James Clemens - Book 3 of the Banned and the Banished saga - Witch War

 
FOREWORD TO WITCH WAR
(NOTE: The following is an open letter from Professor J. P. Clemens, the 
translator of The Banned and the Banished series)
Dear Students,
As the historian of this textbook, I welcome you back to this series of 
translated texts and beg a moment of your time to comment on my work and some of 
the rumors surrounding it.
As is well known, the original scrolls were lost to antiquity, and only 
crumbling handwritten copies discovered over five centuries ago in caves on the 
Isle of Kell yet remain of this most ancient tale. Because this language has 
been dead for over a millennium, hundreds of historians and linguistic experts 
have attempted to tackle the reconstruction and translation of these Kelvish 
Scrolls. Yet under my supervision at the University of Da Borau, a team of 
distinguished colleagues finally accomplished the impossible: the complete and 
truest translation of the tale of Elena Morinstal.
In your hands is my lifes work. And I wanted to state that I believe my 
translations should stand on their own merits.
Yet, over my objections, my fellow scholar, Jirrob Sordun, had been assigned to 
write forewords to the first two books, to warn readers about the devious nature 
of the scrolls original author.
Now were these doleful warnings truly necessary? As much as I respect Professor 
Sordun, I believe these ancient histories of Alaseas black age do not need 
embellishments or extravagant introductions. Though this ancient age of our land 
is cloaked in mystery and muddled by conflicting accounts, any person of sound 
mind will know the tales herein are just the twisted fictions of some ancient 
madman. Do we really need Sordun to point this out to us? Lets look to the 
facts.
What do we truly know of this black age? We know Elena was a true historical 
figurethere are too many contemporary references to deny thisbut her role 
during the uprising against the Gulgotha is obviously a whimsical tale. She was 
not a witch. She did not have a fist stained with blood magicks. I wager that 
some charlatans had painted her hand crimson and propped her up as some anointed 
savior, milking the simple village folk of their hard-earned coppers. Among this 
troupe of tricksters was obviously a writer of some modest skill who created 
these wild stories to bolster their fake leader. I imagine he regaled the 
farmers with these fabrications, which he passed off as real eventsand so the 
myth of the witch was forged.
I can picture the gap-toothed farmers staring slack jawed as the story teller 
related tales of highland ogres, woodland nymphs, mountain nomads, and 
silver-haired elvin. I can imagine their gasps as Elena wielded her magick of 
fire and ice. But surely in todays enlightened Alasean society, there is no 
need to warn readers so vocally that such things are fictions.
So with that said, I must make one confession. As I translated these series of 
scrolls, I began to believe them just a bit. Who wouldnt want to believe that a 
young girl from some remote apple orchard could end up changing the world? And 
what she accomplished at the endwhat the author claimed occurredwho wouldnt 
want to believe that to be true?
Of course, being a scholar, I know better. Nature is nature, and what the author 
proposes at the very end of the scrolls is obviously a falsehood that can only 
weaken our society. For this reason, I have also come to accept that my 
translations should be banned and kept only for the few enlightened, for those 
who wont be duped by its final message.
However, even with these tight restrictions, Ive begun to hear absurd rumors 
surrounding the required fingerprint that binds each text to its reader. It is 
whispered in certain circles that some readers those who have marked each of 
the five textbooks with their finger-
prints and bound the compiled series in silk ribbon, or so the story goeshave 
found themselves beguiled by ancient magicks that have reached out from my 
translated words. I believe the fault for this ridiculous notion lies with the 
university press that produces this series. The requirement to mark each of the 
five volumes with the print from a different finger of the right hand only 
fosters such foolishness. For a publisher to require such a thing, especially 
when the story in these books suggests that powerful magick can be wielded by a 
witchs hand, is downright negligent on the part of the publisher.
Though I am flattered at such supposed power behind my work, I cant help but be 
shocked and befuddled by such blatant foolishness.
So perhaps I judge too harshly my illustrious colleague. Maybe it is best after 
all to warn all potential readers.
So let me repeat Jirrob Sorduns final word of caution as printed in the 
foreword to the first text:
Remember, at all times,
in your waging hours and in your dreams,
The author is a liar.
Sincerely and humbly,
J. P. Clemens,
Professor of Ancient Histories
Assignation of Responsibility for the third scrott
This copy is being assigned to you and is your sole responsibility. Its loss, 
alteration, or destruction will result in severe penalties, as stated in your 
local ordinances. Any transmission, copying, or even oral reading in the 
presence of a nondassmate is strictly forbidden. By signing below and placing 
your fvnger-print, you accept all responsibility and release the university from 
any damage it may cause youor those I aroundyouby its perusal.
Signature
Date
Place inked print of the middle jmger of your right hand here:
*** WARNING ***
If you should perchance come upon this text outside of proper
university channels, please close this book now and alert the
I proper authorities for safe retrieval. Failure to do so can lead to your
immediate arrest and incarceration.
TOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
WITCH WAR
Heralded by a dragon d roar
an? born in a maebtrom of ice and flame,
this is the way the war began.
 
Through my open window, I can hear the strum of a lyres chords and the tinkle 
of a minstrels voice rising like steam from the streets below. It is the height 
of the Midsummer Carnivale here in the city of Gelph. As the searing heat of the 
day winds down to the sultry hours of evening, townspeople gather in the square 
for the Feast of the Dragon, a time of merriment and rejoicing.
Yet I cant help but frown at the gaiety of the celebrants. How much the fools 
have forgotten! Even now as I sit with pen and paper and prepare once again to 
continue the witchs tale, I can hear the screams of the slaughtered and the 
blood roar of dragons behind the music and happy voices outside my window.
The true meaning for this celebration has been lost over the ages. The first 
Midsummer Carnivale was a somber affair, meant to cheer the few survivors of the 
War of the Isles, a time for wounds to heal and for spirits torn by blade and 
betrayal to be restored. Even the meaning behind the ritual exchange of fake 
dragons teeth and baubles painted like precious black pearls has been forgotten 
by the present revelers. It was once meant to signify the bond between
Ah but I get ahead of myself. After so many centuries, with my head so full of 
memories, I seem constantly to find myself unhooked from times inevitable 
march. As I sit in this rented room, surrounded by my parchments and inks, it 
seems like only yesterday that Elena stood on the bluffs of Blisterberry and 
stared out across the twilight sea at her dragon army. Why is it that the older 
one gets, the more valuable the past becomes? What once I fled from is now
what I dream about. Is this the true curse that the witch has set upon my soul? 
To live forever, yet to forever dream of the past?
As I pick up my pen and dip it in the ink, I pray her final promise to me holds 
true. Let me finally die with the telling of her tale.
Though the days heat still hides in my room as the evening cools, I close my 
window and my heart against the songs and merrymaking below. I cannot tell a 
tale of bloodshed and treachery while listening to the gay strains of the 
minstrels instruments and the raucous laughter of the Carnivales celebrants. 
This part of the story of Elena Morinstal is best written with a cold heart.
So as the Feast of the Dragon begins outside among the streets of Gelph, I ask 
that you listen deeper. Can you hear another sort of music? As in many grand 
symphonies, the opening soft chords are often forgotten in the blare of the horn 
and the strike of the drum that follow; yet this forgetfulness does insult to 
the composer, for it is in these calm moments that the stage is set for the 
storm to come.
So listen and bend your earnot to the lyre or the drums outside my windowbut 
to the quieter music found in the beat of a morning surf as the tide recedes 
with the dawns first light. There lies the beginning of the grand song I mean 
to sing.

With only the crash of waves for company, Elena stood by the cliffs edge and 
stared out across the blue seas. At the horizon, the sun was just dawning, 
crowning the distant islands of the Archipelago with rosy halos of mist. Closer 
to the coast, a single-masted fishing trawler fought the tide to ply its trade 
among the many isles and reefs. Over its sails, gulls and terns argued while 
hunting the same generous waters. Nearer still, at the base of the steep bluff, 
the rocky shore was already occupied by the lounging bodies of camping sea 
lions. The scolding barks of mothers to their pups and the occasional huffing 
roar of a territorial bull echoed up to her.
Sighing, Elena turned her back on the sight. Since the seadragons of the merai 
had left fifteen days ago, the routines of the coastline were already returning 
to normal. Such was the resiliency of nature.
As if to remind her further of the natural worlds strength, a stiff morning 
breeze tugged at her hair, blowing it into her eyes. Irritated, she pushed back 
the waving strands with gloved fingers and attempted to trap the stray locks 
behind her ears, but the winds fought her efforts. It had been over two moons 
since Erril had last cropped her hair, and the length had grown to be a 
nuisancetoo short to fix with ribbons and pins, yet too long to easily manage, 
especially with her hair beginning to show its curl again. Still, she kept her 
complaints to herself, fearing Erril might take the shears to her once again.
She frowned at the thought. She was tired of looking like a boy.
Though she had readily accepted the necessity of the disguise
while traveling the lands of Alasea, out here in the lonely wilds of the 
Blisterberry bluffs, there were no eyes to spy upon her and no need to continue 
the ruse as Errils sonor so she kept telling herself. Yet she was not so sure 
her guardian held these same assumptions.
As a caution, Elena had gone to wearing caps and hats when around Erril, hoping 
he wouldnt notice the growing length of her locks or the fading black dye that 
had camouflaged her hair. The deep fire of her natural color was finally 
beginning to reappear at the roots.
She pulled out her cap from her belt and corralled her hair under it before 
hiking back up the coastal trail to the cottage. Why the appearance of her hair 
should matter so much to her she could not put into words. It was not mere 
vanity, though she could not deny that a pinch of pride did play a small role in 
her subterfuge with Erril. She was a young woman, after all, and why wouldnt 
she balk at appearing as a boy?
But there was more to it than that. And the true reason was marching down the 
path toward her with a deep frown. Dressed in a wool sweater against the 
mornings chill, her brother wore his fiery red hair pulled back from his face 
with a black leather strap. Reminded of her family by Joachs presence, Elena 
was ashamed to hide her own heritage under dyes any longer. It was like denying 
her own parents.
As Joach closed the distance between them, Elena recognized the character of the 
young mans exasperated grimace and his pained green eyes. She had seen it often 
enough on her fathers face.
Aunt My has been looking all over for you, he said as greeting. My lessons! 
Elena darted forward, closing the distance with her brother. Id almost 
forgotten.
Almost? he teased as she joined him.
She scowled at her brother but could not argue against his accusation. In fact, 
she had completely forgotten about this mornings lesson. It was to be her last 
instruction on the art of swordplay before Aunt Mycelle left for Port Rawl to 
rendezvous with the other half of their party. Krai, Tolchuk, Mogweed, and 
Meric were due to meet with Mycelle there in two days time. Elena wondered for 
the hundredth time how they had fared in Shadowbrook. She prayed they were all 
well.
jts she and her brother marched back up the trail toward the cot-2e Joach 
mumbled, El, your heads always in the clouds. She turned in irritation, then 
saw her brothers quirked smile. Those were the same words her father had used 
so often to scold Flena when time had slipped away from her. She took her 
brothers hand in her own. Here was all that was left of her family now.
Joach squeezed her gloved hand, and they walked in silence through the fringe 
forest of wind-whipped cypress and pine. As Flints cottage appeared on the 
bluffs ahead, Joach cleared his throat. El, theres something Ive been meaning 
to ask you.
Hmm?
When you go to the island he started.
Elena inwardly groaned. She did not want to think of the last leg of their 
journey to retrieve the Blood Diary from the island of Aloa Glenespecially 
given Joachs own accounting of the horrors that lay in wait.
Id like to go back with you. To the island. Elena stumbled a step. You know 
thats not possible. You heard Errils plan, Joach.
Yes, but a word from you
No, she said. Theres no reason for you to go. With a touch on her arm, 
Joach pulled her to a stop. El, I know you want to keep me from further danger, 
but I have to go back.
Shaking free of his hand, she stared him in the eye. Why? Why do you think you 
need to go? To protect me?
No, Im no fool. Joach stared at his feet. He still would not meet her gaze. 
But I had a dream, he whispered. A dream that has repeated twice over the 
past half moon since you arrived from the swamps.
She stared at her brother. You think its one of your weavings?
I think so. He finally raised his eyes to hers, a slight blush on his cheeks. 
Joach had discovered he shared their familys heritage of elemental magicks. His 
skill was dreamweaving, a lost art preserved by only a select few of the 
Brotherhood. It was the ability to glimpse snatches of future events in the 
dream plane. Brother Flint and Brother Moris had been working with Joach on 
testing the level of his magick. Joach nodded toward the cottage ahead. I 
havent told anyone else.
Maybe its just an ordinary dream, Elena offered. But the part of
her that was a witch stirred with her brothers words. Magict. Even the mere 
mention of it fired her blood. With both her fists fresh to the Rose, the magick 
all but sang in her heart. Swallowing hard, she closed her spirit against the 
call of the witch. What made you think it was a weaving?
Joach scrunched up his face. I I get this feeling when Im in a weaving. Its 
like a thrill in my veins, like my very being is afire with an inner storm. I 
felt it during this dream.
An inner storm, Elena thought. She knew that sensation when she touched her own 
wild magicka raging tempest trapped in her heart screaming with pent-up energy. 
She found her two hands wringing together with just the remembrance of past 
flows of raw magick. She forced her hands apart. Tell me about your dream. 
Joach bit his lower lip, suddenly reluctant. Go on, Elena persisted.
His voice lowered. I saw you at the top of a tall spire in Aloa Glen. A black 
winged beast circled the parapets nearby
Black winged? Was it the dragon Ragnark? Elena asked, naming the ebony-scaled 
seadragon who shared flesh with the Blood-rider, Kast, and who was blood-bonded 
to the mer woman, Sy-wen. Joachs fingers wandered to an ivory dragons tooth 
that hung from a cord around his neck; it had been a gift from Sy-wen. No, this 
was no dragon. His hands fought to describe the figure, but he gave up with an 
exasperated shrug of his shoulders. It was something more shadow than flesh. 
But thats not the important part of the dream. You see His voice died, and 
his eyes drifted away to stare out at the ocean. Her brother was hiding 
something from her, something that scared him deeply.
Elena licked her dry lips, suddenly wondering if she truly wanted to know the 
answer. What is it, Joach?
You were not alone on the tower.
Who else was there?
He turned back to her. I was. I stood beside you bearing the poi-wood staff I 
stole from the darkmage. When the creature dove toward us, I raised the staff 
and smote the creature from the sky with a spellcast bolt.
Well, that proves it was only a nightmare. Youre no practitioner of the black 
arts. Youre just dreaming that I need your protection. Its
hably worry and fear that thrilled your blood in the dream, not
Saving magicks.
prowning, Joach shook his head. Truthfully, after the first dream, posed the 
same. Papas last words to me were to protect you,
i tnat has weighed heavily on my heart ever since. But when the , m came to me 
again, I was no longer so sure. After the second dream yesterday, I crept out at 
midnightout here aloneand I T sooke the spell from the dream while holding 
the staff.
Elena had a sick feeling in the root of her stomach. Joach ?
He pointed behind her. Elena turned. Only a handful of steps away stood a 
lightning-split pine, its bark charred and its limbs cracked. The spell from my 
dream worked.
Elena stared with her eyes wide, suddenly weak in her legs, not just from the 
thought that Joachs dream might be real, but also from the fact that Joach had 
called forth black magicks. She shivered. We must tell the others, she said in 
hushed tones. Erril must be warned
of this.
No, he said. Theres still more. Its the reason Ive kept silent
until now.
What?
In my dream, after I smote the beast from the sky, Erril appeared from the 
depths of the tower, sword in hand. He ran at us, and I swung the staff toward 
him and and I killed him, like the beast, in a blaze of darkfire.
Joach!
Her brother could not be interrupted; the words tumbled from his mouth in a 
rush. In the dream, I knew he meant you harm. There was murder in his eyes. I 
had no choice. Joach turned pained eyes toward her. If I dont go with you, 
Erril will kill you. I know it!
Elena swung away from Joachs impossible words. Erril would never harm her. He 
had protected her across all the lands of Alasea. Joach had to be wrong. Still, 
she found her eyes staring at the charred ruin of the nearby pine. Joachs black 
spella spell he learned in a
dreamhad worked.
Her brother spoke behind her. Keep what Ive told you secret,
Elena. Do not trust Erril.
Not far away, Erril woke with a start from his own trouble^ dreams. Nightmares 
of poisonous spiders and dead children chased him from his slumber. They left 
him restless and sore of muscle, as if he had held himself clenched all night 
long. He tossed aside the blanket and carefully eased himself from the 
goose-down bed.
Naked chested, dressed only in his linen underclothes, he shivered in the chill 
of the early morning coast. Summer waned toward autumn, and though the days 
still warmed to a moist heat, the mornings already whispered of the cold moons 
ahead. Barefooted, Erril crossed the slate floor to the washbasin and the small 
silvered mirror hanging on the wall behind it. He splashed cool water on his 
face as if to wash away the cobwebs of the nights dreams.
He had lived so many winters that his nights were always crowded with memories 
demanding his attention.
Straightening up, he stared at the black-stubbled planes that were his Standi 
heritage. His gray eyes stared back at him from a face he no longer knew. How 
could such a young face hide so completely the old man inside?
He ran his one hand over the boyish features. Though he looked outwardly the 
same, he often wondered if his own long-dead father would recognize the man in 
the mirror now. The five centuries of winters had marked him in ways other than 
the usual graying hair or wrinkled skin. He let his fingers drift over the 
smooth scar on his empty shoulder. No time marked men in many ways.
Suddenly a voice rose from the corner of the room. If youre done admiring 
yourself, Erril, maybe we can get this day started.
Erril knew the voice and did not startle. He merely turned and stepped to the 
chamber pail. He ignored the grizzled gray man seated in the thick pillowed 
chair in the shadowed corner. While relieving himself of his mornings water, 
Erril spoke. Flint, if youd wanted me up earlier, you had merely to wake me.
From the grumbling and thrashing as you slept, I figured it best to let you 
work out whatever troubled your slumber without interruption.
Then you had best let me sleep another decade or two, he answered sourly.
Yes, yes. Poor Erril, the wandering knight. The eternal warden of Aloa Glen. 
Flint nodded toward his old legs. Let your joints grow as hoary as mine, and 
well see who complains the louder.
p ril made a scoffing sound at his words. Even without magick, had eroded 
little of that older Brothers strength of limb; in-i pints many winters spent 
on the sea had hardened his frame , storm-swept oak. The day you slow down, old 
man, is the I will hang up my own sword.
W ll h b
y I will hang up my own sword.
Flint sighed. We all have our burdens to haul, Erril. So if youre i ne 
feeling miserable, the morning is half over, and we still have the Seastvift to 
outfit for the coming voyage.
Im well aware of the days schedule, Erril said bitingly as he dressed. His 
nights disturbed rest had left him short-tempered, and Flints tongue was 
rubbing him especially raw this morning.
The Brother sensed Errils irritation and softened his tone. I know youve 
borne a lot, Erril, what with hauling that lass across all the lands of Alasea 
while pursued by the hunters of the Gulgotha. But if we are to ever free 
ourselves of that bastards yoke, we cannot let our own despair weigh down our 
spirits. On the path ahead, the Dark Lord will give us plenty to plague our 
hearts, without the need to look to the past for more.
Erril nodded his assent. He clapped the old man on the shoulder as he passed to 
the oak wardrobe in the corner. How did you grow so wise among these pirates 
and cutthroats of the Archipelago, old
man?
Flint grinned, fingering his silver earring. Among pirates and
cutthroats, only the wise reach a ripe ol age.
Retrieving his clothes, Erril pulled on his pants and began working his shirt 
over his head. With only one arm, the chore of dressing was always a struggle. 
After so many centuries, time had not made some things easier. Finally, red 
faced, he accomplished his task and tucked his shirt in place. Any word from 
Sy-wen? he finally said, searching for his boots. No, not yet.
Erril raised his eyes at the worried tone in the old Brothers voice. Flint had 
grown protective of the small merai girl since plucking her from the sea. 
Sy-wen, along with the merai army, had been sent to the oceans south of the 
Blasted Shoals in search of the Drerendi fleet. Also named Bloodriders, the 
Drerendi fleet were the crudest of the dreaded Shoals pirates. But old oaths 
bound the merai and the Drerendi, and Flint hoped to gain the Bloodriders aid 
in the war to come.
Flint continued. All I hear from my spies upon the seas is foul rn_ mors of 
Aloa Glen. Perpetual black clouds cloak the island, sudden vicious squalls beat 
back boats, storm winds scream with the cries of tortured souls. Even farther 
out from the island now, trawlin nets are pulling up strange pale creatures 
never seen before, beasts of twisted shapes and poisoned spines. Others whisper 
of flocks of winged demons seen far overhead
SkaPtum, Erril spat, his voice strained with tension as he picked up one of 
his leather boots. My brother gathers an army of dreadlords to him.
Flint leaned forward and patted the plainsmans knee as Erril sat down on the 
bed. That creature masquerading as the Praetor of Aloa Glen is not your 
brother any longer, Erril. It is only a cruel illusion. Put such thoughts 
aside.
Erril could not. He pictured the night five centuries ago when the Blood Diary 
had been bound in magick. That night, all that was just and noble in his brother 
Shorkan and the mage Greshym had gone into forging the cursed tome. But all that 
remained of the twothe corrupt and foul dregs of spirithad been given to the 
Black Heart, to use as pawns in the Dark Lords dire plans. Errils jaws 
clenched. Someday he would destroy the foulness that walked in the shape of his 
beloved brother.
Flint cleared his throat, drawing Erril back to the present. But that is not 
all I have heard. Word from down the coast reached me this morning by pigeon. 
Its why I came to fetch you from your bed.
What is it? Erril worked his boots on, his brow dark. More dire news, Im 
afraid. Yesterday, a small fleet of hunting boats put in at Port Rawl, but the 
fishermen on board had been corrupted. The men were like wild dogs, attacking 
townsfolk, biting, slashing, raping. It took the entire garrison to fend them 
off. Though most of the berserkers were killed, one of the cursed ships managed 
to break anchor and escape, carrying off several women and a few children.
Erril laced his boots, his voice strained. Black magick. Perhaps a spell of 
influence. Ive seen its like before long ago.
No, I know the magick you speak of. What was done to these fishermen was worse 
than a simple spell. Ordinary wounds would not kill these berserkers. Only 
decapitation would end their blood lust.
grril glanced up, his eyes hooded with concern. A healer examined the slain 
and discovered a thumb-sized hole bored into the base of each skull. Cracking 
the skulls open revealed a SITiall tentacled creature curled inside. A few of 
the beasts were still alive* squirming and writhing. After that horrible 
discovery, the carcasses of the dead were immediately burned on the stone 
docks.
Sweet Mother, Erril said sullenly, how many new horrors can the Black Heart 
birth?
Flint shrugged. The entire town reeks of charred flesh. It has the townsfolk 
edgy and jumping at shadows. And in a town as rough as Port Rawl, thats a 
dangerous mix. Mycelles journey there to search for your friends will be 
fraught with risk.
Erril worked silently as he finished tying his boots. He pondered the news, 
then spoke. Mycelle knows how to take care of herself. But this news makes me 
worry if perhaps we shouldnt set sail on the Seaswift earlier than planned. He 
straightened to meet Flints eyes. If the evil of Aloa Glen has reached all 
the way to the coast, perhaps its best to leave now.
Ive had similar thoughts. But if you want your friends to rejoin you, I see us 
leaving no earlier than the new moon. Besides, itll take at least until then to 
man and outfit the Seaswift, and who can say if the seas will be any safer than 
where we are right now?
Erril stood up. Still I dont like just sitting here idle, waiting for the 
Dark Lord to reach out for us.
Flint held up a hand. But if we rush, we may find ourselves placing Elena right 
into his foul grip. I say we stick to our plan. Sail at the new moon, and 
rendezvous with the merai army in the Doldrums at the appointed day. With the 
growing menace at Aloa Glen, we must give Sy-wen and Kast time to reach the 
Drerendi fleet and see if their old oaths will be honored. We need their 
strength. Erril shook his head. There is no honor among those pirates. Flint 
scowled. Kast is a Bloodrider. Though he now shares his spirit with the dragon 
Ragnark, he was always a man of honor, and his people, worn hard by storms and 
bloodshed, know the importance of duty and ancient debts.
Erril still doubted the wisdom of the plan. Its like putting a wolf at our 
back when facing the Dark Lords army.
Perhaps. But if were to succeed, any teeth that can rip into the flank of our 
enemy should be welcome.
Erril sighed and combed his stubborn hair into order with his fingers. Fine. 
Well give Sy-wen and Kast until the new moon. But whether we hear word from 
them or not, we sail.
Flint nodded and stood. With the matter decided, he fished his pipe from a 
pocket. Enough talk, he grumbled. Lets find a hot taper and welcome the 
morning with a bit of smoke.
Ah, once again proof of your wisdom, Erril said. A smoke sounded like a 
perfect way to set aside the foul start of the morning. He followed willingly 
after the grizzled Brother.
Once they reached the kitchen, Erril heard a familiar scolding voice echo 
through the open window next to the cooking hearth. The shouted complaints were 
accompanied by the occasional clash of steel. Apparently, the swordswoman, 
Mycelle, was finding her pupils last lesson to be less than exemplary.
It seemed everyone was having a sour morning.
Mycelle batted Elenas short sword aside. Then with the flick of a wrist, she 
sent her pupils blade flying through the air. Stunned, Elena watched the small 
blade flip end over end across the yard. The move was so swift that Elenas 
gloved hand was still aloft as if bearing her sword. Elena slowly lowered her 
arm, her cheeks red.
The swordswoman gave her pupil a sorrowful shake of her head, fists resting on 
her hips. Mycelle stood as tall as most men and as broad of shoulder. Her coarse 
blond hair hung in a thick braid to her waist. Dressed in leathers and steel, 
she was a formidable swordswoman. Fetch your sword, child.
Sorry, Aunt My, Elena said, chagrined. Mycelle was not truly Elenas blood 
relative, but the woman had been as much a part of her life as any real 
relations. The womans true bloodlines traced back to the shape-shifters of the 
Western Reaches, the silura. But Mycelle had given up her birthright long ago 
when fate and circumstance had convinced her to settle into human form, 
abandoning forever her ability to shift.
Wheres your mind at this morning, girl?
Elena hurried over to her vagrant sword and grabbed its hilt. She knew the 
answer to her aunts exasperated question. Her mind was still on Joachs earlier 
words, not on the dance of blades. Returning to her position, Elena held the 
sword at ready.
Well try the Scarecrows Feint again. Its a simple move, but when mastered, 
its one of the most effective methods to lure an opponent to drop his guard.
Nodding, Elena tried to push back the nagging doubts that Joach had raised in 
her mindbut she failed. She could not imagine Erril ever betraying her. The 
Standi plainsman had been steadfast in his loyalty to both Elena and the quest. 
They had shared many a long afternoon together, heads bowed in study, as she 
learned simple manipulations of her power. But beyond their words and lessons, 
there was a deeper bond unspoken between them. Through sidelong glances, she 
occasionally caught the trace of a proud smile on his usually dour features as 
she concentrated on some aspect of her arcane arts. And other times, though his 
lips were frowning at some mistake of hers, she spied an amused glint in his 
gray eyes. Though he was a complex man, Elena suspected she knew his heart. He 
was a true knight in spirit as well as word. He would never betray her.
Suddenly Elenas fingers stung with fire, and she found herself again staring at 
an empty glove.
Child, her aunt said in a tone that bordered on fury, if your attention is 
not on this lesson, I could be saddling my mount for the journey to Port Rawl.
Im sorry, Aunt My. She crossed once again to her fallen sword. Magick is 
unpredictable, Elena, but a well-oiled sword will never lose its edge when you 
need it. Remember that. You must become proficient at both. Once skilled in 
magick and sword, you will be a two-edged weapon. Harder to stop, harder to 
kill. Remember, child, where magick fails, a sword prevails.
Yes, Aunt My, Elena said dutifully. She had heard it all before. She raised 
the sword and cast aside any further doubts about Erril.
Mycelle approached across the packed dirt of the yard, feet poised, sword 
balanced easily in her left hand. Her aunts other sword was still sheathed in 
one of the crossed scabbards on her back. When armed with both her twin swords, 
Mycelle was a demon of steel and
muscle.
Still, her aunts single sword was threat enough. Elena barely managed to stop a 
sudden feint and parry, and her aunts follow-up thrust tipped Elena off 
balance. The girl struggled to keep upright, determined to show Mycelle that the 
fortnight of lessons had not been for naught.
Her aunt continued her furious assault. Elena dragged her sword up to block the 
next thrust. Mycelles blade sang down the length of her pupils steel to strike 
the swords guard with a resounding blow. Every bone in Elenas hand felt the 
impact, her fingers numbing.
Elena watched Mycelles wrist flick, a move meant to disarm her once more. 
Biting back her frustration, Elena forced her weak fingers to match her aunts 
movement just in time, catching the edge of Mycelles weapon across the meat of 
her thumb. Elena felt the blade slice through glove and skin, stinging like the 
bite of a wasp.
Ignoring the minor cut, Elena kept her sword up as Mycelle retreated a step 
before her next assault. Very good, ch Mycelle started to say when Elena 
brought the attack back to the master, taking the offensive for the first time.
Elenas blood suddenly sang with energies flowing from her wound. Holding her 
magick in check, Elena fought with renewed vigor. If her aunt wanted her to be a 
two-edged sword, so be it! Magick and steel now mixed in her blood.
Mycelle tested Elenas mettle for a few strikes, clearly surprised with her 
pupils sudden skill and daring. Then the master set to break the pupils attack 
and force her back to a more defensive posture.
Elena met each attack with a blow of her own. Steel rang clear across the yard. 
Elena, for the briefest twinkling, felt the true rhythm of the dance. For a 
crystalline moment, nothing else mattered in the world. It was a battle of 
perfect clarity, a poem of motion and synchronization. And behind it all, her 
wild magick sang in chorus.
Elena finished with a double feint and dropped her swords point. She saw her 
aunt hesitate, then follow the bait. Elena turned her wrist and spun her swords 
tip, trapping the others blade at the guard. Elena flicked her wrist. In a 
flash of steel, it was over.
An empty hand was now raised between thembut not Elenas this time.
Mycelle lowered her outstretched arm, shaking the sting from her wrist. Her aunt 
bowed her head ever so slightly. Elena, that was the most perfect Scarecrow 
Feint that Ive ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Even while knowing you were 
doing it, I couldnt resist.
Elena grinned foolishly at her aunts praise. Sudden clapping brought her 
attention to the others who had gathered at the sound of the clanging blades. 
Erril stood with Brother Flint in the rear door-
way to the cottage. Both mens eyes were wide with appreciation. Even Joach 
stood speechless near the woodpile. Good show, El! he finally blurted as the 
clapping subsided.
At her brothers feet crouched Fardale, the siluran shape-shifter in his wolf 
form, his black fur showing its rust and copper highlights in the bright 
sunshine. He must have just come back from his usual morning hunt for rabbit and 
meadow mice. He barked his consent to the others praise and sent a brief image 
in a flash of amber eyes: A wolf pup wrestles its littermate to become pact 
leader.
Elena accepted their praise while keeping a firm grip on her swords hilt. The 
sirens song of her magick still rang in her ears, almost drowning out the 
others. Again, Elena said lustily to Mycelle.
I think this is a good place to stop, Mycelle said with a small laugh. When I 
get back from Port Rawl, well take your lessons to
the next level.
Elena had to bite her lip to keep from begging for more. Magick had flamed her 
blood and urged her to continue. Elena felt ready to take on a battalion of 
swordsmen.
Elena, youre bleeding, Joach suddenly said. Your hand. Elena glanced down. 
Thick red drops of blood rolled from her sliced thumb and slid down the length 
of her lowered blade. She pulled her hand from the eyes of the others. Its 
just a scratch. I didnt even notice it.
Erril crossed over to her. Those are the most dangerous injuries the ones you 
ignore as minor. Let me see.
Reluctantly, Elena passed her sword to her aunt, then pulled free her fouled 
glove, unsheathing her true weapon. Rich with wild mag-icks, ruby whorls slowly 
spun across the skin of her hand.
Erril held her palm and examined the thin slice. Just the skin. No muscle. 
Lets get inside, and well clean it up and bandage it.
Elena nodded and followed the plainsman into the kitchen. Seated on a stool, she 
endured his ministrations quietly. He pressed a dab of sweetwort ointment to the 
wound, but even now her thumb was beginning to heal, her flow of magick knitting 
the wound together.
For a heartbeat, Erril studied the healing cut with narrowed eyes, then put a 
light wrap over it. By this time, the others had finished with their 
congratulations and had left to finish various chores of the day, leaving the 
two of them alone.
With the bandage, youll not be able to wear a glove for a few
IT CH vv A K
days, Erril mumbled. Even with only one hand, he skillfully secured her wrap 
with a final snug pull, then sat back on his heels to stare her in the eyes. 
Pass me your other glove.
Why? I didnt injure that hand.
Your glove. He held out his palm, his eyes suddenly dark.
Elena slowly slid her left hand free of the lambskin glove. She passed it to 
him, keeping her hand hidden.
Show me.
I dont see what
Your sword cut was already healing. That only happens when youve touched your 
magick. Iron entered his voice. Now show me both of your hands.
She would not meet his eyes as she reluctantly displayed her palms on her lap. 
She stared at the twin ruby hands. They were no longer mirror images of one 
another. Her right handher sword hand was slightly less rich in whorling dark 
dyes. The magick spent during the swordplay had slightly drained the full 
richness of the ruby color. In the sunlight streaming through the window, her 
subterfuge was plain. Elena had used magick against Mycelle to sharpen her 
swordsmanship against her teacher.
Its called a blood sword, Erril said tiredly. A form of magick that I wish 
youd never learned.
Elena pulled away her hands back from his scrutiny. Why? It cost only a trace 
of magick.
Placing a hand on her knee, Erril moved closer to her. It costs much more than 
that. I saw it in your eyes. You didnt want it to stop. In my time, mages also 
heard the sirens call of wild magicks. But it was only darkmages who heeded the 
cry without care for the harm it might cause. He nodded toward her two hands. 
And you are doubly marked. I can only imagine how fierce this call must be in 
your blood. You must fight its temptation.
I understand, Elena said. Since first using her magick, the song of the witch 
had been a constant melody. She knew the danger in listening too closely and 
resisted the witch in her, never relinquishing the woman. It was a fine line 
she walked. Over the past year, she had learned the art and importance of 
balance.
Thats why a blood sword is so dangerous, Erril continued. You offer the 
magick a tool by which to escape your control. With enough blood, the sword 
itself becomes host to your magick
almost a living thing, a wild thing. It has no conscience, no morals, only an 
insatiable blood lust. It will eventually overwhelm its user. Only the strongest 
mage can master a blood sword and tame its
will.
Elena listened with horror at what she had almost done. But that is not the 
worst, Erril said. Once fully blooded, the sword is forged forever. The 
magick fuses permanently with the steel. It can then be borne by anyone, and its 
magic-wrought skill is available to any wielder. There were tales of darkmages 
passing blood swords to ordinary men and women, people unable to resist the 
magicks call. They quickly became enthralled to the swords, slaves to their 
blood lust.
Elenas face paled. What happened to them?
These swordslaves, as they were named, were hunted down and killed, and the 
blades were melted to raw ore, driving off the twisted magick. It cost many 
lives. So beware what you so casually forge, Elena. It may cause more sorrow 
than you can fathom.
Elena slipped her one glove back on and fingered the wrap on the other hand. 
With her wound bandaged and healing, the call of the witch subsided. Ill be 
more cautious. I promise.
Erril studied her a moment as if testing her sincerity. Satisfied with whatever 
he saw, his eyes softened their stern glint. One other item, Elena. About that 
final exchange with your aunt, blood sword or not, it was not all magick that 
guided your arm. Youve grown in skill. His voice grew firmer. Never forget 
that there is a strength in you that has nothing to do with blood magicks.
His quiet words, more than all the boisterous exclamations of the others, 
touched her deeply. Sudden tears welled up in her eyes.
Erril stood up, seeming to sense her emotions, and grew quickly awkward. I 
must be going. The sun is already high, and I promised Flint to take a look at 
the Seastvifts outfitting. If we are to leave with the new moon, there is still 
much to be done.
She nodded and scooted off her stool. Erril, she said, sniffing a bit and 
forcing his eyes back to hers. Thanks. Not just for this She raised her 
bandaged hand. but for everything. I dont think Ive actually told you how 
much youve come to mean to me.
Errils cheeks colored, and his eyes were suddenly shy. Its I He cleared 
his throat, and his voice grew hoarse as he stumbled out of the room. You need 
not thank me. Its my duty.
Elena stared at his back as he strode away.
Whether Joachs dream was prophetic or not, Erril was a knight she could never 
mistrust. Never.
By the time Mycelle was ready to leave for the coastal city of Port Rawl, the 
afternoon sun had warmed the bluffs to a moist heat. Clothes clung to damp skin, 
and a shimmering glare shone off the ocean. Mycelle was anxious to be under way, 
cinching her saddle one final time and adjusting her packs.
Squinting and shading her eyes, Mycelle turned to the group gathered to bid her 
fair travels. Living mostly a solitary life, Mycelle did not care for these 
emotional partings. Sighing and determined to finish it quickly, she crossed to 
Elena and gave her niece a brief but firm hug. Practice while I am away, she 
said. I expect you to perfect your Feather Parry by the time Im back.
I will, Aunt My.
Elena seemed to want to say more, but Mycelle crossed to Erril. Watch after my 
niece, plainsman. A storm is growing, and Im trusting you to shelter her.
Always, Erril said with a terse nod. And you watch your own step in Port 
Rawl. Youve heard Flints news.
She nodded. Im familiar with Swamptown, she answered, using the nickname of 
the port city. Landlocked by vicious swamps and guarded from the sea by the 
tricky currents of the thousand isles of the nearby Archipelago, the town was a 
haven for those who skirted the law. Governed by a corrupt and cruel caste 
system, justice was an obscene word in Swamptown. Only one rule was obeyed by 
all in Port Rawl: Guard your bact.
Before she could turn away, Erril stopped her. Are you sure youll know if any 
of the others have been corrupted by the Dark Lord?
For the thousandth time, yes! she said in surly tones, ready to be off. Trust 
my talent! My elemental sense will judge if they are tainted by black magick. I 
am a seeker. It is what I do. She scowled at the plainsman.
Erril bridled against the sudden anger.
Elena spoke in the plainsmans defense. Erril is just being cautious, Aunt My. 
If one of them has become an illguard
I will kill him myself, she said, turning away and ending the discussion. She 
knew her duty. For hundreds of years, the Black Heart had been twisting the pure 
elemental magicks in innocent folk, creating an army of loathsome illguard. In 
Port Rawl, Mycelle would search for their other matesKrai, Mogweed, Meric, and 
her own son, Tolchuk. She would judge if any of the four had been twisted by 
black magicks. Only if they were all clean would she reveal Elenas hidden 
location. If not She settled her crossed scabbards more firmly in place. She 
would deal with that problem, too. But in her minds eye, she pictured her sons 
craggy face. Even though half-bred with siluran blood, he had grown to appear 
much like his ogre father. Could she slay her own son if he had been corrupted 
?
Mycelle put aside those worries for now. There was one last member of their 
party who still awaited a farewell.
Joach stood nearby, shifting his feet, the black poiwood staff clutched in one 
fist. Mycelle frowned at the scrap of gnarled wood. Over the past few days, the 
boy seemed to be always carrying the foul talisman. She crossed to her nephew 
and hugged him quickly, avoiding the touch of the staff. Mycelles skin crawled 
whenever she neared it, and she did not like Joachs newfound fascination with 
the talisman. Youd best keep that that thing out of sight, she said with a 
nod. Its bad luck.
Joach moved the staff back from her. But its a trophy from our victory over 
the darkmage Greshym. How is that bad luck?
It just is. Scowling, she turned back to her mount, a piebald gelding with 
nervous eyes.
