Volcanoes grew, and the ground constantly shook. Gasses and ash soured the 
skies. Poisonous beasts, the mul-gothra and skaltum, began to appear from pits 
deep under the mountains. From somewhere, the Dark Lord arose among our people, 
almost as if out of the bowels of the land. Some said the Black Heart was a 
dwarf, one who had succumbed to the stones black magick, while others said he 
came from the stone itself, released by our miners from an ebonstone tomb. No 
one knew for sure, but all knew that the corruption of our people was under way. 
Some tried to fight it; some fled from it. My parents sold me to the assassins, 
not for the silver from the sale, but to get me from those lands. I was sent out 
here to Alasea before the stranglehold of the Black Heart was
complete.
Cassa Dar turned her gaze to Erril. I, too, saw the result of the Dark Lords 
hold on my people. It was a dwarf army that came to Castle Drakk and 
slaughtered my teachers and friends here. They came with beasts and monsters and 
laid siege to our keep. I saw the deadness in their eyes and knew them thralls 
to the ebonstone and its master. We tried to enlist the aid of surrounding 
hamlets, but our messengers were spat upon and reviled. So much for the nobility 
of your Standi clansmen!
It was now the witchs turn to grow angry. She glared at Erril. But they paid 
for their pettiness. To our castle came a blackguard, the foulest of the 
illguard. Where the illguard are bound to their ebonstone talismans, the 
blackguard were fused to the stone itself. Their very skin was impenetrable 
ebonstone. We attacked this foul creature with every weapon and magick in the 
castles arsenal, but all failed to pierce its stone skin. It was an unstoppable 
storm that swept over us, killing all in its path. While we fled up the tower, 
it marched
to the roots of our school. Only I had an inkling of its true purpose. Only I 
understood the weapon held in its black fist. It had come to Castle Drakk with 
the Trysil.
Why? Elena asked as the witch paused her story. Why did it come here?
Cassa Dar wiped at the beads of sweat on her brow, as if she were experiencing 
it all again with its telling. Do you have a map?
Erril nodded, his brow wrinkling.
Cassa Dar waved a hand for her boys to clear a space on the table. Her servants, 
as ever, were quick. Spread it out, she instructed Erril.
He did so, unfolding his map and flattening the parchment with a pass of his 
hand. His growing interest in her tale was clear in his eyes: It was the history 
of his own lands. Keen curiosity had damped his prior rage.
The witch bent over the map. Across the world, there are points where the 
lands core magicks rise close to the surface, locus points of its energies. 
She traced a crooked finger along Errils map. If you follow the southern and 
northern cliffs of the Landslip to where they meet in the west, do you see where 
the cliffs point?
Toward the Teeth? Erril asked, obviously unsure of her meaning.
Cassa Dar sighed as if exasperated with a foolish child.
Elena, though, stared closer at the map. It points to the Southern Fang, she 
said.
The dwarf womans eyes swung to Elena. Very good, child. So it does. She 
placed a yellow, cracked nail on the map. The Southern Fang is one such locus 
of the lands deep magicks, as is the Northern Fang. Have you never wondered why 
the ancient mages placed their school in the shadow of the Northern Fang?
Elena spoke up, remembering when she had received her amulet from her uncle in 
the hidden chamber under his cottage. My Uncle Bol said that the mages may have 
chosen Winters Eyrie because of the rich elemental energies in the area.
And so the founders of Castle Drakk chose this site. From these two Fangs, 
potent magicks flow out like snowmelt from the other peaks to form channels and 
rivers of energy through our lands. Below the cellars of Castle Drakk lies just 
such a river. It fed this entire region all the way to the Archipelago.
What does this have to do with the sinking of these lands?
I am coming to that. You see, at first, I also failed to understand what the 
blackguard was doing skulking through our cellars with our peoples most 
treasured possession in its foul fist. So I followed the creature. It ignored 
me, believing me a member of its dwarf army. The creature delved deeper into 
caves under the cellar, places I dont even think the founders knew about. But 
the blackguard moved unerringly, as if it were on the scent of some prey. 
Finally, it came to rest in a huge cavern, as large as a ballroom. Along the 
floor lay a thick vein of pure silver.
She glanced up from the map. But even I could tell it was more than precious 
metal that ran through this vein. The magick contained therein sang to the 
elemental powers in my blood. Though only crudely trained in my magicks, I knew 
that here lay a font of pure power. Before I could react, the blackguard stalked 
to this vein and smashed it with the Trysil. The hammer tore the vein of 
silver, and the entire world shook. The cavern swelled with magick as the 
channel burst. It bathed me in the raw magicks, swelling me with potent 
energies. As the quake settled, I touched my magick. How could I not, since it 
was everywhere? Vines and moss bent to my will, sprouted from rock, and attacked 
the blackguard. I knew what the creature did was an abomination to the land and 
had to be stopped. So I thrashed at it, but its stone skin was impervious to my 
magick. Vines cannot choke stone. Undeterred, the blackguard raised the Trysil 
again and hammered at the vein of silver. Even more violent quakes occurred. I 
swear I heard the land itself split with this second strike. I knew if the 
hammer struck again, the vein would be completely severed, and these lands would 
be forever lost. I renewed my attack. As I lashed out at the blackguard, my 
probing vines discovered tiny chinks in its stone skin where reverberations from 
the use of the Trysil had cracked its ebonstone armor. I sent my smallest 
vines and mosses through these chinks to attack the dwarf inside. I tore at him 
and shredded him from the inside. .As he fell dying, the Trysil tumbled from 
his raised fingers to strike his head. The hammer split the blackguards stone 
helmet and revealed the dwarf inside. With death near, he was finally released 
from the Dark Lords enslavement. He turned to me with eyes that recognized the 
horrors he had committed.
Cassa Dar closed her own eyes and was silent for a breath. I knew this dwarf. 
She opened her eyes, and her gaze bore upon
Erril, daring him to doubt her. It was my own brother, the one with whom I 
played sneak-and-seek in the tunnels of our childhood home. As the waters rose, 
it was his dying thanks, as he choked on my vines, that finally chased me from 
the chamber. Sick at heart, I did not think to grab the Trysil but simply ran.
Exhausted by her story, Cassa Dar sat down on her chair. The hammer still lies 
down there, under the roots of Castle Drakk, awaiting its next master.
The Dark Lord has never tried to retrieve it? Elena asked.
No, he used the Trysil, then cast it asidejust as he did my people. She 
glanced to Elena. But I believe your magick can call the Trysil forth from its 
watery grave. I will show you how, but only if you swear a promise to me.
To return it to your lands, Elena said, recalling the witchs previous 
request.
The witch nodded. Use its power to break the ebonstone might of the Black 
Heart. Avenge my people, then return it to Gulgotha. Legend has it that as long 
as the Trysil is returned to our homeland that our people will survive. Return 
it, and I pray the legend will prove true.
Elena felt her pain. But why dont you return it yourself?
Cassa Dar lowered her face. I wish I could. But when the vein of silver 
ruptured and I engaged my magick to attack the blackguard, the magicks mixed and 
a part of my spirit was drawn into the land itself. That is how Ive lived so 
long. She turned a tired smile upon Elena. I am no longer just a dwarf; I am 
also a part of this land, this swamp. I can never leave.
Elenas look of sorrow drew a small chuckle from her. Dont pity me, child, 
she said. I love these lands. When I called these moss constructs my children, 
I was not lying. This entire land grew from me, and I cherish all of it. Here is 
my home. Though I may be lonely sometimes, I am content.
Silence settled around them as her story ended. No one knew what to say. Finally 
Elena spoke. I will try to do what you ask, she said. If given a chance, I 
will return the Trysil to your homelands. But She held up her moss-shrouded 
hand. I cant do it like this. Will you lift your spell?
Cassa Dar pushed back from the table and stood again. No, she
I
said, to the shock of the others, youll do it yourself. The power to dispel 
the bewitching has always been yours.
Elenas eyes grew wide. But if I engage my magicks, the vines worsen.
Come, the swamp witch said. I will show you how. Cassa Dar led them to a 
staircase and guided them up its twisting course to the castles top. As Elena 
stepped out into the night air, she was surprised at how clear the sky was above 
the castle. Stars shone brightly, and a half-moon glowed crisply in the early 
evening. Around the castle lay a blanket of swamp mists, but the tower itself 
rose higher than the clouds, thrusting its battlements up to the clear night 
sky.
Elena breathed deeply. Free of the swamps gasses, the air smelled almost sweet.
It stinks up here, Jaston said with a crinkled nose. Youve just never 
smelled normal air, Mycelle said, clapping her friend on the shoulder.
As the other members finished gazing at the wondrous sights, Cassa Dar 
approached Elena, waddling on her squat legs. When you first arrived and I 
examined your hands, she said, what did I say to you?
Elena remembered the witchs whispered words. That I didnt know half my 
power.
The witch nodded and knelt beside her. So true. She picked up Elenas two 
hands. Why do you only use your right hand for magick ?
Elenas, brows furrowed. What do you?
Erril interrupted. Because a mage can only bear the gift of Chi with one 
hand.
Cassa Dar glanced in his direction. It is not Chi we are dealing with here, is 
it? It is not a male mage that stands before me. After Elenas arrival in 
Shadowbrook, I searched ancient texts and scrolls in the castle library. Some 
scribes wrote of Sisakofa bearing two forms of magickwitchfire from the sun 
and coldfire from the moon.
We know that, Erril said. Elena has practiced both. If she renews in 
sunlight, she bears the power of fire. If she renews in moonlight, she bears the 
power of ice. This we already know.
Yes, but did you know that Sisakofa bore both at the same time? Cassa Dar 
seemed to enjoy their surprised expressions. An old text spoke thusly, she 
continued.  Like two faces of a coin, so the witch of spirit and stone bore 
her wild magicks, fire in her right fist, ice in her left. 
Thats impossible, Erril said.
But have you ever tried? Cassa Dar asked, searching all their faces. I didnt 
think so.
While the others debated, Elena studied her left hand and its twisted vines. 
Surely, as Erril had said, such a thing wasnt possible. Before anyone could 
say otherwise or before her own fears could dissuade her, Elena raised her left 
hand into the moonlight and wished for power.
She gasped as her left hand vanished. The vines fell free from her arm, dead as 
if the roots had been cut off.
Elena? Erril said, finally realizing what she was doing.
With her body trembling, she pulled her arm down. Her missing hand returned.
Horrified, she held both arms up to the sky. Her right and left hands now 
matched. In the moonlight, both now swirled with the ruby stain of blood 
magicks.
The blood hunter made better progress once he reached the lake in the heart of 
the Drowned Lands. In the open water, the tangle of roots and the centuries of 
moldering debris that had clogged the narrow channels cleared from underfoot. 
The lakes floor, a soft clay, was cluttered with only an occasional uprooted 
tree that had flushed into the lake from recent floods.
As in the swamps, huge creatures lurked here too: beasts with quick tails and 
arcing fins. A flurry of tentacles suddenly swept out of the dark waters to wrap 
around the hunters face, a beaklike mouth gnawing at his stone ear. He did not 
even bother to reach for it. His skins poison killed the attacker within two 
steps, and it fell away dead. Other lake creatures investigated but kept their 
distance. A school of blue phosphorescent fish swam close, then with a flash of 
bright light, darted away in unison like a startled flock of sparrows.
Yet his flaming red eyes saw none of this. He plodded through the muck, 
determined to reach his prey this night. Soon the lake grew so deep that even 
his magick-wrought vision had difficulty piercing the midnight waters. Nervous 
at his poor sight, he forced his way to the lakes surface and tested the air.
Lightning still scented the winds. She was close.