Well to the side of the horse, her companion on the journey ahead sat on his 
haunches, trying to keep his wolf scent from spooking her mount. Still, the 
piebald danced slightly as Mycelle approached, clearly anxious about its 
proximity to a huge treewolf. Mycelle pulled the lead taut. Thats enough now. 
Settle down. Since Fardale was coming along, the horse needed to get accustomed 
to the wolfs presence.
Fardale stretched and stood, clearly indicating his readiness to depart. 
Amusement shone in the slitted amber eyes that marked his
true heritage as a shape-shifter. Though Mycelle had settled into human form 
voluntarily, forsaking her blood right forever, Fardale had had the choice 
stolen from him. It was a curse that had trapped Fardale in his current shape 
and his twin brother, Mogweed, in human form. They had ventured forth from the 
forests of the Western Reaches in search of a cure for their affliction, 
becoming entangled with the witch on their way to Aloa Glen.
It seemed everyone, for varied reasons, was being drawn to the sunken island 
city.
Mycelle mounted the saddle and twisted to face the others. If all is well, I 
should be back before the new moon. If not She shrugged and turned to face the 
road ahead. There was no reason to finish her sentence: If she was not back 
within six days, she would either be captured or dead.
Be careful, Aunt My! Elena called behind her.
She raised a hand in salute. Then, with a click of her tongue, she nudged the 
gelding down the coast road. The wolf trotted a few horse lengths to the side, 
passing through the meadow grass like a shadowed shark in a green sea. Mycelle 
did not look back at the others.
Soon horse and wolf passed around a high bluff, and the cottage was out of 
sight. Mycelle relaxed her shoulders slightly. The road was her true home. With 
the wolf trotting well to the side, it was easy to imagine herself alone. For 
most of her life, she had traveled the lands of Alasea, searching the 
countryside for those rare folk gifted with elemental magicks. It was a harsh, 
lonely life, but one to which she had grown well accustomed. A sword and a horse 
were enough companionship for her.
Putting aside her worries, she let the horses easy, rolling gait lull her, 
settling into her old routine. The wagon-rutted road wove in and out of groves 
of cypress and pine. Occasionally small herds of tiny red deer darted away from 
their approach. Otherwise, the road remained empty.
Her plan was to reach the seaside hamlet of Graymarsh before dark. From there, 
it was an easy days journey to Port Rawl.
As they traveled, the day wore on in easy strides. The roads remained empty, and 
the afternoon grew more pleasant as the midday heat faded to twilight breezes. 
Sooner than she had expected, the sun neared the horizon, and if her map was 
accurate, she suspected
Graymarsh was only another league or two ahead. They had made good time that 
day.
Around them, the bluffs became more forested, and the hills became a little 
steeper. Suddenly a low growl from the wolf arose to the left of her path. 
Fardale came racing back to the road. Mycelle pulled her gelding to a stop. The 
siluran wolf could speak to other shape-shifters mind to mind through locked 
gazes; but since Mycelle had settled in human form, she could no longer 
communicate in this manner. The only human she knew who could speak the siluran 
tongue was Elenaanother gift of the childs blood magicks. The wolf growled 
again and turned to stare ahead down the forest road.
Is someone coming? Mycelle asked.
The wolf nodded his head.
Danger?
Fardale whined warily. He was not sure, but he warned her to be careful.
Mycelle clucked her tongue to the horse and tapped the mount forward. She 
shifted so that the crossed scabbards on her back were free and the two sword 
hilts within easy reach. The wolf disappeared back into the wood. Fardale would 
stay hidden to attack if any threat arose, using the element of surprise. From 
the corner of her eye, Mycelle searched for any sign of the wolf. Earlier, she 
had easily been able to spot his dappled form trailing beside her, but now it 
was as if the huge treewolf had simply vanished. Not a twig snapped; not a 
shadow moved.
Mycelle began to hear a soft singing from up ahead. She edged her gelding around 
a curve in the rutted road. The trees grew denser, and the road ran straight for 
a good span. The singer stood to the right of the trail, half shadowed by the 
thick limbs of an old wind-carved cypress. The fellow traveler gave no 
acknowledgment of My-celles appearance and kept quietly singing an old ballad 
in an unknown language.
Wrapped in a motley cloak, seemingly sewn as a patchwork from rags, it was 
impossible to tell if the stranger was a man or a woman. Mycelle searched the 
surrounding woods. There was no sign of any others. As Mycelle slowly 
approached, clopping along on the packed dirt of the road, the singers song 
changed rhythm so subtly as almost to add the cadence of the horses hooves to 
the music.
Once near enough, Mycelle raised up an arm in greeting, empty
palm open, offering no threat. The singer still did not acknowledge her, just 
continued the haunting melody. Now closer, Mycelle should have been able to tell 
what manner of traveler this was: man or woman, young or old, threat or friend. 
Still, the hood of the patchwork cloak hid the singers face. Not a speck of 
skin showed from beneath the motley attire.
Ho, traveler, Mycelle said. What news of the road ahead? This was a standard 
roadside greeting from across almost all the lands of Alasea. It was an offer to 
share tidings of the land and swap both information and wares.
Still, the singer continued the song. But now the measure of the melody changed. 
It slowed and faded as if the voice drifted far from here. Yet, oddly, the 
effect of the music grew stronger in Mycelle. She seemed drawn to each fading 
note and strained for meaning behind the foreign words. Just as the song finally 
finished, Mycelle would have sworn she made out three whispered words there at 
the end: See^ my children 
Squinting her confusion, Mycelle drew nearer. Had she truly heard those words, 
or was it a trick of her own mind?
Mycelle pulled her horse even with the stranger, meaning to query the singer 
further. What had the stranger been trying to tell her? As her horse drew to a 
stop, the stranger vanished with her song. The patchwork cloak collapsed to the 
forest floor, as if the singer had never existed. And what Mycelle had thought 
was a mantle made from quilted rags was now seen to be just gathered leaves of 
various hues, a patchwork of autumn foliage and spring greenery.
A sudden ocean breeze gusted through the wood and scattered the leaves out onto 
the path. What manner of magick was this?
Needing some proof that she had not slipped off into some world of phantoms, 
Mycelle called out. Fardale!
The wolf proved his worth and appeared at her side, solid in muscle and dark 
fur. Mycelle climbed down from her horse, and the two of them sorted through the 
scattered leaves. Mycelle picked up a few: mountain oak, northern alder, western 
maple. Such trees grew nowhere near these lands. She let the strange leaves 
flutter from her fingers.
Nearby, Fardale nosed through the pile and worried something forth from the 
heart of the leafy mound. He rolled it out onto the
road. Staring at it with his head cocked to the side, an odd mournful whine 
escaped his throat.
What is it? she asked, bending to inspect Fardales discovery. She could not 
fathom what had so upset the wolf. It was just a plain thumb-sized nut, much 
like many others found commonly littering forests. This one, though, had 
sprouted a tiny green shoot.
Fardale gently picked up his treasure in his jaws and held it out toward 
Mycelle. She opened her palm to accept it. The wolf then nosed her pocket, 
indicating he wanted her to keep it safe.
Perplexed at his odd behavior, Mycelle did what he asked, and with a final frown 
she remounted her horse. Tapping her gelding forward, she continued down the 
road and wondered about the pinch of magick demonstrated here. She had sensed no 
evil in the apparition, no touch of black magick. So what did it mean? She shook 
her head and dismissed it for now. She had a mission to finish and no time to 
dwell on this mystery. As she continued toward the hamlet of Graymarsh, Fardale 
followed, but Mycelle noted that he kept glancing back down the path toward 
where the singer had stood.
Frowning at the wolfs behavior, she patted her pocket and felt the hard, firm 
nut. What was so important about an ordinary acorn?
The sixth drakil slid from the surf and crawled across the still-warm sand of 
the midnight beach. With the sun long set, there were no eyes to watch as the 
last of the drakils joined the five others on the narrow strand between sea and 
cliff. He stood upon his clawed rear legs and stretched to his full height. Only 
slightly taller than their goblin brothers, the sea-dwelling drakils were a 
distant relation to their underground brethren, choosing instead to live among 
the sea caves of the remote Archipelago islands. Though crudely intelligent, the 
drakil seldom had dealings with other creatures, preferring their isolation.
But necessity warranted their journey here to the coastline necessity and old 
goblin oaths. Word had reached their clan that near here hid a witch who had 
murdered hundreds of rockgoblins, their mountain brethren. She had brought the 
hungry light, the stealer of spirits. She was to be cobbled, blinded as the old 
ways
spoke, and her magick taken back to their queen. It was the duty of the drakil 
to seek vengeance for all the various goblin clans.
The honor of the drakil, the blood of the goblins, would be satisfied.
It was the way.
The sixth drakil joined the others, tail twitching and coiling around his 
ankles, nervous at these foreign shores. He greeted the dominant female of their 
pod, touching his forked tongue to the poisoned barb at the tip of her tail, and 
stayed bowed. Only the female drakils bore the poisonous rhyst upon their 
tails, the shark killer, the bringer of burning death. The other four males were 
already bowed before their leader, awaiting her bidding.
The female, larger and more massively muscled than the males, growled and hissed 
her orders. Her fangs reflected the moonlight, and her red eyes shone with the 
fire of her hatred. The males trembled at her words. None dared disobey one of 
the she-lords.
Once instructed, they hurried to the cliff wall and scurried up to take their 
positions, each male digging claws into rock, locking himself into place. The 
female still waited below. The male drakils could feel her burning eyes pass 
over them; none dared even to tremble, lest he draw her attention further. A low 
growl rose like steam from below.
In response, a familiar fire excited the skin of the five males. Soon each form 
blended perfectly with the rock face, disappearing so thoroughly that even the 
coming light of day would not reveal them from the surrounding reddish orange 
sandstone.
The males were to be the eyes and ears of the drakil war party. Other pods and 
other she-lords were spread up and down the shoreline for hundreds of leagues. 
The coast would be watched by thousands of slitted black eyes, and thousands of 
sharp ears would listen for word of the witch. Once this she-demon was found, 
the drakil clan would move and claim their enemy. Her hungry light would die, 
and the magick would be theirs to wield and draw upon.
Even from his place on the cliffs face, the male drakil sensed the lust for 
magick in the female below. His nose caught the scent of her excitement, a wisp 
of musk and spoor. It made him want to grovel before her, beg for her touch. So 
he kept himself perfectly still; only by obedience did a male win the favor of a 
female. He would show her how motionless he could remain. Even when the hot sun 
came to sear his skin and dry his flesh, he would not move.
Below, he heard the female return to the surfs edge. He cracked one eye open 
and rotated it back to watch the thick-muscled she-lord scrabble across the 
rock. Her back was arched so seductively, and her full rump moved so invitingly. 
He imagined she displayed herself so handsomely just for him, but he knew 
better. The male drakil knew who came next. It was the one who had first 
brought them word of the witchs atrocities among the rockgoblins, he who 
walked with dread magicks in his heart. His power incited all the she-lords to 
flaunt for him, their flinty rhysts tapping the stone caverns hungrily, their 
eyes alight with lust. Even the drakil queen could not resist the allure of 
this strangers magicks. The foreigner had been assigned as war leader by their 
queen and was due to inspect their pod as he passed along the coast.
As the male drakil hung on the sandstone wall, an ember of rage smoldered in 
his heart. It was wrong that a male not of their clan not even of their 
heritage!should lead them. Still, he knew better than to disobey.
Below, the female suddenly became even more excited. Her scent moistened the air 
with her thickening musk. The leader must be close.
The males insight proved correct. A silvery bubble rose from the surf and 
rolled to shore, opening to reveal the man in its empty heart. Dry as if he had 
never been in the waters, he stepped onto the rocky shore. He ignored the 
squirming female at his knee, not even noticing the eager invitation of the 
she-lords drumming rhyst. Instead, he stepped past the female to inspect the 
sandstone wall.
Shes close, the man said in the common tongue.
Just hearing this language hurt the male drakils ears. How foul and twisted a 
language! The man opened his loose, billowing shirt and revealed his magickal 
heart. His pale chest was split open like a burst seapod, skin puckered and raw 
at its edge, cracked ribs poking forth. It was not the man that inspired the 
groveling female, but what lurked inside that dark chesta thing of pure dire 
magicks.
From inside the dank cave of the ruptured chest, bloodred eyes stared out into 
the night. Magick flowed forth from the old wound, rich and twisted like the 
tangled tentacles of a deep-sea octopus. It quested up the cliff face. So 
powerful, so fetid.
A voice of the blackest, coldest seas echoed out from the chest wound. Be 
prepared. My illguard soldier, the one I named Legion, will flush her into our 
snare. Be ready, or suffer my wrath.
The man suddenly convulsed with inner fires, gasping like a fish on hot sands. 
His tongue fought out words of renewed allegiance. I I will not fail you 
again.
Then suddenly the magick was gone. The male drakil glanced to the beach.
The man moaned and clutched his shirt closed and stumbled back to the sea. As 
his feet touched the surf, the bubble of dire magicks flowed up to surround him 
once again.
As it closed, the female drakil made one last desperate attempt to attract the 
man. She spoke his name, using the foul common tongue. Her voice was rough with 
lust, and the split tongue of their people complicated the attempt. As the 
bubble and the man vanished below the waves, she struggled out the single word, 
his name: R-r-rockjngham.
Youre just going to have to grow accustomed to it, Erril said as he led 
Elena down the stone-and-timber dock. The morning sun was just cresting the 
waves at the horizon, casting its meager light toward them.
Ahead, the Seaswift rocked at the end of the stone quay. The winds had grown 
stiffer overnight, and the ship rolled back and forth in thick swells, its 
sternlines and bowlines creaking as oiled rope rubbed iron cleats. Sheltered in 
a shallow cove, the ships twin masts and reefed sails were all but hidden from 
sight by the tall walls of sandstone that circled the tiny bay. Only if another 
boat, traveling close to shore, passed by the narrow inlet would the Seaswift 
ever be discovered. It was a safe and secret harbor, one of hundreds that dotted 
the coastlines. In this region of pirates and brigands, such bays were carefully 
groomed and valued.
With trepidation in her heart, Elena followed Erril down the long dock. While 
watching the ship tilt and rock, she again felt the queasy sensation that the 
dock was moving. The flow of bobbing waves past the stone pilings amplified this 
sensation. To further unsettle her belly, the reek of the docks oiled planks 
competed with the overpowering stench of salt and algae. Elena swallowed hard, 
and ler cheeks paled.
tShe had battled demons and monsters, wielded mighty magick, ven traveled a 
poisonous swamp in a tiny punt, but she dreaded the oming sea voyage. Born and 
raised in the foothills of the mighty Teeth, lands built of granite and 
hard-packed soil, Elena had quickly
learned during a short excursion to visit the seadragons that the rolling motion 
of the ocean swells sickened her stomach and weakened her balance. She had no 
defense against this assault, no magick to give her sea legs. Here was an 
obstacle she had to face on her own.
To assist her, Erril had decided to move them both down to the boat and set 
Elena up in a neighboring cabin on board. He meant to get her over her sea 
weakness by simple exposure. A few days be-lowdecks, he had instructed her, 
will harden your stomach against the seas motion.
She had reluctantly agreed.
Aboard the Seaswift, a huge man dressed in a dark sealskin jacket, his skin the 
color of burnished mahogany, raised a hand in greeting as they approached the 
boats gangplank. As he turned to face them, his silver earring glinted in the 
first rays of the morning sun. It marked him as a member of Brother Flints 
order. But where Brother Flint spoke with wry humor and scolding jests, Brother 
Moris was taciturn and stoic. Elena had never felt completely comfortable around 
the brooding, dark-skinned stranger. His hulking size, his strange complexion, 
his perpetually penetrating stareall made Elena feel like shrinking and 
slipping away.
Even now, as Erril waved her first onto the gangplank, Elena found Moris 
studying her intensely, as if he were trying to peer into her bones. Elena 
glanced away but only found her eyes settling on the surging swells. She 
stumbled a step as her balance was rocked. Erril caught her from a fall into 
the choppy waves.
Elena, what did I tell you?
Her cheeks reddened as she reached the deck. She raised a gloved palm and rested 
it on the oak rail. Grip a firm handhold at all times.
Moris interrupted any further lecture from the plainsman. Erril, I have two 
rooms in the foredeck aired out with fresh linens prepared. Once youve settled 
the child in, we must finalize the plans for the approaching new moon.
Erril nodded. Wheres Flint?
In the galley preparing porridge and cured potfish. Were to meet down there 
when youre ready.
Elenas stomach churned at the thought of salty fish and thick porridge. Under 
her legs, the boat heaved in slow rolls; the two masts swung back and forth as 
if pointing out the sweep of seagulls over-
head. Elena kept her grip on the ships port rail, but her palms grew clammy.
Erril nudged her from her reverie of the ships movements. Lets get you to 
your bunk where you can lie down. Let your belly calm.
Thats not very likely, Elena mumbled, but she trudged after the plainsman 
across the middeck. Underfoot, coils of thick ropes threatened to betray her 
steps, but she followed Errils instructions and traveled from handhold to 
handhold.
Once they reached the raised foredeck, Erril held open a heavy ironwood door. 
Lantern light beyond revealed a short passage leading to the upper cabins and a 
set of dark stairs descending steeply to the lower decks. As Erril nodded her 
inside, Elena noted there were no windows in the hatch, and three heavy iron 
crossbars lined the inner surface. It reminded Elena of a portal to some dank 
dungeon.
Erril must have noted her nervous glance. During storms, heavy waves can crash 
across the deck. The iron bars can be thrown to batten down the door and keep 
the lower decks dry.
Elena stared at how high the middeck sat above the waters. She could not imagine 
the size of waves that could crest tall enough to swamp the ship. With her heart 
beating in her throat, she ducked through the portal into the foredeck.
Immediately, the sharp odor of kerosene and oak resins assaulted her senses. In 
the dim passage, the rocking lantern and tilting floor dizzied her further. 
Leaning on the wall for support, Elena followed Erril toward a small door near 
the passages end.
Heres your cabin, he said, pushing the door open. It bumped into the tiny bed 
bolted to the far wall.
Elenas heart sank. The room was no larger than a medium-sized wardrobe. Even 
with just a narrow bed, a small chest, and a single lantern, the cabin seemed 
cramped and crowded.
Well have your things brought up from the cottage this afternoon.
Where would I put them? she mumbled.
Erril nodded to the bed. Have a seat. Theres something I want to talk to you 
about.
Elena dropped to the creaking bed. The lantern swung gently overhead, dancing 
their shadows on the walls. Though seated, the motion weakened her stomach. She 
concentrated on the tips of her sandals.
Before her, Erril stood stooped, his head bowed away from the low rafters. He 
kept his legs slightly apart and used his knees to keep easy balance in the 
rocking cabin. Its about Joach, he started. Last night, he approached Flint 
again about accompanying us.
This news drew her eyes back up. Even though she had pulled Joach aside and had 
insisted that his dream had to be false, her brother obviously persisted in his 
belief and would not leave the matter be.
Erril waved his hand at the room. As you can see, the Seaswift is not generous 
of space. Flint has arranged for a handful of seamen loyal to our cause to man 
the boats rigging. Otherwise, the ship has no room to spare for a boy whos 
worried about his sister.
Its more than that, she mumbled, hesitant about betraying Joachs trust 
concerning the dream.
Erril knelt beside her and rested his hand on her knee. Then what? Are you 
afraid to leave him behind? Are you encouraging him?
No! she said, aghast. Id rather he stayed at the cottage, too well away 
from me. She smiled wanly at the plainsman. My family members dont fare well 
around me.
Erril squeezed her knee. So were agreed. Perhaps if you spoke to him.
She stared the plainsman in the eye. Though she knew Joachs dream of betrayal 
could not be true, her brother believed it. His heart would not let him stay, 
and no words of hers would sway him and calm his fears. Ive already tried 
talking him out of coming, she said in a tired voice. He wont listen, and I 
dont think
The boat suddenly lurched under a heavy wave, churning Elenas stomach 
violently. She barely made it to the chamber pail before her belly emptied its 
contents in a sloppy splash. Still bent over the pail, Elena breathed heavily. 
Once her gut had calmed sufficiently, she pushed back, red cheeked and unable to 
meet Errils eyes.
The plainsman had moved back a bit. Itll take time to get your sea legs, he 
offered as consolation.
I dont care about sea legs. I just hope the Mother above will soon grant me a 
sea belly.
Ill fetch you some water and bread crusts. It helps. We can talk more of Joach 
later.
F ril turned to leave, but Elena stopped him. No, this worry of hs has gone 
on long enough. Elena was suddenly tired of all  secrets. Whom to trust? It 
was nonsense, and before the voyage SC she wanted this matter settled. With her 
stomach temporar-eased she firmed her resolve and spoke bluntly. Erril, Joach 
A nt trust you. He had a dream in which you betrayed me.
gVril swung back to face her, a combination of anger and hurt flashing in his 
eyes. What! What is this foolishness?
He believes his dream was a weaving, a prophecy of the future. Elena related 
all that Joach had told her the previous morning.  He called forth black 
magick from the staff? Erril asked under
black brows.
Using words from his dream, Elena added. So now you know why he is so 
convinced of his dreams prophecy.
Erril shook his head. The staff is a foul talisman. I would never trust black 
magick as proof of anything. Even the most able mind can be fooled by the dark 
arts trickery.
But how do we convince Joach of that?
I dont know. I know little of dreamweaving, but Flint and Moris are experts. 
We must let them know of your brothers dream.
Elena winced. She had already betrayed her brothers trust by telling Erril and 
was reluctant, but the truth of Joachs dream must be tested by more than the 
use of black magick. She nodded her
agreement.
Ill have Moris fetch Joach to the ship this evening. Well settle this matter 
then, Erril said and turned to the door. As he slipped out of the cabin, he 
added, You were right to tell me, Elena.
Once the door closed, Elena studied the twisting grain of the wood. Was the 
plainsman correct? Was she truly right in betraying Joachs confidence? As she 
bit her lip, the queasiness again rose in her gut, but this time her churning 
belly wasnt entirely the result of the ships motion. Since when had her faith 
in Erril overwhelmed the trust in her own family? She pictured Joachs face 
when he had first spoken of his suspicion of Erril and had sworn her to 
secrecy: the urgency and love in his eyes, the wordless trust of a brother for a 
sister. For the second time, Elena rushed to the chamber pail.
Stand fast, traveler! the gatesman called. He stood atop the wall, half hidden 
by a stone parapet.
Mycelle stepped her gelding back to better eye the guard. Fardale stood tense at 
her horses side, seeming to sense Mycelles wariness.
After spending a night at a Graymarsh inn, Mycelle had left with the first rays 
of the sun, knowing it best to reach Port Rawl in daylight. Now here, she was 
surprised to find Port Rawls south gate closed and locked. To the west, the 
late afternoon sun was still well above the horizonand in a town notorious for 
its nightly carousing, the southern and northern gates were seldom barred before 
the moon rose, if at all. The two-story stone barricade, nicknamed the Swampwall 
by the natives, encircled the entire city, except for the section of the town 
that fronted the bay. The walls function was not to protect its inhabitants 
from marauders but simply to act as a stone dike between the town and the 
poisonous denizens of the nearby swamps. As such, the gates were seldom lowered 
and rarely manned. In Port Rawl, the townspeople did not like locked doors 
between them and a quick escape when needed.
Mycelle leaned back in her saddle. Ive business to attend and need to enter, 
she called up. Why are the gates secured?
What business have you in Port Rawl? the guard called back. He was a portly 
fellow whose hard-earned coppers apparently were spent quickly on ale and good 
food. A wicked scaranother feature most likely earned in those same hard 
pubstrailed from his right ear to his nose. Which caste vouches for you?
His inquiry surprised Mycelle. In Port Rawl, no one asked anothers business, 
not if one meant to live until the days end. Curiosity was not a healthy 
pastime in Port Rawl.
Of what concern is my business to the towns garrison? she returned, putting 
proper threat in her voice.
Since the attack on the docks two morns ago, the guardsman answered, all who 
seek entry must be registered and vouched for by one of the towns sixteen 
castes.
This is news to me, she said. Ive been hired as a guide by a group of 
travelers due to arrive in the city, and I am here to meet them.
A hired guide? He seemed to check a list near his elbow. That would put you 
under the mercenary caste. Youll need to regis-
ter with their castes leader as soon as you enter and agree to their 
authority.
I belong to no caste. I seek only to
Without a castes allegiance, youll be jailed if found on the streets without 
the proper papers.
Mycelle frowned. Such a requirement went against all that Port Rawl once upheld. 
The sanctity of anonymity was one of the unwritten rules that guided all 
commerce in the port city. The attack by the possessed fishermen had shaken the 
town worse than Flint or Erril could have suspected. Her eyes narrowed as she 
considered her options. She suspected the new laws were not for the safety and 
protection of the citizenry but were devised simply as another way to eke bribes 
and tariffs from travelers. Knowing she had no choice, she straightened in her 
saddle. Fine, she called back up. Open the gates!
The man nodded and signaled someone hidden below. The clink of chains and creak 
of rope marked the raising gate. As soon as the bars had risen high enough, 
Mycelle tapped her gelding forward. Fardale followed, padding in the shadow of 
her mount.
Two other guards flanked the inside of the gate. The one closest to the wolf 
backed a step and began to unsheathe his sword.
Harm my dog, Mycelle warned, and youll find the point of my sword buried in 
your belly before my dog can howl.
The man lowered his blade back into its scabbard and took another step away as 
Fardale passed.
The guard to the other side of her mount cleared his throat. He had the bowed 
legs of a sailor, but his missing left arm and sullen features suggested the 
injury had grounded him from decent work aboard any ship. He now earned his 
coppers with whatever duties he could scrounge, like manning the citys gates.
The guards gaze wandered appreciatively over Mycelles physique. I belong to 
the mercenary caste, he said with a thick tongue, his eyes slightly hooded. 
Youll find Master Fallen on Drury Lane in the Eastern Quarter. For a fee, I 
can guide you there. He held out papers toward her.
Mycelle suspected any coin offered would only get her led to a blind alley where 
other of his ilk would jump her. I know the city, she said, taking the papers. 
I can find my way.
Thats only a temporary pass. By twilight, itll expire. His voice lowered in 
conspiratorial tones. If youve not found Master Fallen by then and gained his 
seal on your papers, youll be taken by the watchmen. But with my help, I can 
get you to the mercenarys lodge in plenty of time.
Sure, Mycelle thought silently, hed get her therebut bound in chains and ready 
for sale in the slave pits. She grinned at the man. Only menace shone from her 
lips. Ill manage.
She kicked her horse and entered the Southern Quarter of the city. Here, the 
craftsmen and artisans took up their residence. Even in Port Rawl, certain basic 
needs had to be met. She passed a small cobblers shop on the right. Her nose 
was greeted with the familiar smell of leather dyes and curing hides. It seemed 
even pirates needed sound footwear.
Farther along, the ringing of hammer on anvil announced the presence of a smithy 
well before the open doorway revealed the smoldering forge and the burly 
blacksmith. Other shops included a chandlery with candles of every size and 
shape displayed in the window, a tailors shop with bolts of cloth leaning in 
the doorway, and even a silversmith whose work most likely involved melting 
ill-gotten gains into untraceable new contours.
Yet as common as these shops appeared, no one could mistake this for any 
ordinary town. Here the shopkeepers all carried conspicuous swords, and their 
expressions were anything but inviting. Even the slender tailor, whose tiny 
hands were well suited for his craft, had a muscled guard posted by his stoop. 
It seemed trust was not offered with the wares sold here. And from the demeanor 
of the patrons who frequented these fine establishments, trust was in little 
demand.
A clutch of gaunt women gathered their cloaks about them as she neared. Then 
seeing the rider was a woman, they dropped their guarded stances and stared 
openly at her. A few whispered behind palms at each other and pointed at the 
huge treewolf at her side. Mycelle knew the townswomen must think her daft to 
travel alone through the streets of Port Rawl, even here in the tamest section 
of the town. Few women dared risk the streets without someone to guard their 
backs. Mycelle suspected each woman here was armed with a dagger or a crooked 
dirk under her cloak. And if any were attacked, all would come to the victims 
aid in a mutual bond of survival.
As Mycelle passed, she stared at the feral eyes of these hard women. Pact or 
not, Mycelle also knew that for the right price any of the women here would turn 
on another. In Port Rawl, truces were short-lived and only born of immediate 
necessity. The solidarity shown here was as insubstantial as the mornings fog.
Mycelle continued on through the Southern Quarter, aiming for the central bazaar 
named Four Corners, where all four sections of the city converged. As she rode, 
no one gave her much attention besides the occasional furtive stare. Mycelle, 
though, kept up her guard. She knew the presence of the huge wolf and her two 
crossed scabbards were giving any attackers momentary pause.
Still, Mycelle kept both eyes and ears attuned to the flow of traffic around 
her. Even Fardales hackles were raised in wary attention. Occasional growls 
flowed from his throat when anyone approached
too near.
Walking her horse past an apothecary, Mycelles senses were suddenly struck by a 
melange of elemental magicks. Her seeking skill thrummed strongly. She slowed 
her mount. Through the doorway, Mycelle spotted shelf after shelf stocked with 
tiny jars and bottles of various herbs and medicines. This was no ordinary 
apothecary dispensing willows bark and dandelion tea. Whoever ran this shop was 
skilled in the elemental art of healing. And from the way Mycelles own senses 
were responding, the healer here was a strong one. Mycelle pulled her horse to a 
stop, intrigued. Inside, the practitioner could be seen in the shadowed interior 
behind a counter. A cluster of candles lit her features. Dressed in a simple 
gray frock and black shawl, she was an old woman of wrinkled visage. Her 
snow-white hair was bound in a single braid and coiled like a nesting serpent 
atop her head. Though the small woman was old, Mycelle sensed that the winters 
had hardened her like a wind-burned cypress. Even her skin was the hue of 
burnished wood. From behind the counter, the healer seemed to be staring back at 
Mycelle, apparently curious of the stranger on horseback by her door. But 
Mycelle knew this was only a trick of light. There was no way the woman could 
see her. The healer had no eyes. Under her brows was only smooth skin. No empty 
sockets nor thick scars marred her face. Mycelle guessed that the healer must 
have been born this way. Poor woman.
To add to the illusion that the woman could see her, the old healer
straightened and waved to her, indicating that Mycelle should come inside.
Fardale suddenly growled, drawing Mycelles attention away from the woman. From 
the top of the door frame, a small face appeared, hanging upside down. The 
beasts head was the size of a ripe pomegranate. Though framed in fur the color 
of a dying fire, its face was as bare as any humans, dominated by two bright 
black eyes and wide grinning lips. It chittered at them and crawled lower down 
the door frame, revealing small clawed hands and feet that gripped the wood as 
efficiently as its hands. Even a long tail, furred in rings of black and gold, 
helped hold its place in the doorway.
His name is Tikal, the old woman behind the counter said. She had a melodious 
accent that Mycelle could not place. He is from my jungle country of Yrendl.
Mycelles eyebrows rose. She had heard tales of the thick jungles far to the 
south of the Wastes but had never met anyone who claimed to have traveled there. 
Even by sea, it was easily an entire winters journey.
What brought you so far from your homelands, healer? she asked. She knew she 
must get to the mercenary caste soon, but curiosity detained her.
Slavers. Her reply was matter-of-fact, not bitter or angry. A long time ago.
Mycelle, embarrassed by her prying question, was ready to bid the woman a good 
day and be on her way, but the old woman again waved her inside, more 
persistently.
Come inside.
I have no need of a healer.
And I dont have all day. The healer turned her back on Mycelle and began 
running her fingers along the shelves behind her, as if searching for something. 
I know about the friends you seel{. The healer stressed the last word, making 
clear she knew Mycelle was a seeker.
What was this? Wary but curious, Mycelle climbed from her horse. She felt no 
taint of black magick here. Just what did this old healer know? Fardale, guard 
the gelding.
The wolf moved to stand between the street and the horse, hackles raised. 
Satisfied, Mycelle slipped through the doorway. The fiery -maned beast still 
hung from the frame by its tail and chittered at her
as she passed. Mycelle checked the corners of the room for anything suspicious 
before she approached the counter. She sensed no other presence. What do you 
know of my business? Mycelle asked as she
stepped forward.
The woman did not answer.
Behind Mycelle, the door to the apothecary swung closed and latched with a loud 
click. Mycelle suddenly remembered that curiosity was not a healthy pastime in 
Port Rawl and recalled the tiny tailor with the hulking guard. Since when in 
this city did a blind woman operate a shop all by herself?
A gruff voice rose behind her. Touch your sword and die.
TOO OFTEN AN ORDINARY DREAM IS CONFUSED WITH A WEAVING, THE
huge ebony-skinned Brother explained to Joach, even by those
skilled in the art.
In the galley of the Seaswift, Moris and Erril sat on the bench across the 
pine-planked table from Joach, both wearing dour expressions. Joach was not 
going to let the presence of the plainsman sway him. It was a weaving, Joach 
said with determination. Erril will
betray us.
By the galleys hearth, Flint tasted the stews broth. He sighed with 
satisfaction, then spoke. Joach, youre a blasted fool.
Joachs cheeks burned at the bluntness of the fisherman.
Flint gave his stew one final stir and settled the lid on his brewing pot. You 
should have come to us first. Bringing this to the attention of your sister and 
burdening her with your secret was just damn wrong. She has enough to bear 
without you worrying her with false
weavings.
Joachs blood still burned with the knowledge that Elena had broken her promise 
to him and spoke of his dream to the plainsman. Elena had not even come to this 
meeting, too sick to leave her bunk, but Joach suspected shame also kept her 
hidden. His fists clenched on the poiwood staff that lay across his knees. Here 
was all the proof he needed. Under his palms, he felt the dire magicks in the 
wood flow like oil on skin. The spell from the dream worked, he argued. How 
could thisTJor be a true weaving?
Erril answered. At its heart, black magick deceives. That foul staff of 
Greshyms shouldve been burned long ago.
Youd like that, Joach spat, since in my dream, it was the staff that kept 
you from my sister.
Errils brows darkened and lowered over his eyes in threat. I would never 
betray Elena. Neper.
As you said, Joach mumbled, repeating the plainsmans words, black magick 
deceives.
Joach and Erril glared at each other.
Enough! Flint said, punctuating his word with a strike of his ladle on the 
table. Ive heard enough of this nonsense. Black magick or not, your dreams 
truth can be weighed in another way.
How? Joach asked.
Flint pointed his spoon to Moris. Tell them. Ive a stew to stir before it 
burns. I wont have this nonsense ruin my meal.
Moris had remained silent during the exchange, apparently content to let the 
fire of their words die down before imparting his knowledge. Now that I have 
your attentions again, he said, fingering his silver earring, I will finish 
explaining what I started. First, Joach does have a sound argument for initially 
believing the truth of his dream. The black spell did work.
Joach sat straighter on his bench. At least someone here was talking sense.
Moris continued. All aspects of a weaving, when studied closely, must prove 
true for the dream to be called a weaving. The spell did work, but that is only 
one element of the dreamscape. And as Erril said, black magick is tricky. 
Perhaps it was not the words of the spell learned in the dream that ignited the 
magick in the staff, but simply your own will wishing it to happen. Your dream 
must be examined further before you put such fervid faith in it.
A seed of doubt found its way into Joachs heart. He trusted Moristhe 
dark-skinned Brother had saved his life in Aloa Glen and his words now were 
compelling. How can we judge the truth of my dream when the events are yet to 
happen?
It is in the details, Moris said.
All the details, Flint echoed from the hearth.
Moris nodded. Tell us your dream again, but I will query you further on certain 
aspects of your story, attempting to find anything false. If even one element is 
found to be wrong, then your dream was not a weaving.
Joach removed his hands from the staff and placed them atop the table. I see. 
So everything must be trueor none of it is.
Flint snorted. Finally the boy is thinking with his head and not
his gut.
Joach chewed his lower lip. Maybe they were right. He reached and fiddled with 
the dragons tooth that hung around his neck. The dream began with Elena and me 
atop a tower in Aloa Glen. We
were
Stop right there, Moris interrupted. Describe the tower.
Joach closed his eyes and pictured the spire. It was narrow coming to a point 
no wider than two horse lengths. I couldnt make out much else, since I never 
peered over the parapets edge.
What else? What color were the stones? What towers neighbored it?
Joach brightened, remembering. The stones were a burnt orange, and there was a 
huge statue of a woman bearing a sprig from a flowering tree across the way from 
the tower.
The statue of Lady Sylla, bearing the branch of unity, Flint said.
Hmm And beside her, Moris added, the Spire of the Departed is a reddish 
orange. The two Brothers stared at each other meaningfully. Perhaps the boy 
had a passing glimpse from one of the Edifices windows while imprisoned there.
Flint grunted noncommittally. Go on, Joach.
He continued to describe the attack by the black winged monster.
Sounds almost like a wyvern, Moris said, but none of its foul ilk have been 
seen in ages.
But who knows what the Gulgothal lord has dredged up to protect the island? 
Flint mumbled, his brows pinched together with concern. He now ignored the stew 
beginning to steam from around the pots lid. Joach caught the quick glance 
toward Erril. Was that doubt in the old mans eyes? Flint waved his ladle at 
Joach. Tell us about Errils attack on your sister.
In Joachs chest, twisting emotions roiled. He had initially feared that they 
would not believe him. Now he was more afraid they would. If Erril was a 
traitor, whom could they trust? Joach stared at Erril, who still wore the same 
stoic expression. Joach swallowed hard before continuing his story. After 
dispatching the beast, I heard the creak of wood behind me. I turned and saw 
Erril pushing
open the door, his face half crazed, his arm already raised with sword in hand. 
I knew he meant us harm. He slammed the door and latched it, blocking our only 
means of escape.
I would never harm either of you, Erril said fiercely. This dream is 
ridiculous.
Flint approached the table, abandoning both the hearth and his bubbling stew. 
So far his dream images do bear the truth, Erril. Maybe you were under the 
influence of some black spell.
Erril glowered but could not speak against it.
But Moris did. No, Joachs dream is false. We can now put this matter safely 
aside.
How so? Flint asked.
Joach, tell us again how Erril locked you from the only means of escape from 
the tower.
Confused, Joach repeated this portion of his dream. The plainsman held his 
sword against us, and then reached behind to key the doors lock. Suddenly, 
like a sun appearing from between storm clouds, Joach understood. Sweet Mother, 
maybe the dream is false!
What? Flint asked, still in the dark.
Erril had two arms in my dream! One held the sword; the other locked the door. 
And it was no phantom arm, but flesh and bone!
Two arms. Flints tensed shoulders sagged. Thank the Mother above! That 
detail is obviously false, so all of it must be. Thats the law of weaving.
Joach was still skeptical. But are you sure?
Moris deep voice answered. Not even the strongest magick can grow a new limb. 
And Flint is quite correct: A true weaving contains no false items.
Then maybe Im remembering it wrong, Joach persisted. Maybe in the dream, he 
had only one arm, but in the light of day, my mind changed this one minor 
detail.
Moris shook his head and stood. That would be further proof that your dream was 
not prophetic, he said. A true weaving will lock into your memory, enduring 
forever.
Joach sighed and stared at the two determined Brothers. So the dream was just an 
ordinary nightmare. He turned toward Erril. The plainsman had remained silent 
during the entire exchange. His stoic features had developed a sick bent to 
them.
Flint continued. So if it was only a foul dream, I guess there is no
need to bring the boy with us. He can stay and keep my livestock
fed.
Erril spoke, his voice oddly strained. No, the boy should come
with us as a precaution.
Whatever for? Moris asked. He only had a bad dream dredged up from buried 
memories of his imprisonment on the island. Just old worries coming to a head.
Nevertheless, he should come. Erril shoved back from the table, clearly 
indicating the matter settled and the discussion ended.
Before anyone could question him further, a piercing scream split
through the ship.
Joach flew up, staff in hand. Elena!
Turn around slowly, the harsh voice behind Mycelle
ordered.
By now, the old healer had turned from her study of her laden
shelves of medicines and balms. She had a bottle of some herb in
hand. Mycelle had a hard time reading the expression on the ancient
womans face; the healers missing eyes made her hard to fathom.
Still, Mycelle caught a hint of amusement crinkling the corner of the
womans thin lips.
Tikal, she scolded, leave the poor woman alone.
Mycelle slowly turned. No one stood behind her. She saw the tiny
furred beast hanging from the doors latch. His weight must have
shut the door. But who spoke? Mycelle glanced around. No one else
was here.
Tikal climbed farther up the door, his large black eyes staring at her. Touch 
your sword and die, he said in that same gruff voice.
Mycelles eyes grew wide.
The old healer spoke up behind her. Dont mind him. Tikal doesnt know what 
hes saying. Just mimicking what hes heard from the streets.
How much for oranges? Tikal continued, his voice changing to that of a shrill 
woman. For these prices, I could buy three bushels! The little creature 
clambered up to a swing hanging from the ceiling and hung upside down from his 
tail and one foot. He stared directly at Mycelle and in a childs voice said, I 
like horsies.
Mycelle blinked a few times at the odd creature, her heart still pounding from 
the scare. What type of beast is that?
A tamrink. A golden-maned tamrink, to be precise, from the jungles of Yrendl. 
His art of mimicry is one of the tamrinks many talents, though Id call it more 
a nuisance than a talent.
With a slight shake of her head, Mycelle turned to the woman. My name is Mama 
Freda, the old woman said, nodding in greeting. Though blind, she reached 
accurately to a short cane leaning against the wall and used it to march around 
her counter. You mentioned something about my friends.
Yes, they just arrived yesterday. They needed a healer. Worry nestled into 
Mycelles chest. Who had been injured? Do you know where my friends are 
lodging?
The old woman glanced over her shoulder, as if to study Mycelles expression. 
Of course. Come. Freda led the way to a back door and swung it open. A dark 
stairway led up.
Tikal landed with a small thud behind Mycelle. Tikal Tikal Tikal he 
chanted, racing ahead of them up the stairs.
Mycelle studied the dark steps. She probed with her senses and felt nothing 
wrong. Still, she remembered her lack of proper caution before and voiced her 
previous worry. Freda, please dont take offense at my next words, but just how 
does a blind woman protect herself in as hard a town as Port Rawl?
Mama Freda turned to Mycelle with a snort. Protect myself? Im the only healer 
worth her salt here in Swamptown, and they all know it. She waved the tip of 
her cane. The whole town watches over my shop. Without me, who would heal their 
sword cuts or poisoned bellies? These folks may be hard and crude, but never 
think them stupid. She glanced over her shoulder and seemed to be studying 
Mycelle again, as if judging her. Besides, who said I was
blind?
WTith those words, Mama Freda climbed the stairs. Follow me. Mycelle hesitated 
a breath, then obeyed. This strange woman knew more than she said. Doubt and 
wariness followed her up the stairs. t
At the top, they came upon a short hall with a few doors off the passage. As 
Mama Freda led the way toward the room farthest back, Mycelle eyed the other 
doorways. It would be easy to set up an
ambush here. One of the doors was cracked open, and Mycelle got a peek of 
shelves stocked with crates and bushels. She caught a glimpse of a drying rack 
where stalks and leaves of various herbs were desiccating. The rich smell of 
spices and an earthy aroma from the room scented the hall. It was merely a 
storeroom and not worth further attention.
Still, as Mycelle passed, her senses tingled with a brush of magick, raising the 
tiniest hairs on her arms. Not strong magick, but a touch of something 
elemental, something she had never felt beforeand as a seeker who had 
crisscrossed through the many lands of Alasea, to come across a magick she could 
not identify slowed her footsteps. It scented of loam and deep-buried orecoal 
perhaps.
Mama Freda must have heard her boot heels faltering. Come. Do not tarry.
Mycelle hurried to catch up. Many mysteries surrounded this woman, but for now, 
Mycelle had more urgent concerns.
Reaching the last door, the old healer tapped the crown of her cane on the oaken 
framecract, cract, cractclearly a signal to someone within.
The tiny tamrink danced around the womans feet excitably. Tikal Oh, Tikal is 
a good puppy.
Mama Freda scooted the small beast aside with the tip of her cane. He loves 
guests, she said.
Mycelle felt, more than heard, a stirring from the next room. She tensed her 
arms, ready to free her swords. As the door swung open, a rush of elemental 
magicks washed out, like a window opened on a whirlwind. The assault on her 
senses was so sudden that her knees almost buckled. A rush of wind, the rumble 
of storm clouds, the teening cry of a falcon. And mixed with these tastes was a 
lingering hint of granite and the low rumbling of grinding boulders. She 
recognized these torrents. Her legs regained their strength.
In the doorway stood a familiar figure.
Mother?
Tolchuk! Mycelle hurried past the old woman as she stepped aside. She hugged 
her son fiercely as Tikal clambered up the ogres leg as easily as up a tree 
trunk. Thank the Mother, youre safe, she whispered to his chest. Mycelle 
could not get her arms fully around the thick torso of her son. He towered over 
her, even when slightly stooped in the usual ogre fashion. She raised her face 
to stare at him.
So like his dead father, she thought. Same splayed nose and thick, overhanging 
brows, even the similar hint of fangs raising his upper lip a bit and a spiked 
ridge of fur that ran from the rocky crown of his head down in a small crest 
along his spine.
Only his eyes, large golden orbs slitted like a cats, told of a heritage that 
was not ogre but silura, like his mother.
Tolchuk returned Mycelles affection with equal enthusiasm but broke their 
embrace sooner than she would have preferred. You made it through the swamps, 
he said. How be Elena and Erril?
Wary of how much to reveal in Mama Fredas presence, Mycelle spoke carefully. 
My niece is fine. We all are. A few scratches and scars, but otherwise intact.
Tolchuks voice grew grim. 1 wish we had fared as well. Come inside.
Her sons somber tones reminded her of her own duties. She probed with her own 
skills, sniffing after any taint in the room. Even under close scrutiny, the 
elemental magicks in the room felt pure, untainted by corruption. Still, she 
also sensed the pain in the room. She followed Tolchuk into the chamber.
The room surprised Mycelle. She had expected a dark gloomy cell but instead 
found a room, though windowless, shining cheerily with lamps and a small hearth 
glowing with coals. Adding to the sense of warmth and invitation, a thick wool 
rug covered the oak-planked floor. A pair of sturdy beds stood against either 
wall, and three pillowed chairs stood before the hearth.
In one of the chairs, a familiar spindly fellow dressed in road-worn clothes 
pushed up to greet her. His features were pinched, and his lips thin and prone 
to frowning. Under mousy brown hair, his slitted amber eyes matched his twin 
brothers. Mogweed, Mycelle said, seeking to change the mans frown into 
something more hopeful. Your brother Fardale is downstairs guarding my horse. 
Hell be thrilled to see you safe.
The news did little to change the mans expression. If anything, the 
shape-shifters expression grew more dour. It will be good to see my brother 
again, he said plainly.
Mycelle raised questioning eyes toward Tolchuk. The ogre drew his mother 
toward one of the two beds. Dont mind Mogweed, he grumbled under his breath, 
trying his best to keep his voice quiet. All of our hearts are heavy.
As she neared, she saw the bed was not empty, and her senses tingled stronger 
with the billowing scent of elemental wind magick. She knew who must lie in the 
bedMeric, the elvin lord. Still, as she reached his bedside, she failed to 
recognize him. Meric, his lanky frame half hidden by linen sheets, was not the 
man she had last seen in Shadowbrook. His chest was burned in thick swaths; the 
reek of charred flesh clung to him as tight as the medicinal wraps that bound 
his chest. His lips were swollen and cracked, his handsome silver hair burned to 
the scalp. Thankfully, he seemed to be resting, his eyes closed and his 
breathing regular and deep. Mycelle sensed that even these small blessings were 
only due to the skill in Mama Fredas balms and elixirs.
Mycelle could look at him no longer. What happened?
He was caught and tortured by one of the Dark Lords seekers. Tolchuk then 
continued to recount the events that led them here: Merics last-minute rescue 
by Tolchuk from a foul dwarf lord and Mogweeds outwitting of a pair of 
illguard twins in the great castle of the city. We all escaped to the barges 
as the towers of the Keep crumbled and fell. But Meric sickened rapidly from his 
injuries. Though we saved him from corruption, we could not keep his tainted 
wounds from festering and growing foul. It be great luck that an innkeeper 
directed us to Mama Freda soon after we entered Port Rawl.
I dont think it was luck, Tolchuk, Mycelle mumbled, knowing that generosity 
was rare in the port city and often came with a price. The innkeep had probably 
feared contagion and had been glad to send the group off to a healer rather than 
risk his own inn with disease.
Luck or not, here we came. Tolchuk slipped a bit of biscuit to Tikal, who was 
searching through the ogres pockets. The tamrink swallowed it whole, then 
licked each finger clean.
Luck it was, Mama Freda said. The Sweet Mother herself must be watching over 
you all. She took Tikal from the ogres shoulder and carried him to a chair, 
where she sat down. It took an herb grown only in Yrendla rare supply I still 
cultivateto break his fever. Another day and hed have been dead for sure.
Tolchuk nodded. Already Meric fares much better.
Mycelle frowned. If the elvin was better, she dreaded to think how Meric must 
have looked yesterday. She stared around the room.
And what of Krai? Where is he? The mountain man was the only member of the 
group still unaccounted for.
Mogweed answered. He watches the north gate of the city for you. We did not 
know which gate you would enter Port Rawl through.
He usually does not return until well after dark, Tolchuk
added.
Ever since Shadowbrook, Mogweed continued, the big man has grown more and 
more restless. He is out almost every night, prowling, watching for signs of the 
enemy.
Well, there was no need for him to search for me, Mycelle said. My skill at 
sensing elemental magick would have hunted you down. I thought that was clear.
Mogweed backed to the chair beside Mama Freda and sat down, a condescending 
smile on his lips. Did you sense Meric from the street? he asked. Or even 
when you were in the shop downstairs? Mycelles brows drew tight together. The 
shape-shifters words proved of concern. She had not felt even a whisper of 
Merics unique wind magick, not until the door to the room had opened. How ? I 
should have been able to Mycelle turned to Mama Freda.
The old healer was smiling at her. There is much you dont know, young lady. In 
my jungle lands, where the lands magick is as fertile as the forests 
themselves, we have learned ways to protect what is ours. I painted these walls 
long ago with an aromatic oil of banesroot. It hides my elemental skills from 
prying eyes.
Mycelle studied the oiled planks of the wall. She tried to send her senses 
beyond the room and failed. It was as if nothing existed beyond those four 
walls. That must be why I never sensed Mama Fredas presence when I was last 
through the city, she muttered. And how youve managed to escape the 
corrupting touch of the illguard up to now. Youve created a safe haven.
Mama Freda snorted. Theres no such thing as a safe haven in Port Rawl. 
Swamptown would never stand for it. But it is my home. Mycelle grew suspicious. 
Every moment she spent with this old woman seemed to bring forth new 
discoveriesand Mycelle did not like it! She felt as if she were fighting on 
quicksand, and Mama Freda had the longer sword. It was mighty generous of you 
to open your own home to my friends. But
Mama Freda finished her thought. but generosity in Port Rawl never comes 
without a price.
Mycelles features grew stony.
Mama Freda settled deeper in her seat and waved a hand to the last free chair. 
If your face becomes any darker, Ill need a lantern to see it. Sit sit.
Mycelle remained standing and spoke bluntly. Enough with this foolishness. 
Speak plain. You cant possibly see my face. You have no eyes.
What are eyes? I can see that speck of dried mud on your cheek and a tiny bit 
of hay caught in the hair above your left ear.
Mycelles fingers wandered to wipe the mud from her cheek and pick the hay from 
her hair. How?
Mama Freda tousled the golden mane of her pet and tickled him behind an ear. The 
tamrink batted at the teasing fingers, then settled in her lap and sucked at one 
of his toes. During all this time, Tikals eyes never left Mycelles face. The 
tamrinks, Mama Freda began, have unique talents, other than mere mimicry. In 
our jungles, they travel in large groupsbonded families. Theyre raised so 
intimately among one another that each becomes a part of the whole. What one 
tamrink hears, they all hear. What one tamrink sees, they all see. In a sense, 
the pack becomes one living creature, hearing all, seeing all.
Sense bonded? Mycelle asked, shocked. She had read of such a talent in texts 
kept by the Sisterhood.
Mama Freda ignored Mycelles question. I was born without eyes, and among my 
tribe such a deformity was considered an ill omen. To appease the gods, I was 
left as a babe in the jungle to die.
Mycelles horrified expression must have been noted.
Dont fret, child, Mama Freda said. I remember little of that time. The first 
memory I truly had was of flying through the trees, seeing through the eyes of a 
huge female tamrink. She was swinging through the branches overhead, curious 
about the bawling naked creature near her nest.
You?
She nodded. Her band took me in and nursed me. With time, I became more firmly 
bonded to the tamrinks and saw through their many eyes.
These creatures actually raised you?
Mama Freda laughed at such a preposterous thought. No, I doubt I was with the 
group more than a single moon. One day, one
of my tribes hunters found me near the tamrinks nest and discovered that I was 
still alive. I was returned to the village and worshiped. They believed the 
jungle gods had marked me and kept me safe. So I grew among my own people, yet I 
never lost my bond to the tamrinks. Over time, I grew to be a skilled healer 
among the many tribes of Yrendl. Mama Freda glanced away and her voice quieted. 
But one day, our village was attacked by slavers. I think they were attracted 
by the rumors of a blind woman who could see. I was stolen, along with the baby 
tamrink I had been hand raising.
Tikal?
Yes. Over the course of three winters, we were brought north to your lands, 
stopping at coastal towns and ports to display my talent. But how did you 
escape? The slavers were notorious for holding tight to their merchandise.
A fierceness entered Mama Fredas voice. She faced Mycelle again. Some tales 
are best forgotten, locked forever in ones own heart.
Mycelle respected the womans words. There were parts of her own life she did 
not wish ever spoken aloud. So you ended up in Port Rawl. But why my 
companions? Why did you take them in?
As I said, generosity does not come without a price in Port
Rawl.
What do you want? I have silver, even a gold coin.
No.
Then what?
When your companion is hale enough to travel, I ask that you take me with you 
when you leave.
Mycelle stiffened. This was a price higher than she was willing to pay. Why? 
Why do you wish to come with us?
I wish to meet this witch of yours. This young girl Elena.
Mycelle backed a step. She stared at her companions, searching for the traitor, 
for the one who spoke their secrets so freely.
Tolchuk straightened from where he crouched, like a boulder shifting. We said 
not a word, he grumbled.
Mogweed just sat in his chair, his eyes wide with shock. Only a small squeak of 
denial passed his lips as Mycelle turned in his
direction.
Mama Freda scolded Mycelle. Leave the others be. None spoke out of turn or 
betrayed the trust given them.
Then how do you know our business?
The old healer scratched her pets mane. The small tamrink burrowed closer, 
making soft cooing sounds of contentment. I left Tikal in the shop yesterday 
when I prepared the medicinal tea for your burned friend. I know my way around 
my storeroom and kitchen without the need of his eyes. While I was gone, the 
others spoke in private about you, about Elena, and about the book you seek, the 
Blood Diary.
Still, how did you?
Tikal and I are not only bonded by sight. She wiggled one of Tikals ears. 
What one tamrink hears, they all hear.
In a back alley of Port Rawl, the creature slaked its blood lust upon the dying 
heart of its young prey, a girl-child just new to her first bleed. Once 
finished, the beast raised its black muzzle from her ravaged chest and howled to 
the rising moon. Its call of hunger echoed down the rows of seedy bars and 
brothels. Slipping into the dark shadows, the creature crept on all fours, claws 
digging into the filth of the alley. It wished to hunt all nightbut it knew its 
masters will.
None must grow suspicious
The beast whimpered slightly at the thought of its masters touch. Somewhere 
deep in its hungry mind, it remembered the burn of black flames and the boil of 
blood. It would obey. The monstrous creature scented the street beyond the 
alley: empty. Only the foolhardy or the drunk braved the roads of Port Rawl 
after the sun had set. Doors were barred and windows boarded up. The massive 
creature bounded across the muddy road. Though the moon was just beginning to 
rise, the hunt was over for this night. To delay any longer would risk awakening 
suspicion in those the beast hid from.
It sped across the street, catching a glimpse of itself in the moons reflection 
in a barroom window. Slathering jaws, rows of shredding teeth, bunched and 
corded muscles, naked skin the color of a deep bruise. Flaps to either side of 
its nose spread wide to drink in the sea wind. So much blood, so many beating 
hearts.
It dashed into the alley and followed the narrow passage to its darkest corner. 
The tight space reeked of urine and excrement. Finding the pile of discarded 
clothes, it burrowed through them to find the object hidden underneath. Using 
teeth, it dragged its trea-
sure forth. It studied the object, first with one cold black eye, then the 
other. A shudder passed over its flesh. It resisted returning to its hiding 
place, wanting only to run and feast on flesh and bone. It howled once again 
into the night.
From out in the street, someone yelled, Shut your damn dog up, or Ill come 
down there and slice its stinking throat.
Skin prickling with hunger, the beast took a step back toward the road, but the 
memory of black flames stayed its paws. It could not refuse its masters will. 
The monstrous beast returned to the clothes and the long object it had dragged 
forth. Bending over, it ripped the cured hide off the iron of the weapon. Once 
exposed, the hunt ended
, for this night.
The beast felt the burn of flowing flesh and the warp of bone. It collapsed in 
the trash of the alley and writhed, its jaws stretching wide in a silent scream 
as its muzzle sank back to flesh and fangs receded into gums. Paws spread into 
fingers as claws pulled back to yellowed nails. In only a few gasping breaths, 
the transformation
was complete.
Naked, Krai crawled up from the mud and debris. He rubbed his chin where his 
black beard still continued to fill in cheek and neck, then stood. His heart 
still throbbed with the blood of the young slain girl. He grinned in the dark 
alley and stepped toward his discarded clothes. His huge white teeth were aglow 
in the moonlight. It had
been a good hunt.
Still, the moon continued to climb the night sky, and he had to hurry lest the 
others grow suspicious. He bent and retrieved his discarded ax. The scraps that 
had bound the ax head fell away: bits of purplish hide from a slain sniffer. 
Krai collected them up. He had found the cured skin at a fur traders booth in 
the Four Corners bazaar and had been anxious to sample its power. He had not 
been disappointed. The night spent hunting as a sniffer of the Great Western 
Reaches had stirred Krais blood like no other hunt. Even now his heart beat 
faster, and his manhood stirred with the memory. Before this night, he had used 
the hides and skins of dogs and wolves to incite his transformation. And though 
those previous hunts were exciting, none compared to this evening. The scents 
had been so much clearer, his muscles so much stronger, his teeth so much 
sharper. Krai folded the scraps of hide carefully, saving them for another hunt.
He licked the trace of blood from his lips. Krai had also spotted the silver fur 
of a snow panther among the wares of the trader in Four Corners bazaar. Krais 
fist clenched at the thought of wrapping his ax with that rich fur and hunting 
the night as a monstrous cat. His manhood throbbed with the thought. His master 
had been generous the night he burned away Krais craven spirit and forged him 
into one of his illguard soldiers. On the night of his new birth, the 
Gulgothal lord had named him Legion, granting him a generous gift of black 
magick. Whatever skin or fur he cloaked around the black heart of his ax, Krai 
could assume that beasts form and abilities. He was not one creature, but a 
legion!
With his blood still surging, Krai gathered his clothes and dressed.
As he hitched his ax, he ran his fingers over the newly smelted iron. His 
original weapon had been destroyed, shattered upon the stone skin of the Dark 
Lords demon in Shadowbrook. That night, in the cellar, he had collected the 
shards of iron from the mud floor, and at a riverside smithy, he had forged his 
ax anew. Yet there was more than just iron in his new ax. From the mud of the 
cellar, Krai had also retrieved a chunk of ebonstone. Blood from his severed 
finger had anointed the stone that night. Even now, his four-fingered hand 
caressed his ax with the memory of the stones oily touch. Guided by the Dark 
Lords instructions, he had melted the sliver of ebonstone into his ax, forging 
a new black heart for his weapon. The original iron of his ax, still tainted 
with the blood of a slain skaltum, would mask Krais secret from the prying 
eyes of any seekers, including Mycelle.
Unknowing, the swordswoman would guide him to his final prey.
Now fully dressed and armed, Krai began the long walk across the city. Disguised 
as a friend, he was a trap set to kill a witch. His heart thundered in his ears 
with the thought of burying his teeth in Elenas tender heart. She would never 
suspect until his claws were at her soft throat.
Be it dog, bear, sniffer, or pantherLegion would have its prey.
Elena scrambled for the door to her cabin. Through the tiny porthole above her 
bed, she stared back at the pair of glowing red eyes. Even through the 
distortion of the crude glass, hatred and hunger seemed to flow from those 
slitted orbs.
Just a moment ago, she had awakened from a weak slumber to find those fiery orbs 
studying her. Like an itch on the skin, the gaze had drawn her from sleep. For 
half a breath, she had stared transfixed, frozen, until sharp claws dug at the 
glass. The keening scrape had ignited Elenas heart. She had rolled out of bed, 
a scream bursting from her chest.
Her fingers fought the doors lock. For a moment, she believed Erril had locked 
her inside. Then as quick as that thought came, the latch gave way, and the 
oaken door fell open. Elena tumbled into the passage as the scraping became 
fiercer, frantic. It knew its prey was escaping. Suddenly the scratching 
stopped. Elena glanced back into the cabin. Her eyes met those of the beast; 
then a sharp hissing, sibilant and furious, arose from beyond the porthole.
Elena paused in midstep. She knew that sound. She had heard it long ago and 
could never mistake it. It was like the hissing of a thousand serpents. Again 
their gazes locked, this time in shared recognition. Elena named the beast 
clinging to the hull of the Seaswift, her lips cold. Goblin.
The single whispered word broke the spell. The eyes of the beast vanished in a 
blink, as if it were but a fragment of a nightmare
dissolving back into the land of dreams. But the echo of its hiss still filled 
Elenas ears. This was no nightmare.
She ran down the short corridor, the rolling of the boat forcing her to keep one 
hand bumping along the wall. She reached the triple-barred hatch to the middeck 
and grabbed at the latch, but the door suddenly sprang open on its own. A 
hulking creature blocked the portal, filling the doorway.
Elena?
It was just Erril. With a gasp, she flew into the plainsmans embrace, hugging 
him tight. At my window outside She fought to control her breathing and 
panic. I awoke and and
Erril pulled her away from his chest, holding her shoulder gripped in one hand. 
Slow down, Elena. What happened? Are you hurt?
Elena finally noticed Joach, and the two Brothers, Flint and Moris, nearby. All 
were armed: Joach with his long staff and the two Brothers with short swords. 
The show of strength slowed her tongue and heart.
Goblins, she said. I saw a goblin outside my cabin, through the porthole, 
staring in at me.
Goblins? Erril relaxed his grip on her. Elena, theres no goblins near 
here.
The two Brothers lowered their swords, glancing at each other. Drakil? Moris 
mumbled.
Maybe deep in the Archipelago, Flint answered, but not near here.
Erril glanced over his shoulder, studying the empty deck and seas. Maybe it 
was just the motion, the play of moonlight on the water playing tricks on you. 
The sound of the hull rubbing on the dock can echo strangely through a ships 
belly.
Elena pulled free from the plainsmans grip. It wasnt that! Moris crossed to 
the starboard rail and leaned over to check the side of the boat.
It was no figment, she continued, but did not know how to explain the strange 
sense of recognition shared between her and the beast. It seeks revenge for my 
slaughter of all those rockgoblins in the caves below Uncle Bols cottage. It 
knew me!
As if to confirm her words, a soft hissing suddenly arose from all
around the boat. Everyone froze. It was like the seas themselves were steaming.
On the dock! Moris shouted. His sword was out once again. He ran to the head 
of the gangplank and began savagely working a winch to haul the planking away 
from the jetty.
Erril gathered Elena to him and crossed to the rail. Small dark bodies 
clambered from the sea onto the stone quay, tails lashing like angry snakes 
about their clawed legs. Though larger than ordinary rockgoblins, there was no 
mistaking their forms: huge eyes, clawed toes, gray skin.
The shore, Flint mumbled and pointed
There, too, the dark creatures gathered, as if the rocks of the shoreline had 
come to life. Hunched forms scrabbled in the surf. Some climbed to join their 
brethren on the dock; others slipped into the surf to vanish under the black 
waves.
What are they? Erril asked.
Drakil, Flint said. Sea kin of the goblins.
On the far side of the boat, a crash drew their eyes. Swinging around, Elena saw 
a huge sea goblin land on the deck. Crouched on all fours, it hissed and bared 
its needled teeth at them. A long tail waved in front of it threateningly. In 
the moonlight, a black barb as long as an outspread hand tipped its whipping 
tail.
Erril pushed Elena toward Joach. Get her belowdecks! Erril drew his silver 
sword and swept toward the creature.
Beware its spiked tail, Flint warned. Its poisoned!
Joach drew Elena toward the raised foredeck, one hand on her elbow, the other on 
his staff. As she watched, more goblins spilled over the rails to assault the 
middeck. Most were smaller than the one Erril attacked. They seemed to lack the 
poisoned barbs but were heavily muscled and armed with claws and teeth.
Erril knocked aside the spike of his attacker and fought the beast back toward 
the rail.
Release the bow- and sternlines! Flint called to Moris, slashing with his 
sword. The cove is a death trap if we stay.
The huge black man flew toward the rear of the ship, cutting smaller goblins 
from his path. Flint worked to the main mast and snatched a hand ax. Keeping the 
goblins at bay with his sword, he attacked the ropes snugly tied to iron 
stanchions. As each rope was cut, its ends snapped away. Counterweights crashed 
to the deck as the
main sails unfurled with loud pops of sailcloth and the wind grabbed hold of 
them.
Erril dispatched his adversary with a sudden savage jab. He twisted the sword 
and danced back as the beast gave one final lunge with its tail before falling 
dead to the planks. But before he could even turn away, two more of the larger 
drakil clambered over the rail.
One hissed and garbled something to a group of smaller goblins that were making 
toward Flint. They turned to harry Erril from the rear as the two threatened 
the plainsman from the front.
Cmon, El! Joach urged. Elena and her brother had reached the door to the 
ships lower decks. He had let go of her elbow to shoulder the door open and now 
held it wide. We need to barricade inside.
No. She already had her gloves off. Her ruby hands glowed in the moonlight. 
If the others fail here, well be trapped.
Suddenly the boat lurched under her feet, and she fell back into Joach. He also 
lost his footing, and with a yell, the pair tumbled in a tangle of limbs into 
the open passageway. Joach regained his footing first and reached to slam the 
door to the middeck.
Before the door closed, Elena heard Flint call out. Were adrift! I have to 
reach the wheel, or well hit the reefs!
Elena fought to her feet. Dont, Joach! They need help! He ignored her plea 
and slammed the door. Throwing the latches, he turned to her. No, you know 
nothing about ships.
Elena touched the wild magicks in her blood and raised her palms. Her hands 
burst with witchlight, bathing the passage in a ruby glow. But I am not 
useless.
Joach raised his staff against her. Ill not let you leave. Its too 
dangerous.
With wild magick singing in her blood, she reached for Joachs staff, meaning to 
thrust it aside. Where her fingers brushed wood, her flesh burned as if she 
touched molten rock, and in a blinding flash, her fists flew back with such 
force that her knuckles crashed to either oaken wall. Gasping, she stepped away. 
Elena?
She rubbed her fingers, making sure they had not been charred away by the flash 
and burn. They were still therebut not unharmed. Where her fingers had touched 
the wood, the ruby stain had been scoured from her hands. Patches of white skin 
marred the
deep ruby surface. As she watched, the stain flowed to fill in these gaps, but 
the overall richness of the scarlet dimmed as the white skin was vanquished.
Elena raised her eyes.
Joach was staring at his staff with wonder.
It was as if his staff had absorbed a part of her magick.
Over her shoulder, Elena heard a faint scrape of claw on wood. Hissing arose 
from directly behind her.
Elena! Lookout!
Before she could even turn, Elena felt the jab of a flaming dagger bury itself 
deep into her back.
As Mycelle assisted Mama Freda with Merics bandages, heavy footfalls sounded on 
the stair outside their room. Without a word, Mycelle unsheathed one of her 
swords and crossed to the door.
Calm yourself, lass, Mama Freda said. Its just your missing companion. The 
man from the mountains.
Mycelle ignored the old healers words. Pulling a sword too soon never harmed 
the wary
A loud rapping announced the visitor at the door.
As if in answer, the elvin moaned behind Mycelle, thrashing weakly at his thin 
sheets. Mycelle leaned closer to the door. She probed beyond with her senses, 
but the planks coated with banesroot oil blocked her senses. Who is it? she 
hissed at the door.
After a short pause, a gruff but familiar voice answered. Is that you, 
Mycelle? There was no mistaking that grumbled voice; his throaty highland 
accent flavored the few spoken words.
It be Krai, Tolchuk said needlessly.
Still cautious, Mycelle kept her sword in one hand as she unlatched the lock. 
Who was to say Krai was alone on the stair? With her senses muffled by the 
banesroot, Mycelles edginess remained keen. She swung the door open.
The huge mountain man.greeted her with a broad grin. He was alone on the stair. 
She quickly studied him. His black beard had grown thicker and longer since she 
had last seen him, almost a wild tangle, but the flinty eyes and scent of rock 
magick were unmistakable. Mycelle stood aside to let him enter. She sensed no 
foulness tainting the man. Even the injured hand where the demon rat had
ripped off a middle finger had healed cleanly, leaving only a pinkish scar.
Krai had to stoop his head and twist his wide shoulders to push through the 
doorway. I thought you must be up here. I met Far-dale down below guarding your 
mount. As he straightened, his gaze passed over Mycelles unsheathed sword. 
Not a very warm welcome, he commented, but before Mycelle could even scowl, he 
softened his rebuke. But considering what Ive seen this day on the streets of 
Port Rawl, perhaps youd best keep steel in both hands, even while you sleep. 
He patted the ax hanging on his belt. Among the scavengers of Swamptown, a 
weapon is always the safest greeting.
Mycelle closed the door and latched it before turning around. Is Fardale still 
with the horse?
Krai slipped off a cloak coated in road dust and hung it on a hook. I had a 
groomsman from a neighboring inn take your horse to where my warcharger is 
stabled. Fardale followed after him to insure the fellows honesty. I expect the 
shape-shifter will be bedding down at the stables to keep a watch over your 
horse and gear.
Good, Mycelle said. I want to be off at the first light.
Or sooner, Mama Freda said. She had finished with Merics wraps and pulled the 
thin sheet higher across the thin elvins chest. She faced the others. The 
town grows more tense with each passing day. The foul incident on the docks has 
everyone clutching their swords tighter. It would take only the tiniest spark to 
ignite this tinderbox.
Still, before we leave, Mycelle said, I must check the Watershed Trading 
Post. A friend was due to arrive this past day from the swamps with the supplies 
and mounts we had abandoned in Drywater.
Mama Freda shook her head. Are these other horses worth the risk of spending 
more time on the streets of Port Rawl?
It is to Elena, Mycelle said.
Then I guess Mist must be with them, Krai said.
Mycelle nodded. The small gray mare means much to the girl. To know the horse 
is safe will hearten her for the journey ahead. A small delay to check the 
trading post could bring Elena great cheer.
Mama Freda shrugged. Or get us all killed.
Mycelle frowned. Perhaps its best we all try to get some rest. Weve a long 
journey still ahead of us.
Mogweed spoke up. The shape-shifter still sat slumped in the chair by the feeble 
fire. And just where are we going?
Mycelle straightened and glanced around the room. Though the elemental magick in 
the room struck her senses like a clear draught of spring water, a small part of 
her still balked at revealing Elenas location. There was no taint of the Dark 
Lords touch here. But something else made her warysomething she could not 
name.
Itd be best if that secret still remains close to my heart, she mumbled, 
suddenly red faced at the clear lack of trust in her words. Mogweed, though, 
persisted. He shifted higher up in his chair. But what if something were to 
happen to you tomorrow? How would we find Elena and the others?
Mycelle glanced to the rug. The shape-shifter was correct. These were Elenas 
friends and had proven themselves countless times. And what if she were injured 
or captured? The others could still journey ahead to add their skills and 
strength of arms to Elenas defense. Was she being overly cautious in this 
instance?
She opened her mouth, ready to admit her folly and share with the others Elenas 
location along the coast, when suddenly an angry voice interrupted. No.
All their faces turned to the bed, where Meric stared back at them. His sky-blue 
eyes were open, his gaze edged by lightning and thunderclouds. Do not speak, 
he warned her, his voice no more than a whisper, his eyes drilling at her.
Mycelle crossed to his bedside. Why, Meric? A secret shared among those you 
trust is safer in many hearts.
Before Meric could say another word, a loud pounding suddenly burst from the 
door. They all jumped and swung to face the only exit. The stout door shook in 
its frame. A loud, commanding voice followed the pounding: By the order of the 
caste master of the city of Port Rawl, you are hereby commanded to turn 
yourselves over to the watch. Any resistance will be met with the point of our 
swords. There was a pause; then a resounding crash smashed into the door. Its 
planks split and cracked. One more blow and the door would be open. But even 
before the next blow struck, Mycelle sensed it: elemental magick flowing into 
the room from between the panels of split oaknot the pure elemental weavings 
that were pent up here, but something twisted and black.
Mycelle had both her swords out. Curse the healers coating of
w
banesroot! Though it had helped hide the others, now it betrayed them, masking 
the evil that had crept so silently up the steps until it was too late. Mycelle 
stretched her senses. She recognized the foulness beyond the doorway. Only the 
illguard monsters gave off such a stench. She knew what she had to do.
Mycelle dropped both her swords. The steel blades rang as they struck the floor. 
I must not be taken, Mycelle whispered. She reached to her neck and pulled 
free the tiny jade vial that swung on a coarse thread.
No, Krai said, noticing what she was doing. He tried to reach for her arm.
She skipped free. An illguard leads this assault, she said to Krai. I cannot 
risk capture. The Black Heart must never learn from me where Elena hides. She 
pulled free the sliver of jade that plugged the tiny vial. Thank the Mother, 
Meric kept me from speaking my secret.
A second crash shattered through the room. The door flew wide, pieces of oak 
tumbling across the floor. Dark shapes rushed through the ragged opening.
Save yourselves as best you can, Mycelle yelled to the others, but Elenas 
secret dies with me! She raised the vial to her lips and poured the poison down 
her throat. It was a burn that quickly spread from her belly to her limbs. Im 
sorry, Elena. She dropped the empty vial to the floor.
Tolchuk rushed forward. Mother!
As darkness swallowed Mycelle away, she fell into her sons thick arms.
Elena collapsed to her knees in the passageway. Behind his sisters shoulder, 
Joach spotted the monster. Near the stair that led to the lower decks, one of 
the larger sea goblins crouched, skin the color of sour milk, eyes a baleful 
red. Its breath stank of rotted fish as it hissed at him, claws raking the air. 
It took a step closer, toward his sister.
Get back, demon! With fury narrowing his vision to a point, Joach slammed the 
butt of his staff into the face of the drakil. His aim was sure. Bone cracked, 
and the beast howled. The force of the blow tumbled it down the stairs to the 
lower decks.
Joach? Elena moaned.
He hurried to his sisters side as she swooned toward the deck.
El, Im here.
It burns Elena collapsed into his arms. The back of her thin shift was hot 
and slick to his touch. In the lamplight, he spied the spreading pool of 
blackness across her lower back. So much blood! Elena! Joach pulled her tight 
to him and dropped his staff to press his palm against her wound, attempting to 
stem the flow of blood.
Drifting up the stairs from the lower deck, a low hissing began to gather again. 
Whether from the injured drakil or a new foe, Joach did not know. He hauled 
Elena up in his arms and half carried, half dragged her to the large stateroom 
in back. He dropped her onto the narrow bed, ripped a sheet into long strips, 
and wrapped the linen bandage snug around her midsection, tying it tight to keep 
pressure
on the wound.
Once done, he hurried to the door, glancing back, a prayer on his lips. Then he 
did the hardest thing he had ever done in his life: He abandoned his sister. He 
left the stateroom and closed the door behind him. Elena needed help, more than 
he could offer. He must
fetch the others.
Down the dim passage, he spotted his staff on the deck, like a black snake 
stretched across the passage. But beyond the weapon, between Joach and the hatch 
that led to the open deck, crouched his foe. Red eyes glowed in the shadows; 
claws gleamed silver in the lamplight. Its tail, whipping and stabbing at him, 
was black with his sisters blood. From its splayed nose, blood still dripped 
from where
his staff had struck.
Weaponless now, Joach had little chance of defeating the well-muscled predator, 
not unless he could reach his staff. Instinctively, he reached out with a bloody 
hand toward the gnarled scrap of wood. As if in answer to his silent wish, the 
staff shifted a handspan closer to him, the scrape of bark on planking loud in 
the narrow passage. The goblin noticed the movement and took a step closer, 
lowering its injured nose to the black talisman. It cocked its head and reached 
a claw forward, apparently curious and drawn to the magick.
Joach clenched his fists. He must not let the drakil reach his only weapon. 
No! he spat loudly, meaning only to draw the beasts attention. The result, 
though, was more dramatic.
The staff jumped into the air, as if startled by his loud command. A 
scintillation of black flames blew across its surface. The drakil
froze in place. So did Joach. He had never seen the staff behave in such a 
manner. Was this display powered from the energies drawn earlier from Elena or 
simply a reflection of his own urgency? Joachs eyes narrowed. He did not care. 
He needed a weaponany weapon! He thrust his arm out farther toward the floating 
staff. Come to me! he yelled with all his heart. But nothing happened. The 
gnarled wood just continued to float.
Though ineffectual, his shouted words had at least managed to scare back the 
drakil. It cowered a step away, slinking from the flames of the staff, wary of 
these black magicks. Maybe he could use this to his advantage.
With no plan, he simply pounced toward the goblin, arms raised in the air, a 
scream of rage and hate flowing from his lips. The beast jumped back from his 
abrupt display, retreating until its rump pressed against the deck hatch.
Joach reached the staff, and using both hands, he grabbed its length. He cringed 
slightly, expecting to be burned by the dark flames. But at his touch, the fire 
dimmed until the flames were vanquished, leaving only a deep rosy glow, as if 
the staff were a glowing ember just removed from a hearth. Yet its heat did not 
burn; instead it was frosty to his touch, as if his hands gripped a shard of 
icicle from the coldest peak. The iciness spread into his fingers and seemed to 
sink into the vessels of his arms. As he gripped the wood, he could feel the 
frostiness travel up through his veins as if the staff were some cold heart 
pumping its ice into him.
Ignoring this effect, he swung the staff toward the beast who still blocked his 
escape. The words of power he had learned in the dream came again to his mind, 
unbidden, rising like steam to his lips. His tongue moved with the first words 
of the spell.
The drakil dropped to its knees and splayed itself before him, forehead pressed 
to the planks. A soft mewling rose from its throat. It clearly begged for mercy.
But the magicks ice had reached Joachs heartnow was not the time for tender 
feelings, not when his sister lay bleeding from a wound inflicted by this same 
beast. As his lips grew cold with the ancient spell, the end of the staff 
bloomed into a rose of black flame. Smiling without warmth, Joach finished the 
last garbled syllable and thrust his staff at the goblin.
The petals of the black rose burst open, and balefire lanced from
its heart in a furious storm. At the last moment, the goblin must have sensed 
its death. It raised its face, eyes reflecting the flames. Then the fire struck. 
The beast was thrown back with such force that its flailing body crashed through 
the bolted hatch behind it. Iron rods tore loose, and storm-hardened wood 
splintered like dry twigs. The carcass of the sea goblin, licked by hungry 
flames, skidded across the open deck. In the time it took Joach to climb through 
the debris of the hatch, only the charred bones of the drakil remained.