As he struggled to keep his stone form afloat, he peered ahead. In the distance, 
seen as a phantom through the moonlit mists, rose a huge structure. He squinted 
his eyelids. The black magick sharpened his vision enough to pierce the whorled 
layers of fog. A structure of
stone and mortar, draped in vines and moss, rose from the waters and reached 
toward the moon.
He stopped paddling and sank back into the murk. She was there! The witchs 
spoor marked the night breezes flowing from the ancient structure. As soon as 
his feet settled into the clay of the lake floor, he forged on into the depths 
of the lake. He now knew where he was going. This time he would stay hidden in 
the deep waters. She would not sense him and slip away again.
As he marched, something huge passed nearby, its form hidden by the black 
waters. Only a shifting of shadows and a flash of an eye revealed its presence. 
Then it was gone.
Fearing nothing, he pushed on.
Soon the waters grew so deep that even his stone skin felt the depths pressure, 
and the inky darkness was complete. He did not see the submerged castle until it 
suddenly loomed up directly in front of him.
Out of the gloom appeared the lower levels of the castle whose tower protruded 
from the lake. Its first floors lay half submerged in silt and clay. Tumbled 
stones marked where ancient battering rams had toppled its outer walls. He 
climbed past the piled and crumbling rubble to the inner courtyard. Ahead, wide 
doors lay open to the lake, shattered by old axes and pikes. Broken windows 
still held shards of glass, appearing like the fanged mouths of aquatic 
predators.
Torwren pushed into the lower levels of the submerged castle. Furniture and 
human bones lay underfoot, both crumbling to a soft mire under his stone tread. 
Algae lay thick upon the wall sconces, and waving fronds of kelp grew from 
between the bricks of the floor. Overhead, an ornate chandelier in the grand 
entryway now drooped with curtains of a thick black moss, reaching like limp 
fingers toward him.
As he continued toward the staircase, crabs scuttled from underfoot and a 
freshwater lobster scooted behind a large porcelain vase. Schools of darting 
fish fled his intrusion into their home. Another of the tentacled creatures shot 
a soft green cloud of glowing dye at him and vanished in its wake.
Undeterred, Torwren paused at the base of the grand staircase, its marbled steps 
now slick with algae. He meant to mount the stairs and begin the climb, but deep 
inside him, something stirred, a sliver of spirit that called him down rather 
than up. For a moment, he pictured a treasure awaiting in caves below the 
castle.
Frowning, he shook his head at this odd thought and shoved aside this errant 
desire, ignoring the small scream deep inside him. His path lay up, not down.
The blood hunter took to the stairs and began the long climb toward the lakes 
surface. His savage grin chased away his momentary hesitation. Creatures fled 
from his approach, and ancient bones
smashed underfoot.
Somewhere above awaited his true treasurethe tender heart of
his prey.
Elena lowered her hands. At her feet lay the remains of the chokers nest vines 
that had plagued her. While she should have been happy to be rid of them, the 
cost was too high. She stared at her left hand. Whorls of dark ruby stain slowly 
swam across her skin.
She raised her gaze to find Errils wide eyes fixed upon her left hand. The 
usually stoic plainsman wore an expression of horror. Elena remembered how he 
had always shied away from the touch of her right hand when its stain was 
exposed. Now, with both her hands cursed with dire magicks, she felt as if a 
barrier had been raised between her and the plainsman. As long as her left hand 
had been normal, she had been able to reconcile herself with her witch 
heritage, claiming herself at least half a woman; with her left hand plain, she 
had been able to touch the world like any normal person.
Staring into Errils stunned face, she knew a part of her had died with the 
chokers nest. As Cassa Dar had dropped her facade and revealed the dwarf 
inside, Elena was forced to shed her own illusions. She was not an ordinary 
woman. She was a witch. Tears rose in her eyes, and she sank to her knees atop 
the tower. Mycelle appeared at her side and swept her up in her arms, kneeling 
beside her. Hush, child, she whispered. You are strong enough to handle this. 
You have your mothers intelligence and your Aunt
Filas backbone.
But I Im so scared, she sobbed. She could not meet her
aunts eyes.
Mycelle pulled back and wiped the tears from Elenas cheeks. Then she raised 
Elenas hands, not showing any shyness about her ruby flesh. These are not 
curses, she said. These are your wings. Like a fledgling teetering at the edge 
of a nest and scared to fly, you
will overcome your fears and learn to soar. She clasped Elenas hands between 
her own and leaned close to Elenas face, staring her in the eye. A hawk 
without its wings is not a hawk. This is who you are, Elena. Do not fear what 
makes you soar above others.
But I dont want any of this.
Mycelle settled back to her heels before Elena. You are no longer a child, 
Elena. Sometimes responsibilities are thrust upon you when you are least 
prepared. Growing up means bearing the burden of responsibility as best you can 
and doing what must be done.
Elena sniffed back tears as Fardale nudged her arm with his nose. She glanced to 
his amber eyes. Images entered: Wolves standing together as a pact. Bitches 
fostering each others litters while others hunted. Males teaming up to bring 
down a deer. Elena understood. In this matter, she did not stand alone. She was 
part of a pack.
She placed her palm on the wolfs cheek, silently thanking him. Then, taking a 
deep breath, she pushed to her feet. Mycelle stood beside her, a hand still on 
Elenas shoulder. Elena stared squarely at Erril for a silent heartbeat. The 
plainsmans stoic demeanor had returned, but in his eyes, Elena noted a glimpse 
of genuine concern.
Cassa Dar shambled over to them. Im sorry. I didnt mean for all this to upset 
you.
Its not your fault, Elena said. I needed to learn this eventually. Cassa 
Dar nodded but seemed suddenly distracted. She glanced out toward the 
mist-shrouded night and stared silently. Is something wrong? Elena asked.
The dwarf woman did not move. Im not sure, she finally mumbled. I thought I 
sensed something, but then it was gone. Erril nudged Mycelle. Are you sensing 
anything unusual? Mycelles eyes narrowed. There are too many whirling magicks 
about this castle for me to seek clearly.
They all turned to the dwarf woman. She remained frozen for a few moments more, 
then shook her head and turned to them. I dont like this. Perhaps wed better 
see about retrieving the Trysil and getting you all on your way. Come, she 
said, glancing back one last time before leading them toward the tower stair. 
We must go down to where the lake has claimed the castle.
She guided them back to the kitchens, where the remains of their meal had 
already been cleared by her servants. She continued past this chamber and deeper 
into the interior of the great tower. At the
end of a curving hall, they reached a wide staircase winding down toward the 
heart of the castle. Fresh torches flickered in bronze sconces, marking the way 
down. Come this way, Cassa Dar said. Its a long climb, but its all 
downhill.
Erril stayed by Elenas side as they took to the stairs. Ever wary, he kept his 
hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword. You dont have to do this, Elena, he 
said. Free of the witchs curse, we can leave for the coast at dawn.
No, this Trysil may prove a potent weapon against the Dark Lords black 
magick. Its foolish to pass by such a tool. She glanced up to Erril. 
Besides, I gave my word.
He nodded, almost as if she had passed some test. She felt a momentary flash of 
ire at his attitude. The journey continued in silence. Mycelle and Jaston were 
ahead of them, conversing with Cassa Dar in low tones. Fardale padded silently 
behind them, a dark shadow on the stair. Halfway down, they came upon one of the 
swamp boys waiting with fresh drinks and a platter of cheeses. They rested for a
short time.
During this break, Mycelle stepped up to where Erril and Elena sat on the 
stair. Ive been talking with Cassa, she said, settling beside them.
Has she had more of those strange feelings? Elena asked, worry
itching at her resolve.
Mycelle patted the girls knee. No. All seems quiet.
Then what were you talking about? Erril asked.
I was curious about the fusing of her spirit with the land. I find it 
interesting. Ive traveled through other marshlands and swamps along the coast 
but have never encountered such a poisonous land as this. Well versed in toxins 
myself, I can assure you that the variety of venoms in these swamps is 
astounding.
What of it? Erril asked, fingering a chunk of a peppered
cheese.
Mycelle lowered her voice. I have a theory. I think these lands are a 
reflection of her spirit. Somehow when the land took a part of her essence, I 
think it also took a bit of her knowledge of poisons taught to her by the 
assassins, utilizing her skills as a poisoner for its own
protection.
Is that possible? Elena asked. I thought that the lands elemental magick was 
just raw power. Do you think there is some form of
intelligence in this magick? Something that could interpret the memories of the 
swamp witch and put them to use?
Mycelle shrugged. I dont know, but I find it intriguing. She nodded farther 
down the stair, to where Jaston and Cassa Dar were still deep in some 
discussion. But it seems Im not the only one who finds the witchs company 
interesting.
The dwarf woman laughed at something Jaston said. The swamper waved his hand in 
the telling of some story. He, too, wore a grin. His shyness with his features 
was absent as he talked with Cassa Dar. It seemed that compared to the wracked 
and wrinkled form of the dwarf, Jaston did not find his own scars so 
troublesome.
Elena glanced to her aunt. A slight frown shadowed Mycelles as she stared at 
the two of them. Perhaps weve rested long enou Mycelle said. Id like to 
retrieve this dwarf hammer and be o way with the first rising of the sun. Weve 
still a long way to, the coast.
Her aunt pushed to her feet, drawing them after her. The last leg of the journey 
was made in silence, everyy thought. The remainder of the descent passed 
slowly. Jy was wondering if the steps would ever end, the stairc/ widened enough 
that a battalion of men could have/ steps abreast, and the stairs soon emptied 
into a cave/ Decaying frescoes marked the high ceiling, and fo/ liers, long and 
dark, hung down, their burnished su/ with green-and-black scars.
The party perched at the last step, unable grand room since the chamber had no 
floor, face of the lake reflected the dark chandelie its black mirror. Here the 
lake claimed the Two torches marked where the staircas flaming light failed to 
reach the far side o, only the lake lay beyond this last step
Elena stared out across the dark ou from here? she asked. What am I supposed . 
JJ
Cassa Dar waddled over to her. One of her boys, i^ trailed behind her. When she 
reached Elenas side, she pu.. child up in front of her. I have tried to send 
my children after tn<_ Trysil. I know where its hidden. Using their small 
hands, it took me nearly a century to clear the debris and discover the route to 
the cav-

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. ?ie boy and keep a firm hand Gasped her own hand around ^1. Never let go.
a for a moment more, then > naked flesh. Where her wrin-eAarst with sharp 
light. She nod-ttt power, she mumbled. And e 04  ^d. She straightened and 
backed
^lack Heart fears you. ttisked as Cassa Dar stepped from
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/3ive the air bubble time to grow
^finoment. He could see the fear in her rc. He sensed if he pushed hard right 
feo/shes. He opened his mouth to do just , ^et him. He stepped closer to the 
waters.
can do this.
sA e 1. A mixture of pride and determination
ghtened her shoulders and, with the boy
the stairs into the deeper waters. j .* to shiver as he watched the lake swallow
s^O(ji sA(d himself back from diving in and pulling . -^Cjf^ shei light. His 
hand had closed to a tight fist. 3r*  ^exlle said at his shoulder, but her 
voice qua-f-b ybrry.
. beside Erril, Fardale nosed Errils fist. The ice, too.
i relax and found his fingers working through 0ti can do this, he repeated.
boys light flare brighter in the waters. From the ^ fA?^ibleau of boy and girl 
glowed like the lamplit stage A?ec. Elena fought to keep beside the swamp child. 
The ot^^-^y-vater did not seem to affect the boy. He simply stood no water 
eddied around him, whereas Elena, using an anchor, struggled to keep her 
footing, bubbles again burst forth from the boy and swal-le away in a flurry of 
phosphorescent froth. Erril held
&#9632;yo,.