Joach straightened as he reached the deck. All eyes were on him, both goblin and 
man. The air reeked of burned flesh and charred bone. The deck was awash with 
goblin blood, and everywhere Joach looked the hacked remains of the small 
predators covered the deck. Joachs eyes were wide with horror. The Seaswift had 
become a foul charnel house.
Joach stared at the burned remains of the sea goblin on the deck. Its bones lay 
contorted into a small ball, smoking in the cool night air. Every bone seemed to 
speak the pain of the flame he had unleashed. The sight reminded him of another 
time, another night, when fire had consumed his mother and father, leaving only 
blackened bone then, too. Only this night he was the wielder of death. Oh, Sweet 
Mother, what had he done?
Joach raised the staff over his head and cried his pain into the night. The ice 
in his blood fled his veins, and flames blew from both ends of his staff, like 
the last licks of a dying hearth.
The fiery display ignited the frozen drakil army. The beasts fled in fear to 
the rails, leaping and diving into the black seas. Soon the deck was empty, 
except for the three men and the many dead goblins.
Joach! Erril crossed to him. A bloody raking of claws marked his left cheek. 
What have you done? Both wonder and horror etched the plainsmans words. He 
had sheathed his sword and now reached toward Joach.
Joach stepped back. He could not bear to be touched right now. He simply shook 
his head and pointed through the ruins of the door. Elena She shes badly 
hurt. In the rear stateroom.
Erril lowered his arm, his eyes wide. He dashed into the passage without 
another word.
Joach knew he should follow. Elena was his sister. But his legs were numb. He 
could not move.
Flint strode briskly across the fouled deck. His eyes were fixed on Joach, but 
his words were for his fellow Brother. Moris, take the wheel! Guide us out the 
mouth of the cove, but mind the reefs to port in these shallow tides. We need to 
reach the open seas. The boys performance will cow the drakil for only so 
long.
In response to his shouted orders, the sails billowed and snapped overhead as 
the black-skinned Brother brought the ship about.
Flint reached Joach and grabbed his shoulder. Listen, boy, I appreciate what 
you did. The drakil had us pinned down, and we were lucky not to have the keel 
torn out from under us on the rocks. But I know the magick you wielded. It
Balefire, Joach mumbled, naming the flames he had called forth.
Flint knelt down to stare Joach in the eyes. Yes, and the fact you can utter 
its name means its touched youmarked you. Its one of the darkest of the black 
arts, and Id rather lose the ship than see you succumb to its allure.
I had to, Joach answered. I needed to protect Elena.
Flint sighed. Your sister has enough defenders. She needs a brother more than 
another guardian. Remember that.
Joach shook free of Flints grip on his shoulder. A sister who is murdered has 
no need for a brother. He backed a step and positioned the black staff between 
him and the grizzled seaman.
Flint stood up, his eyes on the staff. Be that as it may, look to your heart, 
boy. Study it closely. Soon the staff will become more important than your 
sister.
That will never happen! he said fiercely. I can
A call echoed up from inside the foredeck. Flint, get down here! Now!
Flint stepped toward the opening but spoke over his shoulder. Are you so sure 
of your heart, Joach? Why are you still up here when your sister lies injured 
below? Flint ducked into the passage.
Joach stared at the black poiwood gripped in his fist. He remembered its frigid 
touch and the ice in his veins. Though the wood was no longer cold and the ice 
in his blood had thawed with the realization of what he had done, he sensed that 
somewhere deep in his heart a seed had taken root. A small shard of ice still 
lay imbedded there.
The power will mart you, Flint had warned. Joach glanced to the
ruins of the doorway. Maybe it already had. But black or not, he would risk his 
own spirit to keep Elena safe.
Joach bowed his way into the narrow passage, keeping a firm grip on the poiwood 
staff.
K.RAL LUNGED AT THE SOLDIER OF THE WATCH. HlS AX SLICED THE Mans
arm off at the shoulder; blood sprayed his face as he swung the edge of his 
weapon into the side of the next assailant. Fury fed his rage. He had been so 
close to learning the secret his master craved: the whereabouts of the witch. 
Now, the only person who knew Elenas hiding place lay dead on the rug of the 
room. Curse the blind loyalty of the damned swordswoman! Only a moment more and 
she would have betrayed her niece to the Dark Lord.
Spinning on a heel, Krai tossed his ax from one hand to the other and swung his 
blade with practiced skill into the face of another attacker. But as quickly as 
he moved, other armed men still swarmed into the room. He parried a sword thrust 
at his belly, then used the wooden haft of his ax to club the man aside.
A quick glance over his shoulder showed that he fought alone. Tolchuk stood 
guard over both his mothers body and the bedridden elvin. Mogweed had fled his 
chair and now cowered in the farthest corner. If Krai was to free their party, 
he would have to carve a path out of here by himself.
Tolchuk! Grab Meric and follow me! Krai yelled.
In a flurry of blade and muscle, he hacked his way toward the door. Men fell in 
tortured screams and writhing limbs to both sides of him, his beard soaked in 
their lifes blood, his white smile a beacon in the ruin of his face. An old war 
song came to his lips as he sliced his way through the citys watchers.
None could defeat him! His blood lust almost ignited the black magick buried in 
his ax. He craved to bury his teeth into the throats of these rough men. But he 
knew that with the others looking on, he had best rein in this lust and satisfy 
his desires with the edge of his blade. His heart thundered in his ears, deaf to 
the wails or cries for help.
He would have easily dispatched the last handful of soldiers if not for the 
sudden appearance of the leader of this watch. Standing shorter than most of his 
fellow soldiers and appearing frail of limb, the man was not outwardly 
intimidating as he stepped through
the battered door. But he stopped Krai with a glance: Foul magick danced behind 
those tiny eyes. Krai recognized the mans nature illguard, an elemental 
twisted by the black magicks of his master. But the leader of the watch did not 
recognize Krais kinship. The Black Heart had hidden Krais secret too deep for 
even another illguard to recognize.
As Krai paused, the illguard leader raised a clawlike hand and raked it in his 
direction. At this signal, a furious black cloud burst into the room from the 
hall outside. Wings and claws ripped through the air toward Krai. A flock of 
monstrous ravens and deadeye crows! Swinging his ax, Krai fought the demon 
birds. Such a weapon was little protection against such numerous small foes; 
still, he used blade, haft, and fist to beat back the assault.
For a moment, Meric added his support from the bed. The elvin used what little 
skill he could muster to send sharp gusts of magickal wind to attack the flock. 
The cloud of birds was battered ragged by the unexpected attack. Even the leader 
of the watch stumbled a step away, wary of this sudden gale.
Krai pressed his attack, defense becoming offense, hoping to reach the illguard 
and dispatch the fool who had so foully interfered with his own plans. Yet 
suddenly, one of the crows slipped past Krais ax and dove toward his leg. It 
buried its sharp beak into the meat of his thigh. The pain was but a pinch, and 
Krai crushed the beast under the butt of his ax. But the damage was already 
done. Krais left leg went instantly numb. Unsupported, he toppled to the floor.
The black cloud fell upon him, keening squawks accompanying their assault. Beaks 
and claws tore at him. In moments, he felt the ax kicked from his numb fingers.
Enough! the leader screeched through the howl of the birds. I need them 
alive!
The birds squawked their displeasure but obeyed their master, hopping and 
flapping away from Krai. Unable to move, paralyzed by the black magick, Krai 
could not even turn his head as he heard the footfalls of the illguard leader. 
From the corner of his eyes, Krai noted that Tolchuk had fared no better. He 
lay sprawled across the rug, unmoving. It seemed even the ogre could not resist 
the numbing magick of the demon crows.
The mans pinched face leaned over to peer into Krais eyes. No one hides from 
me in Port Rawl.
Krai suppressed a groan. Damn illguard fool! The man had no idea how artfully 
he had blocked his masters true desires. Krai found small comfort in knowing 
how this man would suffer when the Black Heart learned of this interference.
The leader of the watch straightened up, towering over Krai. Shackle that 
monster and haul the lot of them to the garrison.
Sir, one of the soldiers asked, what about this dead woman? Krai saw the 
soldiers boots kick Mycelles body.
My birds are still hungry for meat, he said with a wave of his hand. Shell 
make a fitting meal. At his signal, the flock swarmed
over Mycelle.
Master Parak It was Mama Freda, naming the illguard leader. I should warn 
you that the woman consumed poison. She killed herself. If your handsome birds 
feed on her flesh and blood, they could be poisoned, too.
Krai could just make out the startled look on the mans face. Parak snapped his 
fingers and drove his birds from Mycelles carcass. Just then men grabbed Krais 
arms and began hauling him up. Half sitting in their grips, Krai had a better 
view of the room. Several men worked over Tolchuk with iron shackles, while 
Mogweed already lay trussed in ropes.
Mama Freda, her head bowed, stood beside the scrawny Parak. Her pet tamrink, 
Tikal, crouched on her shoulder, tail wrapped around the old womans neck. It 
stared with wide black eyes, shivering in restrained panic and making the 
tiniest whining noises in the back of its throat.
Thank you, Mama Freda, the leader of the watch said. As a fellow lover of 
beasts of the field, Im sure you understand how dear my birds are to me.
Mama Freda absently scratched her tamrink behind an ear, calming the beast. Of 
course. My duty is always to the city and the well-being of its citizenry.
Still, you should have warned us of these strangers. You know the new statutes. 
None of them registered with their respective castes or paid their tithes. If it 
wasnt for our one-armed friend over there Parak pointed to where a rough 
soldier dressed in colors of the towns gatekeepers lay dead. who so 
skillfully shadowed the swords-woman and reported her location, we would never 
have discovered this clutch of criminals. As such, they are now slaves of the 
watch.
Krais blood thundered in his ears. So this assault was for no other reason but 
to gain slaves. As in all matters of Port Rawl, it seemed even the illguard 
were guided by the shine of gold coins.
Your pardons, Master Parak. But you know my rule: I heal; I dont ask 
questions.
Parak snorted in amusement. Yes. That is why you are so valued a citizen. He 
turned to face his men as they finished lashing Krais arms behind him. Take 
them to the garrison.
What about the sick one in bed? one of the soldiers asked.
Leave him. From the looks of him, hes already half in his grave. Hell fetch 
no good coin. Parak glanced around the room. The rest of this lot, though, 
should bring us a nice price on the slavers block.
The soldiers began hauling their bounty toward the door. Krais arms were yanked 
cruelly behind him as he was dragged away, but the numbness in his limbs masked 
any pain.
Parak faced Mama Freda and waved an arm to encompass the room. I apologize for 
the intrusion, Mama Freda. Ill send someone to clean this mess on the morrow.
Mama Freda stood among the many dead, amid the stench of blood and excrement. 
She bowed her head. As always, you are too kind.
Erril knelt beside Elenas bed. Aromatic oils of the woods scented the air of 
the cabin, but under the sharp odor was the tang of blood and medicines. Soiled 
bandages were piled at the foot of the narrow cot, and pots of willow bark and 
wounds wort lined the planks.
As Elena slumbered, Erril held the girls hand in his own. She was so cold, her 
lips so pale. She did not respond as he rubbed her wristonly a whispered 
mumble, nothing more.
She does not wake, he said to Flint. The old Brother had applied what little 
healing skill he knew to save Elena. The two of them were alone in the cabin. 
Joach and Moris were doing their best to man the sails and rigging while guiding 
the boat along the coast.
Perhaps its best she sleeps, Flint finally said as he pulled a thick wool 
blanket up to her neck. Her body needs its energy to heal. Even as I stitched, 
the edges of her wound were knitting together on their own. Her magick protects 
her.
Then shell live, Erril said.
She should already be dead, Flint answered. He sat back on his heels on the 
far side of the bed. He stared somberly at Erril. The poison of a drakils 
tail kills with the barest scratch. I suspect her slumber is her bodys attempt 
to rally its meager resources to keep her alive. But there are limits to which 
even her magick can protect her. Flint slipped one of Elenas ruby-stained 
hands free of the blanket. See how her Rose slowly fades as she lies here. Her 
magick feeds her spirit, sustaining her.
The deep crimson of Elenas hands had waned to a sallow pink. Erril raised his 
eyes to Flint. And when the girls magick fades
completely away ?
Flint met Errils gaze unflinchingly, then simply shook his head
sadly.
Then what are we to do?
Ive done all I can. The healers who once studied in Aloa Glen may have been 
able to aid her, but Flint shrugged. The island had been lost to the Dark 
Lords minions.
What about dragons blood? The healing properties of a sea-dragon were well 
known. If we reach the rendezvous site with the
merai ?
Shell be long dead by then, Flint said. But youve given me an idea. Theres 
a skilled healer in Port Rawl. Her apothecary is well stocked with herbs and 
potions. I dont know if she carries dragons blood; its scarce and expensive. 
But she is a wise healer.
Port Rawl? Erril asked skeptically. Little good was ever gained by a visit to 
that swamp city.
I also know a few good men in Port Rawl who can help crew the ship. Alone, we 
are too few to properly sail the Seaswift into the tricky currents of the 
Archipelago. And if we should be attacked again Flint shrugged. Only luck and 
black magick had saved
them this time.
Erril pulled a chair closer to the bed as he weighed their options. Sitting 
down, he raised a palm to Elenas cheek. Her flesh was like ice. Around his own 
heart, a similar coldness settled. He could not watch her die. Well have to 
risk it.
Flint nodded and stood. Then Id better alert Moris to our new plans and let 
the boy know of his sisters condition.
The boy Erril said, stopping Flint. About that magick
I know, Flint said. Joach shouldnt have been able to wield
such might. Therein lies something worth closer study. But either way, I think 
that staff should be burned and its ashes cast into the sea.
No, Erril said. Leave the boy his staff.
Flints eyebrows rose in doubtful acceptance. Whatever you say. The old man 
reached for the latch to the door. Flint
The grizzled Brother glanced over his shoulder. Keep a close watch on the boy, 
Erril finished. Flints face grew grim. Both men knew the stranglehold that the 
black magicks could have on a man. Even a pure spirit could be choked by the 
black arts grip. With a sharp nod, Flint ducked out of the room and closed the 
door behind him.
Alone with Elena, Erril leaned back in his chair. He pushed aside his worries 
about Joach. His immediate concern lay wrapped in woolen blankets before him.
Erril studied the small girl, his fingers clenched with worry. If she died, so 
died the last chance to free Alasea. But in his heart, Erril knew it was not 
the fate of his lands that clenched his fist, but a simpler fearthe fear of 
losing Elena herself. In his long life, hed never had a younger sister to watch 
over, nor a daughter to dote upon, but somewhere on the dark journey here, Elena 
had become both to himand perhaps more.
But who was she reallywitch, woman, or savior} Erril sighed. He had no 
answer.
Upon her pale features, the first signs of womanhood were just beginning to 
shine through the roundness of childhood: the soft curve of cheekbone, the 
fullness of lips. He reached forward and combed back a strand of fiery curl from 
her smooth brow. And when had the black dye faded from her hair? She must have 
been hiding it from him, hoping he wouldnt notice. A ghost of a smile shadowed 
his lips. Even with the fate of Alasea hanging over her head, the simple 
vanities of a young girl still weighed her heart. This thought gave him some 
small cheer.
But as he leaned back in his chair, Errils smile dimmed. His eyes wandered to 
the moon shining through the small porthole. Savior or not, he muttered to the 
empty room, I will not see you die, Elena.
Breaking from darkness, Mycelle woke to streaming light so bright that it 
blinded her. She blinked against the glare. Was this the Grand Bridge to the 
next life? If so, she had never suspected the transition would be so painful. 
Her entire form was afire with an intense itch that burned both inside and 
outsidebut inside and outside what} She had no true awareness of a body, only 
of pain defining the boundaries of her form.
Lie still, child, a bodiless voice murmured in her head.
Wh-where am I? she asked, unsure if she spoke with her lips or with her 
thoughts.
Either way, the speaker heard her question. Youre safeat least for the 
moment.
That voice She knew that voice. Mother ? As soon as she spoke the word, 
Mycelle knew this was not correct. Mama ? Then her memories returned in a 
babbling torrentimages, sounds, smells, all falling back into order. Mycelle 
remembered the warm room, the burned elvin, and the small golden-maned pet of 
the old healer. Mama Freda.
Thats correct, child. Now dont struggle. The pakagolo is not finished with 
its work yet.
Mycelle still felt no awareness of her body. Was she lying on her back or belly? 
The blinding light filled her entire mind. Suddenly a violent spasm wracked 
through the core of her being. She retched violently.
Keep her head turned, Mama Freda said. Shell choke if youre not careful. 
Yes, like that Very good.
Mycelle coughed and spat. What was happening? The last she remembered was 
swallowing the poison in her jade vial. She recalled slumping to the floor, glad 
to protect Elena with her own death, relieved that the poison was painless, 
tasteless. Why was she still alive? For a horrifying moment, the thought of 
failure wormed through her mind. She still lived. Could the secret of Elenas 
location still be wrested from her?
No I must not Elena
Stop struggling! Mama Freda ordered. I said youre safe. The soldiers of the 
watch have left with their trophies. They thought you were dead from poison.
A new voice intruded. She was dead.
Hush. Death is not as final as most would suppose. It is like a childs croup. 
If caught early, its curable.
A derisive snort. She still looks dead to me. Mycelle suddenly knew that 
voice, the snide arrogance. It was Meric. How long does this process take?
The sun is just dawning. Its almost over. Shell either rally now, or well 
lose her forever.
The voices faded into the background as a roaring suddenly filled Mycelles 
ears. If she could have found her hands, she would have clapped them over her 
ears. What was happening? She had a thousand questions, but the noise, the 
blinding light, and the fiery burn made it hard to think. With all her senses 
overwhelmed, she became aware of something beyond all the pain and confusion.
She reached out to it, like a drowning woman for a floating log, something to 
hang on to, something solid in this intangible plane. It scintillated and 
sparked like a jewel in sunlight, moving slowly through the core of her being. 
What was it? She sensed magick surrounding it, radiating from it like heat from 
a hearth. It seemed to suffuse through her, cooling the burn slightly with its 
passage.
A vague sense of recognition drifted in her mind. She struggled to clear the fog 
from her awareness, reaching toward this new magick with her seeking talent. 
What was this strangely familiar scent? She sniffed at it with her talent. The 
elemental signature was unusual: mold, dirt, and a touch of black coal. Suddenly 
she knew why it was familiar. It was the elemental magick she had sensed in Mama
Fredas storeroom earlier, among the drying herbs and shelves of rnedicines. 
Something from beyond the lands of Alasea.
As she studied it, the magick swelled, becoming a part of her. The source of the 
elemental power climbed closer, as if from some abyss, sliding and curling 
toward where her mind hid. Its magick grew stronger as it approached. Hues of 
blue and green whorled about it, pushing back the blinding light. Then it was 
upon her, burning her magick, drowning her. Mycelle felt something vital being 
ripped
from her.
Mycelle choked; she could not breathe. It filled and enveloped her. She writhed 
as awareness of her body returned in a searing rush.
Hold her limbs! Pin her down!
I cant
Curse you! Sit on her if you have to, you scrawny bird!
Mycelle fought for air! She struggled to gasp, choking.
Tikal Tikal Tikal
Get your tail out of my way! The squeal of an upset beast. Nows the moment, 
Meric! The pakagolo climbs up from her throat. She lives or dies on this 
moment.
Sweet Mother!
Help me hold her jaws open. Get me that mouth gag. No, not that! Over there! A 
curse under mumbled breath. Then Mycelle felt lips at her ear. Dont fight it. 
Let it pass.
Mycelle did not know what the old woman meant. Her back suddenly convulsed in a 
contorting spasm. Tears burst from her eyes.
Hold her!
Then Mycelle screameda ripping cry as if she were casting the very life itself 
from her body. And in a way she was. Mycelle felt something squirm and coil out 
from inside her throat, sliding out through her stretched lips as she screamed. 
She choked and gasped as what she gave birth to slipped over her tongue and out
of her body.
Once her throat was unblocked, her spasming body collapsed down and rattling 
gasps tumbled from her lips. Darkness resolved into watery images: blurred 
faces, movement, wavering light. She raised a hand to her face. She was soaked 
in sweat. With each breath, her eyes continued to focus.
Lie back, child. Rest. Keep your eyes closed.
Mycelle did not resist her words, too weak to argue. She simply
obeyed. She sensed a table under her back. No soft bed, but bare planks. Still, 
she did not move. She let the tremors and mild twitching calm in her limbs. Her 
breathing became less ragged, and her moist skin cooled. Someone opened a window 
nearby, and a cool breeze raised gooseflesh on her legs and arms. She was 
suddenly conscious of her own nakedness.
Embarrassment and shyness finally moved her to open her eyes. She blinked 
against the brightness, but it was only the soft light from a rising sun that 
lit the room. Voices could be heard nearby, muffled in whispers:  live, but 
the bite of a pakagolo will be needed to sustain her.
Mycelle pushed up to her elbows on the table. A groan escaped her lips. Her 
muscles were as sore as if she had been battling with both swords all night.
Glancing around, Mycelle saw that she was in the storeroom of the healers 
apothecary. Lines of wooden shelves stocked with bottles, flasks, and pouches 
filled the room, except for the back section where she lay atop an oaken table. 
A row of small wire cages lined the nearby wall. Strange beasts peered out from 
these small cells, eyes glinting in the light of the new sun. The assortment was 
amazing: wingless feathered creatures, lizards with ridged spikes down their 
backs, small furred rodents that swelled up with air and hissed at her movement. 
From her wanderings, Mycelle knew these beasts were not of Alasea, but from 
lands beyond.
Mycelle sat up as Mama Freda approached from the bank of cages. Meric, swaddled 
in bandages, limped after her with the use of a crutch. Fardale padded beside 
the elvin. At least the wolf, holed up in the stables with the horses, had 
managed to escape the clutches of the illguard, too.
Reaching the table, Mama Freda wrapped a blanket around My-celles nakedness and 
helped her sit up on the edge of the table. Your strength should quickly 
return. ,
H-how? Mycelle asked, fighting her tongue. The poison
Extract of nightshade, Mama Freda answered. A common enough poison but I 
have my ways.
Mycelle knew the old woman was hedging. Tell me.
Mama Freda glanced at Meric, who nodded. Shell need to know eventually, the 
elvin said.
The healer turned to a nearby cage behind the table. Still feeling
l and disjointed, Mycelle twisted to see.
In Yrendl, Mama Freda said as she worked the latch on the tiny cage, the 
jungles teem with many poisons, but as in all things, there is always a balance. 
The gods of the jungle created a special creature to help protect our tribes 
against these poisons. Mama Freda turned. Coiling around her wrist and about 
her fingers was a purplish snake striped in blues and greens. We call them 
pakagolo. In the language of my people, it means breath of life. The serpents 
are steeped in elemental magicks. Where most snakes carry venom in their fangs, 
the bite of a pakagolo draws poisons out.
Mama Freda offered Mycelle the snake to examine closer. Mycelle reached out her 
hand, curious at such an odd beast. A small red tongue flickered out from its 
scaled jaws to investigate one of her fingers. Then slowly the serpent stretched 
its body to slide from the old healers fingers onto Mycelles palm. She had 
expected it to be cold and slimy but found its scaled skin to be oddly warm and 
smooth. It writhed in slow movements up her forearm, then seemed to settle there 
like a fanciful piece of jewelry.
Fardale slipped closer to sniff at the snake.
Mycelle raised her eyes from the serpent. Something did not make sense. I 
concocted my own poison, she said. I know its potency. It often kills before 
the poison even reaches the bellytoo fast for any
cure.
Mama Freda sighed and nodded. Yes, you are right. But the pakagolo were aptly 
named by my people. They truly carry the breath of life. Besides curing the 
poisoned, they can bring back those recently killed by the touch of venoms.
How is that possible?
Mama Freda shrugged. It takes more than just their bite. The serpent itself 
must enter the poisoned body of the deceased.
Mycelles eyes narrowed, but she did not flinch. She was never one to shy from 
hard realities. She recalled the squirming she had felt in her belly, the 
sickness, the sense of its magick pulsing through her flesh. The snake had been 
inside her. She even recalled the sensation of it sliding and writhing up her 
throat and out her lips.
Inside you, they use their magick to rid your tissues of poison and suffuse 
your body with their spirit. They become part of you.
This last part seemed to worry Mama Freda. She glanced away from Mycelle.
Meric hobbled forward. Tell her all of it.
Mama Freda turned, her thin lips drawn tight. The serpent and you are now one. 
Bonded. The two of you share a single life.
What does that mean? Mycelle asked, suddenly afraid of the
answer.
You are now linked forever with this pakagolo. During the first night of each 
full moon, the serpent must bite you. Once life bonded, you need the magick of 
its fangs to sustain you, and it needs your blood to survive. Without its 
magick, you will die.
Mycelle glanced to the snake, her eyes wide. Surely the old woman was mad. 
Reaching out with her elemental talent, she probed for the serpents magick 
inside her. She felt nothing. Relieved, she pushed harder, just to be sureand 
again only emptiness. She glanced to the snake, meaning to study its magick. As 
she delved into it, a frown appeared on her lips. Nothing.
Raising her gaze, she glanced to Meric and sent her senses out toward him, 
searching for his scent of lightning and storm. Her eyes grew wide with horror. 
Again she felt nothing. She sat up straighter, shocked. I Im blind, she 
whispered.
Meric stepped closer, eyes crinkled with concern.
For the first time, Mycelle realized the dull sensation in her head was not just 
the fuzziness from the cure, but a deadness in her spirit. She turned frightened 
eyes first toward Mama Freda, then Meric. I can no longer seek, she mumbled. 
My elemental ability is gone.
Mama Freda spoke quietly. There is always a price to be paid.
Meric stepped to the tables edge, raising a hand to comfort her, then suddenly 
froze. He leaned nearer, studying Mycelles face. Your eyes! he exclaimed. 
Theyve changed.
Mycelles hands rose to her face, checking what new horror awaited her. The 
snake at her wrist hissed slightly at the sudden motion.
Theyre now golden and slitted, Meric said, glancing at the wolf who sat 
nearby, like Fardales eyes.
Mycelles fists clenched on her cheeks. It could not be. She dared not hope.
Ive never witnessed such a change, Mama Freda said. She
Mycelle stopped listening. Warily, cautiously, she reached deep inside her heart 
and touched a part of her spirit that had withered
and died long ago. Where once there had been nothing, she now felt a familiar 
resistance. She pushed gently and felt bone and sinew, long trapped in one form, 
shift and bend. Like an iced pond in spring, frozen fiesh melted. She stood on 
legs of clay beside the table, the blanket falling from her shoulders as bone 
gave way.
The pakagolo hissed and writhed tighter on her arm as its perch melted 
underneath it.
Mycelle raised the serpent before her eyes. What miracle was this? The pakagolo 
had not only returned her own life, but it had revitalized her dead heritage. 
Mycelle willed her flesh back to solidity, returning to the form with which she 
was most familiar. I I can shape-shift again, she explained to the stunned 
group. Tears of joy ran down her cheeks as her voice cracked. Im not only 
alive, I am
silura!
Fardales eyes glowed toward her, a deep amber, and for the first time in 
countless winters, images flowed into Mycelles mind, the spirit talk of her 
people: A dead wolf, nuzzled by a mourning / comes bact to life. The pact 
howls their joy.
JOACH STOOD AT THE STARBOARD RAIL OF THE SeASWIFT AS THE SUN ROSE
out of the oceans in the east. He studied the westernmost edge of the 
Archipelago as the ship sailed north along the coast. Around him, dawn 
transformed the distant islands from menacing black humps into towering green 
mountains. Mists draped the peaks, glowing a soft rose in the morning sunlight. 
Even from here, Joach caught the sweet scent of the islands lush foliage 
carried on the seas early breezes.
There is much beauty here, a stern voice said behind him.
Joach did not have to turn to know it was Moris, the tall dark-skinned Brother. 
And much danger, Joach added sourly.
Such is always the way of life, the Brother mumbled. Moris stepped to the rail 
beside Joach. Ive just come from your sisters bedside. She remains the same. 
Alive, but a prisoner to the poisons.
Joach remained silent, fear for his sister clenching his throat. Why did those 
goblins attack her? Were they sent by the Dark Lord?
Moris brows bunched together with concern. Were not sure. Goblins are 
notorious for carrying a blood grudge. When your sister destroyed the clutch of 
rockgoblins in the ruins of the ancient school
near your home, word must have spread to other of their foul ilk, even to the 
coastal clans of the drakil.
And theyve been hunting for her ever since?
So it would seem, but I still suspect the Black Hearts hand in this attack. It 
was too coordinated, too well orchestrated. Someone guides these beasts.
Joach tightened his grip on the poiwood staff in his left hand. How much 
longer until we reach Port Rawl?
Moris turned to study the passing coastline, then examined the billowed sails. 
If the winds keep up, well reach port just before sunset.
Joach turned to face the tall Brother. Will Elena hold on until then?
Moris placed a hand on his shoulder. At first, Joach shied away from the 
comforting touch, but then his brave resolve crumbled and he leaned into the 
mans support, only a boy again. Elenas magick is strong, Moris consoled him, 
and her will even stronger.
I cant let her die, Joach moaned into the Brothers shoulder. I promised my 
father that Id watch over her. And at the first sign of danger, shes almost 
slain at my side.
Do not blame yourself. By calling forth your magick, you drove off the drakil 
and allowed us to escape. At least now she has a chance.
Joach grasped at this thin straw. Perhaps Moris was correct; his black magick 
had at least helped protect his sister. That had to mean something. He pushed 
free of Moris hand and stood straighter, wiping his forearm across his nose and 
sniffing.
Still, Moris continued, beware the lure of the staff. It is a foul talisman, 
and its magick seductive.
Joach studied the length of poiwood. Its oily touch felt slick under his 
fingers. Seductive? That was not a word he would use to describe it. Only the 
urgency of protecting his sister had forced him to call forth the staffs black 
arts. He ran one finger along its polished surface. But was he being totally 
honest? A part of him knew that it bad been fury more than brotherly love that 
had fueled his attack on the murderous sea goblins.
Be careful, boy, Moris added. A weapon sometimes comes with too high a 
price.
Joach remained silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. But in his
heart, he knew that he would pay any price to keep Elena safe. He still 
remembered his fathers earnest eyes as the large man placed the burden of 
Elenas safety onto his sons smaller shoulders. It had been his fathers last 
charge to him: Guard your sister.
Joach would not dishonor his fathers memory by failing. Moris clapped him on 
the shoulder before returning to his duties. You and your sister are both 
strong willed. Its in the strength of your young hearts that I find hope.
Joach blushed at his words and tried to stutter a thanks, but only managed an 
embarrassed gurgle.
Moris strode from his side and crossed toward the stern. Alone with his 
thoughts, Joach turned back to the oceans. Leaning over the rails, he stared 
into the blue waters. Dolphins occasionally followed in the bows wake, but this 
morning the waters were as empty as his
spirit.
How far weve both traveled, Elena, he mumbled to the passing seas.
It was then Joach saw a face staring back up at him from under the waves. At 
first, he thought it but his own reflection in the glass-clear swells. But then 
his throat clenched as he realized his mistake. The vision was not his own 
reflection, but someone rising up out of the sea, suspended in a bubble that 
scintillated with magicks.
Joach had opened his mouth to yell a warning when the shock of recognition 
stilled his tongue. He knew this man: the narrow face, the thin brown mustache 
under a hawkish nose, even the sneering eyes. The face had haunted his 
nightmares for many moons. It was the butcher of his parents!
The smiling face rose from the waves, his lankish brown hair sliding dry from 
the sea, untouched by the salty spray. Beyond the man, the seas boiled with the 
twisting forms of hundreds of drakil.
So you think youve traveled far, have you, my boy? Rocking-ham said with a 
jeer, obviously having eavesdropped on Joachs private words. Unfortunately, 
not far enough to escape me.
Kral stalked across the length of his cramped cell, scowling through the thick 
iron bars at the guards. The place reeked of sour bodies, and the clink of 
chains echoed from other cells. Somewhere farther down the row, a prisoner was 
softly sobbing. Kral ignored all
this, his hands itching for the hickory handle of his ax. Curse the interference 
of these blasted fools! He smashed his fist into the timbered wall.
Cracking the bones in your hand will not free us, Tolchuk said behind him. 
Tolchuks voice was like the grinding of a granite millstone: harsh and 
unyielding. The other two occupants of his cell had been so silent all night 
that Krai had almost forgotten their presence. Sharing his cramped cell, the 
ogre sat hunched on the straw-littered floor, arms and legs in huge shackles 
used to hobble draft horses, while Mogweed lay sprawled on the narrow cot, an 
arm over his eyes.
But we were so close, Krai said between clenched teeth. He let his anger show 
but disguised the true reason for his fury. Elena needs as much protection as 
we can muster, and now not only are we kept from her side, but her aunt is dead. 
If only they hadnt discovered us, we wouldve been gone by morning.
We all lost much this past night, Tolchuk said, his voice mournful.
Krai suddenly remembered that Mycelle, besides being Elenas foster aunt, was 
also the ogres mother. He had not considered how the loss of Mycelle, dead by 
her own hand, must affect the huge creature. He forced his features to a calmer 
demeanor, one of sympathy. Im sorry, Tolchuk. I was not thinking. Your mother 
did what she had to do to protect the child.
We will find a way to rejoin the others, Tolchuk said, still dour.
How?
We must retrieve my pouch. If freed, the Heart of my people will guide me to 
her.
Krais eyes narrowed. He had forgotten the tool of the ogre, a chunk of 
precious heartstone that bound the ogres spirit to the mag-ick in its heart. 
The crystal was a vessel for the deceased spirits of Tolchuks people. It 
normally acted as a spiritual channel, carrying the deceased over to the next 
world. But the stone had been cursed by the land itself for an ancient atrocity 
committed by one of Tolchuks ancestors. The curse was given form in the shape 
of a black worm in the core of the crystal. The Bane, as it was named, trapped 
the spirits of the ogre clans within the stone, consuming the spirits and not 
allowing them to ascend to the next world.
Tolchuk had been given the duty to break his ancestors curse.
gut how the ogre might accomplish this was unknown. Tolchuk nad only the 
urging of the magick in the stone to guide him.
And you think the crystal could guide us to where Elena hides? JCral asked. 
Even without Mycelles knowledge?
Tolchuk shifted his huge bulk farther from the bars, slightly turning his back 
on Krai. His iron chains clanked. If we can escape, he added.
Krai turned from the others and crossed to the barred door. He pounded a fist on 
the bars to draw the eyes of the pair of guards at the end of the hall. Yo, 
guardsmen. I must speak to your leader.
One of the two guards, a stout fellow with bristled black hair, bro-
, ken nose, and squinted eyes, waved a hand dismissively back at Krai.
Pipe down, or Ill use my knife to carve your tongue out. The
guard returned to whatever conversation hed been having with his
partner, a shaven-headed ruffian with a severely pocked face.
Mogweed spoke up behind Krai. Just what do you think youre
doing?
Krai glanced over his shoulder. The pale shape-shifter had pushed up onto his 
elbows and was staring at him. Im trying to see if I can bully our way out of 
here, the mountain man answered.
With one of the illguard? Are you daft? Our best hope is that they simply 
forget about us.
Not likely. Slavers are not lax about their property.
Then maybe itd be best if we let them sell us. Once were out of this prison 
and away from that ilPguard creature and his cursed birds, well stand a better 
chance of escaping.
Krai would have normally nodded at the wisdom of Mogweeds advice. But he could 
not risk the ogre being taken from his side. Tolchuk was now his only lead to 
the witch. No, we stay together, he said. Besides, we dont have the time. 
Erril will leave at the new moon if we dont show up.
Mogweed lowered himself back to the bed and put an arm back over his tired eyes. 
Maybe thats best, he mumbled.
Krai scowled at the shape-shifters cowardice. He turned back to the door and 
banged his fist again on the frame. The iron bars rattled in their hinges. I 
have news for your leader, he yelled back to the guards. Information thatll 
fetch more than my price on the slavers block.
The bristle-haired guard growled at the interruption and reached for his 
sheathed dagger, but the other sentry placed a hand on the fellows elbow.
What news? the pock-faced guard asked, still holding back his partner.
Ill only tell it to your leader, the man with the trained crows. A spurt of 
profanities flowed from the stout guard with the dagger. He wrestled free of the 
others grip, but the other sentry persisted. Though they spoke in whispers, 
Krais ears, trained by many winters of tracking in the mountains, picked out 
their words. Hold on there, Jakor. Lets hear what the bearded fool has to say. 
Lord Parak may pay us a nice finders fee.
Twisting his lips into a sneer, Jakor slammed his dagger back into its sheath. 
Youre a fool, Bass. Hes got nothing. Only trying to save his own skin. He 
probably heard that the Sect of Yuli is looking for a few new eunuchs and is 
trying to keep from being clipped.
I dont blame him, Bass said with a snicker. But what do we have to lose? 
Lets shake him down before the branders come with their irons. Maybe he knows 
something we can use. Jakor shrugged. Grab a set of shackles.
Bass obeyed, still snickering as he grabbed a pair of rusted restraints from 
hooks on the wall. The shackles jangled as the guards approached the door.
Jakor nodded to his partner. Toss em to him. Bass kept his distance from the 
bars as he flung the set of irons toward Krai. Jakor then stepped closer to the 
door, throwing his chest out to show his authority. Put em on.
Krai leaned closer to the bars. He allowed a bit of his inner black beast to 
shine in his narrowed eyes. Jakors face blanched, and the guard retreated a 
step. Krai grinned savagely. He would love to tear this ones throat out. But 
instead, he shoved away from the bars and collected the shackles from the soiled 
hay.
Lock em behind your b-back, Jakor stuttered. He already had his short sword 
out. Krai suspected the guard was beginning to regret his decision to bother 
with this prisoner yet was unable to retreat now without losing face before his 
fellow sentry.
Worried that Jakors craven heart might break, Krai complied with the guards 
direction. Once done, Krai turned to face the door, waiting.
Jakor fumbled a set of keys from his belt, unlocked the door, and waved the 
mountain man out.
Krai offered no resistance, stepping from the cell and into the hall. Jakors 
sword was pressed so firmly into Krais ribs that a trickle of blood ran down 
his side.
After securing the door, Bass took the lead. Follow me, prisoner.
Jakor kept his blade at Krais back as they proceeded down the line of cells. 
Two other snoring men occupied the neighboring cell, and in the next, a woman 
with two ragged children lay huddled together on the one cot. The thin woman 
looked at Krai with hopeless eyes as he passed.
Then they were past the cells and entering the guardroom. It was empty, and the 
hearth was long cold. It seemed these two were the only guards stationed here 
this morning. With the suns rising, the garrison would most likely fill with 
other members of the watch. If he was to break free, it would have to be now.
Bass glanced over his shoulder. I just had an idea. Instead of disturbing Lord 
Parak, how about we chain this bastard in the inquisitors chamber? The rooms 
always empty this early. That old sot never arrives until the sun is fully up.
Jakor laughed but could not fully mask the nervous strain. Fine idea, Bass. 
Itll give us a chance to get this fellows tongue wagging.
Krai scowled. So the guards thought to torture the secret out of him. In Port 
Rawl, opportunity was carved by those with the quickest steel and the shrewdest 
cunning.
Krai allowed himself to be goaded at swordpoint into a neighboring warren of 
halls. The metallic stink of dried blood and a fetid reek of decay filled the 
passages. Stone cells closed with iron-banded oaken doors marked the length of 
the passage. Krai could discern low moans and the faint clink of chains from 
inside the sealed cells. Here, terror and torture were the coin of the 
inquisitor, paid out handsomely to buy the secrets from the prisoners here.
At the end of the hall, a windowless chamber opened. No doors closed off this 
room; the screams of the tortured served to weaken the will of the other 
prisoners. In the center of the room, a large brazier lay open and cold. 
Branding irons hung neatly overhead, ready for flame and flesh. Along the far 
wall were displayed knives and other sharp tools used to strip skin from a man 
and bore holes in
bone. A rack with neatly coiled straps of leather stood nearby, the wood of the 
device stained a deep black from ages of shed blood.
Krai hid a smile in his beard. He enjoyed the scent of horror and fear that 
permeated the stones of this room. It aroused him, made his mouth grow dry with 
lust.