Nick your palm and grasp his hand in your own. Ill do the rest. Elena 
remembered sharing her blood with both Uncle Bol and Erril when they were 
injured. Cassa Dar was not asking her to manipulate her magick, simply share its 
power, as she had done with the injured men. She nodded at the dwarf womans 
words and drew her witchs dagger. Its silver blade shone bright in the 
torchlight.
Erril suddenly grasped her wrist. I cant let you risk yourself like this.
Mycelle stood at Errils shoulders. Perhaps the plainsman is right. This 
sounds more dangerous than its worth.
Elena stared both of them down and yanked her arm from Errils grasp. I will 
take that responsibility, she said, using Mycelles earlier words. She placed 
the tip of her knife to her left palm and dragged a line across it. Blood welled 
blacker than her ruby skin.
She turned. The naked boy had come beside her and had his tiny hand raised up 
toward hers. Elena instinctively reached to accept the offered palm, but then 
she hesitated. She stared into the boys face and realized this was the boy who 
had accosted her on the streets of Shadowbrook: same mud-colored hair; same 
small, slightly pugged nose. She recalled the last time she shook hands with the 
little urchin.
I wont hurt you this time, he said, noticing her hesitation. I promise.
Elena was suddenly unsure. Whom should she trust? Should she listen to Erril 
and Mycelle? Or should she trust this witch who had taught her a new side of 
her magick? She stared into the boys eyes for a heartbeat, then gripped his 
hand with her bloody one.
She would trust herself.
Erril watched as Elena shivered in the knee-deep waters. She had stripped down 
to her undergarments and waited as Cassa Dar finished her preparations. As 
Erril studied the girl, he sensed it was more than the cold waters that rattled 
her teeth, but his further protests against this endeavor had only firmed 
Elenas resolve to attempt it, and now his words only fell on deaf ears.
Itll be cold at first, the swamp w itch explained to her as she stood beside 
the girl in the waters, but once youre submerged and the bubble envelops you, 
youll warm up.
Elena nodded. i
As you walk the stair, keep close to the boy and keep a firm hand on his 
fingers. Cassa Dar reached and clasped her own hand around the joined fingers 
of the boy and the girl. Never let go.
The dwarf woman studied Elena for a moment more, then slowly passed her hands 
over the boys naked flesh. Where her wrinkled palms touched, the boys skin 
burst with sharp light. She nodded at this result. More than enough power, she 
mumbled. And with only a few drops of your blood. She straightened and backed 
from the waters. No wonder the Black Heart fears you.
Sh-should I go now? Elena asked as Cassa Dar stepped from
the waters.
Yes, child. Proceed slowly. Give the air bubble time to grow
strong around you.
Elenas eyes met Errils for a moment. He could see the fear in her gaze and 
knew her vulnerable. He sensed if he pushed hard right now she would fold to his 
wishes. He opened his mouth to do just that, but his heart would not let him. He 
stepped closer to the waters. Be careful, Elena. I know you can do this.
She smiled weakly at him. A mixture of pride and determination firmed her 
stance. She straightened her shoulders and, with the boy guiding her, she moved 
down the stairs into the deeper waters.
Now it was Errils turn to shiver as he watched the lake swallow her away. He 
had to hold himself back from diving in and pulling her back into the air and 
light. His hand had closed to a tight fist.
Shell be fine, Mycelle said at his shoulder, but her voice quavered, 
betraying her worry.
From where he sat beside Erril, Fardale nosed Errils fist. The
wolf sought reassurance, too.
Erril let his hand relax and found his fingers working through Fardales fur. 
Elena can do this, he repeated.
He watched the boys light flare brighter in the waters. From the depths, the 
silent tableau of boy and girl glowed like the lamplit stage of a mummers act. 
Elena fought to keep beside the swamp child. The buoyancy of the water did not 
seem to affect the boy. He simply stood on the step as if no water eddied around 
him, whereas Elena, using the boys arm as an anchor, struggled to keep her 
footing.
Suddenly the bubbles again burst forth from the boy and swallowed the scene away 
in a flurry of phosphorescent froth. Erril held
his breath until the bubbling cleared and bje saw Elena. A huge pocket of air 
encased the pair now, lit from within by the boys glow. No longer buoyed by the 
waters, Elena stood oh her own feet on the steps, hand in hand with the boy. 
Though she was soaking wet and obviously shaken, Erril could see the relief on 
her face. Cassa Dars magick was working.
Its hard and takes all my concentration, the dwarf said as she knelt at the 
waters edge. But her power is rich and malleable. We will succeed.
Elena raised her face and stared up at them from the waters depths and waved. 
Erril and Mycelle returned her salute.
With their acknowledgment, Elena followed the boy down the steps and off into 
the waters. Soon their progress across the room was only evident as a fading 
glow on the surface of the waters.
Then that, too, was gone.
As Elena walked with the boy, the wall of water around them distorted the 
surroundings of the submerged castle. It was like staring at the world through a 
carnival mirror, she thought. As fish would dart up, their features would swell 
large in the curve of the bubbles walls. Huge eyes would stare back at her, 
then in a flick of tail, vanish.
Though a trace of fear still ran through her blood, a sense of wonder also 
thrilled in her. She was strolling through the bottom of a lake. Who else ever 
had a chance to do such a thing?
Her mouth gaped as she studied the ruins of the castle. With the stairs draped 
in algae and moss, she had to mind her footing, but her eyes were constantly 
drawn to the preserved remains of Castle Drakk. Tapestries still hung on the 
walls, billowing slightly at their passage. Ornate oil lamps hung from chains, 
home to tiny creatures that ducked into hiding as they passed. Carved pine 
tables marked landings, their wood preserved for centuries in the brackish 
waters. Some furniture fell apart as their pocket of air pushed back the waters, 
the old pieces unable to stand on their own any longer.
Just when her fears had faded to a vague sense of worry, she came upon her first 
skull. The flesh had long been nibbled away by the denizens of the lake, leaving 
the white bone bright against the green
kelp draped on the stair. She gasped and raised a hand to her throat to stifle 
back a scream.
Youre hurting my hand, the boy said from beside Elena. Thankful for the 
distraction, Elena tore her eyes from the horrible sight to look to the boy. 
Im sorry, she said, and loosened her hold from its terror-tight grip.
Therell be more, the swamp child said. The assassins put up a fierce fight 
to keep their castle. Suddenly the boy pointed to an eel as long as four men as 
it writhed past their bubble. Look. Its pretty! His boyish exuberance 
startled Elena. Cassa Dar had explained to her that the children she created 
were more than just moss golems. Though they were forged to her will and could 
not disobey, they also had a rudimentary intelligence that flavored their 
behavior. The swamp witch could direct them and communicate through them, but 
her actions were shaded by the creations own personalities. Cassa, if you can 
hear me, Elena said, how much farther? The boy turned his small face up to 
her. She says its a long ways yet. The boy picked at his nose as he spoke. 
We have to switch to a different staircase soon. Then its a straight climb to 
the cellars. He examined his finger to investigate the success of his mining, 
then leaned over to wash his finger in the waters beyond the bubbles wall. 
Elena winced as his finger pierced the bubble. She feared that breaking the seal 
would somehow disrupt the spell, but nothing happened. The magick sustained the 
bubble.
He licked his finger dry. Well leave the tower stair farther down and cross 
the castle proper to reach the back stair to the basements. He began to hum a 
tune as he continued down the wet stairs.
Suddenly a huge dark form passed overhead. It trailed tentacles as thick around 
as her own thigh. She shied down away from it, but it shot past with a flurry of 
suckers and limbs.
Owww! Dont be such a scaredy-puss, the boy scolded. She wont let any of the 
boogies get us.
Elena swallowed hard and nodded. She had to fight to loosen her grip again.
Over there, he said sourly, pointing to a doorway at the next landing. We 
have to leave here, cross through the servants hall, pass the kitchens to the 
main hall, then follow it to the main stair. And Im getting hungry. Do you have 
any cake?
No, Im afraid not. Elena said, feeling less and less sure of her guide. 
Maybe when were done.
I like mine with dollops of cream, he confided to her as if this were of 
utmost secrecy.
With this revelation, he led her through the landings doorway and into the main 
body of the castle. As they progressed, Elena was glad she had a guide. Castle 
Drakk was a stcne maze of rooms, halls, and cubbyholes. Alone, she would have 
been lost among these many twists and turns.
While walking, Elena kept her eyes from the growing number of piled bones, both 
human and otherwise. It was not just ordinary beasts that had assaulted the 
ancient castle. She passed one especially large skull whose shape she recognized 
and gave it a wide berth. A shiver passed through her. She recalled her own 
battles with the winged dreadlords of the Black Heart. The name staltum still 
gave her nightmares.
She hurried past, glad this battle was long dead.
By the time they reached the huge main hall, the boys constant -humming began 
to grate on Elena. Cassa, must the boy do this? she asked the empty air.
The boy glanced up to her and stuck his tongue out at her. You didnt have to 
tell on me. He sighed loudly and bunched his shoulders, sulking, but at least 
he was silent.
She followed him to the back staircase. The way from here descended into a deep 
darkness. The black waters seemed to suck greedily at the boys moss light.
The boy turned to her. Do we really have to go down there?
She squeezed his hand and nodded. Yes, we do.
The blood hunter heard a whisper of echoed voices pass through the waters. He 
paused and cocked his head, straining for its source. For some time now, Torwren 
had been lost in the tangle of halls and rooms of the castle, unsure of how to 
reach the tower stairs. Backtracking and pushing through debris had eaten up 
volumes of precious time.
Then he had heard the voices and begun to follow, hoping that these voices were 
echoing down from above and could be used to track his way through the castle. 
Still, the acoustics under the water
played a thousand tricks on his stone ears. He could not be certain he was going 
in the right direction as he followed the voices, his only clue in this sunken 
maze.
Soon he spotted a narrow staircase ahead, and his heart thrilled. Here must be 
the tower steps. As if to confirm his suspicions, voices and snatches of words 
again reached him.
He grinned in the dark water, scaring away a large lake trout that had 
investigated too closely. Surely he had reached the tower! He forced his legs to 
move, again feeling the growing torpidity in his stone skin. He had not fed now 
in over two days, and the ebonstone had again grown hungry and sluggish. Still, 
he did not let this disturb him. He would soon feast on the heart of the witch 
and regain his strength back a hundredfold.
Grinning, he pushed through the portal that opened onto the stairs, but when he 
discovered where the steps led, the smile crashed from his face. The narrow 
staircase wound down, not up. This was not the tower stair. Consternation 
stopped his feet. This was the wrong direction.
Then again the voices reached him. He swung his head. There was no mistaking the 
source in such close quarters. The smattering of conversation arose from below. 
His eyes squinted at the dark descent. Was he picking up a trace of light 
flowing from far below? He took a step toward it, then stopped again.
He did not have time for curiosity. The witch lay in the tower above. He did 
not have the luxury to investigate the oddities of this drowned castle. He took 
a step back, but deep inside him, something fought with renewed vigor.
Down down down, this strange compulsion urged. Again a picture of some vague 
treasure flashed across his vision. It seemed to be some weaponno, some trophy. 
A flood of desire surged through him, urging him to seek this treasure.
He shook his head. The witch was his goal, not some buried treasure. Yet, 
still, he could not retreat from the stair. It was not the stiffening stone that 
trapped him, but indecision. Maybe he didnt have to fight this strange 
compulsion. Maybe both goals could be met. Whoever was speaking from below might 
know the way to the tower. And if not, his skin was starved for blood, and it 
would be good to feed before confronting the witch. Both curiosity and hunger 
could be slaked by what lay below.
His decision made, the blood hunter began his descent down the stair. Deep 
inside him, something howled with glee.
Elena had to move with delicate care. She no longer stared through the bubbles 
wall but kept her eyes on the rubble that lay strewn across the cellar floor. 