The pock-faced guard crossed to the wall on Krais right. Chains hung from bolts 
pounded deep into the blocks of stone. Bass yanked on a length of chain, 
clanking the links loudly. These will hold even a bull like you, Bass said to 
Krai.
Krai fought his face back to a neutral disposition, hiding how the room excited 
the black magicks in his blood. No knife will free my tongue.
Jakor dug the point of his sword into Krais side. If you dont talk, then my 
knife will free your tonguepermanently. I have a dog at home who likes it when 
I bring home scraps.
Krai allowed himself to be herded toward the length of chain. He did not fear 
the tortures that these two might inflict. Deep in his mind, he remembered 
writhing under the searing flames of darkfire as his master granted him the gift 
of Legion in the cellars below the Keep of Shadowbrook. Neither the sharpest 
blade nor the hottest flame could compare to the agony of his spirit being 
forged into a tool of the Black Heart.
Krai leaned against the cool rock as the pair of guards locked his ankles and 
wrists to the new chains, then removed the old shackles. Jakor stepped away from 
the mountain man, the guards shoulders visibly relaxing, clearly relieved to 
have the prisoner secured in links of forged iron.
Bass crossed to a winch and worked its handle round and round. The chains at 
Krais feet and hands pulled and stretched his form across the stone, his wrists 
pulled so high that the toes of his scuffed boots only brushed the grate on the 
floor. Krai glanced down the black throat of the well at his feet. How many 
tortured spirits had bled down this very hole? A thrill passed over his skin, 
prickling his hairs. But now was not the time to dwell on such pleasant 
thoughts.
He raised his eyes toward the two guards. The sun must be fully up by now, and 
he was done playing with these two fools.
Jakor made the mistake of looking into Krais eyes at this moment and must have 
sensed his own death, like a deer being run down by a

vvolf- Jakors mouth opened as if to warn his partner. But what could
he say?
Krai let his eyes drift closed as he bit his lower lip to draw blood. Its sweet 
tang burst on his tongue like the finest Arturan wine. He reached out to the 
ebonstone that bound him. Attuned to his rock magick, Krai could smell the iron 
ore of his ax. He knew where it lay hidden, stashed in a nearby storeroom, in 
among the bounty collected by the watch this past night. He sensed the wolf hide 
that covered its stained blade. No one had bothered to unsheathe so common
a weapon.
Now, well away from the eyes of his companions, Krai had no need to fear 
unmasking his secret. He spoke the words needed to call forth his magick. With a 
bloody tongue, he spoke the spell. Bass must have heard him. Whats that hes 
saying? Jakors boot heels scraped, backing away. I dont like this. Krai 
smiled. No, the man would not life it at all. Krais blood burned with the 
spell, his flesh melting in the flames, his bones bowing and stretching like 
heated iron. Mother above! Bass screamed.
Krai fell from his shackles onto all fours, hands clubbing into paws, nails 
sharpening into claws. Fur sprouted thickly from his pores as his beard drew 
back into his cheeks and his jaw stretched open in a silent howl.
The guards were already fleeing.
Krai loped after them, his sense of smell guiding him more than his eyes now. 
Tangles of clothes slowed his pursuit until he used his teeth to rip loose the 
leathers and wools. As he ran, the transformation still continued. The muscles 
of his legs bunched and found new attachments on bone. His throat contracted, 
his larynx warped. He opened his muzzle and spoke with his new voice, announcing
the hunt.
The demon wolfs howl chased the guards down the hall.
Once again he was Legion.
The beast eyed its prey as the pair sped down the passage. It could smell the 
blood, hear the panicked beat of the two mens hearts. A thick tongue tested its 
fangs, sharp and aching to rip into flesh.
Then the wolf was upon the first of its prey, the pock-faced guard. The beast 
ran at the mans heels, and with a slash and a growl, it tore
out the mans hamstrings. The guard howled in pain and shock, tumbling to the 
hard stone. Bone cracked as he fell. Still Legion did not stop. It let the man 
writhe and moan, leaping over the fallen prey and pursuing the other. The beast 
knew its masters will. No word of warning must leave these halls, for Legion 
still had a greater quarry to flush from this place: a creature who shared his 
black magick, another illguard, but one who stood between Legion and the trail 
of his final prey, the witch child Elena.
The guard turned at the last moment, threatening with steel. But Legion in his 
wolf form feared nothing made of folds of metal. It leaped and impaled itself on 
the short blade. The man stumbled to the side, lunging away with his bloodied 
blade, a look of triumph and satisfaction on his face.
Legion ignored the savage wound as the magick repaired the rent tissues. 
Twisting, Legion burst toward the mans throat. Terror swelled in the preys 
eyes. Legions lips rose up in a wolfish smile, exposing a length of fangs. Then 
it was upon the man. Hot blood spurted and filled the demons hungry throat. A 
low cry escaped the guard as he died, thrashing weakly under the wolfs bulk. 
The lust to rip open the mans belly and feast on the tender organs inside had 
to be fought aside. Legion spun on a paw and returned to the other wounded prey.
No, please Mother, no! The pock-faced guard raised an arm across his face and 
screamed. Legion tore away the arm with one huge bite. Nothing would stand 
between it and the throat of its prey. The mans scream of pain and terror 
echoed up and down the passage. Legion did not worry as it ripped into the mans 
face. Here in the chambers of skinning knives and burning flesh, wailing was a 
common song.
As life fled the warm body, Legion pounced away. It bounded down the last of the 
passage and pawed open the latch to the door. Cautiously, it stalked into the 
empty guardroom, nose raised to the air. From somewhere distant, it caught the 
spoor of crow and black magicks.
It followed the scent.
The demon wolf was a flowing black shadow as it raced down the dim halls. 
Occasional lamps, set to a low flame, marked the passages, but otherwise the 
darkness was a cloak that Legion wore as it ran down the scent. Stairs flashed 
under its paws; it slinked past an open
chamber where the clanking of pots and shouted orders revealed that the 
mornings meal was well under way. It ignored the tantalizing scents. If it was 
to escape with the ogre and the shape-shifter, it could not have this craven 
illguard at its back. Besides, Legion remembered the paralyzing touch of the 
ravens beaks, and revenge honed the edges of its lusts.
In only a short time, the demon wolf wound its way through the garrison to the 
northeast corner. It sniffed at the bottom of the door. Spoor of bird. It had 
reached its prey. Ears pricked up at the faint sounds of snoring.
Legion tested the latch with a paw. Locked. In Port Rawl, no one slept behind an 
unbarred door, not even in the heart of the towns
garrison.
Raising up on its paws, Legion unleashed a howl that shook the very stones of 
the structure and dug at the hardwood door. From beyond the door, Legion heard 
its prey awaken with a startled snort. Further in the garrison, men awoke in 
cold sweats. The blackness of the deep forest had crept into their rooms.
The illguard beyond the door would recognize his masters voice in this 
howland could not refuse to answer it. Legion heard the approach of bare feet 
on stone. The door peeked open. One eye, then another, peered out.
Legion did not wait for an invitation. It burst through the door, throwing Lord 
Parak back on his scrawny bottom. Ravens and crows, perched all along the room, 
burst up in a black cloud of feathers and screeches.
Before the illguard lord could react, Legions teeth were at his throat. 
Finally, Lord Parak seemed to recognize his kindred spirit. No, the man 
moaned, we serve the same master.
As answer, a hungry growl escaped the demon wolfs throat. Then, with a howl 
that ripped through the halls of the garrison, Legion ripped out the throat of 
Lord Parak. For the first time, it feasted on the black blood of another 
illguard. As the blood flowed down its throat, so did the magick of its prey. 
Legion had thought its blood lust could know no greater depth than during a 
huntbut it was mistaken! The magick it consumed as teeth rended flesh and 
tendon made even a virgins blood seem but a pale drink. The arcane power flowed 
into Legion. It raised its muzzle from the ruined throat and wailed its lust 
from strong lungs.
Fire and pleasure ravaged Legion.
The wolfs limbs quaked under the onslaught as its blood absorbed the others 
magick. Mirroring this inner transformation, the cloud of ravens and crows 
descended upon the demon wolf. But instead of landing on Legions back, the 
flock dove into the flesh of the wolf, disappearing like hunting seabirds into 
the watery depths. And Legion knew this to be right. Just as its blood had 
absorbed the illguards magick, its flesh now consumed the others demons.
Legion howled a cry of power and hunger as its magick grew.
It now had an inkling of what it would be like to feast on the witch, to absorb 
her magick, too. With this thought, it bounded away and out into the halls. 
Nothing would stop it from tasting such an experience.
As it sped, all who heard its howl fell numb to the floor. The paralyzing magick 
of the other illguard was now Legions to employ. With such power, it was a 
simple thing to reach the storeroom and retrieve its masters talisman. Bloody 
teeth ripped the wolfhide from the axs blade and ended the spell. Its body 
flowed and twisted back into the naked form of a man.
Standing on bare feet on the cold stone, Krai grabbed one of the guards 
gold-and-black uniforms hanging in the storeroom. It fit poorly on his huge 
frame, but a cloak over his shoulders hid the worst of it. Among the pile of 
collected items were his companions bags, waiting to be searched with the 
morning light. Barefoot, Krai tossed the bags over one shoulder, then secured 
the ax to his belt. Satisfied, he fled the room.
Chaos ruled the halls of the garrison. Like an overturned anthill, men charged 
this way and that. One guard ran up to him. Grab a sword! Theres a pack of 
wolves loose here! Then the armsman was gone.
Krai marched through the roiling confusion.
He reached the hall of cells holding his imprisoned companions. Luckily, no 
guards had come to replace the two he had slain. He grabbed a key ring from a 
hook and crossed to the barred door.
Both Mogweed and Tolchuk were at the entrance, roused by the commotion. 
Mogweeds eyes grew wide when he recognized the huge guard crossing toward them. 
Krai!
The mountain man keyed the rusted lock and pulled open the door, freeing 
Tolchuk of his shackles.
The ogre lumbered out of the cell. How did you?
Nows not the time for tales, Krai said simply. Come, while the way still 
lies open. Krai passed Tolchuk his thigh pouch and Mogweed his cumbersome 
pack.
The ogre clawed open his satchel and, after delving deep inside, retrieved the 
chunk of heartstone hidden in an inner pocket. Tolchuk pulled it free. Its 
still here.
Luck is with us, Krai said. He nodded toward the ruby crystal. Are you sure 
that can lead us back to Elena?
Tolchuk raised the stone. Its faceted surface bloomed a deep inner rose. 
Tolchuk swung it slightly eastward; the stone flashed like a small ruby sun. 
Yes, the ogre said, pointing the way. The Heart will guide us to her.
Krai smiled, still tasting blood and magick in his throat. Good.
Then let the hunt begin.
JOACH FLEW BACK FROM THE SHIps RAIL, SCRAMBLING TO RAISE HIS
staff. He screamed for aid, his voice a howl on the morning breeze. Moris! 
Flint! Were under attack!
From beyond the boats edge, laughter answered his call. Protecting your sister 
again, I see. The smiling apparition rose from the sea, gliding smoothly atop a 
tower of solid water. Once high enough, the figure of Rockingham, the butcher 
and foul traitor, stepped over the rail and onto the deck. He wore a pair of 
brown leggings and a billowing linen shirt, open across the front. Down his pale 
chest, a jagged black scar could be seen in snatches as the wind tugged at his 
unbuttoned shirt.
Already, Moris was rushing to the boys side from the rear deck. He bore a long 
sword in one hand and a cudgel in the other. Behind the black-skinned Brother, 
near the stern, Flint was tying off the wheel, readying the ship for the battle 
to come. The scrabbling of claws could be heard climbing the sides of the boat, 
accompanied by hundreds of hissing goblin throats. The beasts were about to 
swarm the ship.
Joach stared into Rockinghams eyes. He sensed that this was the hand that led 
the legions of drakil, the fist that sought to destroy his sister. He raised 
the staff higher before him.
Rockingham eyed the length of poiwood, his brows momentarily crinkling in 
confusion. Isnt that Dismarums cane?
You mean your old masters staff? Yes, I defeated him, wresting
the weapon from his dead fingers, Joach said boldly, hoping his lie would worry 
the fiend, buy extra moments for the others to arm themselves. And now Ill 
defeat you. Joach whispered words of power to his staff, the spell dredged from 
the lands of dream. The staffs polished surface ignited with black flames.
Moris skidded to a halt beside Joach, adding his sword to the flaming defense of 
the Seaswift.
Rockingham ignored their threatening stances and greeted Moris with a calm nod. 
Beyond the demon, goblins clambered over the ships rail, hissing and thrashing, 
clearly waiting for a signal from their leader. Rockingham turned his attention 
back to Joach. That old darkmageDismarum, Greshym, or whatever you want to 
call himwas never my master. Let me show you my true lord.
Rockingham reached to his shirtfront just as Flint ran forward from the stern. 
Dont look! the old seaman hollered across the deck. But the warning came too 
late. Rockingham pulled back the drapes of his shirt to expose the ragged scar 
that split the center of his pale chest. As Joach stared, the wound opened like 
the mouth of a shark, lined by shards of broken ribs. From inside, an oily 
darkness flowed out of the mans chest, living tendrils of shadow. The stench of 
an open crypt followed. Here is my true master.
Behind this monster, the goblins had grown in number; claws dug at the deck, and 
spiked tails rattled like old bones. Still, the beasts held their wary ground, 
awed and fearful of the black magick.
Beware, Moris growled to Joach. The mans a golem. A hollow seed. It is only 
black magick that sustains his flesh.
Joach, his breath frozen in horror, coughed on the words of his spell. The black 
flames died on his staff. He now clutched only mere wood, little protection 
against the evil that pulsed from the core of Rockingham.
From up out of the depths of the open chest, howls of twisted spirits echoed 
forth, and from deeper still came the cold laughter of the torturer.
I was left moldering in the grave after the battle with the skal-tum in the 
highlands above Winterfell, Rockingham said. Left for dead. Until servants of 
the Black Heart clawed me from the cold dirt and gave me back my life.
It is not your life that was returned, Moris argued, his voice booming. It is 
a foul spirit that possesses you, hides the truth from you, and smothers your 
true spirit. Remember who you once were!
Joach saw Rockinghams left eye twitch slightly with Moris words. Remember 
what? Who do you think I was?
By now, Flint had reached them. Bearing an ax, he stood as a third against their 
enemy. The old sea-hardened Brother added his own words. We know your ilk. Long 
ago, before the Dark Lord claimed you, you were a suicide. Only from such sorry 
souls are golems forged. When you forsook your own life, you gave up the right 
to your body.
Moris lowered his blade slightly, his manner urgent and consoling. And the Dark 
Lord claimed what you discarded and enslaved it. But remember that other life! 
Remember the pain that drove you to such black depths that you would end your 
own life. Even the most dire magicks cant wipe away so sharp a memory. Look to 
your waking dreams. Remember!
Joach studied his adversary. He saw the man glancing inward, suspicious but 
searching for any truth in these two Brothers words. Joach scowled at him. 
What, besides black magicks, could be found inside this fiend? But something was 
foundJoach could see it in the mans face, muscles twitching as a war waged to 
dredge up a forgotten past.
Words tumbled from Rockinghams lips. I remember a dream a cliff with 
pounding surf someone hair the color of the sun at noon and lilacs no, the 
scent of honeysuckle, or something much like it His eyes grew suddenly wide, 
staring blind at the horizon. Fingers that held open his shirt lost their hold 
on the fabric. Even the wound began to close on the darkness. And a name 
Linora!
A harsh voice suddenly rose behind Joach, startling everyone. Yes, I remember 
that name, too, Rockingham. You screamed it out the last time we killed you. The 
time you betrayed us all.
Rockinghams eyes snapped back into focus. Erril! he hissed.
The swelling legion of goblins roared, echoing their masters anger. Behind 
Rockingham, the beasts hissed and thrashed, a mass of claws and poisoned tails, 
scrambling and piling atop one another in frustration.
Damn his timing, Flint muttered, glancing fire at Erril. Erril ignored the 
others, his eyes only on Rockingham. He stepped forward, his sword of magickal 
silver held in his one arm, his face a mask of red fury. We helped you escape 
the claws of the skaltum, and you repaid us with treachery! Whatever life you 
once livedfoul or fairit is now forfeit.
Bold words for someone who is going to finally die after five hundred winters. 
Rockingham ripped his shirt from his shoulders; his chest wound cracked wide 
open, a gaping maw from which
darkness spilled forth.
Joach stared transfixed into the flowing shadows. Deep in the core of the golem, 
crimson eyes stared back out at him, filled with balefire
and dread magicks.
Accompanied by the howl of goblins, the Black Heart had come
to watch the slaughter.
Elena stood bathed in light. Somewhere far off she heard shouting and the cries 
of strange beasts, but here was an island of peace and stillness. The faint 
tinkle of crystal chimes filled her ears and a scent not unlike spiced cloves 
swelled around her. Where was she? She had a hard time remembering how or why 
she stood here. She took a step cautiously forward. Hello! she called out into 
the brightness. Is anyone there?
Before her, a figure appeared; a woman draped in swirls of light coalesced into 
existence. Mycelle should have taught you better to watch your back, the 
figure scolded. The features of the woman solidified into a familiar stern 
expression.
Aunt Fila? Elena rushed forward, meaning to sweep her dead aunt up in her 
arms. But when she reached the apparition, her arms passed through her. 
Dismayed, Elena stepped back.
Aunt Fila raised a shimmering hand and brushed it along Elenas cheek. Only a 
soft warmth marked the passage of the ghostly fingers. You should not be here, 
child.
Elena glanced around her. In the past, through the use of a magickal amulet, 
Elena had occasionally been able to speak to the shade of her dead aunt. But 
what was happening now? Around her, the featureless world of blinding light 
eddied, revealing vague glimpses
into other lands and swirling images of other people. Snatches of conversation 
from far off whispered in her ears. Where am I? she finally asked.
Youve crossed the Bridge of Spirits, child. The goblins poisons drain your 
life. With death so near, your spirit can flow between the worlds of the living 
and the dead.
Am I going to die?
Aunt Fila was never one to pamper with falsehoods. Perhaps.
Tears rose in Elenas eyes, blurring her vision. But I have to save Alasea. 
She raised her palms to show Aunt Fila the twin ruby stains of power. But her 
hands were pale and white. Her power had vanished!
Youve spent all your magick sustaining your life, Aunt Fila explained. But 
fear not, child. Even here you can renew. Any light, even ghostly, can ignite 
the magick in you. Remember your ancestor Sisakofathere was a true reason she 
was named the witch of spirit and stone. But you must hurry. Aunt Fila again 
brushed Elenas cheek with her fingers, but this time, Elena actually felt her 
aunts hand. With your magick spent, death grows closer, and we grow closer 
together.
Elena stepped away, horrified.
You must renew, Elena. Hurry.
As Elena raised her right arm high, she prayed for the gift, wishing with all 
her spirit. Before her, Aunt Filas face began to grow clearer; small details 
Elena had forgottenthe small dimple on her aunts chin, the fine wrinkles at 
the corners of her eyesbegan to appear. Time was running out.
Elena stretched her arm fully up. Her hand vanished in a cool rush.
Hurry, child! From this light, a new magick will be born into the world. 
Sunlight brought you fire; moonlight brought you ice. Ghost-light will bring 
you
Elena lowered her arm; the spirit world vanished around her. She crashed back 
into a world filled with bloody screams and the cries of the dying. Raising her 
arm from where it rested on a blanket, she stared at her hand.
Her eyes grew wide with horror. Her own scream drowned out all the others: No!
J^ERIC HOBBLED ON HIS CRUTCH ACROSS THE EMPTY STOREROOM. The
others had all left to prepare their packs and mounts for the journey out of 
Port Rawl. His injuries, though healing, had left him of little use to the 
others as they hauled and packed various supplies from jvlama Fredas 
apothecary. Alone in the storeroom, he crossed to the bank of cages that housed 
the assortment of creatures the old healer
used in her arts.
Quickly, he opened the cage that housed a trillhawk. The birds bright green 
plumage marked it as a jungle bird, from lands far away, but Meric intended to 
send it even farther. The bird spread its wings threateningly and hissed at him 
as he reached toward it. But Meric sent a wisp of his elemental magick to twine 
around the wild creature. Reined by his magicks, the hawk calmed and mounted his
offered wrist.
With the bird in hand, Meric limped toward the small open window of the 
storeroom. He held the hawk up toward the window. As the bird perched, Meric 
worked his elemental magick on it. The elvin were masters of the air and all 
creatures of the wing. None could refuse the call of an elvin lord. The 
trillhawk cocked its head, listening as Meric instructed it.
Mycelle had related to Meric all that had befallen Elena and the others: the 
swamp journey, the battle with the blackguard dwarf, the downfall of Aloa 
Glen. It was clear the Dark Lord had dug his forces deeply into the sunken city, 
and any attempt to reach the Blood Diary would surely fail. How could the others 
even think of taking Elena into such danger?
Meric knew his duty. He would protect the girl, even if it meant the death of 
Alasea. Of what concern was it to his people if this land should fall? His 
people had long been banished. All that mattered was the mission his queen had 
sent him onto return the kings lost bloodline to his people. In this, he would 
not fail.
Go, he whispered to the hawk. Go to Stormhaven. Seek my queen. Let her know 
that time runs short. She must free her Thunderclouds and let loose her ships of 
war.
He tossed the hawk up through the window. With a screeching cry, it sailed on 
wide wings out into the sea breezes. Turning on a wing tip, it arced over the 
slate rooftops of Port Rawl and disappeared into the sun.
Meric followed its flight with his sky-blue eyes, his final words no more than 
an expelled breath. We must stop Elena.
With a rock-heavy heart, Tolchuk followed the others through the streets of 
Port Rawl as the morning sun climbed toward midday.
He had spent the entire night grieving for his mother. Like a candle, she had 
come so briefly to enlighten his empty life, only to be snuffed away before he 
could appreciate the warmth and true glow of family. But now was not the time 
for regret and melancholy. He hardened himself against the hollowness in his 
spirit and continued on the course set upon him by the ancients of his people. 
And the next step in his sworn duty was to escape this foul city. Hed had 
enough of its stink and the wretched souls that slinked through its oily 
shadows.
Cloaked in the black-and-gold colors of the citys watch, the ogre hunkered 
down to disguise his size and keep his face hidden as he traversed the streets. 
But in such a corrupt city, Tolchuk doubted that even the monstrous presence of 
a highland ogre would warrant more of a reaction than a cautious appraisal of 
the price for his skinned hide.
Krai led the party, keeping his ax well displayed. Mogweed clung to Tolchuks 
shadow like a mouse beside a bull. After a bit, Krai stopped at an intersection 
of two narrow streets and glared in all directions. The roads here were 
wagon-rutted mud tracks, thick with horse dung and refuse from the houses to 
either side. Overhead, a few sullen women leaned on elbows out of second-story 
windows.
One of the women spat at Krai. Her aim was good. He wiped his cheek with the 
edge of his cloak. Get your arses away from here, she said boldly. We dont 
need no watch breathing down our backs. We paid our tithes this past moon. So be 
gone from our stoop.
Tolchuk pulled his cloak farther over his head. The watch, it seemed, was 
poorly thought of by its people.
Krai ignored the commotion, glancing back to Tolchuk. I dont think were far 
from the southern gate. But doubt weakened his voice.
Mogweed crept warily forward, his eyes constantly darting toward the openings to 
dark alleys and the women above. What
r
about my brother? he asked. Fardale must be still with the
horses.
I know, Krai said. My own mount, Rorshaf, is stabled at the same inn. But the 
garrison is already in a fierce uproar. We were lucky to escape in the chaos. It 
wont take long for someone to order the citys gates locked down and a search 
for the escaped slaves to begin. We must be gone before that happens.
But Fardale ?
Hes a wolf. At night, itll be a simple thing for him to escape on his own. He 
knows where Elena hides and can easily return to her side. For all we know, he 
may already have run off after we were
captured.
Tolchuk placed a clawed hand on Mogweeds shoulders. I know you fear for your 
brother, but Krai be right. A wolf alone will attract
less attention.
Mogweed slipped from under Tolchuks grip with a sour grumble and simply waved 
Krai onward, but the mountain man had already turned back to the road. He stood, 
scratching his head, clearly unsure which crossroad to take.
Just then, a bent-backed old crone using a crooked cane angled around the 
corner, almost running flat into Krais wide chest. She backed a step, wiping a 
few stray gray hairs to glance surreptitiously at what blocked her way forward.
Scowling, she waved her cane in Krais general direction. Get outta my way, you 
big oaf.
Krai stood his ground against the meager threat. Grandmother, he said 
politely, I would gladly step aside if youd be so kind as to point us toward 
the southern gate.
Leaving the city, are you? She cocked her head like a wary bird, eying 
Tolchuk, then Mogweed. She swung toward the left and shambled in that 
direction. I know a shortcut. Ill show you, but on the condition that you 
large gentlemen keep me company. Ive a daughter and son-in-law who live out 
that way and was meaning to visit them anyways.
Krai studied her slow-moving form. Really, we just need the directions. If you 
could
Tolchuk nudged the mountain mans elbow. Traveling with the old woman will 
give us some camouflage, he whispered. They wont be looking for an old woman 
and her guards.
Krai sighed, puffing out his beard, but followed after the womans bent back. 
She doddered slowly down the street. Maybe you could carry her, the mountain 
man mumbled through his beard at Tolchuk.
I heard that! the old woman cackled without looking back. Just cause my eyes 
are thick with the cataract, dont think my ears arent keen. And my two old 
legs have lasted near on to a century. Theyll get me to the gates.
The group drudged onward, keeping company with the thin-boned old crone, who 
whistled as she marched through the back-streets, grinning back at them 
occasionally with a mouth barren of all but a few teeth.
Tolchuk eyed the woman. He suspected she little needed their strength of arms; 
as old and worn as she was, even the most cunning pirate in the city would have 
a hard time finding any value in her frail figure. He supposed she just enjoyed 
their company, someone to chatter with and nod at as if they were all old 
friends.
If you like candied swampweed and kaffee, she commented to Mogweed as he 
shambled next to her, theres a shop not far from here. We could stop for a 
rest.
No, thank you, Mogweed said.
We really must reach the gates, Krai added, his impatience beginning to show 
on his stony features.
Oh, its not far, not far at all, she mumbled. She turned another corner into 
a further maze of narrow streets, still whistling.
Here the shabby homes were stacked high and close together. To add to the sense 
of confinement, the foundations of the surrounding buildings were so rotted by 
age and salt that some of the homes leaned forward as if studying them as they 
passed, while others rested against neighboring structures like drunken men 
wandering home. Krai grumbled.
By now, the old woman had so entangled them among these ramshackle homes that 
Tolchuk guessed the mountain man was as thoroughly lost as himself. Do you 
know the way to the gate from here? he whispered hoarsely to Krai.
I could find my way out of here eventually. The mountain man kept a wary 
watch on doorways and side streets, expecting an ambush at any moment.
Soon the sun glared down from directly overhead, and the morn-
ings co^ breezes died away. Yet the groups path still lay entangled in the 
labyrinth of backstreets. Krai kept clutching at his ax, first with one hand, 
then the other. The heat of the afternoon reminded them all that summer still 
reigned here in the filth and stench of Port Rawls alleys. The reek of spoiled 
fish competed with the stench of human waste, as if countless winters had passed 
since a breath of clean air had freshened these streets.
Enough! Krai finally barked, stopping them all. The old woman leaned heavily 
on her cane as she swung around. What? she said irritably.
I thought you said you knew a shortcut to the gate? The crone sighed loudly. 
If you want to avoid the eyes of the watchmen, this is the shortest route.
Tolchuks scraggled brows rose higher up his forehead. This woman knew more 
than she let on.
She continued before anyone could say a word. You come prancing in ill-fitting 
garb of the watch, yet dont know the route to the citys gate? Do you think me 
a fool? I heard about the commotion at the garrison, and I suspect youre all 
involved in that mess.
Old woman, Krai said, the kindliness gone from his voice, if
you seek to betray us
Betray you? If it wasnt for me, you all wouldve been recaptured by the watch 
by now. The town is riddled with those who wouldve sold you back to them 
cutpurses for a single dull copper. And what do I get as payment for my 
troubles? She scowled at them all. A
rude tongue and threats.
Tolchuk stepped forward. Excuse us. We be indebted to you and mean you no 
disrespect. But it be urgent we leave this city.
She snorted at his words and swung around. Then come, she said and sidled 
around the next corner.
They all followed her. As Tolchuk rounded the dilapidated building that housed 
a cobblers shop, he stumbled in shock. The towering Swampwall lay only a 
stones throw away, and its gate lay open. Were here, Krai said, amazed.
The old woman kept urging them on with a wave of her hand as she hobbled onward. 
If you mean to escape, quit gawking and get
walking.
They continued after her. The old woman seemed to sense their growing urgency as 
their goal was in sight. Though Tolchuk was
stepping quickly to close the gap to the gate, with Krai and Mogweed marching 
briskly beside him, the crone kept well ahead of them.
She was the first to reach the gate and nod to the gatekeeper atop the walls 
walk. The sandy-haired lad who manned the gates wheel barely paid her any 
attention, his eyes toward the center of town. Have you heard any word? he 
asked as Krai approached, his young eager eyes full of excitement. Whats 
happened at the garrison?
Dressed in the black and the gold, Tolchuk realized the gatekeeper must think 
them fellow watchmen. Krai answered the youth. Thats none of your concern. 
Keep your eyes on your duty.
A deep-throated horn suddenly echoed up from town, its mournful tones resounding 
eerily off the nearby bay. Three long notes stretched over the citys shingled 
roofs. Thems the signal to lock down the city, the young man said with 
amazement. He turned excited eyes to the trio. Do you think its another of 
those cursed boats come to plague the docks?
Krai spat a curse at the boy. Just mind your own post. Were to check the lay 
of the land south of here. You just lock those gates after us and let no oneand 
I mean no one-past your post.
Yes, sir! The lad saluted smartly and went to his gates wheel.
Tolchuk kept his cloak drawn fully over his form as he passed under the walk 
and through the tunnel in the wall. The others were at his heels. Beyond the 
gate, the old woman still waited for them, leaning on her cane. Tolchuk 
scrunched up his features and came closer. Should you not be getting back into 
the city before youre locked out?
Behind him, Tolchuk already heard the winches and pulleys lowering the iron 
gate to the city.
The old woman shrugged and hobbled away from him, aiming toward the line of 
coastal woods in the near distance. Tolchuk found himself following her as he 
had done all morning.
Krai joined him. Just where in the Sweet Mother does that old crone think shes 
going?
As they chased after her, the womans pace increased. Near the edge of the wood, 
she tossed aside her cane; her back seemed to straighten with each step. She 
seemed to grow taller, broader in shoulder, as if the years had melted off her 
crooked figure and returned her lost youth.
I dont like this, Mogweed muttered, fear bright in his eyes.
Once under the eaves of the trees, the old woman turned iuw<n. them, now 
standing tall and straight. She tossed back her drab shawl and shook out lengths 
of hair that shone the color of spun gold in the patches of sunlight. Other 
figures moved in the shadows of the wood behind her. Near her heels, a large 
dogno, a wolfclimbed around the bole of a thick cypress and sat on his 
haunches by the womans
heels.
Tolchuk stepped closer. It cant be, Mogweed said, stunned. Krai echoed his 
words. Impossible.
Tolchuk took another shaky step forward. Surely this was some cruel trick, a 
phantom come to torment him.
Standing under the green branches of the cypress was no longer the bent-backed 
crone but Mycelle, beaming broadly toward her son. She raised her arms toward 
him. Her eyes shone amber in the
shadows.
Words formed in Tolchuks head. Come, my son. See your true
heritage.
Mother? he said aloud and stumbled toward her. Mycelle sighed, the glow in her 
eyes dimming. She switched back to normal speech, a smile still playing about 
her lips. Oh, just come over here, Tolchuk, and give me a hug.
With the sounds of battle echoing down through the ship, Elena stared at her 
right hand, her eyes wide with horror. Instead of the usual deep ruby stain, her 
fingers and palms swirled and glowed with a soft rosy azure, but the pale hue 
was not what disturbed her. What clutched her heart with an icy grip was how 
insubstantial her hand now appeared. Instead of stained flesh, her hand was 
translucent. She could see through her palm to the antique sextant hanging on 
the far wall. It was as if her hand were that of a ghost.
Witch of spirit and stone, she mumbled, remembering Aunt Filas words. As 
ethereal as her flesh appeared, Elena sensed the magick pent up in her glassy 
skin. It sang and thrummed as strong as any magick born of sun or moon. But what 
aspect did this new
magick bear?
As her hearts beating slowed slightly, the echoing screams and bloody cries 
reached her ears. She heard Errils commanding voice
shout orders, but his words were too muffled by the ships wood to be 
discernible. Were they still fighting the drakil? She reached and fingered the 
wrap around her belly, suddenly remembering the thrust of the goblins spike and 
the burn of poison. She somehow sensed that its venoms had finally been 
vanquished from her body.
Elena pushed up.
Through a porthole to the side, the sun now shined brightly. Had the fight raged 
all night? She slipped to her feet and stood shakily, still weak from the 
residual effects of the venom.
She leaned on a wall and crossed to the porthole. Beyond the glass lay only the 
empty seas. In the far distance, she spotted a few islands dotting the horizons. 
They were no longer docked but were sailing through the Archipelago!
The din of battle rattled down to her.
Weak or not, she had to help. Elena stared at her ghostly hand. Not 
understanding this new magick, she feared touching it. But with the sun this 
bright, she could always renew the power of witch fire in her other hand and 
chase the foul creatures from the ships decks with flames.
She raised her left hand and placed it upon the coarse glass of the porthole. 
Sunlight streamed past her white fingers. She willed the gift of fire, praying 
to the Mother above for power. Her eyelids sank slightly as she opened herself 
to the rite of renewal.
Standing still as stone, she waitedbut nothing happened.
Elenas eyes widened. Her left hand still lay on the porthole in the glare of 
the sun, as pale as ever. Frowning, she concentrated. In the past, her mere 
desire was all that had been necessary to ignite the transformation, to fill her 
with power. Tears began to well. Desperation began to creep into her chest. She 
had never wanted to renew more than she did right now, so why wasnt it 
happening?
She continued to wait. Still nothing. The battle raged on overhead; the hissing 
grew louder in her ears. She could delay no longer.
Turning away, she lowered her arm and again studied the eddying swirls of rosy 
light that outlined her ghost hand. She balled her fingers into a fist. It felt 
like normal flesh. But if she cut herself what magick would be unleashed?
With a shake of her head, she thrust her arm away. There was only one way to 
find out. She crossed to the door. With a hard swallow, she swung the latch free 
and creaked open the old hinges. The
cries of battle swelled around her like a visible presence. The reek ot blood 
and fear struck her senses like a cold wind. She heard the mad laughter of 
someone from just up ahead. What was happening?
Darting into the passage, she quickly ducked through a door to the left and 
entered her own cabin. She crossed to her pack of personal items and snatched 
out her witchs dagger. The silver blade shone in the splinter of sunlight 
lancing from this cabins porthole. Whatever magick she bore, she would practice 
it upon the goblins.
Swinging around, she caught a glimpse of herself in a small looking glass 
hanging from a nail in the wall. She gasped and stopped. It was as if her 
clothes, even the dagger, floated across the room on their own. She raised the 
knife higher. It just floated before the mirror. No hand bore it aloft. She 
leaned closer to the looking glass and traced her cheek with the tip of her 
blade. In the mirror, the dagger just floated before empty air.
She stood straighter, touching her face and staring at her hands. To her, she 
seemed ordinary flesh, but her form did not reflect in the glass. It was as if 
she had become a true spirit. Witch of spirit and stone, she repeated in a 
whisper. Was this an aspect of her new magick? Did it grant her the ability to 
move unseen?
She remembered her inability to renew a moment before. It took sunlight upon her 
skin to ignite the power. Had the renewal failed because her flesh had become 
invisible to the sun?
The implications of such a gift were clear. She shed her clothes and used the 
dagger to free the bandages from around her waist. She stood naked now, but her 
bare skin no longer reflected in the looking glass. Only the dagger floated in 
the mirror, gripped in the ghostly
fingers of her right hand.
She tightened her hold on the hilt of the blade and touched this new magick in 
her heart, letting it roll through her being, testing it, tasting it like a fine 
wine on her tongue. She let it build in her clenched fingers. Not too fast. She 
would not let it rule her. As the magicks swelled, the rosy light burst out from 
her fist, swallowing the dagger in its cold light. As Elena stared, the image of 
the blade slowly faded away in the mirror, consumed by her magick.
In the looking glass, the cabin now appeared empty. At her feet, her clothes lay 
crumpled on the floor, like the discarded shell of a newly hatched chick. Elena 
stepped free of the clutter.
A cold smile of the witch formed on her lips. She did not fight it.
She would not deny that part of her spirit. Like everyone, she had a dark side 
that lusted for power; hers sought to unleash the wild mag-ick without 
restraints. She named this dark side witch, and it was as much a part of her as 
the woman who tempered and controlled these lusts. Elena had learned that to 
deny the two sides of her heart&#9632; witch and womanonly gave the darkness in her 
more power. So she let the energies in her blood sing while holding a tight 
rein.
As she reached toward the door to her cabin, the chorus of raw magick cried to 
be unleashed, screamed for her to use her ghost blade to puncture her skin and 
let it rip into the world.
Not yet, she answered their cries. It was easy to ignore their callfor a 
quieter voice had caught Elenas attention.
In her ears, the whisper of the witch held her enthralled.
Elena listened, but only one word was heard: ghostfire.
As Erril crouched, his clothes and skin torn from count-less claws, he studied 
the wall of goblins before him. His silver blade ran red with blood as he raised 
its tip for the hundredth time, awaiting the next assault. He and the others 
guarded the square of deck in front of the demolished hatch to the lower cabins. 
None must pass to
the girl below.
How many of these friggin beasts are there? Flint complained, breathing hard 
between clenched teeth. For every one we cut down, two more pile over the rail 
to swell their ranks.
Keep alert, Erril grumbled back, but he was tiring, too. He now regretted not 
retrieving the iron ward from his bags when he had rushed to the deck from 
Elenas bedside. He could have used the extra strength of his phantom arm. He 
eyed the others, judging
their exhaustion.
Flint and Moris guarded his right flank while the boy Joach proved that even 
black magick had its uses. His staff had spouted jets of dire energies, holding 
back the horde from Errils other flank. Occasional wails and the reek of 
charred flesh had marked the
boys post.
My staff is losing power, Joach said, his face pale, his voice frightened. I 
dont know how much longer I can keep the magick
flowing.
Erril nodded. Do your best. Once the magick is spent, get down below and guard 
over your sister. With narrowed eyes, Erril kept watch on the legion before 
him. For the brief moment, the battle had
ebbed away as the goblins regrouped, some dragging their dead and wounded 
brethren from underfoot and tossing them overboard. Around the boat circled 
hundreds of shark fins, drawn by the meat and blood.
Errils chest ached, and sweat drenched his frame, slicking his grip on the 
swords hilt. A glance at the others revealed they fared no better. The sun had 
risen close to midday, and the cool morning had warmed to a moist heat, further 
sapping their strength. It would not be long before the endless drakil horde 
overwhelmed them. Erril used the back of his wrist to wipe blood from his 
cheekmostly drakil blood. But for how long? Even if they withstood the drakil 
army, beyond the press of cold goblin flesh stood their true adversary.
Rockingham leaned on the mast of the mainsail. Bare chested, his gaping wound 
seeped black shadows, and a pair of feral crimson eyes stared back at their 
group from the hollow golem. Erril shied from that gaze; it seemed to sap his 
will and darken his own vision. By now, Erril suspected the demons true 
strategy here. He wasted the lives of these drakil. The demon did not truly 
expect this horde to succeed but simply used the beasts to wear the defenders 
down, to weaken their strength and resolve.
Erril stared at their true enemy. The fiery eyes seemed to be laughing at him. 
The demon knew Erril understood the situation. But what could the plainsman do? 
Even if the drakil were mere fodder to erode the groups defenses, Erril could 
not stay his sword. He would slay the entire drakil tribe to protect Elena.
The hissing among the goblins rose to a fevered pitcha signal for their next 
attack. Upon the deck massed a force larger than any so far. Erril suspected 
this would be the final volley. They would stand or fall on this moment.
Ready yourselves, men, Erril commanded.
A massive goblin wielding a poisoned spike on its tail stalked out from the 
writhing pile. The creature bore bands of polished coral around its upper arms 
and a circlet of woven pearls around its crown. It also held a long spear tipped 
with a filed sharks tooth. Clearly, here stood one of the beasts leaders. Its 
tail slashed and writhed; garbled sounds choked from its throat.
May I introduce you to the goblin queen? Rockingham called over the hissing of 
the others. She is explaining how you all will be
meat to feed her children, and how shell use the skull and leg bones of the 
witch as a drum to sound her victory to all the other goblin clans.
At least our corpses wont be wasted, Flint mumbled.
In a final signal to her army, the she-goblin shook her spear above her head and 
screamed in bloody rage.
Erril tensed his legs, sword poised for the assault to come.
Then the she-goblins wail suddenly cut off, as if sliced from the air 
itselfwhich as Erril stared, he realized was true. The queens neck, which had 
been stretched taut as she howled, now opened in a wicked gash. It appeared like 
a bloody smile, spilling forth her life blood.
The huge beast stood quivering, all eyes upon her, then toppled to
the deck.
A hush descended over both sides. Only the cries of hungry gulls fighting for 
scraps disturbed the stillness. What had happened? Erril glanced at Joach, who 
shook his head. It had been no magick from his staff.
Beyond the spreading pool of black blood, the drakil force stood frozen, 
stunned by the sudden death of their queen. Even Rockingham stood straighter, 
his eyes crinkled with suspicion. Deep in the chest of the golem, the crimson 
eyes flared brighter, as if the being there disbelieved what it saw. Shadows 
poured thickly from the ragged wound, spilling in a growing lake around the 
golems feet.
Elena stood over the corpse of the goblin queen. In her shaking hand, she 
clutched her dagger; its rose hilt dripped blood onto the deck as her whole body 
tremored.
The goblin queen had been the first creature she had ever slain by her own hand. 
In the past, she had destroyed foul beasts of the Dark Lord with her magick, but 
this battle had been different. There had been no thrust of witch fire, 
coldfire, or stormfireit had been simple butchery.
A moment ago, Elena had slipped past Erril and the others and simply walked up 
to the goblin queen. She had stood with her silver dagger raised, staring into 
the furious eyes of the beast. It took no skill, no dance of blades nor art of 
magick. As the goblin wailed,
Elena had merely reached forward and slashed the beasts throat. Only the hot 
blood spraying her arm and face had marked the murder.
Elena stared now at the crumpled form of the slain creature.
As the beast garbled its last breath, one of its clawed hands clutched at its 
belly. Only now did Elena see a characteristic swelling there.
The goblin queen was with child!
Oh, Sweet Mother, what had she done? In one fell stroke, she had murdered both 
mother and innocent child. What was she becoming? Elena swung away, facing her 
guardians. She held out the dagger toward Erril, silently begging him to take 
it from her. But no one saw her. All their gazes were still fixed on the 
crumpled form of the goblin queen.
Her legs began to tremble. Her magick sang louder in her ears, drowning all else 
out. Shock at what she had done quickly weakened the tenuous hold she had on her 
magick. Taking advantage of her weakness, the witch in her broke free of its 
shackles and swept through her blood. Elena could not resist the darkness in her 
spirit, her will too shaken by the murder. And deep inside, a part of her did 
not even want to fight it.
Elena fell to her knees in the pool of goblins blood and opened herself to the 
witch, letting that icy part of her spirit soothe her hot shame and guilt.
Free at last, the witch rejoiced, and uncontrolled laughter burst from Elenas 
lipsa mixture of lust, horror, and madness. The thin line between woman and 
witch blurred. Elena found herself rising to her feet. The wicked glee poured 
forth from her throat, as the lifes blood had flowed from the slashed throat of 
the she-goblin.
Elena struggled to add as much of her own voice to this outburst as she could. 
She cried her horror and regret, her loss and her pain; she screamed for someone 
to take this all from her. But her voice was but a whisper before a gale. The 
delight of the witch bubbled forth from her heart, singing of release and the 
glory of power.
Elena could not stop it.
She watched her left hand take the dagger and prepare to slice the palm that 
glowed a deep rosy azure. The witch meant to let loose the magick pent up in 
her hand, to free the ghostfire in her blood and let it run wild over the ship.
No, Elena moaned, that must not happen! Hiding in her heart, Elena was not so 
lost to her grief and sorrow that she had forgotten the others who were still on 
board: Erril, Joach, Flint, and Moris. They would all be slain!
Elena fought against the witch. The dagger trembled in her hand. But it was 
like fighting against a raging river. She could make no headway as she was 
buffeted back by the strong currents now racing in her blood. The witch refused 
to relinquish control.
Throughout her inner battle, mad laughter flowed out from her throat. Behind the 
glee, no one heard Elenas cry for help.
Whats happening? Flint asked.
Im not sure, Erril said, keeping an eye on the goblin horde. A moment ago, 
he and the others had faced the beasts over the slain body of their queen, both 
sides clearly baffled. No one had moved; no one had dared speak.
Then, wicked laughter had suddenly erupted into the tense silence from the 
center of the deckfirst softly, then more feverishly. It now echoed off the 
sails and water. The quality of the voice spoke of madness and something 
moresomething hungry.
The drakil horde squirmed and hissed, unsure of this strange phenomenon. A few 
goblins sniffed at the air. Then a handful of the beasts fledand that was all 
it took. Soon the whole army retreated, writhing over one another, claws 
scrabbling at the deck. The splashes of fleeing drakils sounded from all around 
the boat.
Erril and the others kept their posts. Though the laughter raised the hairs on 
the plainsmans arm and tortured his ears, he knew the battle was not over. 
Rockingham, and the demon spirit he carried, still stood by the mast of the 
mainsail. Like a raging flood over a rock, the goblins fled past the golem.
Still, it was not the presence of Rockingham that kept Erril from moving. For 
just the briefest moment, he thought he had recognized a certain lilt to the 
disembodied voice.
Joach, go check on your sister, he ordered quickly. But The boys eyes 
remained fixed on the fleeing goblins. Erril elbowed the boy toward the damaged 
hatch. Get below! Joach hesitated, then dodged through the doorway, his heels 
flying
down the wooden steps. Erril listened to the wicked laughter, his eyes 
narrowed. The maddening glee bubbled over the ship, seeming to rise from the 
wood itself.
What is that? Flint asked.
Erril swallowed hard but remained silent.
By now, only the goblin dead still remained atop the deck. Even the direly 
wounded drakils had dragged themselves overboard, taking their chances among 
the sharks rather than risk the wrath of the ghost who had slain their queen.
Amid the laughter, Elena continued to battle the witch, struggling to wrest 
control of the wild magicks. The point of the dagger now scraped against the 
flesh of her palm. Elena fought savagely.
Around her, the goblins had seemed to sense the menace about to be unleashed and 
had fled in all directions, leaving the deck empty except for the dead.
Elena struggled harder. With the drakils gone, there was no need to free her 
magicks. The deaths of her companions would be for nothing.
Still, Elena could not stop what was about to happen. Mad laughter poured 
uncontrolled from her throat.
Elena searched for helpand found it in the most unlikely place.
Across the deck, standing by one of the masts, stood a figure she had barely 
noticed among the press of goblins. Black magicks surrounded him like a foggy 
mist. With the deck now clear, she had a better view of him. At first, Elenas 
eyes grew wide with slow recognition; then her lids narrowed with hatred.
It could not be! Yet, there was no denying it. Rockingham!
A fire in Elenas belly that had long gone to ash flamed anew. He still lived! A 
scream of rage escaped her heart, bursting through her blood.
The laughter of the witch suddenly died in her throat as the woman in her 
flamed up with hate and fury. Witch and woman were no longer blurredno longer 
fought. The twin sides of her spirit fused in the fiery forge of her rage.
Silence descended upon the deck. With the dagger still poised above her palm, 
Elena once again had control of her limbs, but now
the coldness of the witch was not something to be resisted, but embraced.
The murderer would not escape her again.
She dug the point of her dagger into her palm.
The laughter died as quickly as it had come.
Erril strained for any hint of the mad glee, but the ship was dead silent. Even 
the gulls had fled. Nothing stirred, not even the sails. The winds themselves 
seemed to be avoiding the ship.
The two partiesRockingham and the witchs guardiansstared at each other 
across the corpse-strewn deck.
Rockingham had not moved. He still stood steadfast in a spreading pool of 
shadows, a smirk on his face. Now that all that foolishness is done, he said 
casually, maybe we can get back to the matter of the witch. Rockingham 
stretched his arms out wide, his eyes flaring to match the crimson glow in his 
chest. The golem was being possessed by its master. Its voice became ancient 
ice. Enough play. Now its time to die.
Through the jagged tear in its chest, shadows rolled like oily thunderclouds 
from some black well. But instead of thunder, the screams of tortured spirits 
and the howl of demons accompanied this storm front. Out of these clouds, 
snaking ropes of darkness spread in all directionsnot toward Erril or the 
others, but toward the dozens of dead goblins strewn on the deck.
Where these tendrils of shadow touched cold skin, the corpses convulsed, as if 
repulsed by the black caresses. Then all across the ships deck, goblin flesh 
sank to bone, the darkness sucking the very substance from the corpses. In only 
a few heartbeats, all that was left of the goblins were leathery skeletons, all 
knobbed joints and poking bone. With their flesh winnowed away, their teeth and 
claws seemed more prominent, shining bone-white in the sunlight.
But soon it was clear that what appeared as illusion was in fact real.
The fangs grew longer on the shadow-touched dead. Daggered claws stretched into 
sickles longer than a mans forearms. Soon the beasts were nothing but teeth and 
claws connected by leathery bone.
Now what? Flint asked in a hushed voice.
Moris answered, his voice deep with doom. Ive read of these
creatures. The golem creates raversdemons of the underworld who inhabit dead 
flesh to hunt the living.
How do we fight them? Erril asked.
Moris only shook his head.
The sound of footsteps behind them interrupted their words. Joachs frightened 
face appeared in the shadowed doorway. Elena Shes gone! he said, his cheeks 
red with panic. I found her clothes and and this! Joach held forth a handful 
of bloody bandages.
Erril took a deep breath, his fist closing tight on his sword hilt. So he had 
not imagined the familiar lilt in the mad laughter. Elena
Before them, the fanged beasts rose up on razored claws, like huge spiders of 
teeth and horn. They chattered at Erril, the noise like a jagged knife dragged 
up his spine. Eyes stared at him, hollow sockets that glowed a sickly yellow, as 
if glowing fungus filled their skulls.
But Erril knew the demons were the least of his worries.
Elena, he mumbled to the empty air, what have you done?
Holding her bloody right fist clenched to her chest, Elena crouched and watched 
as the snaking shadows spread out from the core of Rockinghams chest. Before 
her, the flesh of the goblj queen had withered to leathery bones, claws and 
teeth sprouting like weeds in a barren field. Beyond it, others took form.
Ravers, she had heard Moris name these creatures.
The corpse of the goblin queen grew to be the largest of these foul demons, its 
fangs dragging on the deck. Now, with its possession complete, the raver lifted 
its head. Baleful yellow eyes sought the life essence of its prey. All across 
the deck, its foul brethren rose arid scrambled to flank this huge monster. 
While the others chattered and hissed, the raver who inhabited the goblin queen 
remained as still as a cold grave.
Elena sensed that here stood the leader of this pack; the goblin queen had been 
possessed by the ravers king. This largest of the demons raised its hungry eyes 
and stared straight at Elena.
It somehow was able to see her.
Good, Elena thought. Let the demon see who was about to tear its spirit to 
shreds and feast on its energies.
Elena thrust out her fist and slowly opened it, exposing the bloody
slice across the palm of her right hand. Silver flames rose from the wound, as 
if her blood were afire. Dancing like whirlwinds, the flames spread up her arm 
and over her naked skin. Elena somehow knew this fire would burn away her spell 
of invisibility, but she was
past caring.
She heard gasps from the guardians behind her and ignored them.
The witch in her smiled at the raver king, stretching Elenas lips into the 
wicked rictus of a naked skull.
Let demon fight demon.
Erril watched the fiery apparition materialize between him and the gathered 
raver demons. First a silvery flame, the size of a small torch, blew into 
existence, floating waist-high above the deck. Then from this seed of flame, the 
blaze billowed out in sheets and runnels, growing into a pyre of silvery fire.
Get back, Flint yelled, urging them all toward the hatch. Only Erril refused 
to budge. He stood before the growing conflagration, his sword raised. Unlike 
Flint, Erril knew this was not a new manifestation of black magick, but 
something something else.
As the others gathered behind him, the flames flared higher. Silver and azure 
hues writhed in the wild blaze. Then, from the heart of the inferno, a figure 
was born. She stepped forth from the flames naked as any squalling infant; yet 
this was no newborn babe, but a woman of stark beauty. And it was no cry that 
issued from her lips, but wild laughter.
Errils skin prickled at the mad sound. It ate at his mind, worming like 
maggots into his skull. He retreated a step, instinct urging him to flee. But 
instead he tightened his grip on his swords hilt and held his ground. He knew 
that what stalked from these flames was not entirely of this world, but 
something from the darkness between the stars. Yet, as foreign and strange as 
the figure seemed, Errils heart recognized the woman behind the savage magick 
and feral
laughter.
He spoke her name. Elena.
The woman glanced fleetingly toward him. Flames still trickled across her naked 
skin as she stepped fully from the conflagration. Once free of the blaze, the 
fire that gave birth to the woman died
JAMES LLEMENS
away, sucked back into the void from which it came. Now only the woman remained 
on the deck, naked except for traceries of fire running like oil across her 
skin.
Erril found his eyes meeting her gaze. What stood before him was not Elena, at 
least not entirely. The contours of her body, though familiar, now seemed carved 
of pale moonstone, as if the figure were only a sculpture of the girl he once 
knew. But what dwelt inside her now?
As their gazes locked and the wild laughter died away, Erril saw his answer. He 
gasped and stumbled back. It was as if he were staring into a maelstrom of wild 
energies, a storm of such ferocity that it threatened to burn the very spirit 
from his flesh. But that was not the worst, not what squeezed a gasp from his 
chest. He now spied what sat in the center of this vortex of magicks. It was no 
demonic intelligence that guided these colossal forces. // was only Elena. 
Child, what have you done? he moaned.
Stand back, Erril, she commanded him, her words echoing with both human rage 
and a power as immense as the flow of tides. This is my fight. She swung away 
to face the ravers. No! Leave them! This is not the way!
She ignored him. Her flames flared higher as she faced the demons.
Whats going on? Flint said near his ear.
Errils brows darkened like thunderclouds. The witch in Elena has broken its 
chains. It now runs wild in her blood.
Joach pushed up closer, his staff still in hand. What does that mean?
It means Elena has given part of her spirit over to the witch. A part of her 
is now a force as strong and wild as any cyclone and with as little heart.
As if to demonstrate his words, Elenas form blew forth with silvery flames, 
driving away the raver pack except for the largest of its foul ilk, which still 
stood with its claws dug deep into the storm-hardened wood. As Elena approached, 
its yellow eyes did not reflect the witchs flames but seemed to consume them. 
Finally, the monstrous raver beast raised its leathery head and screamed at the 
witch.
Elena met its challenge with her own wild laughter.
Beyond them both, Rockingham stood with the raver demons capering about his 
shadowed feet. A smile of victory etched his lips.
I
Erril knew why the monster smiled. Even if Elena defeated the Dark Lords 
beasts, a small victory had already been achieved. A fraction of the girls 
spirit had died today, not killed by the drakils poison but given freely to a 
force that did not belong to this world.
Elena was no longer fully human.
Erril felt ice settle around his heart. If the witch ever wrested full 
control, all would be lost. Elena would become as dark and heartless a creature 
as the Black Beast himself. Erril raised his sword.
Moris stepped beside Erril. She balances on a thin wire, the dark-skinned 
Brother warned. If she does not rein in her magick soon
Erril only nodded, his eyes still on Rockinghams gloating smile. He suddenly 
understood the true ploy here. He now understood why Rockingham had been dragged 
out of his moldering grave and back into the world of the living. Just as the 
Dark Lord had used the drakils to wear the men down, now he used the visage of 
her parents murderer to strike where Elena was most weakat her spirit, at her 
heart.
The Dark Lord meant to goad Elena into a blind fury, forcing her to touch such 
titanic forces that she would be consumed by her own passion, leaving only a 
burned-out husk of a girlsomeone filled with magick but no longer tempered by 
human emotion.
Erril knew what he must do. He waved the others toward him as he circled around 
the flaming figure of Elena. We must stop her from confronting the golem, he 
urged.
Why? Joach asked. Shes the only one with the power to destroy him.
No. Thats just what the Black Heart wants. To Elena, Rockingham is as much an 
inner demon as a physical one. She risks destroying herself as much as harming 
him.
Flint and Moris flanked his other side. Moris spoke. What do you propose we 
do?
Leave her to attack the ravers, while we deal with Rockingham.
As if hearing his words, the pack of ravers scrambled across the deck toward 
Elena like moths to her silvery flames, leaving a path open to the 
shadow-shrouded golem.
Joachs eyes were on his sister. Shell be swamped by them all.
Good, Erril said, drawing the shocked eyes of Joach and the others. Let them 
keep her distracted from the true demon here. Its
better that she die among the ravers than lose her soul to the Black Heart.
The others had no words, too stunned by his cold statement.
By now, the scrape of their boots on the deck had drawn the attention of 
Rockingham, still rooted by the main mast. So the tiny rats think to take down 
the lion, he said with venom. I thought you wiser than that, Erril.
Even the fiercest lion has a weak spot, he answered and raised his sword. A 
well-placed spear thrust to its heart will still kill.
Ah, that might be true, Rockingham said as he cast aside the shreds of his 
linen shirt, revealing fully the gaping black well in his chest. But, you see, 
I have no heart.
Elena let the smaller demons circle her. The scrabble of their claws filled her 
ears, but she ignored them. Her eyes remained fixed on the largest of the 
beasts, the raver king. She sensed that here was the heart of the pack. Defeat 
it, and the rest would fall.
Sheets of flame spread in small waves from her body, flowing across the deck 
around her bare feet. The smaller ravers kept wary guard on these flames, 
scurrying forward when her magick waned, then dancing back on sharp claws when 
the waves of silvery flame approached. *
Yet so far the king of the demons had kept its post upon the deck, claws dug 
deep in the hard boards. It seemed little daunted by her display of ghostfire.
One of the smaller ravers clacked its fangs in menace and made a bold move. It 
leaped over Elenas spreading pool of ghostfire, hurdling through the air. It 
dove toward her throat, razored claws stretched out like an iron bear trap.
Ignoring its threat, Elena turned away. The witch would guard her back. Elenas 
right hand rose on its own and pointed toward the hurtling raver in a warding 
gesture. A spurt of magick lanced out from her palm to strike the demon, ending 
the ravers attack in midleap.
From the corner of an eye, Elena watched as the demon beast was consumed in 
ghostfire. Its flesh was burned from its spirit. All that was left was an 
outline of the raver etched in silver flame. Her ghostfire held the writhing 
spirit trapped. Then the magicks burned
deeper, branding the demon spirit with her mark. Elena could hear its wail as 
the witch took possession and bent it to her will. No spirit could resist the 
burning touch of her ghostfire. Elena smiled as the demon spirit was spat away. 
It struck the deck and scrambled back up, shining now like a silver ghost. The 
spirit, still in its beast form, turned and attacked a neighboring raver. It 
dove atop its unsuspecting prey and latched onto its new mount. Then slowly it 
sank into the heart of the demon, disappearing inside it. Assaulted, the raver 
writhed in silent agony, claws skittering on the deck. Its neck arched back, and 
a horrendous scream tore from its throat, casting the invading spirit out 
through its black gullet. The silver spirit rolled across the deck, and with a 
shake, stretched back onto its ghostly claws unharmed.
The other raver had not fared as well. It quaked and quivered on its claws. The 
moldy glow in its yellow eyes flared to silver. Then, from its shell of leathery 
flesh, its own spirit sprang forth, crackling with ghostfire. Behind it, the 
vacant body collapsed into a ruin of hollow bone and sagging flesh. Abandoning 
its old roost, the new ghost stalked across the deck to join its twin. Then the 
pair of demon spirits continued their attack on the other ravers, spreading her 
touch of ghostfire like flames in dry grass.
Soon a ghost army grew around her as the witch fed them more
of her magick.
Elena paid them no heed. She knew that this was only the opening volley in the 
battle to come; the main fight beckoned. The raver king waited across the deck 
for her, drooling black blood. Her assault upon the other demons had not fazed 
it. It just stared at her.
Elena suspected the raver king would not be so easily swayed by her ghostfire. 
Here was a creature forged in the deepest pits of the netherworld. Fires of 
molten rock were its home, and the other ravers were mere pawns. To defeat this 
beast would require more than just the raw power of a witch. The raver king was 
a cunning demon, and it would require both a witchs strength and Elenas 
wisdom to carve a victory here.
Suddenly one lone raver scrambled between her and its king. Its claws danced in 
terror as it was set upon by her ghost pack and brought down like a frightened 
rabbit under hungry hounds. Then, in a moment, its spirit, too, joined her army.
Now no other ravers were left aboard the Seaswiftexcept for their king.
Satisfied, Elena reined back her magick, gathering it from the decks like the 
fiery hems of a long robe. For the battle ahead, she would need all her 
remaining power. Already her right hand had lost much of its rosy hue. She could 
waste no more.
Before her, one of her ghost soldiers approached its king. The others followed. 
It was as if the spirits sensed the last of their quarry. In a burst of silver 
ghostfire, the army lunged at their king, meaning to rip its spirit free.
But the king stood its ground. It rose on its clawed limbs among the horde, a 
black stone in a maelstrom of silver spirits. Finally, the king opened his 
fanged maw and attacked the others, slashing and hacking with razored teeth. 
Just as its eyes had spotted Elena when she was invisible, now its fangs found 
purchase where none should be found. Its teeth ripped and tore her ghost army to 
naming shreds. A black tongue snaked from its throat and consumed the scraps of 
spirit, lapping like a hungry cat.
As it fed, the beast grew, using Elenas own magick to swell its size. Legs, 
jointed and armored like a spider, spread under it. Fangs grew to the length of 
an outstretched arm. Its eyes sank deep under thickening brows, while horns of 
glistening spikes sprouted over its leathered skin.
Elena did not wait. Thrusting out her arm, she lanced out with her magick. 
Silver flames arced across the deck to hit the demon. She pumped all her magick 
toward the beast.
For the first time, the raver king howled as raw ghostfire enveloped it. It 
fought her hold, scrabbling across the deck toward her, meaning to snuff out the 
source of the searing flames.
Elena danced back from it, her arm still outstretched. Begone, demon, she 
screamed as her blood sang with the release of her energies. I send you back 
from whence you came!
Unfortunately, the raver king did not obey. Where the smaller ravers had 
succumbed quickly, the demon king fought on.
From somewhere beyond the pyre of ghostfire, a cry reached her. El, hang on! 
Ill help you!
Her right eyebrow crinkled. It took her half a heartbeat to recognize Joachs 
voice. Finally, she noticed Erril and the others gathered
across the deck, swords raised toward Rockingham. She spotted Joachs boyish 
form, armed only with his staff, dashing across the planks toward hertoward the 
flaming figure of the raver king.
Joach! No! Elena fought against the hold of the witch. That cold part of her 
spirit wished only for the battle between demons to continue. It cared nothing 
for a sisters love for a brother: Such emotions had no role in the dance of 
magicks. Still, as the witch cast her magicks at the struggling demon lord, 
draining the wild energies from her blood, Elena found the witchs call less 
seductive. She found herself able to think more clearly.
Elena remembered her earlier awarenessthat to defeat the raver king would 
require more than just raw power. A moment ago, she had lashed out without 
thinking, but little had been gained from such rash action. She had wounded the 
beast, nothing more.
With her magick waning, Elena wrested control from the witch. Quickly she 
stanched the flow of ghostfire, drawing the last of her magick back to herself 
before it was foolishly spent.
Before her, the raver king still burned with the touch of her flames, but her 
ghostfire would not last much longer. She had only a moment. She glanced to her 
pale hand. What could she do? This demon spirit seemed immune to what little of 
her magick there was left.
Stand back, El! Joach called back from the far side of the writhing demon. He 
bore his staff over his head as if he meant to club the beast with the stout 
wood.
Elena stared at her brothers weapon. A seed of an idea bloomed in her mind. 
Where magic/{fails . .. She suddenly remembered Aunt Mycelles lesson from just 
the other day: Where magictfails, a sword
prevails.
Elena sprang straighter. Joach! Dont! she yelled to him, but she knew that no 
word of hers would keep him away. He would die defending her. Join me over 
here! Holding her magick clenched in her right fist, she circled the writhing 
demon as it stamped out the last of her silvery flames.
Brother and sister sped toward each others side.
Noticing the motion, the raver king spun on its claws, gouging deep channels in 
the wood. It roared at them, confused, but failed to keep them apart. Joach 
skidded to a stop beside his sister, raising his k staff like a shield between 
the beast and Elena.
The raver king stretched up from its pained crouch, towering over the two of 
them. The stench of charred flesh curled from its blackened shell as two yellow 
eyes spat vengeance at them. Finish her! Rockingham yelled to his demon 
creation. Across the deck, Erril swiped his sword at Rockinghams head, driving 
her tormentor back from the mast. Elena! he called to her. Flee belowdecks! 
Use the last of your magick to hide yourself!
Elena considered the sense in his words. She did have enough magick in her blood 
to fade from sight.
At her silence, Joach half turned to her. Do it, he urged quietly. Elena shook 
her head. Here was her place. Beside them all. As brother and sister silently 
communicated their determination and love, the beast attacked in a flurry of 
sharp edges. Fangs slashed at Joach while razored claws speared toward Elena.
Without flinching, Elena reached up beside her brother and grabbed his staff 
with her bloody right fist. As in the ships hallway, white and black magick 
clashed. An explosion of energies burst out from them, knocking the beast back a 
step. Where before the concussion had also flung Elena away, this time she was 
ready. She locked an iron grip on the staff and held tight. Joach gasped beside 
her, feeling the surge of power as her blood and magick absorbed into the staff.
As she clenched the rod, more and more of her energies fed into the hungry wood. 
She swooned as she was drawn into the staff. For a moment, she experienced the 
fibers and channels of the wood. Even a whisper of forest song echoed in her 
ears. Still, the staff fed on herand not all the energies it absorbed were mere 
magicks. Some of her own life essence flowed, too.
No, she moaned, suddenly understanding what was asked of her. Clutching the 
staff, she watched her fingernails lengthen, curling and yellowing with age. 
This price was too high!
Elena! Watch out! Joachs frantic words drew her back from losing herself 
completely in the wood. He knocked her away, breaking her contact with the 
staff. Her arms fell limp to her side. Not only was her magick spent, so was her 
strength. El, what what did you do to my staff?
Elena fought to focus her eyes. The black poiwood of Joachs staff now shone 
silver, like the polished wood of a snowy maple. But mar-
ring its pristine surface were flowing streaks of scarlet, as if blood pumped 
through the heart of the wood. Use it, she said aloud.
The magick?
She shook her head, sagging against the rail. She pushed him toward the monster 
as she fainted. Use it the way Father taught you.
Joachs brow crinkled in confusion, but he was given no chance to argue. The 
raver king sensed the weakening of its prey and attacked. It jabbed a claw at 
Joach, meaning to impale him. But Joach blocked the deadly blow with a crack of 
his staff. He had only hoped to parry its thrust, but the results shocked both 
beast and boy.
The smote claw exploded under the staff into a shower of stinging shards. The 
demon yanked away its maimed limb and hissed as it retreated a step. It crouched 
lower on its armored limbs and studied Joach with sick yellow eyes. It had 
underestimated its prey.
Warily watching the beast, Joach glanced to the staff in his fist. The snowy 
white of the wood now glowed, and streaks of red flowed through the wood like 
thin rivers. As he stared, his eyes flew wide. The red rivers did not end with 
the wood but continued on into his own flesh. Through his pale skin, Joach 
watched the flowing channels creep over his knuckles and up his wrist. From 
there, the rivulets spread in curls and twists up the length of his arm, 
disappearing under the cuff of his shirt. What was happening?
Before he could ponder it further, a hissing growl woke him to the more 
immediate danger.
Joach raised the magick-wrought staff. The thick wood was now as light as a 
willow branch in his fingers. It took only the slightest dance of his fingers 
and twist of wrist to manipulate the whirling length of wood. Joach swung the 
staff before him in a wicked arc, a blur of polished wood. His father had once 
told him that a wooden stave in skilled hands could be deadlier than the 
sharpest sword. He had doubted him then, but not now. He spun the staff over his 
wrist, catching it cleanly. He had never felt such control, such an 
understanding of wood and force. It was almost as if the staff were an extension 
of his own arm, a deadly statement of his own will.
Boy and staff were now one.
The raver king leaped, intending to rip them apart. Joach responded. With only a 
thought, the staff spun, and Joach drove its butt end into the face of the 
hurdling demon, stopping it in its tracks. The shivering impact shot up the wood 
and into his shoulder. Such a blow should have knocked the stave from numb 
fingers. But Joach hardly felt it. With a deft twist of his wrist, he twirled 
the staff and slammed its other end square atop the demon lords skull.
Bone cracked, and the raver king crashed to the planks, splintering a section of 
decking. The blow had been fierce enough to kill a bullbut this beast still 
lived. Clawed limbs dug for purchase, first weakly, dazedly, then with renewed 
determination.
Joach did not wait for it to regain its footing. He dashed forward, planting his 
staff on the deck, and vaulted up over the flaying storm of razored claws. He 
landed atop the back of the demon. Without pausing, he positioned the butt end 
of his staff against the center of the monsters back, both fists clamped on its 
upper end. Joach dragged the staff straight up, then using all his weight and 
will, drove its end through the core of the demon. Wood cleaved cleanly through 
leather and bone, stabbing at last into the wood of the deck under the raver 
king.
The beast writhed like a pinned spider on corkboard. Joach danced to keep his 
footing, but the threat of claws and fangs was too near. Using his planted staff 
as a purchase, Joach again vaulted over the flailing limbs and tumbled across 
the deck. He caught up against the rail, only an arms length from his sister.
Rolling over, Joach watched the end result of his attack. The raver kings 
struggles weakened with each shudder. The silver spike of wood held it trapped. 
Claws rattled to the deck, then lay still. In a wail that split the clouds and 
tore away a section of sail, the black spirit fled, steaming from around the 
impaling wood, and was gone.
All that was left were the hollow remains of the goblin queen, twisted and 
burned. The staff, still imbedded in the deck, had returned to its dark hue, the 
white magick spent.
Joach sat up and reached for his sisters limp form. His hand froze as his eyes 
finally recognized her condition. Sweet Mother El
Elena lay sprawled, unconscious, in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the ships 
rail. Though she still breathed, her skin was as pale
as the first snow. Yet her weak pallor was not what trapped Joachs breath. His 
sisters hair, once cropped short, now lay like a thick pillow of fiery curls 
under her head. Only the very tips still showed the black dye that had once 
disguised her.
Joach scrambled toward her, too stunned to call to the others. As he neared, he 
saw that even the nails of her fingers and toes showed the same miraculous 
growth. Her fingernails had spread into twisted corkscrews across her palms.
Yet her hair and nails were not all that had grown out. Joach tried not to stare 
at her naked form, but the changes were too shocking to look away. Elena no 
longer bore the physique of a young girl whose womanhood beckoned. Her figure 
had blossomed and stretched into the full curves of a beautiful maiden. It was 
as if four winters of age had swept over her in mere heartbeats.
Joach quickly shrugged out of his shirt and wrapped her nakedness in the thick 
wool. It barely covered her. She must now be a good head taller than him.
The motion stirred her. J-Joach? she mumbled. Her eyelids
fluttered with fatigue.
Hush, El. Sleep, he whispered, unsure what to say. Youre
safe.
Across the deck, a voice argued otherwise. Youd best deliver her to me, boy, 
Rockingham called. Perhaps Ill even let you live.
With eyes narrowed in hate, Joach turned and stalked across the planks until he 
stood beside the impaled staff, his only weapon.
On the far side of the deck, Erril and the others still held Rockingham in a 
temporary standoff. Swords circled the monster, but the golem lay nestled in his 
protective shadows. Flint warned against stepping into that oily darkness.
Joach raised his own voice, fierce with vengeance. Send the entire demon horde 
of the netherworld against us, you monster. But you will never touch Elena.
Strong words for someone now bereft of his sisters magick.
I will fight you with any weapon, he spat back. He reached for his staff. As 
his fingers wrapped around the wood, a shock arced through his body. His knees 
gave way.
Using the staff as a crutch, he barely kept his footing.
Where his fist gripped the wood, red channels flowed out from his flesh into the 
staff. Black wood became white again as rivulets of
scarlet spread through the staff. Each thudding beat of his heart pushed the 
darkness farther away. Joachs eyes grew wide, but he could not deny what he 
sensed. It was his own blood now that flowed through the wood, feeding the 
hungry staff. He had thought Elenas magick spent, but now he understood that it 
had only gone dormant, awaiting his blood to rekindle it. As the magick 
reignited, he heard a distant chorus deep in his ears: a hum of magick, gleeful 
and wicked. Strength returned to his limbs.
El, what have you done? he muttered.
I had no choice, a weak voice answered from near the rail.
Startled, Joach glanced and noticed that his sisters eyes were open. She stared 
transfixed as his blood filled the staff. It now shone white from tip to tip.
I needed a weapon, she continued, tired and forlorn.
So you forged this. Joach yanked the staff from the deck. It was as easy as if 
he were removing a fork from warm butter.
No, she said. Her eyes met his for the first time. I forged you.
Erril kept his sword raised between Rockingham and the witch. He did not 
glance back as Joach and Elena whispered. He feared giving the golem any chance 
to better its position on the deck.
So far, he and the two Brothers had played a cautious game of cat and mouse with 
the demon across the deck of the vessel. After the creation of the raver horde, 
the magick in the golem had seemed to weaken. It had retreated to a defensive 
position, casting a protective ring of shadows around its ankles. While their 
swords had kept it from nearing Elena, its shadows still held them at bay.
Erril tightened his grip on his swords hilt. Shadows or not, they must act 
soon. They could not give the monster a chance to gather its strength for 
another assault.
It was at this moment that fate took hold of destiny.
A grinding roar ripped through the bowels of the Seaswift. The decks tremored 
underfoot; the crunch and crack of timber echoed over the waters. Erril guessed 
it to be another black trick of the golem. But from the pinched, surprised 
expression on Rockinghams face, Erril suspected he might be mistaken.
Flint answered the mystery. Reef! he yelled. The seamans face was a mixture 
of indecision. From the worried glance to the stern, he
obviously feared abandoning the demons flank, but he knew a hand was needed on 
the lashed wheel if they were to survive.
Before either Brother could act, the ship lurched and a deep growl shook through 
the vessel. The masts tilted drunkenly; the canvas sails snapped in protest.
Were stoved! Flint yelled.
The ship ground to a battered stop. Surprised, Erril fell backward, even as the 
deadly shadows swept over the very spot where he had been standing. Rockingham, 
no more experienced at keeping his footing atop the bucking planks than Erril, 
had stumbled nearer, falling to his knees.
Erril started to roll farther away across the deck when he stopped in horror.
Moris, well seasoned by the rough seas of the Archipelago, had ridden out the 
sudden halt with one hand on the mast, only to be consumed by the passing wave 
of shadows as Rockingham stumbled. The dark-skinned Brother stared in disbelief 
as the shadows swept up his legs.
Flint took a step nearer.
Moris must have seen him. No! Man the wheel! he ordered, raising his head. His 
voice was thick with pain. The black-skinned Brother raised his sword. Save the 
ship! Ill dispatch this fiend.
Already the darkness consumed his body. Flashes of white femur shone through 
snatches of parting shadows.
Rockingham, still on his knees, tried to crawl away, but Moris towered over him. 
As the shadows ate away the mans thick legs, the large Brother dropped like an 
axed tree. He bore his short sword gripped in both fists, his face a mask of 
pain. Still, his strength of will could not be tainted by the spreading 
darkness. Moris made sure as he fell that he toppled toward the cowering figure 
of Rockingham, his sword aiming true.
Rockingham swept an arm up in useless defense, a cry on his lips. It was to no 
avail. Moris struck the demon clean through the chest with his sword, collapsing 
atop the golem as the shadows swallowed them both away.
Moris! Flint cried.
Erril rolled to his feet as the shadows swirled in on themselves, whirling 
tighter and tighter like water down an unseen drain. A shrieking wail echoed out 
from the shadows, growing shriller and
more piercing as the pool of darkness shrank. Then, in another breath, the 
darkness was sucked away.
Joach joined them. No one spoke.
Atop the deck was a long, bleached skeleton, a short sword still gripped in the 
tangle of finger bones. Moris.
Everyone stared in shock, too exhausted to find their tongues. Relief at the 
monsters defeat fought in their hearts with horror at the final cost.
Joach finally broke the silence with a whispered prayer. Sweet Mother, take our 
friend safe to your bosom.
Erril found no words to add, struggling with rage and sorrow. How many such 
warriors would have to die before Alasea could be free?
Flint bent and reached to the skeleton. He touched the white skull reverently, 
then retrieved a glint of silver from the deck. He stood up and held out his 
hand to Joach. The boy accepted the gift.
Erril stared at the silver star in Joachs palm. It was Moris earring, the 
symbol of his old order.
He wouldve wanted you to have it, Flint said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Ill wear it with honor.
Flint wiped at his eyes, then straightened. His gaze was still full of tears. I 
must check the ship, he said to Erril. Already the boat had begun to list in 
the water.
Erril nodded, sensing that the old man also needed a moment to himself. He had 
lost a dear friend this day, and some grieving could only be done alone.
Once Flint was gone, Joach pointed to the skeleton. What of Rockingham? Where 
are that monsters bones?
Erril remembered the tortured scream fading away with the shadows. I dont 
know. I fear even here he might have again escaped death.
Then Moris sacrifice was in vain.
No, his attack, even if not fatal, drove the monster from our decks. I dont 
think we could have withstood another magickal assault.
Joach nodded, his fist tight around the silver star. Next time, the boy said 
with such venom that his words drew Errils eye, Ill rip his heart out with 
my own hands.
Erril gripped Joachs shoulder consolingly, then noticed the length
James Ilemens
of white staff in the boys other hand for the first time. He could not miss the 
threads of crimson flowing in the wood. Joach, let me see your staff.
Joach pulled out of his grip and held the staff away from Erril suspiciously. 
Why?
Erril studied Joach, noting the streams of scarlet linking boy to staff. Never 
mind. Youve already answered my question. Erril started to turn away, then 
added over his shoulder, I suggest in the future, if youre not in battle, that 
you wear a glove whenever handling the staff. You only have so much blood, boy.
Erril ignored Joachs wrinkled brow and turned away, searching the far side of 
the deck. He finally spotted Elena seated by the starboard rail. She sat with 
her knees pulled up, hugging her legs, her face buried in her arms. From her 
quaking shoulders, he knew she was weeping.
He crossed to her with a heavy heart, noting the cascade of red curls hiding her 
face. He was as much to blame for Elenas rash action and its result as the girl 
herself. The other day in Flints kitchen, he should have explained to Elena in 
more detail about the spell. But at the time he had feared frightening her too 
much. She had been shaken up enough already. Erril sighed and stepped nearer.