Its algae-slick surface sought to betray her footing with every step. She could 
not risk a fall and lose her handhold on the boy. If the bubble should break, 
she sensed the weight of the deep water would crush her instantly.
So she and the boy carefully picked their way across the jumble of boulders and 
bricks. The source of the strewn rubble soon became clear. The far wall of the 
cellar chamber had been exploded by some ancient force. The stone and brick lay 
ripped open to reveal the black caverns beyond.
Just a little ways, the boy directed. Into the caves and down a level is the 
chamber where the Trysil lies.
She nodded. The two of them helped each other through the burst wall. Just as 
they stepped into the caves, the boy suddenly glanced over his shoulder, back 
into the cellar. His next words drove Elenas heart to her throat. Something 
comes, he said. Hurry!
The boy sped into the deeper caverns. Lest she lose her grip on the child, Elena 
had no choice but to follow. Wait! What is it? she hissed at him, fear keeping 
her voice low but urgent.
Shes not sure, the boy said, referring to Cassa Dar. This deep, she cant 
sense that well. Shes tiring and needs all her concentration to keep the magick 
working. He yanked on her arm to urge her faster. For her to sniff it, 
whatever it is must be close to us.
Elena needed no further urgingshe would have sped past the boy if she knew the 
way. They dodged past fingers of rock that thrust up from the floor, while more 
stone fingers pointed at them from the cavern roof as they ran.
Over there! Over there! the boy urged, panic in his voice. He dragged her down 
a stone chute that emptied into a wide cavern chamber.
Elena stared through the wall of water around her. The chamber here bore its own 
light. It came from a bright river that split the caverns floor in half. It was 
the vein of silver that Cassa Dar had de-
scribed. The elemental magick in the silver glowed brightly, but its luster was 
strongest where the river entered the chamber from the rear wall. The glow in 
the silver channel nearest them, though, was only a weak shimmer. This section 
of the river contained only a feeble trickle of magick.
Elena saw where the bright channel abruptly became this weak dribble. Midway 
along, a section of the silver had been torn away. The collapsed bulk of a 
dwarf lay near this damaged section.
The boy tugged her toward the rip in the silver. Hurry! he urged. Get the 
Trysil!
Elena sensed the boys words were no longer his own but that Cassa Dar was 
speaking directly through the boy. She followed him to the body on the floor. It 
was not scavenged bone, but a statue of black stone. Even sprawled on the cavern 
floor, Elena recognized the squat form and thick limb: It was a dwarf.
The statues head, though, was marred, cracked into shards of black stone that 
lay around its shoulders. Only here did bright white bone jut forth from the 
statue, a thick-browed skull.
My brother, the boy said. Even through the panic, Cassa Dars sorrow rang 
clear. The swamp child pointed to an object that lay near the statues damaged 
head. The Trysil.
Elena knelt and reached for the weapon. There was no mistaking the ancient 
talisman of the dwarves: the Hammer of Thunder. Its wooden haft, as long as 
Krais ax handle, was decorated with scrollwork and runes and ended in a 
forged-iron hammerhead as big as a pair of ogres fists. Its iron shone red, as 
if blood had been used to forge its might.
Elena hesitated. She could not possibly lift this massive weapon with only one 
arm, and she dared not let loose of the boys hand. Still the fingers of her 
right hand wrapped around the haft. Gritting her teeth, she pulled hard, 
determined to carry it. To her amazement, the hammer rose at her touch as if it 
were but a light broom. She held it up, her eyes glowing in the silver light. 
Beware, child! the boy suddenly screamed. Behind you! Hammer in hand, Elena 
swung around to see a monster stalk into the chamber from the other caves. At 
first glance, she thought that the black dwarf statue had somehow come back to 
life. Lit by the silver light of the river, the black form pushed into the room. 
Elenas
eyes grew wide at the horribly misshapen form. She remembered Cassa Dars 
mention of something foul escaping the Keep at Shadow-brook and pursuing them. 
Somehow Elena knew that here approached that dark hunter.
Its another blackguard, the boy moaned. How?
As it neared, even through the distortion of the water Elena recognized the 
familiar shape. It was a stone-encased dwarf like Cassa Dars brother. Its grin 
of yellowed teeth shone bright against its black lips. It spoke as it stalked 
toward them, its voice sounding drowned but its words comprehensible. Where is 
the witch? it said as it neared.
Elena and the boy retreated from it, but it stood between them and the only 
exit. As they stumbled back, the boys hand began to tremble in her own. The 
bubble of air began to expand wider around them, reaching toward the creature.
Wh-what are you doing? she asked the boy.
The swamp childs skin shone with a deeper glow. Elena could almost see through 
his skin to the tangle of vines and moss in his core. Whatever magick was being 
employed, it taxed the boys illusion. He gasped as he spoke, tears glistening 
on his cheeks. Im trying to clear a space so you have room to maneuver.
Why?
You must fight the blackguard, he said. Use the Trysil.
Elenas breath froze in her chest. The creature had to weigh ten times her own 
weight, all stone, muscle, and bone. How could she battle it with only this 
hammer? If she could access her magick instead, maybe shed have a chance. But 
she could not let go of the boys hand and had no way to pierce the skin of her 
right hand and release her powers. Raising the hammer between her and the 
creature, she was glad for its solidity, but she held no hope in its dwarf 
magick. She continued to back as the bubble expanded.
The stone dwarf stepped into the pocket of air. It still wore its grin as it 
left the lake. Waters hissed and steamed from its stone skin as it entered their 
bubble. Now where is? It stopped as if its stone skin had suddenly frozen. 
Its nose raised to sniff at the air in the bubble for a few heartbeats. Then its 
eyes, flaming pits in its black head, fixed on Elena. You! Its grin spread 
wider. Youre the witch!
Elena raised the hammer higher in a trembling fist.
The blackguards fiery gaze narrowed at the threat, as if gauging its danger. 
Then its eyes grew wide with recognition, and the foul flames dimmed in their 
sockets. It stumbled forward a step, and a small voice arose like a vapor from 
its foul lips. The Trysil, it gasped. At at long last.
The boy pushed in front of Elena. He spoke with the voice of Cassa Dar. 
Remember your heritage, lord of the dwarves, and fight the Black Hearts 
control! Let us pass!
The small voice was like a hissing whisper. Toos-s-strong. The flames in the 
demons eyes began to grow fiercer.
Fight! the boy screamed. For our homelands! For our people! The fire in the 
pits of the blackguards eyes flickered. I cant stop His gaze suddenly swung 
to meet Elenas. His voice became a strangled gurgle. Beware, he moaned, his 
words etched with sorrow and guilt. Beware the Legion!
Then the flames blew savage. Twin pyres of black magick flared from the demons 
sockets, and it roared at the cavern roof.
Both Elena and the boy stumbled back. She knew the small flicker of resistance 
in the demon had been vanquished.
Hes gone, the boy mumbled, and fled to Elenas side. The blackguards gaze 
descended upon the cowering pair. A wicked smile stretched its stone lips. 
Before Elena could react, the stone dwarf lunged at her.
Blindly, she swung the hammer but knew it was too late. Yet, for some reason, 
the dwarfs leap began sluggishly, almost as if a bit of resistance still held 
some weak grip over its stone skin. Whatever the reason, her swing of the hammer 
had time to complete its arc, managing a glancing blow to the blackguards head 
as it bowled
toward her.
The boy, with surprising strength, yanked Elena out of the demons barreling 
path. Again, the creatures sluggish response kept a stone hand from grabbing at 
her as she and the boy rolled aside. Scrambling away, the pair barely kept their 
feet, their hands only connected by their fingertips now.
 Elena quickly regained a secure grip on both the boy and the hammer and faced 
the beast.
The blackguard swung around and raised a hand to his head. A section of his 
stone skull fell off with this touch. The Trysil had lived up to its legend. It 
still had the potency to shatter ebonstone.
As it probed its injury, Elena bit at the thumb that held the hammer. The demon, 
wise now to her weapons power, would be more wary in its next assault. She 
needed her magick. She bit deep and finally tasted blood and went to reach for 
her witchfire.
No, child! the boy suddenly warned. Dont call forth your magick! Its power 
is too wild and may disrupt my spellbut youve given me an idea.
As the dwarf picked another piece of loose ebonstone from the side of his 
head, he tossed it aside and hissed at them, Youll pay for that! With no 
further warning, he charged.
Stand still, the boy yelled at her as Elena began to flee. Suddenly the bubble 
of air crashed down around them. The force of collapsing water shook the very 
roots of the castle.
Elena screamed, but the falling waters stopped only a handspan away from her 
nose. She was not crushed or drowned.
Such was not the case with the blackguard. Caught by surprise, the sudden weight 
of water crushed the dwarf to the stone of the cavern. The boy yanked on Elena. 
Run, he urged. We must get away.
They fled around the creatures sprawled form, giving it a wide berth even as it 
began to push back to its knees, stunned but quickly recovering.
Ill try to delay it, Cassa Dar said, speaking through the boy as they ran 
from the cavern. I can use the damage of the Trysil to my advantage.
Elena needed no further urging. They fled as fast as they could run. Climbing 
the endless stairs, Elenas breath soon became a flame in her chest. But she 
ignored the pain, terror driving her forward.
From deep below, a bellow of rage pursued them.
Whats happening? Erril snapped at Cassa Dar. The swamp witch still knelt at 
the waters edge. Her wrinkled skin ran with sweat. Her shoulders trembled with 
exertion.
Jaston knelt beside the witch, a hand on her bowed back. Quit yelling at her! 
he spat at Erril. Cant you see how much this strains her?
Mycelle stood next to Erril. Jaston, we need to know: Is Elena alive?
Cassa Dars voice was a croak. She lives. She flees. I do what I can to sustain 
the magick around her and attack what pursues her. Tears ran down her cheek. 
Im so sorry, she cried. I didnt mean to risk her life. But my people Her 
voice trailed into sobs.
Jaston rubbed his hand on her back. You didnt know. Do not whip yourself. He 
glared at Erril. If she is to help save your little witch, she could use your 
support and not your accusations.
Erril bit back a retort, but he could not fault the swampers words. Right now, 
Elenas safety lay in the hands of this dwarf woman, and as much as it 
frustrated him, he would have to accept it. He could not even imagine the battle 
raging under the calm black surface of the lake and sent his prayers into the 
waters, willing his strength to Elena.
As he waited, his lungs ached from curbing his screams of frustration. His hand 
began to shake. Over the long journey, Elena had become more to him than just a 
witch, and in this moment of impotent rage, he had to admit that more than 
fatherly concern shaded his emotions. He swallowed hard, refusing to allow 
himself even to name this other feeling. He pushed such thoughts aside. He must 
be ready.
Cassa Dar moaned nearby. I cant stop him, she mumbled to the lake. I keep 
trying to slow him, but his stone skin is more poisonous than my own venoms. And 
when I try to attack him through the damaged patch on his skull, he keeps 
ripping my vines away before they can take root and spread.
And Elena? Erril asked, this time not yelling. She flees and draws near to 
us but the blackguard has regained his bearings and is quickly closing the 
gap.
Erril ground his teeth and pulled forth his weapon. Mycelle already had her 
blades out. Fardale growled at the lake. Erril raised his silver sword. Hurry, 
Elena! Come to me!
Elena limped as she ran, half using the hammer as a crutch. She had twisted her 
ankle on a loose stone in the stair. Only a frantic grab at the wall had saved 
her from tumbling back down the steps and losing her grip on the boys hand. 
Trying to ignore her protesting limb, she struggled on with the boy. Pain and 
terror warred in her. Her burning lungs, aching side, and throbbing ankle all 
slowed her pace, while her panicking heart and racing blood urged still more 
desperate speed.
He comes, the boy said beside her. Cassa Dar no longer spoke directly through 
the child. The witchs full attention was on keeping the black dwarf from 
their heels. The boy sucked his thumb as he ran, his eyes wide with fear. I 
dont want to die, he mumbled around his thumb.
Elena had not expected a survival instinct in the moss children. Were not 
going to die, Elena assured him and herself.
She increased her pace, now pulling the boy. After passing back through the 
castle proper and reaching the tower stair, she knew the way. She sped up the 
stairs toward the distant surface of the lake.
The boy stumbled to keep up, his small legs struggling to match her pace. Dont 
leave me behind, he cried.
I wont.
The boy suddenly moaned. Hes right behind us. Hes already on the stair.
Elena did not bother to glance over her shoulder. She bent, and using her grip 
on the boys hand, she threw him over her shoulder
onto her back. Hang on! she yelled. He squealed with fear, but his other arm 
wrapped around her neck.
Using the hammer as a balance against the boys weight, she ran. Luckily the boy 
was lighter than a real child and not much of a burden. Her ankle screamed, but 
fears fire had hold of her blood. She leapt like a deer up the steps. Back in 
her familys orchards, she and Joach had raced each other down the rows of apple 
trees. Though her brother had a longer stride, Elena had often still beaten him. 
She put every mote of strength in her limbs into this last sprint.
Overhead the dark waters suddenly brightened. She allowed herself a moment of 
relief. It was the torches at the surface. She sped on. The boy then screamed in 
her ear. Hes here! The child tried to
climb over her back.
Elena glanced behind her. The hulking black creature lumbered up the steps 
behind her. He was a distance away, but his stride ate up three steps with every 
one of hers. Clinging vines fought at him, but he shrugged them off, hardly 
seeming to slow. His flaming eyes spotted her, and his pace increased.
With her attention turned, Elenas foot slipped on some loose kelp, and both she 
and the boy stumbled to the steps. The boy was up first. Go, child! he 
screamedCassa Dar again. Swim for the surface. The boy will slow him.
As the child said these words, tears flowed down his cheekshe didnt want to 
stay. Elena hesitated a moment, her heart going out to the terrified child. Then 
the little fingers let go of hers. Go, he mumbled in a tiny voice. The pocket 
of air shrank quickly around her.
The monster was bearing down on them. Not wasting the boys sacrifice, Elena 
dove through the bubble and into the lake. The bouyant water shot her toward the 
surface as she pushed off the stone stair. Bellows of anger rose with her.
Before she knew it, Errils arm was around her, hauling her up the last steps 
and onto the dry stairs. Mycelle helped hold her upright as her twisted ankle 
gave way. Dropping the hammer from her numb fingers, Elena turned to where Cassa 
Dar knelt, orchestrating the fight against the creature. The boy? she asked. 
No answer came from Cassa Dars trembling form. At the witchs side, Jaston 
just looked Elena in the eye and shook his head. Shes too weak.
Dont fret, Mycelle said. The boys not real, Elena.
Elenas lips grew tight, and she turned to Mycelle. Give me my dagger.
Mycelle obeyed, retrieving Elenas silver blade from her discarded clothes. We 
need to retreat up the steps, her aunt urged. Regroup when it pursues.
No, Elena said. She sliced a deep cut in her left hand, the one that had held 
the boys hand, the one that had been born in moonlight.
Suddenly, behind her, the waters erupted in the still lake. Elena swung around 
on her good ankle. The black dwarf rose up, the boys throat clutched in one 
fist. From the childs body, a tangle of vines burst forth and thrashed at the 
black skin of the creature, seeking purchase. Yet the battle was doomed, for 
where the boys vines touched stone, they curled and died.
Blood dripped from Elenas slashed palm as she raised her arm. Where the red 
drops touched the lake, ice spread out across the waters in spidery traces. 
Elena touched the magick inside her, igniting it. Ice raced from her heart out 
to her hand and burst forth in a blaze of blue fire. Power again sang within 
her, and she let it rage.
She cast out her magick into the lake. Coldfire met the struggling blackguard 
and stunned him with its sudden frigid touch. Elena continued to pour her 
magicks forth, letting the magick run wild. This was no subtle spell, but raw 
power.
A scream echoed up from her throat as she cast out her coldfire.
The lake froze around the blackguard, trapping the creature in its tight 
embrace. Only its head, upper torso, and one arm were still above the ice. Elena 
poured forth more of her magick until the lake was frozen from wall to wall. 
Only then did she close her fist and stanch her river of coldfire.
As her eyes cleared, she blinked her frosted lashes and checked her handiwork. 
In the iced arm of the blackguard, the stone beast still clutched the small boy. 
There was no movement from either.
Elena sank to her knees, her hot tears like fire on her cold cheeks.
You did it, Erril said, kneeling beside her.
Cassa Dar also stirred from the waters edge. Her eyes were wide with wonder at 
the frosted ice. The swamp witch pushed to her feet, swaying slightly with 
exhaustion. With Jaston assisting her, she crossed to the discarded Trysil. 
Jaston lifted the hammer so she could examine it. Elena, youve accomplished a 
miracle, she mumbled, fingering the carved haft of the Trysil with reverence 
and awe.
t-j
Elena did not answer, her eyes still fixed on the child frozen in the grip of 
the blackguard monster.
But at what cost? she silently wondered, thinking of a boy who liked his cake 
with a dollop of cream.
Fardale was the first to notice something was wrong. The wolf stared out at the 
lake, and a wary growl flowed from his throat.
As Mycelle hurried to get Elena into her dry clothes, Erril stepped beside 
Fardale and studied the lake. He didnt see anything strange; the black dwarf 
still lay frozen in the ices grip. He rested his hand on Fardales back and 
noticed the wolfs hackles were up. Do you scent something?
Fardale took a step back from the lakes edge just as a sharp cracky
burst from the ice.
- Everyone jumped at the sudden noise. All were instantly on their feet. Erril 
at first thought the noise was the ice breaking up, but he quickly saw he was 
wrong.
It was not ice shatteringbutstonel
The ebonstone dwarf was cracking apart. Its thick skull fell from its 
shoulders and rattled across the ice, breaking into even smaller pieces. Its 
arms snapped from where it protruded from the lake to crash like an axed tree. 
As the limb struck the ice, it too shattered into hundreds of ebonstone shards. 
Nothing lay within. It was as if the dwarf had been a hollow shell all along. 
Soon all that protruded from the frozen water was its upper torso, like a black 
egg imbedded in the ice. Fardale continued to growl.
Erril was unsure if any danger still lay out in the lake, but he had had enough 
of Castle Drakk. I dont like this, he said. Lets get
away from here.
Cassa Dar had finished wrapping the Trysil in a cloak and passed it to 
Mycelles care. I think you should, she said, her eyes still fixed on the 
remains of the blackguard. Something smells wrong here.
As if hearing her words, a thunderous clap exploded, shaking the tower with its 
boom. One of the chandeliers above the lake broke with a screech of bolts and 
fell with a clatter to the ice. Chunks of painted plaster rained down.
Erril shoved Elena behind him. The girl hopped to keep her weight off her 
injured ankle. Out, he yelled. Now!
WIT CH STORM
In the center of the frozen lake, the torso of the dwarf had split open. Like 
some dark chrysalis, the stone peeled back in curled sections. From the heart of 
this foul structure a bloody mist arose above the ice, followed by the 
squirming, writhing mass of something pale as a corpse. It squeezed forth, 
contorting and swelling as it escaped its ebonstone womb. Its body, the size of 
a large draft horse, plopped to the ice. Steaming a red mist from its pores, it 
rolled sluggishly. Then, like a butterfly fresh from its cocoon, it shook free 
moist wings, and a long sinuous neck curled from where it lay coiled close to 
its body. It turned large white eyes in their direction, searching blindly. Then 
huge flaps opened to sniff at the air, drawing it toward the huddled group on 
the stair. It spread its wings and opened its wet maw and screamed at them, a 
keening wail.
Erril did not wait for the creature to gain its bearings. Back up the stairs, 
he ordered. He waved the others onward.
Take the double doors at the next landing, Cassa Dar yelled, struggling in 
Jastons arms up the steps. A shortcut.
No time! Mycelle yelled.
They had not even climbed a dozen steps when the creature screamed again, its 
wail more strident. Still too weak to fly, it rose on a tangle of snakelike 
appendages and used its wings to propel itself across the ice at them. Its large 
bulk moved slowly, but its tenta-cled appendages were faster, like striking 
asps. A flurry of albino limbs shot up the steps after them.
Erril knocked Elena to the wall as probing appendages snatched at his legs. He 
swiped with his sword, severing the thick fingers. Where they touched, his pant 
legs smoked. He kicked the squirming sections away from his boots. The creature 
was sick with burning poisons.
On the far side of the stair, Mycelle fought the tentacles with her twin swords. 
She guarded over Cassa Dar and Jaston as the pair slowly climbed. Her blades 
were a blur before her. Erril was impressed with the havoc she wreaked. 
Splashes of poison smoked on her skin, but she ignored them.
Erril borrowed the plan of the others and slowly crept up the steps, herding 
Elena behind him. Progress was slow. Snaking limbs were everywhere.
Suddenly Mycelle yelled, a piercing cry. Erril glanced across the
sea of tentacles and saw that a thick limb had wrapped around the swordswomans 
waist. One of her blades had been knocked away; the other was wrapped in the 
grip of smaller tentacles. Mycelle was
pinned.
Erril spotted the womans fallen blade. It had landed near Jastons feet. Grab 
the sword, he yelled to the swamp man. Help free
Mycelle.
The man stood frozen, his eyes wide with horror. He did not move.
Cursing the swampers cowardice, Erril tried to push Elena faster, but the girl 
slipped past him and stumbled down a few steps. Blue flames danced along the 
fingers of her left hand.
Elena!
I can slow it, she yelled back, already raising her hand. Free Mycelle! A 
wave of coldfire shot from her fingers to slam into the bulk of the beast as it 
reached the base of the stairs. The force stopped its charge toward the steps 
and slid its bulk back across the slick ice. The tentacles were dragged along 
with it, clearing a path for Erril to cross to Mycelle. He dashed over and 
hacked at the thick limb wrapped around her waist. Her face was contorted with 
agony. Her clothes smoked, and when Erril finally sliced away the limb, he saw 
it wasnt just her shirt that smoked: Her very flesh lay burned around her 
waist.
He glared at Jaston. Help Mycelle up the stairs. Jaston came out of his shock 
and took Mycelle under one of his arms as Cassa Dar led the way up the stairs.
Fardale, who had no weapon and had been hanging back from the fray, suddenly 
barked and raced down the stairs past Erril.
Erril swung around. Elena stood before a wall of lashing tentacles. She washed 
her coldfire over the snaking limbs, keeping them at baybut the magick did 
little else. Where her blue flames struck the creature, its pale flesh grew red 
hot and resisted the ice with some inner fire of its own.
Elena was losing her battleand one of the appendages was creeping along the 
roof, over Elenas head, out of her sight. The treacherous limb now reached 
toward her unprotected back. But Fardale raced to protect her. The wolf leapt 
off the steps and flew through the air. He snatched the creeping limb in his 
jaws, and his momentum tore the appendage away from Elena.
n o I o R M
The wolf landed on his paws and gagged the limb from his mouth. The fur around 
his muzzle lay singed, and his tongue, lolling from his jaws, had been burned 
black.
Elena switched hands, obviously hoping fire would work where ice did not. She 
had already bloodied her right hand, and scarlet flames now danced in her palm. 
She sent a shaft of witchfire at the beast. Its flaming touch had once pierced 
even the formidable protection of a skaltum, but the magick seemed to have 
little effect on the foul creature here. The beast mewled at the assault and was 
driven farther back onto the ice. But where the stream of magickal fire struck, 
its pale flesh grew black, like frostbit skin, and doused the scorch of the 
flames.