Elena must have heard his tread. She kept her head bowed, and her words were 
muffled by her arms. Im sorry about Moris, she said. I hardly knew him, and 
yet he gave his life to protect me. I should have I could have
No, he said sternly. We lost a good man this day, but its not right for you 
to assume any blame. If you do, you dishonor my friend. He gave his life to 
protect you, and you should accept his sacrifice with good grace. Honor Moris by 
knowing he saved you and that there was nothing you could do to prevent it.
Her sobbing worsened for a few moments. Erril let her cry. They still had much 
to discuss, and he let her grief run its course. Finally, he spoke again. About 
Joach and the staff.
Elena flinched visibly at his words. She seemed to shrink farther in on herself, 
pulling her face away. I thought I had no choice, she mumbled, her voice full 
of pain.
And perhaps you didnt. But your decision didnt allow Joach any choice either. 
You took that from him.
She remained silent.
Do you understand what you did? he asked. Do you know what you created?
She nodded, her face still covered. I I forged a blood weapon. Like those 
blood swords you told me about. And and I linked it to Joach.
Yes, Erril said, glad at least that she recognized what her mag-ick had 
wrought. He had feared that perhaps the witch had controlled her actions. He 
is a strong boy, and your whole family has an affinity for magick. There is a 
possibility that he can control the weapon with training. But he is also rash 
and quick to temper. These qualities could lead him to become enthralled to the 
staffs magick. Only time will tell.
Elena pulled tighter into a ball. Im destroying my entire family.
Erril knelt beside her. Freedom is always costly.
But must my whole family bear the debt?
Erril reached and pulled her into his one-armed embrace. Im sorry, Elena, he 
said as he held her tight. Its a heavy burden, but its not just your family 
that bears it. All of Alasea bleeds.
She trembled in his arms, leaning deeper into his chest. I know, she 
whispered, her voice so hopeless that Erril wanted to shelter her like this 
forever. They sat silently in each others embrace for several breaths more. 
Finally, Elenas trembles died away, and she raised a hand. And what of this? 
she said, indicating the overgrown fingernails. Why did this happen?
At last, she turned to stare Erril full in the face. Her eyes were puffy from 
grief, her cheeks pale and stained by tears. For the first time, he saw the 
woman who had hidden behind the softness of a young girls features.
Framed by curls the color of fire, Elenas green eyes were now flecked with a 
commanding gold. Her cheekbones were arched high and begged a finger to trace 
the long curve past her strong chin to her slender neck. Her lips were slightly 
parted as she stared up at him, and they had fully bloomed into the heavy bud of 
a rose.
Erril?
He blinked a few times and pushed slightly away, clearing his throat. He had 
known the cost of forging a blood weapon and knew there would be changes in the 
girl. Still, he was momentarily shocked by her visage. He had not expected this 
woman to be staring back at him.
Sensing his sudden discomfort, Elena glanced down at herself and
tugged the woolen edges of Joachs shirt tighter around her physique. Whats 
happened to me?
Swallowing, he pried his tongue loose. To forge a blood sword, or any such 
magick-wrought weapon, a part of the mage has to be given freely. A part of his 
life must be granted.
Her brows wrinkled together. What do you mean? He sought to speak more plainly 
but found his thoughts hard to organize. He could not keep his mind from 
dwelling on the changes in her. Years were stolen from you and given to the 
staff. Youve aged, Elena. In the moment it took you to create Joachs blood 
staff, I estimate that youve aged at least four or five winters.
Her hands fumbled to her face, as if she wanted to feel the truth of his words, 
but her long nails made it difficult. My hair my
nails
Its as if youve slept for four winters and just now awoke. Her face paled 
further, and again tears began to well. Before either could speak, Joach 
interrupted. The boy called across the deck, waving his staff to urge them up. 
Behind him, the grizzled figure of Flint could be seen crawling out of the stern 
hatch. He was soaked from top to bottom. Joachs words flew to them. Were 
completely stoved in! Seawaters swamped the lower holds. We must abandon the 
boat! He finally reached them, out of breath, his leggings soaked with 
seawater. Were to gather our belongings and
retreat to the skiff.
As if accenting his words, the ship suddenly rolled and a shuddering rip 
reverberated through the planks of the deck. Erril helped Elena stand, then 
passed her to Joach. She seemed wobbly on her legs. Erril was not sure how much 
was due to exhaustion and how much was due to the sudden increase in her height. 
She would have to grow accustomed to her longer limbs and new physique.
Joach eyed his sisters height, then took her arm. He now had to glance up at 
his sister, where before it had been the other way around. The boy of fourteen 
winters now stood beside a woman of
eighteen or nineteen.
Get her to the skiff, Erril ordered. Then help me gather our
gear.
Nodding, Joach led her away.
Erril crossed quickly to where Flint stood near the stern wheel, a
spyglass fixed to his eye.
Lti VV A K
How long until she sinks? Erril asked.
Depends, Flint answered, still studying the surrounding seas with his glass. 
If she rolls off the reef shes caught on, we could sink in moments. If she 
stays hooked, she might stay above water until sundown. But thats the least of 
our worries. He lowered the spyglass.
What do you mean?
Another boats spotted our tilted masts. It just changed course toward us.
Erril frowned. In these waters
Flint finished his thought. Pirates for sure, looking for a quick and easy 
bounty. Flint shook his head as he stared at the approaching ship.
What?
I know the colors of that ship. The captain and I were once friends.
So why isnt this good fortune?
Flint scrunched his face sourly. I said we were once friends. No longer. The 
approaching ship is Captain Jarplins shark-beamed hunter.
Captain Jarplin? The name rang familiar in Errils ear.
I told you about him. Hes the fellow from whom I stole Sy-wens dragon. A 
treasure of a lifetime. So I dont think hell take kindly to meeting up with me 
again. Flint glanced significantly at Erril. Or anyone Im with.
Can we escape in time in the skiff?
Not in these currents.
Any other ideas? Erril knew their party was too bone-tired from the day-long 
battle with demons to handle a shipload of fresh pirates. Elena, especially, was 
too worn and shaken by her transformation. To use any more magick without a 
proper rest would threaten her control and her spirit.
Erril eyed Flint, silently asking for help.
Flint nodded, letting out a long sigh. I have a plan. He turned to stare over 
the waters, quiet for a moment, then shrugged. But well have to give the 
hunter what he wants.
OLD DEBTS

Walking in silence, Mogweed followed the others deeper into the coastal forest. 
Up ahead, Mycelle led the way down a faint deer path, guiding them toward where 
she had hidden their horses and to where Meric awaited them. Mycelle had already 
explained her sudden change of fate: from death to full revitalization. She had 
also explained that Mama Freda would be joining them on the journey to meet the 
witch. But Mogweed had heard little of this, too stunned by Mycelles sudden 
demonstration of her shape-shifting ability.
Ahead, Tolchuk marched beside Mycelle. He stuck close to his mothers side, 
reaching to touch her every now and then as if he feared she would melt away 
into the surrounding wood.
Behind Mogweed, Krai and Fardale guarded their rear. They had left the gates of 
Port Rawl far behind, but there were still bandits who frequented these woods, 
so caution was needed. Though well guarded, Mogweed still jumped at every crack 
of twig or rustle of brush.
Not all of his edginess was simple fear.
As he stared at Mycelle, odd feelings worried his belly. He could not deny that 
a sliver of joy thrilled his blood at seeing a full siluran after so many 
seasons, someone who had complete use of her shape-shifting abilities. But 
mostly a gnawing anger and frustration burned in him.
Why her?
A slight scowl etched his hard mouth as he hiked. It wasnt fair! The 
swordswoman had chosen to settle into human form. It had been her own 
choiceunlike Mogweed and his brother. Their shifting
abilities had been stolen from them through the abuse of an ancient spell. In 
search of a cure, the two brothers had traveled far, through so many dangers. If 
anyone should be free of this curse, it should be them.
Fardale padded quietly through the brush to join Mogweed, as if sensing the 
strong emotions warring in his brothers breast. The wolf nudged Mogweeds tight 
fist.
What do you want? he snapped sourly, glancing toward his brother.
The wolfs eyes glowed a deep amber in the darkening wood. Images formed: A 
flower growing from desert sand. A small bird hatching from a cold nest. A 
stillborn pup revived by a wolf bitchs warm tongue. All were glimpses of new 
life springing forth from hard circumstances.
Mogweed knew what his brother was trying to communicate. Fardales images all 
spoke of hope. If Mycelle could regain her abilities, then so could they. 
Mogweed grasped at this thin prospect. He reached for Fardale, hoping to share 
this sliver of renewed hope. But Fardale was already gone, twisting on a paw and 
slipping back to join Krai.
Pulling back his hand, Mogweed tried to hold onto his renewed faith, but like 
smoke, it faded away. Mogweed knew better. Mycelle had had to die to regain her 
abilities. Was he willing to go that far? In his breast, Mogweed knew the 
answer. Frustration and despair swelled through him.
But there was even more reason for consternation.
Fardale had always been an eloquent speaker, whether by tongue or mind. But this 
last sending had been coarse, the images rough and blurred at the edges. Perhaps 
it was just Fardales excitement, but Mogweed doubted this simple explanation. 
He had sensed something wilder behind his brothers amber eyes, like the howling 
of a feral wolf. Fardale was beginning to lose his ability to spirit speak as 
the wild wood claimed him. Time was running out. In less than three moons, the 
curse would consume them both, freezing them permanently into their current 
forms. Both brothers eyes would lose their amber glow, and any chance of 
regaining their siluran heritage would be gone forever. Fardale would become 
another wolf in the wood, and Mogweed would become another man among many. They 
would forever forget their heritage.
Mogweeds legs trembled under him. Never! Even if it meant betraying everyone 
here to the Dark Lord of this land, including his own brother, then so be it. He 
glanced to where Mycelle smiled warmly at Tolchuk. Mogweeds eyes narrowed with 
determination. One day I will again enjoy my own freedom. I swear it!
As he scowled at the unfairness of fate, he failed to notice the motion to the 
right of the path until too late.
A figure stepped silently out of the neighboring cluster of skree-bushes. 
Mogweed gasped and stumbled, not only from the shock of the mans sudden 
appearance but also because of the figures monstrous countenance. Half his face 
was eaten away by a roil of pinkish scar tissue, consuming one ear and half his 
black-bristled scalp.
Swords and axes appeared up and down the deer path. Tolchuk lunged toward the 
intruder, moving surprisingly fast for such a bulky creature. The mans eyes 
grew wide at the onrushing ogre. He backed deeper into the surrounding brush. 
Behind him, Mogweed spotted other shadowy figures and the glint of steel farther 
back in
the wood.
Stop! Mycelle suddenly cried harshly. Her command split through
the woods like a thrown ax.
Tolchuk obeyed his mother and skidded to a halt on his thick, clawed legs. The 
ogre leaned one huge fist in the loam of the wood, panting and baring his fangs 
at the man.
Mycelle pushed to join them. As she elbowed forward, she shoved down Krais ax 
with her palm, then crossed to stand between Tolchuk and the bandit. Hes a 
friend, she scolded them all. I had left word in the city for him to join us 
here.
Krais voice was more growl than human. Who is he? Mycelle scowled and 
dismissed Krais question for a moment. She stepped forward and embraced the man 
warmly. How is Cassa Dar? she asked as she released him.
He smiled at the swordswoman, a most gruesome sight due to the twist of scarred 
flesh. She rests in Castle Drak. The attack last moon drained her, but she 
recuperates. The man suddenly squinted at Mycelle, frowned a moment, then held 
her at arms length, studying her. Your eyes Theyve changed! What happened? 
Mycelle seemed to shrink back from him, lowering her gaze. Mogweed realized that 
the stranger must know nothing about her true siluran heritage. Mycelle finally 
spoke, not lying but dancing
around the truth. I died, she said, then exposed the snake on her arm. A 
healer and the magick in a snake brought me back. My eyes were like this 
afterward.
The man leaned closer. The way theyre slitted, they could almost be snake 
eyes.
Before the situation grew more awkward, Fardale danced forward, tail wagging 
furiously. The man greeted the wolf with a scratch behind an ear and a friendly 
thump on the side. I see your burns are healing well, Fardale, the man said.
Fardale barked his agreement.
Krai interrupted the reunion. Could someone explain who this is?
Mycelle turned. His name is Jaston. He helped guide Elena through the swamp. 
Mycelle gave them a quick version of the tale of their journey through the 
Drowned Lands.
So this swamp witch is a dwarf, Krai mumbled, his eyes filled with a red 
fury Mogweed had never seen before.
Yes, Mycelle answered. But I know what you think
You know nothing about what I thinly. Krais voice had frosted to ice. You 
know not how her foul brethren drove my clans from our ancestral homelands near 
Tor Amon. It was dwarf armies that destroyed our homes, slaughtered our women 
and babes on their pikes, and made nomads of my people.
Cassa Dar is not like that, Mycelle insisted. She saved our lives in the 
swamps.
Your lives would not have needed saving if the witch hadnt cursed Elena and 
forced you all into the foul bogs.
Sir, Jaston said coldly. His face had grown flushed during the exchange. You 
know not what you speak. Cassa Dar does not deserve your wrath.
Tolchuk grumbled his agreement, seeking to*end the tension. If Erril and 
Elena trusted her, so should we.
Krai was not swayed. A dwarf is a dwarf, he said angrily and turned, 
marching a few steps away.
Mycelle watched Krais back with tight lips, then let out a long sigh. Men, 
she grumbled and turned back to Jaston. So you got my message?
Just at dawn, Jaston said. His angry flush faded. I just managed to escape 
the city before it was locked down.
And Mist? Does the childs mare fare well?
He frowned. Yes, but perhaps I shouldve done you all a favor and fed that 
piece of stubborn horseflesh to a hungry krocan. That is the laziest, most 
ornery mare Ive ever led. He started ticking off items on his fingers. On the 
trek here, she almost colicked on swampweed, then bit Sammers on the elbow when 
he doused her with herbs to settle her belly. She kicked the lead stallion who 
pulled our wagon, laming the beast for a fortnight. Because of that, we had to 
abandon one of the wagons with a quarter of our wares. And just last night, she 
chewed through her lead, and we had to hunt her down through the streets of Port 
Rawl. We found her at an apple vendor. She had cracked his stall and eaten half 
his wares. It cost me a steep fee to compensate him.
Mycelle grinned at his story, and by the end, Jastons scarred features also 
shone with the ghost of a smile, the tension from a moment ago fading. So I 
guess, Mycelle said, youll be glad to be rid of her. He rolled his eyes. 
You dont know how pleased I was to find your note this morning at the 
Watershed Trading Post. Jaston waved his companions forward.
The rustle of hooves and whispered words announced their approach through the 
wood. Mogweed counted six men and one hard-looking woman among the swampers. 
They led three horses. The largest was a striking dappled stallion with lines 
that clearly led to the horse clans of the Northern Steppes. The next was a 
golden-skinned gelding with a stately gait and quick, intelligent eyes.
Mycelle reached a hand to this horses nose. Grisson, she said in greeting. 
This horse was obviously hers. The gelding snuffed at her offered palm and 
nudged her.
The last to be led forward was Elenas small gray mare. Her big brown eyes 
studied the gathered troupe with indifference, and she dug one hoof in the dirt 
in irritation. Mogweed thought this horses belly seemed a bit fuller than the 
rest.
Mycelle must have noticed this, too. I see youve been feeding
Mist well.
As if we had any choice.
Mycelle crossed and ran a hand along Mists flanks. She looks in
good shape otherwise.
Well Jastons voice sounded hesitant. Shes in even better
shape than you might imagine.
What do you mean?
Jaston ran a hand over his cropped hair, a strained look in his eye. You know 
that stallion she kicked? Well, she kicked him when he tried to breed her a 
second time; she wouldnt stand for him again.
Mycelles hand still rested on Mists flank. She ran her hand over the mares 
full belly. Youre not telling me ?
He mounted her the first time at the last moon. I think she may already be with 
foal, but its too early to say for sure.
Mycelle sighed and stepped back, appraising the horse, then shrugged. Thats 
why I always ride a gelding. Come, Grisson, she said, taking the lead of the 
golden-maned horse. Weve another half league to cover before reaching camp.
Jaston stood his ground and eyed Krai. Weve still wares to sell in Port Rawl. 
So maybe its best to part ways here.
Mogweed noticed a hurt glint in Mycelles eyes. Nonsense, she argued. The 
gates to the city are already locked down.
Theyll let us through. The watch never refuses entry to swamp traders.
Then at least enjoy a hot meal with us.
Jaston, still hesitant, slowly nodded. I guess we could use a moment among 
friends before tackling the traders of Port Rawl.
Then its settled. Before anyone else could argue, Mycelle led her gelding to 
the front of the group.
In a short time, the troupe marched through the last of the twisting wood and 
came upon a clearing atop a craggy bluff. Sheltered back under the eaves of the 
trees, a small campfire burned cheerily in the approaching gloam of sunset. A 
few horses stood nestled and roped to one side, while two frail figures stood 
limned in the firelight staring back at the group warily.
Mogweed recognized the wizened figure of the old healer, Mama Freda. Beside her 
stood Meric. Apparently, the elvin lord had finally healed enough from the 
attack in Shadowbrook to be out of bed. But as they crossed the clearing, 
Mogweed noticed how heavily Meric leaned on a thick cane as he strode forward to 
meet them.
Who are these others? Meric said with a scowl, clearly not happy with the 
additional members of the party.
Tolchuk took the elvin aside and explained while Mycelle directed the others 
to settle the horses. Mogweed ended up standing beside Fardale as the flurry of 
activity rolled around them.
Mogweed turned to his brother. What do you make of this Jaston
fellow?
Fardales eyes glowed toward Mogweed. An image formed in his rnind, a picture of 
a past event. Mogweed saw Fardale being snatched aloft by the white tentacles of 
a winged beast, his fur burning with the creatures grip. Jaston leaped from a 
small boat, a knife clenched in his teeth, and rescued the wolf.
Mogweed nodded with these images. Jaston had saved Fardales life, and among the 
siluran, there was now a blood debt between the wolf and the man. As kin to 
Fardale, Mogweed shared the debt, whether he liked it or not.
Fardale nudged his brothers hand, then wandered over toward the hearth. Mogweed 
hung back, still uncomfortable around all these humansespecially the strangers.
From behind him, Krai suddenly stepped next to Mogweed, startling the erstwhile 
shape-shifter. Glancing up to his huge companion, Mogweed saw the sour 
expression on Krais face as he contemplated the others, as if sharing the 
shape-shifters sentiments about the strangers. Mogweed also noticed how the 
mountain mans fist rested hard on the hilt of his ax. But at least his weapon 
was still sheathed in leather.
Mogweed started to turn away when a flare of firelight revealed the purplish, 
bruised hue of the leather that sheathed Krais ax. Disgust curled the corner of 
Mogweeds lip. As a siluran, he recognized the source of that leather. It was 
the skin of a sniffer, the slavering beasts who hunted the deep forests of the 
Western Reaches. Mogweed recalled the sniffer who had attacked him and his 
brother among the lands of the ogre.
Before Mogweed could comment on Krais choice of leathers, the mountain mans 
brows lowered, and he spoke, his voice as deep and vicious as the hunting growl 
of a sniffer. I dont trust these others, especially that scarred man, Jaston.
Krai eyed Mogweed, who could only nod under his intense gaze. Mogweed fought to 
keep from trembling. Maybe it was just the sudden memory of the sniffers attack 
in the mountains, but for a moment, Mogweed felt a hungry menace in Krais gaze, 
like that of a predator from the blackest forest. He was relieved when Krai 
finally glanced away and stalked across the clearing toward the campfire.
After several shuddering breaths, Mogweed followed on numb legs. He had never 
seen this side of Krai. He joined the others, making sure the campfire was 
between him and the mountain man. In the firelight, Krais eyes glowed a deep 
crimson, his face an unreadable mask.
Mogweed studied him a moment longer, one eyebrow crinkling. He watched Krais 
right hand reach and rub at the leathered skin that hid his ax blade. He was 
sure the mountain man was unaware of how his fingers caressed the leathers with 
such fervid intensity, the movement slow and almost hungry, like a man caressing 
a lovers breast
Mogweed looked away and swallowed hard. An icicle of fear slid through his 
innards. How had the mountain man managed their escape from Port Rawls 
garrison? He had never explained.
Interrupting his reverie, Mama Freda hobbled up to Mogweed, a platter of venison 
and wild onions in her hands. Tikal, her pet tam-rink, sat perched on her 
shoulder and stared at him with huge eyes. The tiny beast held a small onion in 
one fist and nibbled at it. Mama Freda offered a fork to Mogweed. Help 
yourself, little man, she offered.
He waved her off, his stomach suddenly sick at the thought of food.
You should eat, she insisted. Weve a long way to travel.
Thank you, he said softly. Maybe later.
Shrugging, she wandered off as Tolchuk settled next to Mogweed. It must be 
good to see your brother safe, he said, waving a hunk of meat toward where 
Fardale sniffed around the horses. The ogres fingers were greasy from the 
meat.
Mogweed answered by nodding toward where Mycelle stood talking with Jaston. 
Nothing like family to hearten the spirits, eh?
Tolchuk clapped Mogweed on the shoulder. Besides my mother, you be my family, 
too, he said. Among my clans, I was a half-bred outcast. Since leaving my 
lands, Ive found my two half brothers maybe not in blood, but at least in 
spirit.
Mogweed studied the ogre to see if he was jesting with him.
But Tolchuks features were warm and relaxed as he stared around the camp. He 
was sincere. You both be now my clan, he finished.
Mogweed stared into the flames. For the oddest reason, he found
j A M r ft tj l ji in i1.
himself wiping at an eye. Surely it was just the burn of the campfires smoke.
Tolchuk suddenly clutched at his chest, a groan flowing from
his lips.
Tolchuk? Mogweed stood abruptly, leaning over the ogre.
Straightening back up, Tolchuk sighed deeply, a sheen of perspiration on his 
brow. It be all right. I just never felt it this strong.
What happened?
Tolchuk just shook his head. Trouble, I think.
From where he stood guard near the woods edge, Kral watched the others eat.
By the time everyone was finally seated near the campfire and digging into their 
meals, the sun had touched the western horizon, striping the clearing with the 
long shadows of tree trunks. Kral enjoyed the approach of evening. His senses, 
already keen, had been heightened by dark magicks. The nights black cloak hid 
nothing from his sight, and his sharp ears could pick out the pounding heart of 
prey from a hundred paces.
Still, the rumbled conversation and occasional spate of laughter from around the 
camp kept him distracted. He hated these newcomers, with their strange smells 
and alert eyes. They were hunters like himself, and he distrusted themnot that 
he expected any foul betrayal on their part, but simply because they were an 
unknown element in his careful plans. Kral watched them warily.
For this reason, he didnt sense the presence of the spy until the crack of a 
twig alerted him to the intruder.
He spun around to the shadowed wood. Who goes there? he barked loudly. Behind 
him, the camp instantly went silent with his call. His ax lay already bared in 
his four-fingered fist, the iron shining in the last rays of the sun.
Nothing lay out there. He saw no movement among the black shadows. He narrowed 
his eyes and cocked his head, listening. Deeper in the wood, off to the left, he 
heard the fluttering beat of a bucks heart, but nothing else. He relaxed his 
grip on the hickory handle of his ax. Nothing was out there.
Suddenly a small voice intruded, just a few paces away. Im hungry. Krais 
eyes grew wide as the speaker, a small naked child,
stepped from around the bole of a cypress. The boy scratched behind a filthy ear 
and shyly moved closer. Do you have any sweetcakes? Krai was taken aback by 
the childs sudden appearance. Who are you? he asked harshly, feeling slightly 
foolish brandishing his ax before a child barely tall enough to reach his knee. 
Still, Krai sensed that this was no ordinary urchin. He heard no rush of blood 
or beat of heart from the boy.
Youre a big man, the child said, craning his neck back, his eyes wide with 
awe. He seemed little threatened by the ax. The boy crossed to Krai and held up 
his hand for the mountain man to take it.
Instead Krai backed a step away.
Mycelle, by now, had crossed to him. She was putting away her twin swords. Its 
all right, Krai.
Krai kept his ax in hand. That is no ordinary boy.
Fear not. Its just one of Cassa Dars swamp children, a magickal construct of 
moss, mud, and swampweed. Mycelle knelt down beside the child. Well, little 
one, why have you come all the way here?
Behind Krai, the scarred swamper joined them, trailed by the rest of the camp.
The boy eyed the others, one hand rising to suck a thumb. When he spotted the 
towering ogre, his face grew scared. He slid closer to Mycelle and pointed 
toward Tolchuk. A m-monster!
Mycelle smiled and gathered him up in her arms. There are no monsters here.
The boy kept his eyes glued on ToFchuk, clearly unconvinced. Krai followed the 
others back to the campfire.
A few more dry branches were added to the fire as the sun finished setting. The 
camp gathered around the fresh flames.
Meric leaned both hands on his cane as he stood. What does this mean? the 
elvin asked. Why did he come?
Jaston held up a hand and leaned close to the boy as Mycelle cradled him in her 
lap. Cassa?
The boy stuck out his tongue at the scarred man. Youre an ugly, stinky man.
Jaston ignored his insult. Cassa, are you there? he persisted.
Krai watched the boy squirm and stiffen in Mycelles embrace, then grow still. 
The childs eyes glazed and no longer seemed to reflect the fires light.
The distance is great, the boy said, his words a whisper as if from another 
world. I had a hard time tracking you this far from
the swamps edge.
Krais nose curled at the demonstration. He had to restrain himself from 
sneaking closer and sniffing at the boy. It was as if someone else spoke through 
the childs lips.
Why have you come? Jaston asked.
I sense a great evil moving toward Port Rawl and came to warn you. It has 
something to do with the girl.
Mycelle approached closer. Why do you say that?
She still carries the Trysil. The magick in the warhammer is like
> a beacon to me, calling to my dwarf heritage. It has rested along the
coast for the past many days, but this prior night, it vanished beyond
my ability to sense, swallowed up in a magick as foul as the heart of a
blackguard demon. I fear the worst. Not just for the Trysil, but for
the child.
Krais blood raged. He suspected some dwarfish trick here, a ruse to guide him 
astray from his prey. Though forged by the Black Heart and unable to deny his 
masters true will, Krai was still a mountain man whose clan had a long memory. 
Like the illguard lord of Port Rawl whose thievish nature could not be 
completely wiped away, Krai could not deny the cry of revenge for the atrocities 
committed by the dwarf armies. He would one day have that
revenge.
The beast in his blood lusted to tear this rag of a child into bloody ribbons. 
When finished with Elena, he knew whom next he would hunt. Not even the monsters 
of the swamp could keep him from this
dwarfs throat.
Cassa, Jaston continued, can you tell us anything else?
No, only that you must all hurry. The evil sweeps toward Port Rawl. The boy 
began to shiver in Mycelles lap. I cant hold on much longer. Too weak still. 
Hurry!
With this last word, the figure of the boy swirled with a moldy luminescence and 
vanished. In the childs place was a dank pile of moist weed and mud. Mycelle 
stood, wiping the debris from her lap
in disgust.
Once clean, she faced the others. We leave now. It is still a hard days 
journey to reach Flints cottage. If Elena is in danger, we dare not spare the 
horses. Well ride the entire night and day.
i. r-t vv A K
No. Tolchuk straightened up. We be deceived.
His words drew Krais attention. So this dwarf lied to us, he said with clear 
indignation.
No, the ogre said. I think she speaks true. Only we interpret her words 
falsely.
Mycelles features were taut with worry and impatience. Speak, Tolchuk. What 
are you saying?
The ogre fumbled to his thigh pouch and removed the chunk of ruby heartstone. A 
murmur of awe at the sight of the precious jewel arose among the swampers. 
Tolchuk held the stone toward the southern edge of the wood. Though a handsome 
stone, it only glittered in the final rays of the sun. A moment ago, I felt the 
call of the stone shift, like my heart be suddenly torn from my chest. The call 
be sure and strong. We should heed the swamp witch. We must hurry. But not 
south. Elena no longer be there.
Mycelles brow crinkled. What are you saying?
Elena flees toward Port Rawl, Tolchuk insisted.
How? Krai began to say.
The ogre swung his arm behind him, pointing north, back toward Port Rawl. The 
chunk of heartstone flared to a brilliance that outshone the setting sun. Krai 
held up a hand against the aching glare.
Tolchuk gasped in pain, as if the jewels radiance burned his claws. The stone 
demands we go.
Atop her tall gelding, Mycelle led the caravan toward the gates of Port Rawl. 
She no longer wore her usual leather and steel but, like the others, had 
disguised herself in the sturdy and plain gear of the swamp traders: coarse 
shirt, worn trousers woven of boghemp, a hooded snakeskin slicker, and krocan 
boots that reached above her knees. It seemed this day was full of masquerades.
As she rode, Mycelle reached to her arm and stroked the small snake wound around 
her wrist. The pakagolos tiny tongue flickered over her fingertip, almost 
thanking her for the attention; then it settled back to rest. Mycelle found 
herself smiling slightly at its affection. How odd that such a small gesture 
should warm her heart.
Pulling her sleeve over the snake to keep it warm, she glanced to the rising 
moon, a sliver of brilliance among the cloud-swept stars.
They had made good time, but were they fast enough? Based on the omens of a 
glowing stone, they were rushing headlong into unknown danger. But Mycelle 
trusted her sons auguries. Having lived among the ogre tribes for a time, she 
had come to respect the stone called the Heart of the Clans. If Tolchuk sensed 
danger for Elena, Mycelle would follow the stones guidanceeven if it meant 
returning to this black-hearted city.
A grumble drew her attention to the right. Beside her, Jaston rode atop Errils 
dappled stallion. The tall man fought the reins of the fiery-spirited horse. 
Watching his difficulty, Mycelle had a new respect for Errils horsemanship. 
The stallion, purchased in Shadow-brook, had given Erril little trouble on the 
journey to the swamps.
Curse this mount, Jaston grumbled. His stallion rolled its sharp black eyes 
and tossed its head, huffing a white stream into the cooling night.
Then let him have his head. Hes a smart beast, and a lighter
touch may suit you better.
Ive had less trouble with a rutting bull krocan, he mumbled. But he tried 
her suggestion, and the stallion seemed to respond
accordingly.
Satisfied, Mycelle craned around in her seat and studied the long line of their 
swamp caravan. They were all mounted, except for Meric and Mama Freda, who 
guided the open wagon, and Tolchuk and Fardale, who kept pace on their own 
legs. She sighed. With Jastons swampers, they numbered fifteen. Too small a 
number for a serious assault, but it would have to do.
Swinging around, she faced the Swampwall as it came into view around a bend in 
the trail. Unlike the previous evening, the gates now blazed with torches. 
Mycelle slowed her horse to a walk and, with a wave, slowed the entire troupe. 
At least twenty men manned those gates. Clearly the city had been spooked by the 
deaths at the garrison and was roiled up like a hornets nest now.
Get Tolchuk in the wagon and covered, she hissed back at them. There was no 
way to disguise Tolchuk with mere clothes. Too many townspeople would have 
heard of the escaped ogre by now, and his presence would raise suspicions.
Once her son was loaded in the back of the wagon and covered with a thick tarp, 
Mycelle tightened her grip on her reins and continued toward the blazing gates. 
The air stung her eyes with oily smoke
from all the torches. Off toward the coast, a thick fog rolled from the shrouded 
seas. Mycelle noted its approach approvingly. The masking mist could weave a 
fine cloak to hide their movements and numbers as the night wore on.
Jaston kicked his stallion a step ahead of Mycelle. Maybe Id better do the 
talking, he offered. Swamp caravans are Port Rawls only means of trading with 
the neighboring landlocked towns, and the guards know better than to interfere 
with us.
Mycelle waved him on. She had no great wish to confront the rough men guarding 
the gates. Besides, without shape-shifting, there was even a good chance the 
gatekeeper might recognize her from last night. Though she could always change 
faces, Mycelle only wanted to touch her siluran abilities if absolutely 
necessary. She was still tired from wearing the old crones form earlier. 
Changing too frequently taxed a shape-shifter. There were limits to which even a 
silurans flesh could be stressed. Time was needed to rest the body.
Yet, exhausted or not, Mycelle could not deny the true reason for her 
reluctance. She stared as Jaston trotted ahead and rode toward the gates. She 
had failed to mention to him about her ability to shape-shift. She had told 
herself there was no need to tell him and had convinced herself that the fewer 
folks who knew the better especially when a shape-shifters nature was so 
repugnant to most men. It was purely a logical decision. Still, deep in her 
heart, Mycelle felt shamenot at her heritage, but at the secret she kept from a 
man she had once loved. She remembered the looks of fear and loathing that her 
shifting had once evoked in men. She could not bear to see it in Jastons eyes, 
too.
Irritated, she kicked her horse to close the gap with Jastons stallion. Already 
the swamp man was pulling to a stop before the thick iron portcullis. He threw 
back the hood of his slicker, exposing his scarred face to the torches glow. No 
longer shying from the eyes of others, he did not flinch from the unforgiving 
light. The trials of the swamp and the love of a witch had gone a long way 
toward healing his shame. His boldness only made Mycelles own shame seem that 
much larger.
Ho! Gatekeep! Jaston called.
From the walkway above, a shadowy figure leaned over. Who goes there? a guard 
called stridently.
Jaston waved at the band of swampers and wagon. Who does it
look like? Weve come a long way to do some trading. Open the gates. Weve had a 
hard day of travel and wish to wash the road dust from our throats with the 
swill you call ale here.
The guard chuckled harshly. Swill? Just cause your mama burned your mouth with 
swampbeer, dont insult the ales of our fine inns.
Then open your gates and prove us wrong! Jaston patted a small cask lashed 
behind his saddle. Ive a sample of swampbeer so you and the other boys can 
taste the drink of real men.
Mycelle watched the familiar ceremony: the ritual exchange of insults and 
carefully proffered bribes.
Jaston knew what he was doing. There was nothing like the offer of free spirits 
to oil many a tight doorway. The gates were already creaking open. Jaston waved 
his thanks to the gatekeep and led the others toward the opening.
Once through, Jaston took up a position by the lead guard. He stayed saddled but 
stood in his stirrups, barking harsh orders at the caravan, haranguing them with 
his tongue, acting the part of the tough troupe leader.
A young guard, no more than a boy, tried to peek under the tarp as the wagon 
passed. But Jaston lashed at him. Leave our wares be. If you want to trade, see 
us in the morning at Four Corners. Mycelle saw the sweat pebbling Jastons 
forehead. Their plans would be ruined if Tolchuk was discovered. Mycelles 
fingers wandered to the hilt of a dagger at her waist.
I thought I saw something move, the boy squeaked. Suddenly the head of a large 
snake slid from under the wagons covering and hissed at the boy, only a 
handspan from his nose, exposing long fangs. The youth danced back, white faced.
The other guards laughed and ridiculed the boy as he backed farther away. Like 
the man said, Brunt, the lead guard scolded the boy, dont poke your nose 
where it dont belong.
The wagon was allowed to pass without further investigation. Once the entire 
caravan was through and winding toward the darkened streets, Jaston cut free the 
cask and let it roll off his horses rump into the hands of the thirsty guard. 
With the compliments of the traders of Drywater.
The guard nodded. Well raise our first mug to your good trading.
Jaston snorted. I hope its the first mug. Remember, this is
swampbeer. By the last mug, you wont even remember your own
names. Amid the appreciative guffaws, he kicked his horse toward where Mycelle 
waited at the head of the caravan.
That wasnt too hard, he said, wiping the nervous sweat from his brow.
Mycelle nodded him forward with her. Its always easy putting your head in a 
noose. Its getting out thats hard.
The two led the others through the outskirts of the towns narrowing streets. 
Tension kept the company quiet. Only the tromp of hoof and creak of wagon wheel 
marked their progress through the dark avenues. Once well away from the gates, 
Tolchuk rolled from the wagon, shoving the innocuous swamp python back into its 
cage under the tarp.
Mycelle smiled at him as he lumbered up to the front. Quick wits, Son. Now I 
know youve got more than just your fathers good looks.
He wiped his clawed hands on his thighs. I hate snakes, he said with a shiver.
Mycelle exposed the bracelet wound around her wrist. Even this tiny one who 
saved your mother from poison? 
That be not a snake anymore. It be a part of you. That I can never hate.
She reached and touched his cheek, sharing a moment of familial warmth.
So where do we go from here? Jaston asked.
Tolchuk fished his chunk of heartstone from his pocket and slowly swung it in a 
circle. It bloomed to a sharp brilliance when pointed in only one direction.
Mycelle sighed in exasperation.
What? Jaston asked.
It points toward the docks.
Jastons face grew grim. Like her, he knew the town well. The port section of 
the city was its roughest and meanest quarter, thick with pirates and their 
crews. Even the most wily denizens of Port Rawl knew better than to wander into 
that lair without an invitation, and no sane person ever went there at night.
What are we to do? Jaston asked.
Mycelle nodded toward the glowing stone. Follow the light, keep a hand on your 
sword, and pray.
iLENA TESTED THE ROPES THAT BOUND HER. TlED BY EXPERIENCED
..ailors, the knots were secure. Her struggling only succeeded in tightening 
them further. She stared at the other two prisoners who shared the tiny cabin. 
Across the narrow room, Erril lay on his belly, his one arm tied to his ankles. 
He had yet to awaken from the club to the back of his head. Even from here, 
Elena could see the blood welling through his black hair and down his cheek.
He shouldnt have tried so hard to resist when they took Flint away, Joach 
said, noticing where Elena stared. Her brother was also trussed tight: ankles 
bound to a chair, and wrists tied behind him. He was just trying to make it 
look authentic.
That cudgel they used on him looked authentic enough. Elena chewed at her 
lower lip. It had taken all of Elenas restraint not to lash out at the one-eyed 
sailor who had struck Erril. It would have been only a minor magick to burn 
through the ropes and flame his cudgel to ash, but Flints stern eyes and 
furtive shake of his head had stayed her hand. They all had to play their parts 
if they hoped the ruse to succeed.
Flints plan was for Erril and Elena to pose as husband and wife, an upland 
couple accompanying their lame nephew, Joach, on their way to Port Rawls 
healer. After renewing her power, Elena had trimmed her overgrown hair and nails 
and donned a set of Errils clothes. With the change in her body, she could no 
longer pose as a boy. Elena glanced down at the ample swellings upon her chest 
that was definitely a ploy that could never work again. Still, Flints
ruse had proven sound, especially since the captain seemed more interested in 
the older Brother than in his passengers. Their ultimate goal was for the 
captain to deliver them to Port Rawl, and once on land, theyd use Elenas 
magick to make their escape.
Before her, Erril groaned and began to push himself from the floor. Elena found 
herself able to breathe again. Though she was somewhat sure the blow was far 
from fatal, she was glad to hear him grumble and move.
Sweet Mother, that man had more of an arm than I suspected, Erril said, 
rolling to his side. The move was difficult with his trussed limbs. I didnt 
think hed strike so hard.
You fell like an axed tree, Joach quipped. You shouldve seen Flints face.
Elena, are you all right? Did they harm you? The concern on Errils face 
seemed misplaced as blood dripped from his own cheek.
I only wish they had tried to touch me, she said blackly, murder clear in her 
words. But they were only interested in Flint.
Erril smiled at her expression. Now I know why I married you.
She appreciated his attempt at levity. He clearly sought to ease her tension, 
but it did no good. She hated this waiting, especially when the fate of their 
friend was still unknown.
Where did they take Flint? Erril said, voicing their common concern.
Elena looked to her toes.
Joach answered. They dragged him off to the captains cabin for a private 
talk. We heard Flint cry out once, but nothing since.
Dont worry. These pirates wouldnt kill him, Erril argued. Hes the only 
one who supposedly knows the fate of the seadragon.
Unless they believe he lost it, Elena said, raising her eyes. I overheard a 
sailor talking. He was sure Flints dragon had somehow escaped. According to the 
sailor, the price of dragons blood shouldve bought Flint a whole fleet. Elena 
stared Erril in the eyes. If this question arose in a simple sailor, itll 
also be on Captain Jarplins mind. She let the rest remain unspoken. Flints 
last scream still echoed in her ears.
After a worried moment of silence, Erril spoke up. Elena, can you free 
yourself?