The beast remained unharmed.
Fardale loped up the steps while Erril hurried down. Burdened with his sword, 
he urged Elena back. The Dark Lord has grown wise to your magicks, he warned. 
We must flee while we can.
Elena ignored him. Her skin ran with sweat, and her face was pale. She raised 
her right hand again. Flames roiled to a suns radiance in her fist as she built 
the magick to a fierce heat.
Erril did not know what she thought to accomplish. Elena? The girl thrust her 
arm toward the beast and released her magicks in a mighty rush. The fire struck, 
not at the beast, but at the ice under its tangle of tentacles. Her fire ripped 
into the ice, and the lake exploded under the creature. Steam swelled through 
the chamber. In a single breath, what had been ice became water once again.
Through the steam, Erril caught glimpses of the beasts flailing appendages and 
beating wings. Caught off guard, it struggled at the sudden change of its 
footing and lost. The beast sank into the waters. Wise girl, Erril commended 
her.
But Elena was not done yet. She raised her left hand and sent forth her 
coldfire. Steam became icy mist, and the lake froze over where the beast had 
sunk. Once again the room was solid ice.
Elena lowered her arm and turned to Erril, her eyes still raging with her 
magicks use. We can go now, she said. I dont know how long the ice will 
hold it, but perhaps long enough for escape. She tried to mount the stairs on 
her own but swooned with exhaustion.
Erril had to drop his sword to catch her. Jaston appeared at her other side. 
The swamp mans and the plainsmans eyes met over the girl. Jastons face shone 
with shame, but also with determination.
He held Elena until Erril could retrieve his sword and sheathe it. Ill take 
her from here, Erril said coldly as he scooped the girl up in his one arm. He 
headed up the stairs. Jaston hung back a moment, then followed.
Up at the next landing, Cassa Dar, Mycelle, and the wolf
awaited them.
This way, the swamp witch urged, leading the way through a set of doors off 
the stairway. This hall will take you directly to the exterior stair.
Erril followed Fardale into the passage. The wolf padded forward, ears cocked 
tall, listening for any new dangers ahead. The footsteps of the other members of 
the party echoed on the stones behind Erril. He hurried with Elena cradled in 
his arm. She had one of her arms hooked around his neck, and she leaned into his 
chest.
You did well, he whispered under his breath. - She raised her head. Did did 
you say something?
No, just hang on. Were almost out of this cursed castle.
Suddenly a massive quake shook the tower. The stone floor danced under his feet. 
Erril almost stumbled atop Elena. He caught himself just as the explosive crash 
reached his ears.
It broke loose, Elena said as he regained his balance. Let me down.
Erril ignored her. He wasnt about to let her out of his grip againnot until 
she was safely away.
At the end of the passage, Cassa Dar worked at the secret door. Just beyond 
here, the dwarf woman said, is the stair that runs along the outside of the 
tower, the steps that you all climbed up
earlier.
Elena pulled her arm free of Errils neck. Ill be safe here, she told the 
worried plainsman. Go help Aunt My watch the hall.
Erril nodded, lowering her carefully to the floor. Then he leaned close to 
Elena, exacting a promise from her with his eyes. Dont go outside until I 
return.
She nodded her agreement.
Satisfied, he slipped down the hall to where Mycelle and the wolf guarded their 
rear. Nearby, Jaston stood in the swamp witchs shadow, his face lowered, his 
eyes somewhere far away.
wit ch Storm
Cassa Dar talked as she worked, clearly anxious. This was an old camouflaged 
door used by the assassins to sneak up on the rear flank of any marauding force 
that attempted to climb the stair. In the past, there were nomadic robber bands 
that The catch finally released with a snap, and the door sprang open a bit. 
The swamp witch wiped her hands and stood. There we go!
Jaston called to the others, his voice cracking slightly. The doors 
unlatched!
While the others hurried forward, Cassa Dar hauled the heavy door wide open. 
Beyond the threshold, the night breezes greeted them. It was still dark, and the 
moon had long since set. Daybreak must be near, Cassa said. The swamp mists 
are always thickest upon the lake just before morning.
Elena had to trust her judgment. To her it was the darkest night outside, and 
sunrise seemed no more than a fanciful dream.
Mycelle hurried them forward. Wed best hurry. I heard something in the hall 
just as Jaston called.
As if to emphasize her point, a wail erupted from behind them. No one had to say 
what monster made such a noise. Its close, Erril hissed. Everybody outside 
so I can get this door shut.
They rushed out onto the stairs, boots flying down the steps. Erril stood by 
the door, attempting to drag it closed. Even in the dark, Elena saw the veins 
bulging at his temples, the muscles of his arm bunching thick. The door was 
stuck. Erril?
Stay back, Elena!
Mycelle placed a firm grip on her shoulder, silently telling her to obey.
I need time to build a boat, the witch said from the waters edge. He must 
get that door closed.
A second bellow of rage erupted from down the hall; then the monsters shrieking 
changed in pitch- It had spotted Erril.
The plainsmans attack on the door increased. A reddish mist flowed out into the 
night from the open threshold. Elenas fist was at her throat. It must be almost 
atop him.
Suddenly, a questing tentacle shot out and snatched at Errils neck. The 
plainsman gasped as his neck burned. Unarmed, his hand scrabbled at the choking 
limb. Before anyone else could react, Jaston raced up the steps, his skinning 
dagger clutched in his hand.
|AMES (jLtMBBS T- y
Reaching Erril in a heartbeat, he slashed savagely at the appendage. Its acid 
blood etched his dagger and burned his hand and arm. He screamed, not in pain 
from the poisons burn, but in a rage pent up over many winters. He ravaged the 
limb with his knife until Erril fell free of its grip.
Hurry, Erril choked, and threw off the limb. Together, both men forced the 
door and slammed it shut. Leaning against the door, Erril patted Jaston on the 
shoulder. Thank you.
Just then something huge crashed into the door, the shock so intense that Erril 
was knocked outward by the concussion. The plainsman cartwheeled his arm at the 
edge of the stair, but one arm was not enough. Jaston reached for him and 
missed. Erril tumbled off the stair and crashed into the lake below.
Erril! Elena ran to the stairs edge. Even in the mist-shrouded starlight, 
Elena saw huge fins arise and cut toward the ripples in the lake. Errils head 
bobbed up, and he swam with vigorous kicks toward the lowest stair. But again, 
one arm made a poor swimmer. The fins closed quickly upon him.
Dont fret, the witch said, appearing beside her. Cassa Dar waved a thick arm 
across the water, and the fins turned away in unison and sank from view. I 
dont have time to build a boat, she muttered as Erril neared. Ill have to 
improvise.
With these words, Cassa Dar threw herself off the stair to land flat on her 
belly atop the lake. Instead of sinking, her flesh blew out in a nest of vines 
and moss, some glowing brightly in the night. I told you I was more than just 
dwarf. Then her form was swallowed away as a raft of vines and moss formed 
around her. Her voice, though, still rose from the tangle of vines. Hurry. 
Climb on board. Everyone hesitated a moment, uncomfortable with climbing atop 
the vessel that was built from an old womans body. Then another concussion 
shook the tower steps as the beast slammmed into the
door again.
Erril swam up to the edge of the boat and clambered up. What
are you all waiting for?
No one needed further prodding. The party scrambled onto the living raft. As 
soon as all were on board, the raft took off across the waters, quickly gaining 
speed. Cassa Dars voice arose from the floor. Ill not be able to talk with 
you much longer.
Fardale sniffed at the raft, his ears cocked and his head tilted.
Powering the raft, Cassa Dar continued, taxes my elemental abilities, and the 
farther from the castle I travel, the weaker my skill will become.
Erril ripped off his soaking shirt, freeing his arm of its clinging grip. He 
checked his sheath. His silver sword was still in place. Will you be able to 
get us across the lake?
Yes, but after that, I must return to Castle Drakk, to my nexus of power. From 
there, I can guide you all the way to the coast.
But what about the beast in the castle? Elena asked. I dont think it will 
remain there long. Hopefully just long enough for you all to get lost in the 
deep swamps. Then I can return to my castle.
But Cassa Dars hopes were not to be realized. A thunderclap suddenly roared 
over the waters. All eyes turned to the castle. The dark tower still stood like 
a shadowed island behind them. Against its black stone, a white form could be 
seen, aglow in the starlight. Its burst through the door! Mycelle said in 
horror. From the prow, Elena stared back and watched the beast take to the air, 
its wings huge white sails to either side. They cut through the mists like a 
predators fins slicing through the lake. But Elena knew that no wave of Cassa 
Dars hand would save them now. She glanced to her own hands. Both her palms 
were still redno longer with the dark ruby of before, but with a weak scarlet. 
Her powers were low.
She stared skyward as the beast turned on a wing and dove toward them. Tendrils 
of its snaking appendages hung all the way to the lake now, leaving small 
ripples in the still waters with their foul passage. Earlier, when Elena had 
been at full strength, the beast had resisted her magicks; what could she hope 
to accomplish now? Still, she slipped free her witchs dagger.
Erril stood near the stern of the boat, barechested with his sword in hand. 
Mycelle stood armed beside him, marking the progress of the beast against the 
speed of Cassa Dar. She could see that they would not escape the lake. Seeming 
to sense her gaze, Erril glanced over his shoulder at her, an apologetic look, 
in his eyes. He knew they would not survive this. Still, he raised his sword. At 
least he would die fighting.
And so would she, Elena decided. She drew the tip of her silver blade across 
each palm, then sheathed her dagger. Cupping her hands on her knees, she stared 
as the blood welled into her palms
F
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and released the dam of her magicks. As she allowed the power to sing through 
her blood, each hand began to glow. The Rose of her right hand grew into a 
fierce crimson, while the Rose of her left hand burst forth with an icy azure 
luminescence.
Here were the two sides of her power, and both were now useless. Elena stared at 
her glowing hands. Suddenly her eyes grew wide. What if?
Elena shot to her feet, moving so suddenly the boat rocked. Ahead of her, Erril 
grunted, shaken off balance. He glared over his shoulder at her.
It was too late to explain. The beast had reached them. As it swept over the 
fleeing boat, its appendages writhed and tangled under it, grabbing at the raft 
and its occupants. As the others fought the beast with their swords, Elena saw 
Fardale yanked into the air by a coiled limb of the monster.
Jaston leapt after the wolf, flying over the edge of the boat, his knife clamped 
in his teeth. The swamp man caught the vinelike appendage with both hands, then 
loosened one grip to snatch the dagger from his mouth. As his palms burned, he 
sawed at the limb, a scream frozen on his lips, until the appendage severed and 
both he and the wolf tumbled into the lake.
Elena knew this was just a test of their strength. She stared up into the night 
sky. The main bulk of the beast glided on its huge wings. Its pale eyes seemed 
to study the boat; then suddenly it focused directly on her. It was no dumb 
beast that hunted them. A malignant intelligence lay behind this creatures dead 
eyes.
She knew the Dark Lord watched and guided this beast. It studied her for a 
heartbeat more; then a scream of triumph burst from its throat as it dove toward 
her, wings tucked for speed.
Everyone down! Elena screamed, not bothering to see if she was obeyed. From 
here, she knew the battle was hers alone.
She raised her arms. Not just her right or her leftbut both. She brought her 
two red hands together and entwined her fingers. This time she did not unite 
witch and womanbut coldfire and witchfire!
She thrust her joined fists at the diving monster and let her mag-ick rage 
forth. The power blew out from her with such force that Elena was knocked 
backward. She had to anchor her legs to keep her feet.
From her fists, a rage of cracking lightning, searing flames, and shredding 
winds swept out. The lake screamed with her magicks. Thunder boomed across the 
waters.
Elena knew the name of this awesome power.
Stormfire!
This new magick ripped into the beast, haulting its dive. Like a fly in amber, 
it hung trapped as crackles of lightning danced across its flesh and savage 
winds tore its wings to shreds. Flame followed and laid waste to all it touched. 
The beast writhed within a ball of fierce energies, wailing and thrashing its 
appendages.
Elena poured every last dreg of her magick into the creature.
Finally its skin cracked, its tentacles curled and blackened, and its wings 
became bone and ash. It crashed into the lake with a final keening scream.
Waves and swells rocked the boat; everyone standing was knocked down. When the 
boats rocking finally calmed enough, Erril sat up and glanced to Elena to make 
sure she was safe.
She leaned up on an elbow and gave him a nod. No words were needed.
A voice called out from the lake. Mycelle crossed to the vessels edge and 
helped Jaston crawl into the boat. He dragged the sopping wolf behind him. 
Fardales fur was burned in thick swatches, but the shape-shifter lived.
Erril crawled over to Elena as the remaining swells died down. He helped her 
sit up. What was that magick? he asked.
Stormfire, Elena said breathlessly.
Erril stared at her, then took her hands one at a time and examined them. He 
had no qualms about touching her soft white skin, bare of magick. He glanced 
back to her face, wonder in his eyes. How ?
You told me mages in the past could only bear magick in one hand. She squeezed 
Errils palm as emphasis.
Erril nodded and kept his hand in hers.
But I can wield both, Elena said. And since no one but Sisakofa could wield 
two magicks at once, I knew the Dark Lord could not be prepared for such a 
united attack so I took advantage of his blindness. Elena smiled shyly up at 
Erril. But even I didnt expect such a show.
Erril pulled her into his embrace and hugged her hard. You continue to amaze 
me, Elena.
She leaned into him, relishing his warmth and scent. She hoped this moment would 
never end.
Then the lake erupted in a huge wave and jarred them apart. The boat almost 
flipped with the force of the sudden surge. From the waters to the side of the 
boat, a huge head burst forth, burnt and scarred, borne on a long sinuous neck.
Its maw swelled open, lined with thousands of shredding teeth. Its blackened 
eyes searched the boat, blind but still able to sense its prey by scent. It 
struck at Elena.
She screamed and raised her hands, but no power lay there. Erril threw his body 
atop hers, knocking her down and protecting her with his own life.
Suddenly a second surge rocked the boat, knocking the vessel  back from the 
beast. Erril pushed up to see. Elena followed.
Up from the lake rose a monstrous, scaled head, huge jaws hinged wide open. Its 
teeth, shining in the light, were as long as Elenas forearm. With a whip of its 
huge tail and a clacking roar, it burst forth, snatched the Dark Lords creature 
by its long neck, and shook it savagely. The pale beast squealed its death cry, 
thrashing in the jaws of the huge swamp creature.
With the beast already weakened, the lake monster finished what Elena had 
started. It twisted and tore at the pale creature until the head of the burnt 
beast fell limp in its jaws.
The swamp reptile, still holding its prey clamped in its huge jaws, rolled a 
huge black eye toward the raft, then sank below the waters. Jaston spoke from 
the edge of the boat. A bull krocan.
Was it called up by Cassa Dar to save us? Elena asked. The swamp witchs 
voice rose weakly from the floor, just a whisper. No. It was no magick of 
mine.
Jaston stood at the boats edge, staring out at the black waters. His wet 
clothes clung to him. He turned to the others, no longer hiding his scars. I 
know these swamps, and I know the krocan. That roar before the bull attacked 
was a cry of revenge. Jaston turned back to stare at the lake. These swamps 
are my home, he said, his voice a blend of warmth and pride. Out here, 
creatures know how to survive.
Elena sensed he spoke of more than just the bull krocan, and from Mycelles sad 
smile as she stared at Jastons back, she knew her aunt must also suspect the 
extra meaning behind the swamp mans words. Though still scarred, something 
vital had finally healed in the man.
Sighing, Elena stared out across the calming waters and remembered Mycelles 
words back at the Painted Pony in Shadowbrook: Not all wars are won with swords 
and magict.
Elena studied her white hands.
Somehow those words made her happy.
TWO DAYS LATER, IT WAS STILL DIFFICULT TO SAY GOOD-BYE. EVEN
though the swamps had held such horrors, Elena would truly miss her new friends, 
allies forged in fire. But with their partys wounds treated and their plans 
finally laid, they were ready to strike for the coast.
So, as the sun rose on the day of their departure, the party stood on an island 
at the edge of the large swamp lake. Erril busied himself with packing the boat 
while Fardale nosed the plainsmans handiwork. Mycelle and Elena still faced 
Jaston and Cassa Dar, finishing their good-byes. From here, the witch would 
guide them directly to the coast.
You could still come with us, Mycelle said to Jaston.
He shook his head. I have the horses to attend to, he said. Jaston was going 
to arrange to have their mounts, still stabled in Drywater, join a swampers 
caravan to the coast. Elena had insisted that Mist not be abandoned. The mare 
would not thrive as a swampers muleloaded with gear, stopping every fifth step 
to chew razor-grass, and refusing to budge until her belly was full. No, Mist 
would not make a good workhorse.
Jaston stepped back from Mycelle. Their trials at Castle Drakk had revitalized 
the scarred man. He hardly seemed like the sullen man they had first met. He now 
held his back straight and spoke with good humor, unashamed of his scars. 
Besides, he said, my home is here in the swamps.
Elena saw how his words wounded her aunt, as did the brief glance Jaston gave 
the witch as he mentioned his love of the swamps. Her face sad, Mycelle turned 
away and straightened her
shoulders. Elena saw the resignation in her eyes. Some flames gone to ash could 
not be rekindled, even when a small spark was still left. Then I guess wed 
best be off, Mycelle said with false cheer. As she walked away, her aunt held a 
hand to her side, where the poisons of the tentacles had burned deep. But Elena 
suspected it was more than just the wound that pained her.
So Mycelle and Jaston partedmore than friends, less than loversleaving only 
Elena to say her good-byes. She hugged Jaston and turned to Cassa Dar. The 
witch had redonned her magickal garb, standing again as an auburn-haired 
beauty. Her slender hands reached to Elenas gloved fingers. You bear the 
heritage of Sisakofa. There is much power in your hands, she said, then raised 
a palm and rested it against Elenas chest. But your true strength will always 
come from your heart. Remember that, child.
Elenas eyes misted up.
&#9632; And please remember also your promise to me, she continued. Youre my 
peoples only hope.
Elena nodded. I will see to it that one day the Trysil is returned to its 
rightful place.
Cassa Dar smiled, and they hugged. The illusion of the witch was so strong that 
even with her arms wrapped around Cassa Dar, Elena could not discern the ancient 
dwarf hidden within the moss magick. At last they parted company.
Elenas group climbed aboard the boat and settled in. With a soft bump, the 
vessel receded from the bank, moving on its own, borne away by Cassa Dars swamp 
magick.
Elena, sitting at the stern, turned for one last view of Jaston and Cassa Dar. 
The pair still stood on the mossy bank, arms raised in farewell. Elena noted how 
the witch slipped her hand into Jastons as she waved them off. Elena smiled. 
So it seemed Mycelle was not the only one with an interest in Jaston.
This small display of affection by the witch did not pass unnoticed by Mycelle 
either. Her aunts cheeks reddened, and her wave of farewell was perfunctory. 
She quickly swung back around to discuss some detail with Erril, bowing her 
head away from the scene behind the boat.
Elena was glad her aunt had turned away and missed what transpired next. Just as 
their boat disappeared around a bend, Cassa Dar raised a hand to the swamp mans 
cheek. Where she touched, the
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mans scars vanished, swept away by moss magick. Jaston examined his face with 
tentative fingers, wonder in his eyes. But as he turned toward Cassa Dar, Elena 
caught a glimpse of something more in his eyessomething that suggested Cassa 
Dars interest might not go unrequited.
Elena smiled to herself and twisted forward. Jaston had always said he loved the 
swamps. Now perhaps hed have a chance to prove it.
From near the boats bow, Erril suddenly cursed as he rubbed a balm the witch 
had given them on his raw neck. His skin lay blistered and red from where the 
poison tentacle had touched him. He then wrapped the wound with a bandage and 
settled deeper in the boat. Ill be glad to be rid of these poisoned lands, he 
muttered.
As will I, Mycelle echoed, her voice a whisper as she glanced one last time 
behind them.
Elena placed a hand on her aunts knee. There was no medicinal salve that could 
soothe this pain. All Elena could do was offer Mycelle her support.
Her aunt gripped Elenas hand and did not let go.
It would be a long trip to the coast.

Six days after leaving Castle Drakk, Elena stepped on the first solid ground in 
what seemed like ages. Her feet were slightly unsteady after the many days of 
traveling through marshy soils and bobbing on rafts through swamp channels. She 
adjusted her pack to balance herself and tested the ankle she had twisted on the 
flight up the castles stairs. Only a dull twinge remained, like a distant 
memory of its former pain.
Beside her, Fardale stretched each of his legs, arching his back and relishing 
the release from the boat. The wolf clearly enjoyed the clean sunshine after the 
constant mists of the bogs. Elena studied the swaths of clipped fur on the 
wolfs torso; his burns were scarring well. The swamp witchs salve was helping 
the others injuries, too.
Erril stepped next to her, wincing slightly as his pack brushed his bandaged 
neck. Mycelle walked carefully behind him. She had sustained the worst injuries. 
The poison ring around her belly still pained her often.
Luckily, the hike from here wasnt far: half a days journey at most. Erril 
knew someone who owned a remote cottage among the bluffs, a place were they 
could hide and rest while their wounds
healed.
It was the promise of the cottageof real beds and hearth-cooked
mealsthat kept the party moving.
Yet the luxuries of a clean bed were not the only motivation for their hard 
pace. In less than half a moon, Mycelle would need to journey to Port Rawl and 
search for the other members of their
^ / u Witch Storm
party. Elena looked forward to seeing Krai, Tolchuk, Meric, and Mogweed again. 
She missed them dearly.
With their boots on real ground, Erril led them on the last leg of their long 
journey from Winters Eyrie to the coast. As the sun climbed the sky, he guided 
them east toward the ocean, aiming slightly south.
The land rose gently higher as they left the marshlands and entered the rolling 
coastal hills. Birds called and rabbits bounded from their path as they left the 
poisons behind them. The air was scented with green meadowgrass and purple 
jonquils, while patches of honeysuckle swarmed with the buzz of bees. Summer 
claimed these hills, but the heavy milkweed pods that hung like the heads of 
drunken men warned of summers end.
By noon, they crested a large hill. Not far ahead, the ocean appeared. Elena 
stared at it, gawking. It was as if the world ended beyond the bluffs. From 
horizon to horizon lay the blue waters of the great ocean. Nothing interrupted 
the smooth expanse except for an occasional misted green island.
The edge of the Archipelago, Erril said, pointing toward the distant isles.
And, Elena thought wearily, their next destination. She sighed. But that was 
another day. For now, she would enjoy the sunshine and the scent of ocean 
breezes and forget for a time that she was a witch. She refused even to glance 
at the two deerskin gloves that hid her ruby skin.
With the ocean in sight, Erril called for a meal break, passing out the last of 
their ration of dried meat and hard bread. It was a glum meal until Mycelle 
offered Elena a few berries that she had gathered from a small barbed bush 
nearby. Elenas eyes widened. She knew those ripe berries. They were her 
favoriteblisterberries! Accepting them greedily, she popped them in her mouth. 
They were tart and sweet at the same time. Her mother had grown such bushes in 
their familys garden, making the most excellent tarts from those few berries 
that Elena had not already picked and consumed by the time they were ripe.
Elena glanced around the hills. More of the small prickly bushes dotted the 
slopes. She grinned, her teeth stained purple. The journey from here didnt seem 
so bad.
James ulemens
Mycelle spoke to Erril as Elena finished the last of the berries. So this 
friend of yours out here in the bluffs, she said. Is he to be fully trusted?
Erril nodded as he packed away their gear, then sat back on his heels to eye 
Mycelle. He rubbed absently at the stump of his arm. Hes a brother of the 
Order. I have full faith in his loyalty and would put my life in his hands 
without any misgivings.
Mycelle studied Erril a moment before speaking. But its more than just your 
own life this time.
Errils gaze flickered toward Elena and back again. I know my duties, he 
muttered, and returned Mycelles stare. If you dont trust this man, then trust 
my judgment.
Mycelle stood up slowly, protecting her injured belly. I do, Erril.
The plainsmans eyes widened slightly at her declaration. He covered his 
surprise by snugging his pack closed. Then lets be off while the daylight 
holds.
With their meal finished, they moved on through the hills. After a time, they 
reached a rutted path that hugged the coastline and made their pace easier. The 
bluffs were lonely country. From the fields, a few curious sheep and sleepy-eyed 
cows watched them pass, and they met only a single wagon on the road, the driver 
tipping his hat. Unfortunately, the rig was heading in the wrong direction to 
beg a ride.
So they continued on foot. The hike stretched endlessly, and the day had turned 
to twilight by the time a small cottage appeared ahead. It stood atop a tall 
bluff overlooking the seas. Its thatched roof and hewn stone walls seemed the 
finest palace to Elenas tired legs.
A dog barked and ran out to meet them as they approached. But when it scented 
Fardale, it grew less sure and backed away. A few goats also noted the passage 
of a wolf near their midst and bleated feebly and moved off. Only a gaggle of 
ducks actually waddled over to greet them, quacking for scraps of bread or seed. 
Elena smiled at them.
Erril, though, shooed the fowl from underfoot as he led their party off the 
wagon path and across the yard toward the cottage. At the door, he rapped 
soundly.
At first, no one answered, and for a moment, Elena feared that
maybe no one was home. But then the steps of someone sounded from within. 
Somewhere deeper in the cottage, a voice called out. Git the door already!
Erril smiled. That would be Brother Flint, he whispered to her. Always in a 
foul mood, but with a heart as big as the sea.
Whoever bore the brunt of this mans rough affection finally opened the door. He 
stood just a little smaller than Erril. The plainsman nodded, not recognizing 
the red-haired young manand for just about two heartbeats, neither did Elena. 
Then her eyes grew huge, and she shoved Erril aside. She flew at the man in the 
doorway and wrapped her arms around the shocked fellow.
Um he said awkwardly, stiffening in her embrace. Elena pulled back and looked 
him in the face. He had grown a head taller over the past year, and even a bit 
of red beard now sprouted on his chin. She grinned up at him, and tears of joy 
ran down her cheek. Joach, dont you even recognize your own sister?
He blinked. Elena? he said, tentatively at first, then seemed finally to see 
past her dyed and shorn hair. Elena! He grabbed her up and hugged her so hard 
she thought her ribs would break, but she didnt protest or urge him to lighten 
his grip. She just held him. In Joachs arms, she rediscovered the strength of 
her father, and in his close warmth, the heart of her mother. United in tears, 
they were a family again.
How ? She both laughed and sobbed into his chest, unable to form words, her 
vision blurring. She squeezed him tighter. He was not a figment of a cruel 
dream, a ghost to disappear on waking. Over the past moons, she had dreamt often 
of her brother, but this was real. He was flesh and bone. She could not stop 
crying. How did you ?
He raised a palm and touched her cheek. Hush.
By now, a grizzled, gray-bearded man strolled up behind her brother. He had a 
pipe clenched between his lips. So it seems you two know each other, he said 
gruffly.
Joach loosened his hold on Elena at the approach of the old man but refused to 
let her go completely. He kept one arm around her shoulders as he introduced her 
to the man. This, he said, grinning his boyish smile, is my sister, Elena.
Yes, the witch. I figured as much. He nodded toward Elena and
passed her a handkerchief for her tears. He surveyed the rest of the party, his 
eyes growing large at the sight of the huge treewolf. Then he beckoned them all 
inside as if they had just come from a neighboring farm. About time you got 
here, Erril.
Joach had started to turn away when Mycelle stepped from behind Erril. Her 
brothers head snapped back around to face the swords woman. Aunt My? he 
asked, his voice shocked. What what are you doing here? Joach let go of Elena 
and reached to embrace his aunt.
Elena smiled, having momentarily forgotten there was another member of their 
lost family present.
As Joach reached for Mycelle, their aunt held up a hand. Whoa there, Joach. I 
just saw how you hugged your sister. Ive got wounds that cant withstand that 
kind of love. She leaned and gently hugged him, then let go. Her eyes filled 
with tears. Youve grown even more than your sister, she said, wiping at her 
eyes.
Flint, Erril said, ever gruff, ever serious, how did you ever come by the 
boy?
Moris found him in Aloa Glen, he said, waving off the question. But the 
storys long, and Ive got a pot of stew simmering. Itll burn if I dont get 
back to it.
Before they could enter, a deep roar cracked across the hills, freezing everyone 
in place.
Erril reached for his sword.
As they all turned, a winged shape suddenly swept up from below the bluffs edge 
behind them. It arched and swung toward the cottage.
Skaltum! Elena cried.
Joach wrapped his sister up in his arms. No, El, its nothing to fear. Erril 
drew his sword, as did Mycelle. Fardale growled. Flint pushed through them all. 
Jumpy sorts, arent you all? The old man ran his eyes up and down Mycelles 
physique as he passed. He glanced at Erril, pursing his lips appreciatively. 
Cmon, he said with a nod toward the bluffs. My stew will have to wait. I 
sent a messenger out to rally some forces, but it looks like shes returning 
early. And I dont like what that implies.
Erril followed, his eyes narrow and suspicious. Whats going on, Flint?
Elena, her eyes on the skies, did not hear the old mans response. In the last 
rays of the setting sun, Elena saw it wasnt a monster of the Dark Lord that 
glided the coastal winds, but a striking figure of iridescent black scale and 
silver claws. As the sun set behind them, the last rays sparked a brilliant 
radiance off its scales. It spun on the tip of one huge wing and swept back 
toward the bluff. Elenas mouth hung open as she followed on numb feet, her neck 
bent back to study the handsome beasts flight as it moved with power and grace 
across the darkening skies.
Elena trailed behind the plainsman, her brothers arm around her shoulders. 
Ahead, the huge black creature landed at the bluffs edge, digging gigantic 
claws into the rich soil. As it perched above the crashing surf, it swung its 
stately black head in their direction as they approached. Eyes of cobalt and 
ebony studied them. Its the dragon Ragnark, Joach explained.
Now closer, Elena spotted a small girl seated atop the dragon. Her green hair 
blew like a sweep of willow about her face. Joach raised his arm, greeting her. 
The girl returned the gesture. Thats Sy-wen, Joach explained to Elena. A mer 
woman.
Elenas eyebrows rose high. The mer were supposed to be creatures of myth, but 
after all Elena had seen, she did not doubt her brothers claim.
As they crossed the meadow to join the dragon and its rider at the bluffs edge, 
Flint and Erril were deep in conversation. Elena drew close enough to hear 
their words. Errils face had darkened with the fading light. So Aloa Glen is 
lost, he said, dismayed. And my brother His voice cracked, and the plainsman 
could not speak any further. His eyes stared far off. Elena had never seen him 
so distraught.
Flint chewed his pipe. Im afraid so. Ive heard reports that flocks of 
skaltum have been seen circling the towers of the city. Boats report other 
strange beasts seen in the waters around the island, and five times more the 
number of ships go missing at sea than before. Im afraid the Dark Lord is 
digging in his heels. If were ever going to get the Blood Diary, we need an 
army.
By now, their group had reached the bluff. They kept their distance from the 
dragon, though it had already lost interest in them and stared out at the ocean. 
Elenas and Sy-wens eyes met briefly. The mer woman nodded at her. Elena 
suspected they were around the same age.
Flint spoke to Sy-wen. How did it go? Were you able to convince your mother to 
help?
Conch had already reached my mother, Sy-wen said, and passed on your request 
for aid. She waved an arm to encompass the seas below the bluffs. And there is 
her response.
Beyond the crashing surf, the blue waters undulated in slow, regular swells. 
Nothing lay there but empty waves.
Elena noticed the old mans shoulders slump.
Then the small mer woman reached and touched her dragons neck. At the quiet 
signal, Ragnark stretched out his long throat and bellowed across the waves, 
his call echoing along the cliffs.
Wincing at the noise, Elena leaned into Joach.
As the dragons roar ended, the smooth sea beyond the frothing surf bloomed with 
hundreds of snaking heads as countless submerged creatures surfaced. 
Seadragons, Elena whispered, awed. Like a scatter of jewels across the 
midnight blue waters, more and more dragons, in various hues and sizes, rose 
from the sea.
Each dragon bore a rider, an arm raised in salute.
My mother sends her greeting to you, Sy-wen said with a ghost of a smile, and 
pledges her aid.
Beyond them, huge behemoths of the deep sea rose like barnacled islands, spewing 
fonts of spray from holes along their backs. The spray caught the suns glory, 
casting twilight rainbows to the horizon.
Flint whistled appreciatively. He fingered a small star-shaped stud in his ear. 
You did it, Sy-wen, he muttered. Youve brought back the merai from the 
Deep. The prophecies weave together this night. Can you feel it? he asked 
Erril. When the sun next rises, the war will be upon us.
His wordswar and prophecychilled Elena.
Suddenly, the black dragon trumpeted again, a piping wail that startled Elena. 
His countless brethren below chorused back, a rising tune that somehow blended 
with the pound of the surf below them. It was a song that united sea and beast.
But deeper in the dragons song, Elena heard more. She heard the drums of war, 
the beat of sword on shield, and the trumpets charge.
Joach whispered in her ear as the light faded around them, his eyes wide upon 
the host below. Theyre here for you, Elena.
His words brought her no joy. Tears rose in her eyes. From here, she knew 
nothing would be the same.
As if sensing her emotion, Fardale stepped to the edge of the bluff and added 
his voice to the chorus below, a long low cry that escalated into the ululating 
howl. The loneliness of his song spoke to Elenas heart.
Joach slipped his hand in hers and squeezed. She returned the silent affection. 
Whatever may come, Elena thought as she held tight to her brother and listened 
to Fardales cry, at least she would no longer face it alone.
Hand in hand, brother and sister watched the seas turn dark as the day died. The 
warmth of family flowed between them, stronger than any ruby magick.
And so as Elena stares out at her dragon army, I must end this part of her tale. 
From this night forward, the oceans will run red with the blood of heroes, 
cowards will show their true colors, and brothers will raise swords against each 
other.
Yet is that not always the tides of war?
So for now, lets rest and pretend we dont hear the drums of battle in the 
pounding of the surf.
Tomorrow is soon enough for the lands ofAlasea to bleed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
was born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1961. With his three brothers and three 
sisters, he was raised in the Midwest and in rural Canada. There, he explored 
cornfields, tadpoles, and frozen ponds, dreaming of worlds and adventures beyond 
the next bend in the creek.
Eventually, pretending to grow up, he went to school at the University of 
Missouri, where he graduated with a doctorate in veterinary medicine in 1985.
During one especially icy midwestern winter, the lure of ocean, sun, and new 
horizons eventually drew him to the West Coast, where he established his 
veterinary practice in Sacramento, California. Presently, he shares his home 
with two Dalmatians, a stray Shepherd, and a lovesick parrot named Igor.