Not without magick. The knots are snug.
Then use your power.
Joach sat straighter. What about Flints plan?
I dont have as much trust as Flint does in the logic of pirates. Erril 
rolled to face Elena more fully. Free yourself; then untie us. Conserve your 
magick as much as possible.
Elena nodded. She needed no further encouragement. Touching her magick, she 
directed it to her right fist. With her hands gloved and tied behind her, Elena 
could not see if her fist glowed with mag-icks, but in her heart, she knew it. 
She sensed the power concentrating, waiting for release. She was ready, too.
The head of a copper nail protruded from the seatback of her chair. Using her 
fingers, she slipped her glove down a bit, then gouged the soft flesh of her 
wrist on the nails sharp edge. Pain lanced up, quick and sharp, but before she 
could even wince, the fire in the wound was washed away by a flow of magick and 
blood. The chorus of power sang in her ears. Easy, Elena.
She scowled. Did no one have confidence in her? For countless nights, she had 
practiced controlling her witch fire, and if she concentrated, she had learned 
how to flame the wick of a candle without
even melting its wax tip.
Using that skill now, Elena loosened a thread of her magick and wove it into the 
ropes that bound her. Once it was wound through the entire length of cord, she 
ignited the filament. There was a bright flash, and the ropes fell to ash.
With an aching protest from her shoulders, Elena brought her arms around and 
dusted ash from her wrists.
Are you hurt? Erril asked. Did you burn yourself? Frowning, she shook her 
head. She raised her gloved fist before him and loosened another thread of 
magick. The glove that hid her hand vanished in a brief flicker of flame. Ash 
rained down, exposing her glowing fist beneath. Her hidden Rose bloomed bright 
in the room, driving back the gloom.
Erril and Joachs eyes grew huge at her display. It was so simple. Elena 
glanced to the ropes that bound her legs. Cocking her head, she cast out a 
strand; the ropes vanished from her ankles. With smoke curling around her, Elena 
stood up. She began to point toward Joach. Erril interrupted her. No! he spat 
out. She turned to him. Why? This fine weaving of magick was
more exhilarating in some ways than her blasts of wild fury. Here was not just 
raw power, but a fierce strength that was hers to control. It was like riding a 
muscled stallion attuned to her every movement.
Just untie us, Erril ordered.
But magick is quicker, she mumbled, still a bit breathless.
Doit!
Reluctantly, she crossed to Erril and fingered his knots loose. In a few tugs, 
he was free. Erril rocked onto his knees and shook feeling into his fingers. 
Before she could move to free Joach, Erril stopped her with a hand on her 
shoulder.
Listen, child, he said. One of the first lessons a mage was taught during my 
times was to learn restraint. It is also one of the hardest lessons for most 
mages. As my brothers liegeman, it was my sworn duty to warn Shorkan against 
using his powers when ordinary means were at hand. To waste magick to light a 
cold hearth when tinder and flint are available is wrong. Magick is a gift not 
to be squandered, but to be used thoughtfully and only when necessary.
She nodded, drawing back her power, and crossed to Joach. She freed her brother 
as she pondered the plainsmans words. Once done, she turned to face Erril. 
But if a mage can renew his strength, why should it matter how he uses it?
Erril stood and helped Joach from his chair. We can talk more of this later. 
For now, just know that to use your powers indiscriminately only makes you more 
and more dependent on them. You become a tool of your magick, rather than the 
other way around.
Joach rubbed at his wrists and nervously straightened the dragon tooth that hung 
at the hollow of his neck. What now?
Nodding toward the door, Erril said, I dont like our position here. Its time 
we armed ourselves.
Joach retrieved his staff from where it had been tossed in the corner. His ruse 
as a lame boy had convinced the pirates to let him keep his wooden stave. While 
he was wearing his gloves, the wood remained dark as Joach gripped it. I 
already have my weapon, he said, raising the stout rod.
Elena watched as Joach ignited a whisper of black flames along its length. They 
had learned that as long as Joach kept the skin of his right palm from 
contacting the wood, the staff remained a tool of black magick. Otherwise, 
without the glove, her brothers blood
would be called into the wood, and the staff would again become a weapon of 
white magick. Twin weapons in one length of wood.
Did they post a guard? Erril asked.
No, Elena answered. In that regard, Flint was right. After locking us up, 
theyve ignored us. She crossed to the small door and leaned her ear against 
it. I dont hear anyone in the hall either.
Erril moved beside her, his breath warm on her cheek as he leaned to check, 
too. Can you melt the lock without setting fire to
the door?
Pushing back a stray curl of hair from her eyes, she glanced at Erril. It was 
so strange to stand almost eye to eye with him now. In his gaze, she saw him 
appraising herin more ways than just magickal. She suddenly felt very conscious 
of the changes in her body. The fullness in hips and chest, the length and curl 
of her hair. Even her responses to him were no longer the same. His gray eyes, 
the touch of his hand, even the brush of his breath on her cheek a moment 
agoall stirred something deep inside her, a spreading warmth that both 
strengthened and weakened her at the same time. She stared into his eyes and 
knew she must succeed. I think I can, she murmured softly. He stepped back, 
clearing the way for her.
Licking her dry lips, Elena turned to the door and raised her hand. She wove 
several strands of magick out from her palm. Fiery filaments rose from her 
fingertips, wrapping and writhing into a thicker cord. With a thought, she 
guided the crimson strands into the doors lock, suddenly sensing the old iron. 
She felt its cold touch wrap around her heart. For a strained moment, she 
thought she might drown in the ancient stillness of the ore. But she fought the 
irons cold touch, her blood becoming a forge, fierce and hot. Somewhere beyond 
her senses, she heard Joach gasp. Its working, Erril mumbled as if from far 
away. Her magick pumped with each fiery beat of her heart against the old iron. 
Like a reluctant lover, the cold ore gave way slowly, warming to her touch, 
yielding to her.
Youve done it, Elena. Erril gripped her shoulder. Now stop your magick 
before its witch fire spreads.
Elena blinked back to clear focus, shivering under Errils touch. She closed 
her fist, severing the strands that linked her to the molten lock. She stared as 
red-hot iron ran in rivulets down the planks of
the door, leaving scorched and smoking trails. Without her magicks touch, the 
iron cooled rapidly.
Careful now, Erril warned. From here, we stick close together. He nodded 
toward Joach.
Her brother pushed the door slowly open with the end of his staff. The creak of 
salt-encrusted hinges seemed like the screams of the dying as they all held 
their breaths.
Crouching and cautious of the pools of cooling molten iron, Erril peeked out 
the door, looking first one way, then the other. Follow close, he whispered 
and led them into a short, dark companionway. Only a single lantern lit the hall 
with its tiny flame.
Somewhere a few men were singing bawdily, out of tune. Harsh laughter 
accompanied the singers efforts. It sounded like it came from directly 
overhead. Elena found herself crouching away from the noise.
Erril slipped to the only other room exiting the hall and peered within. Bilge 
pump and crates, he whispered. We must be in the lowest bowels of the ship.
Where now? Joach asked, his eyes shining with fear.
I need a weapon first. A sword, an ax, something. Errils hand balled into a 
fist in frustration. Then we free Flint.
With Joach at her side, Elena followed behind the plainsman as he crept down the 
short hall. A narrow ladder led up to a closed hatch.
We came down this way, Elena whispered. Theres a kitchen above us.
The singing of the men had died down, but murmurs and occasional loud guffaws 
could be heard beyond the hatch. Erril paused at the foot of the ladder. From 
his dour expression, Elena could almost read Errils thoughts. Escape this way 
would lead them directly into the midst of the pirates.
There must be another way, Joach whispered.
Errils brows bunched together as he plotted.
Suddenly, something tickled Elenas ankle. She started slightly, jumping back a 
bit. A huge rat squeaked in protest and scurried down the hall. Its oily fur 
stank of rotted fish.
Follow it, Erril urged. This is a fishing boat. Its hold must somehow 
connect with these lower decks.
Joach hurried after the rat as it ducked into the bilge cabin. We need light! 
he whispered urgently.
Elena raised her hand, beginning to call forth a flame.
Erril knocked her arm down and snatched the lantern from the wall hook. He 
raised the lamp before her eyes, glancing at her meaningfully, then ducked after 
Joach.
Blushing, Elena followed. Errils earlier warning rang in her ears. Maybe there 
was a threat in the indiscriminate use of her magicks. Already her first 
instinct when called to action was to reach for her power, ignoring her own 
ingenuity and resources. In this way, she narrowed herself, defining her worth 
only with magick. She shook her head. She was more than a red fist and was 
determined to stay
that way.
In the cabin, she found Joach kneeling by a large crate. Erril hovered over him 
with the lantern. It dashed behind here, Joach said.
Erril lowered his lantern closer to light the cramped space between crate and 
wall. Move aside, boy. Joach rolled to the side to let Erril lean nearer. I 
dont see the bugger back there, the plainsman said.
Im sure thats where it went. Joach made to poke at the space
with his staff, as if to flush the beast out.
Erril waved him back and stood up. Passing the lamp to Elena, Erril waved 
Joach to the corner of the box. Help me move it.
Joach used his staff as a lever to pry the heavy crate from the wall while 
Erril pushed with his shoulder. The crate shifted with a scraping protest 
across the rough planks. Whats in this thing anyway? Joach complained as he 
strained.
One of the crates pine slats cracked under Joachs staff. Elenas brother 
stumbled at the sudden release of his hold. He caught himself up against the 
wall, cringing at the noise. The sharp crack of the board had sounded like a 
thunderclap in the tight space.
Everyone froze. No one moved until a new bawdy chorus echoed down from above. 
They had not been heard. Elena moved closer to the others, reminding herself to 
keep breathing.
Near the crate now, Elena raised the lantern to the broken section of the box, 
not so much curious of its contents as seeking something to distract her from 
their peril. Like her brother, she had heard tales of the gold coins and jeweled 
treasures plundered from the seas and hoarded by pirates.
She lifted the lantern higher and peered closer. No treasure lay inside. From 
the black heart of the crate, a pair of bloodred eyes stared out at her.
A SPLASH OF COLD SEAWATER SHOCKED FlINT BACK TO FULL AWARENESS.
He gasped and choked, throwing his head back with a crack against the 
high-backed chair to which he was bound. The salt in the water burned the cut 
below his eye and stung the abrasion on his cheek, both injuries courtesy of his 
hard-knuckled captors.
Captain Jarplin leaned closer to Flints bloody face. He was a large-shouldered 
man with silver hair and green eyes. Winters at sea had weathered him hard as 
stone. Flint had once respected the mans firm resolve. He had been a tough but 
fair captain. Yet something in him had changed. Though outwardly the same, if 
not a bit paler of skin, something about the captain struck Flint as wrong, like 
a whiff of rot.
Flint had noticed it as soon as he was dragged into the captains cabin. The 
usual orderliness to his chamber was no longer evident. Maps and charts were 
strewn about the room. Unwashed clothes lay piled where they had been dropped. 
Clearly, Jarplin seldom left his cabin now, where before it was impossible to 
keep him off his ships decks.
Flint licked the blood from his split lower lip. Had his theft of the seadragon 
so shaken up his former captain? No, something else was wrong here. He should 
never have convinced the others to step aboard this ship.
Jarplin used a finger to raise Flints chin. Have Master Vaels fists freed 
your tongue yet? he asked in mocking tones, so unlike the man Flint once knew.
Flint spat blood. I aint tellin ya nothin about the dragon until we reach 
Rawl, he said, employing the old slang he had once used when he was first mate 
on this rig.
Jarplins green eyes pierced through his disguise. Dont play the poor 
fisherman with me, Flint. Theres more to you than I once suspected, but my eyes 
have since been opened. He laughed harshly. Oh, yes, theyre wide open now.
Flint found himself staring at the trace of spittle hanging from the mans lips. 
What had happened to the man he knew, a man he had once considered a friend?
Jarplin pushed away and turned to his new first mate. Flint did not recognize 
Master Vael as any member of the Skjpjact. It was
clear Master Vael hailed from lands far from here. The mans head was shaven 
smooth, his skin like yellowed parchment. His eyes were the oddest huea deep 
purple, like a bad bruise. Even the whites of his eyes were tinted, as if the 
color had bled outward.
Jarplin nodded toward an ornate chest. Maybe there is another way to free 
Flints tongue.
The only acknowledgment from Master Vael was a barely perceptible bow of his 
head, almost as if the first mate were giving his approval to the captain. 
Flints brow crinkled. Who was the true leader here?
The captain slipped a silver key from a chain around his neck and crossed to the 
gold filigreed box. This is my last one, he said as he unlocked the chest. 
You should feel honored that I want to share it with you.
Jarplins wide back blocked Flints view of the chest. Still, Flint sensed when 
the boxs lid opened. The cabin suddenly swelled with the reek of entrails 
bloating in the summers sun. But the smell was not the worst of it. It was as 
if someone had raised the tiny hairs all over Flints body. The very air seemed 
charged with lightning.
Whatever lay inside that box, Flint had no desire to lay eyes on it. But he was 
not given any choice. Jarplin swung back around. In his hand, he held a mass of 
gelatinous slime. At first, Flint thought it looked like some fetid scum scooped 
out of the bilge pipes, but when Jarplin approached closer, Flint saw it was 
actually alive. Thin tentacles writhed out from its main bulk. Each tip ended in 
a tiny mouth, sucking blindly at the air.
Flint could not help himself. The pain, the tension, the smell and now this new 
horror. It all overwhelmed him. His stomach churned, and he spewed bile across 
his lap. In his heart, he knew what Jarplin carried. He remembered the tales he 
had heard of the raiding ship that had assaulted the docks of Port Rawl, of the 
tenta-cled creatures found curled inside the cleaved skulls of the berserkers. 
Oh Sweet Mother, not here, too.
It seemed forever until the spasms in his belly stopped. Afterward, his head 
hung heavy as he gulped air.
Jarplin laughed. Ah, Flint, its nothing to fear. This little darlin will make 
you look at life in a whole new light.
Raising his head, Flint discovered he could think more clearly now. It was as if 
his body had needed to cast out all the poisons built
up since stepping aboard the ship. Jarplin, he said, throwing aside any 
pretenses, I dont know what has happened to you. But listen to me. This is 
wrong. Somewhere inside you must know this.
Somewhere inside? Jarplin knelt down and brushed back the silver hair that 
draped his neck. Twisting around, he exposed the base of his skull to Flint. 
Why dont you check whats inside me?
A small neat hole lay at the top of his neck. Bloodless, it looked like an old, 
healed wound. Then, from the hole, a pale tentacle slid out, its small mouth 
swelling and puckering as it drew fresh air to the creature hidden deep inside 
Jarplins skull.
What was done to you? Flint mumbled in horror.
Jarplin let his hair drape back over the wound. Let me show you. He turned to 
Master Vael. Fetch the bone drill.
Flint finally noticed Master Vael again. The stranger no longer remained 
expressionless. His lips were stretched in a hungry grin, exposing large teeth, 
each filed to a sharp point.
There was nothing human in that smile.
Elena gasped and danced back from the crate. She almost dropped the lantern.
Erril was immediately at her side. What is it? he asked.
Joach backed nervously toward them, staff raised against the unknown menace.
I Im not sure, Elena mumbled. I thought I saw something. She had expected 
some monstrosity, something with fiery eyes, to crash out of the crate and 
pursue her. When it had failed to happen, she was less sure of exactly what she 
had seen. Her hand fluttered toward her face. I saw a pair of eyes.
Erril squeezed her elbow. Stay here. He took the lantern from her shaking 
fingers and approached the box.
Be careful, she whispered.
Joach kept guard at his sisters side.
The two watched Erril raise the lantern toward the split section of the crates 
planking. He, too, seemed to jump slightly at what he found. But instead of 
fleeing, he stood his ground and slipped the lantern deeper toward the hole, 
peering after it.
Well? Joach asked.
Im not sure. A sculpture of some sort, he said. I think the eyes
are two rubies.
Joach approached, followed by Elena. Her brother raised on his toes to stare 
into the dark crate. Theres something
Erril waved him away. We dont have time to waste on this.
No, Joach said, glancing over his shoulder at Erril. Theres a power coming 
off it. My staff grows warm as I near it. We should at least see what lies 
here.
Erril hesitated, then nodded. But lets be quick about it. We cant risk the 
crewmen discovering our escape.
They used Joachs staff and pried at the side, but it refused to budge. The 
planks were nailed tight.
Elena stepped forward. Let me help. Before either could argue, she sent forth 
flaming tendrils of witch fire toward the crate. Joach and Erril ducked, 
fearing the strands touch. They need not have worried. The strands were like 
extensions of her own thought. Threads of energy drew to the nails, like iron to 
lodestone. With the merest push, she melted the fasteners. Unhinged, the side of 
the crate fell open. Erril and her brother caught the wall of planks and 
settled
it gently to the floor.
Once done, the three gathered before the open crate. Elena had retrieved the 
lantern from the floor. They all stared in silence at the revealed sculpture.
It looks like some big blackbird, Joach commented. The statue was finely 
crafted, standing taller than Erril. Only an artisan of considerable skill 
could have sculpted the huge stone in such detail. Each feather was in clear 
relief; the sharp beak looked ready to tear. Its eyes, twin crystalline rubies, 
sparked hungrily in the lamplight. Its claws seemed to dig into the floor of the 
crate as if the winged beast had just come to roost. Not a bird, Erril said 
mournfully.
Elena did not argue with his assessment. Though feathered and winged, there was 
something distinctly reptilian about the beast. The neck was a bit too long and 
the joints of its legs seemed to bend the wrong way. What is it?
Erril turned to Joach, a dark expression on his face. Its a
wyvern.
Joach gripped his staff and backed a step. Like from my dream.
What are you talking about? Elena asked.
Erril just shook his head. Her brother and Erril stared at each other, wearing 
strangely guarded expressions, as if each were hiding something from the other.
Joach finally broke the awkward silence. But I dreamed nothing about a statue. 
In my nightmare, the beastflew.
The plainsman just continued to stare at the stone beast, little comforted by 
Joachs words. His rugged features had paled. I dont like this.
Neither did Elena. She had seen too many statues come to life during the long 
journey here. She could not keep the worry from her voice. You mentioned power, 
Joach. Maybe its like the crystal statue of the boy Denal. Maybe itll come to 
life.
Joach drifted nearer, stepping atop the fallen planks. He reached a hand toward 
the statue.
Get back! Erril scolded.
Wearing a frown, Joach slid his hand away. This stone is strange. Even 
polished, it doesnt seem to cast any reflection.
Erril and Elena stepped nearer, but they maintained a safe distance.
What do you think? Joach asked Erril.
Elena was the one to answer. We need to destroy this. Now.
Why? Joach asked. My dream was false. Moris and Flint said so. This bird is 
not coming to life. He tapped at it with his staff.
Both Elena and Erril yelled a frantic No! But nothing seemed to happen. Only 
a hollow thunt marked where wood met stone. The statue remained the same.
Erril shoved Joach away. Are you daft, boy? You dont fool with black magick 
like that.
What black magick? Its only ordinary stone.
No, Elena argued, its ebon stone&#9632;. She pointed to the veins of silver 
running through the black rock. She had recognized the sculptors medium. This 
stone drinks blood.
Flint knew he had to hurry. The first mate, Master Vael, had left to fetch the 
bone drill and would be back in a few moments. If Flint wished to remain his own 
man, he had no time to waste.
His original plan had been to endure the tortures aboard the
Seaswift until the boat reached Port Rawl. What was a broken nose and a bit of 
lost blood compared to the safe passage of the girl to the port city? But as 
Flint watched Captain Jarplin caress the tentacled creature in his palm, he knew 
his original scheme had to be
scrapped.
Evil rode these waves, and no amount of fancy talking would get them safely to 
port. If he should succumb and become a thrall to that foul creature, Elenas 
secret would be revealed.
A new strategy was needed. And the first step was escape with his
skull intact.
With his arms tied behind him, Flint worried the cuff of his battered coat with 
deft fingers. A small knife, no more than a sliver of steel, had been sewn into 
the fabric. Among pirates, it was always good to have weapons hidden where they 
couldnt be found. Once he had it gripped firmly, he pushed the blade through 
the ragged hemp. It popped through the material, and for a heart-shuddering 
moment it almost fumbled from his frantic fingers. Flint bit his split lip, 
using the pain to focus his attention. If he should drop the knife, he would be 
lost forever to the evil here.
Eying his former captain, Flint watched for any sign that his secretive 
movements had been noticed. Jarplin had always been sharp eyed and had seldom 
succumbed to trickery. Even with the monster in the captains head, Flint could 
not trust that his instincts had
dulled.
Licking the blood from his lips, Flint spoke, hoping to keep Jarplin distracted 
as he began working at the ropes. So just when did you become this creatures 
slave, Jarplin? How long has it been
your master?
As expected, the captains face bloomed with color and his brows grew dark. 
Possessed by a monster or not, a part of Jarplins personality persisted. He had 
been captain of his own fleet for twelve winters, and to suggest that Jarplin 
was no longer in control was a sore insult. Blustering for half a moment, 
Jarplin finally freed his angry tongue. I am and always will be captain of this 
vessel! He waved at the back of his head with his free hand. I am not this 
things slave; it is a mere tool. It allows me to finally see the play of life 
for what it really isa game of power where there is only one winner. And I mean 
to be on the right side.
And how did you acquire such a wonderful tool?
It was a gift.
Yes, Im sure. One you accepted willingly, Flint said, letting the sarcasm 
drip. He watched Jarplins face twist with frustration.
Flint drove his words deeper as sweat built up on his own brow. So who was 
master when this was done to you? Master Vael perhaps? Does he pull your strings 
like a mummers foppish puppet?
Jarplin jerked with anger, almost tossing the tentacled creature from his palm. 
You know nothing! You cant possibly comprehend
All I know is that the captain I once respected now bows and scrapes to the 
bidding of his jaundiced first mateand a stinking foreigner at that.
Jarplin had always had a hard prejudicial streak for non-Alaseans. By now, his 
cheeks were black with anger. And if Flint was not mistaken, there was also a 
bit of confusion in that expression.
Flint worked feverishly at his ropes. Time was running short. The captain 
blinked a few times, doubt in his eyes, and a hand went to finger the back of 
his skull. What have I? Suddenly Jarplin doubled over in pain. A short, 
choked scream escaped his lips.
Flint almost stopped working at the ropes. Once, during a savage storm, Jarplin 
had taken a loose harpoon through the leg and had still managed to captain his 
crew through the gale, stomping around with a length of whaling blade through 
his thigh. Not a single cry had marked the injury then. But now For Jarplin to 
show this much pain, Flint could not imagine the agony he must be experiencing.
Captain? Flint said, concerned, dropping his attempt at needling the man.
Jarplin fell on the edge of his bed, knees buckling. He sat there with his head 
bowed, shuddering gasps still shaking from him. Flint noticed that during this 
whole time Jarplin had never let loose of the tentacled beast. Even now, he held 
it cradled to his chest like a small infant. This could not be good.
Flint continued sawing at his bindings with the knife as Jarplin finally raised 
his head. Blood dribbled from where he had bit through his lip in pain. You 
youll soon learn, he said weakly. Its a wonderful gift.
Flints eyes grew widenot at the absurd statement, but at what he found in 
Jarplins gaze. He had sailed through many hardships with the captain and knew 
him well. Right now, Jarplin not only believed his words, but there was the 
light of exultation in his eyes.
Mother above, what manner of beast or black magick could succeed in creating 
that worshipful response after such torture? Flint was determined never to find 
out. He almost gasped aloud when his knife finally sliced through the ropes that 
bound his hands.
Using his fingers, he kept a firm grasp on the freed ropes and knife. He could 
not risk letting them fall to the floor and be seen. Not yet. He must wait for 
the right moment.
A sudden creak of the door startled them both. The thin first mate pushed 
through the door. In one hand, he held a long drill that was used to core into 
whale skulls, a common tool aboard hunting vessels. The steel bit looked well 
used, its shaft glinting brightly in the lantern light.
Jarplin smiled at Flint, almost warmly. Youll soon see.
Flint closed his eyes. His time had just run out.
Elena bunched her hand into a red fist. She could almost sense the malevolence 
pulsing from the ebonstone statue.
How do we destroy it? Joach asked. It looks like it would take sledges and 
several strong men to crack that stone.
Elena frowned. No, I doubt even the full force of my witch fire could scratch 
its surface.
Then what can we do? Joach asked. Maybe we should just
leave it.
Erril, who still stood silently eying the wyvern statue, shook his head. We 
cant leave this thing at our backs. Theres no telling what menace broods 
here.
Lowering the lantern, Elena turned to Erril. If the Trysil is still packed in 
one of my trunks
Erril nodded, his features turning contemplative.
Whats that? Joach asked with a touch to Elenas elbow.
Its the sacred hammer of the dwarf clans, a hammer whose iron was forged in 
lightning.
Erril finally spoke, straightening his stance. I know Cassa Dar places much 
reverence on the rune-carved talisman, but we dont know for certain that the 
Thunder Hammer could damage the
statue.
It succeeded in cracking the ebonstone armor of the blackguard demon, Elena 
argued, referring to the battle at Castle Drak.
But that was only a shell of ebonstone. This appears to be cast from a single 
massive chunk of the foul ore.
Still, what other choice do we have? Its impervious to my mag-ick, and I fear 
having Joach strike at it with his black magick.
Erril glanced at her brother, silently. The plainsmans eyes revealed that he 
agreed with her statement. Did you see where they took our gear?
Joach spoke up behind him. After they clubbed and dragged you off, I saw them 
hauling our supplies into the main hold.
Then we must find a way to get there without being seen.
Elena held up her pale left hand. If I could regain my ghost magick, it would 
be a simple thing to sneak there.
But to do that, youd first have to reach the spirit realm and renew, Erril 
said, and Id rather not have you that close to death again.
She nodded. In truth, she had no wish to travel there again either.
By now, Joach had wandered to the crates back side, peering into the crack 
between wall and box. Well, the rat that led us here wasnt in the crate, so it 
must have gone somewhere.
Good point, Joach. The beast reeked offish, as if it had been nesting near the 
hold. Following it may be our best chance. The plainsman waved Joach out of his 
way, then crawled within the narrow space between the wall and the crate. As 
they watched, Erril braced his back against the wall and pushed. Muscles 
bunched and strained against his wool breeches.
Joach moved to help, but Erril held up a hand. I dont want you near this 
cursed thing, he said, his teeth clenched with effort, his face reddened to a 
ruddy fire. Still he strained harder. Finally, with a huffing gasp, he shoved 
with his whole body, and the crate slid across the floor with a low grind of 
wood.
Sighing from the exertion, Erril rolled out of the cramped space and stood up 
on his weakened legs. He used a hand on the wall to steady himself. Bring the 
lantern, he said to Elena.
She crossed to him and lifted the lamp toward the darkness behind the crate. 
Near the base of the wall was a gnawed hole about the size of a ripe pumpkin. 
She squeezed past Erril and knelt slightly to better illuminate the hole. As 
Elena got closer, she caught the whiff of an awful reek. She blinked against the 
smell, her nose curling. It stank of offal and the sting of salt.
Do you see anything? Erril asked.
No, she said, but I do smell something. Fighting against the stench, she 
pressed into the cramped space, knelt with the lantern set beside her head, and 
peered through the ragged hole.
Just beyond the opening, she spotted the bottoms of barrels and nothing much 
else. Still, even through the reek, she sensed that the neighboring chamber was 
much larger. The slight drip of water from deeper in the room echoed hollowly, 
like the trickle of rainwater in a cavern. I think you were right. Theres a 
large chamber, and from the smell, it might be the fish hold.
Let me take a look. Erril and she exchanged places. He peered silently. 
Brine and fish. If this isnt the main hold, it must be close.
Then stand back, Elena warned. She cast out threads of fire from her 
outstretched fingers.
Erril ducked away as she set about melting the nails and screws that secured a 
section of the wooden wall. Planks fell away, clattering against a row of 
barrels in the next room. Joach and Erril hurried to secure the falling boards 
before the noise should alert
the crew.
Mother above, that stench! Joach choked.
Its only salted fish, Erril commented, but Elena noticed the slight curling 
of his nose. The reeking smell seemed to seep into their very skin. Its not as 
bad if you breathe through your mouth.
With Joachs assistance, Erril tilted and rolled a barrel of oil out of the 
way, clearing a path into the next chamber. They hurried, sticking close to the 
shadows by the wall. Erril ordered Elena to shutter the lanterns flame to a 
mere flicker. Now was not the time to be
spotted.
They edged forward to where the floor of the chamber opened
into a wide hole. Staring over the edge, they saw a sea of dead fish
awash in thick crusts of salt. The smell stung their eyes, raising tears.
Erril pointed for Elena to shine the light above. If thats the fish
hold, the main hatch of the ship must be directly above us.
What about our packs? Joach asked. They must be stored somewhere on this 
level.
Erril nodded. You two search for our things, he answered. Im going to find 
the crew hatch to the decks above.
Elena hated the idea of splitting up. The main hold encompassed the entire 
midsection of the ship and was divvied up into smaller
cubbyholes and side chambers. They would surely lose sight of each other as they 
explored, and that frightened her more than a pack of ravers. But she knew 
better than to complain. She sensed that time was running thin for all of them.
Joach took her hand as Erril disappeared into the shadows along the wall. 
Lets check over by those stacks of dry goods, her brother whispered. He began 
to lead her along the edge of the deep hold.
Glancing forward, she spotted the section of decking where sacks of flour and 
grain lay piled like cords of wood. Once there, Joach pushed among the stacked 
barrels and burlap sacks. Elena followed, lantern raised before her like a 
shield.
They searched the short rows, the scent of rye and pepper almost masking the 
reek offish here, but there was no sign of their gear.
Wed better move on, Joach said, his eyes darting all around.
She nodded just as one of the sacks near her elbow shifted, the rustle of burlap 
as loud as a scream in her tense ears. She almost bob-bled the lantern from her 
fingers in her hurry to jump away.
Joach was immediately at her side. What?
Already Elena was swinging her lantern toward the displaced sack, using the lamp 
as both a weapon and as a means of illuminating any hidden menace. Beyond the 
far edge of the sack, toward the middle of this particular pile of stored goods, 
a small reddish-furred creature lay nestled.
Elenas first thought was that it was the back of a huge rat, but a small 
frightened sob suddenly arose from there. Raising the lantern higher, she 
realized her mistake. It was not a rat. It was the top of somebodys 
headsomeone hidden in a castle of flour.
A small boys face rose into the light, his features filthy and tear-stained. 
Horror and fear reflected in the lamplight. Dont hurt me, he moaned.
Who are you? Joach asked a bit harshly, his throat still obviously tight with 
his own fear. 
Elena placed a hand on Joachs wrist. Its just a boy. The lad could not be 
any older than ten or eleven winters. She lowered the lamp away from the boys 
face and crept slowly nearer. He cringed back. We mean you no harm, she 
whispered kindly. What are you doing down here?
He seemed on the verge of tears. Hiding, he finally said, half whimpering.
She continued in soothing tones. Its all right. Youre with friends now. Why 
are you hiding here in the dark?
Its the only safe place. The smells keep the monsters from sniffing me out.
Elena looked with concern at Joach. She did not like what his
words implied.
Joach motioned for her to continue coaxing information from
the boy.
She stepped nearer. Monsters?
Nodding, the small lad shivered and hugged his arms around his belly. Ive been 
hiding down here since the ship was bewitched by Master Vael. Him and the 
creatures that was with him. They made They did The boy suddenly sobbed and 
buried his face in his hands. I ran and hid with the rats. They didnt find 
me.
She placed the lantern on the floor and reached to his cheek, resting a palm 
there. He was so cold. We wont let anything happen to you, she whispered. She 
waved Joach over to move some of the sacks out of the way.
Whats your name? she asked as Joach began freeing the boy. Tok, he said, 
wiping at his eyes. I was the ships cabin boy. Joach and Elena helped him 
from his hiding place. The lad wore scraps of torn and soiled clothes. As he 
stood, his limbs twitched, and his hands kept picking at his shirt in 
nervousness.
She knelt to be at eye level with him and took his tremoring hands in her own. 
How long have you been hiding down here?
Almost a full moon, he said. I been picking at the supplies when no one was 
around. I was hoping wed reach some port. Then maybe I could run away.
Now that he seemed calmer, Elena finally turned to the more important question. 
What happened here?
His eyes grew round with her question. He obviously feared even talking about 
it. But she stroked his arm and squeezed his hands until his tongue finally 
freed. On the far side of the Archipelago, Captain Jarplin spotted an island 
that we never seen before. He ordered the ship to turn about and go explore it.
Elena glanced significantly at Joach. The island of Aloa Glen. But as we 
neared, Tok continued, his voice growing smaller as he recounted the tale, a 
horrible storm blew in. Lightning seemed to crawl across the sky after us. We 
thought we were dead for sure.
Then a ship came up out of the darknessa ship like you never seen before, all 
lit up with blue and green crackles in her sails, like the storm itself were 
powering her. We could not escape. Creatures came at us. Beasts with bony wings 
and skin so pale you could see their bellies churning. He raised his eyes, as 
if checking to see if he was believed.
Skaltum, Elena whispered to Joach.
Tok continued. There was a foreigner with sick-looking skin and teeth filed 
sharp as a shark. His name was Vael. And after what he did to the captain and 
the others, Jarplin made him his first mate.
What did they do to the crew? Joach asked.
Tok shook his head and bit his lower lip. It were so horrible. The lad slipped 
his hands from hers and covered his eyes as he spoke, as if to lessen his view 
on this horrible event. They marched all the men on deck. They bent them over 
the butchers block and drilled into the back of their heads with the whale 
pinner. And the screams They went on for a day and a night. Some of the crew 
tried to leap overboard, but the winged monsters snatched them back. Tok 
suddenly lowered his hand from his face. His eyes were half mad. I saw them eat 
Mister Fasson. Tore him in half and ate him while he still screamed.
Elena pulled the boy into her embrace. He shook for the longest time. Maybe she 
shouldnt have pushed him so soon.
After a few more shuddering breaths, he pushed out of her embrace. But that 
werent the worst of it. After they drilled them holes in the mens heads, they 
shoved in these creatures that looked like squids, but they werent nothing like 
anything I ever seen netted from the sea. The men twitched and moaned on the 
deck for near part of a full day. Afterward, theyd do whatever Master Vael 
said. At his order, they even butchered some of the men that didnt wake up fast 
enough from the drilling. They chopped them up and fed em to the winged 
monsters. Tok stared Elena in the eye. And the crew didnt even care. They 
laughed while they worked on their friends with the axes and saws.
Elenas stomach churned at this story. Mother above, how did this boy survive 
this horror? She hugged him tight as he began crying again.
I couldnt do nothin but hide, he moaned into her chest.
spied when they captured you, too, but still didnt do nothing. Im such a 
coward. I shouldve warned you away. Told you to leap into the sea and drown 
rather than come aboard this cursed ship.
She wrapped her arms tighter and rocked him as her own mother had rocked her 
after a nightmare. But it was little comfort. This was no night figment. Get 
Erril, she mouthed to Joach over the
boys head.
Her brother nodded and slipped away.
Once he was gone, Elena spoke words to calm the boy. The lad had faced horrors 
that would break most men. You could not stop such evil by yourself, she 
whispered to him consolingly. You would only have been killed. By living, you 
were able to warn us of
the evil.
He finally raised his face again, sniffing back tears. But what can you do? 
There are so many of them.
She placed a finger on his lips. Hush. There are ways. An idea suddenly 
occurred to her. If the boy had spied on their capture Tok, do you happen to 
know where they took our supplies?
He nodded. Its just down the ways from here. I could show you.
Suddenly he tensed in her armsthen she heard it, too: the approaching scuff of 
heel on wood. He tried to wriggle and bolt, but she calmed him. She had 
recognized the muttered voices accompanying the footsteps. Fear not. Its just 
my brother returning with a friend.
Erril stepped from the darkness into the tiny pool of lamplight. He eyed the 
young lad as if appraising a piece of horseflesh. Joach told me his story, he 
said gruffly.
He also knows where our packs are, Elena added. Good, the plainsman said, 
maybe he can show us a better way through the ship.
Elena turned to question the boy, but he was already nodding. I know many 
ways.
Erril crossed to the boy. Elena thought he meant to comfort the lad in some 
way, but instead, he bent the boys head down and brusquely ran his fingers over 
the boys neck. He does not seem contaminated.
Elenas breath caught in her throat. After all the boyd been through, how could 
Erril be so callous, so cold? But at the same
time, another part of her quailed that she had never considered the boy a 
danger. She had even gone so far as to send Joach away, leaving herself alone 
with this stranger.
The same assessment could be seen in Errils angry features as he stared at 
Elena. Even Joach seemed sheepish, eyes downcast. Her brother must have heard a 
few hard words from Erril about abandoning his sister.
We dare not delay any further, Erril finally said.
Suddenly a shrieking scream burst through the ships bulkheads, echoing across 
the cavernous hold.
Tok moaned in her embrace, ducking his head away. Not again.
Elena eyed Erril over the top of the boys head. There was recognition also in 
the plainsmans stare.
Flint.
Who goes there? a voice thundered from the darkness near the inns stoop.
The fog hid the guard well in the shadowed alcove. Behind him, the beat of a 
drum and the twang of a poorly tuned lyre accompanied the raucous laughter from 
beyond the inns closed door. Above the lintel, a single lantern illuminated a 
faded sign that read The Wolfs-hide Inn.
We come to speak with Tyrus, Jaston said. Mycelle stood at Jas-tons side. 
They had left the rest of the troupe near the docks, with Tolchuk and Krai 
acting as guards. Her sons heartstone had led them to the waters edge, still 
urging them onward with its fiery glow, but to follow the stone any further 
would require hiring a boat. After a heated debate, it had been decided to 
contact the docks caste master and arrange for a crew and a small ship. But the 
title caste master was only a thin veneer of respectability that, in fact, 
masked the bloody leader of Port Rawls pirates. And no transaction was done at 
the docks without a proper fee paid to this brigand.
What business have you with Lord Tyrus at this late hour?
Mycelle snorted. In Port Rawl, the cloak of midnight was when all pirates struck 
their deals, usually in smoky taverns like this one over many tall flasks of 
ale. Our business is our own, she answered sullenly.
Fine. Keep your tongue to yourself then. But if you bother Tyrus with matters 
that dont concern him, hell cut out your tongue and
hand it back to you for your troubles. He is not a man to be trifled with.
Your warning is well appreciated, Mycelle said and tossed a silver coin into 
the shadowed alcove. The coin vanished but never struck stone. Silver always 
caught the eye of pirates.
A loud knocking erupted from the stoop, sword hilt on wood. The pattern rapped 
was clearly a code. A small peephole opened in the door. Tyrus has visitors, 
the guard said. Strangers with silver.
The tiny door snapped closed, and the larger door swung open. Laughter and music 
rolled out from the inns heart, leaving a trail of pipe smoke and the odor of 
unwashed bodies. Go on in, the guard said. In the flare of torches, the 
guards features were seen for the first time. He was a swarthy man whose face 
was not much less scarred than Jastons. He winked salaciously at Mycelle as she 
passed.
She smiled at himnot in a friendly manner, but to reveal the steel behind her 
handsome features. His eyes darted away as he quickly closed the door.
Glancing ahead, Mycelle studied the room. The commons was crammed with crude 
tables constructed from what looked like planks from shipwrecks. A few tables 
even had the old names of the original ships still painted on them: the Singing 
Swan, the Esymethra, the Shares Fin. Mycelle suspected it wasnt all storms that 
sank these ships. They seemed more like trophies, and she was sure the stories 
that went with them were bloody.
Seated at the tables were hard men from every land of Alasea and beyond. Mycelle 
spotted dark-skinned warriors from the Southern Wastes, tattooed Steppemen with 
rings through their noses, thick -browed giants who normally roamed the 
Crumbling Mounds, even a pair of pale, spindly-limbed Yunk tribesmen from as far 
away as the Isles of Kell. It seemed the filth from every land ended up washing 
ashore here in Port Rawl.
Yet as varied as these men appeared, they all shared two things in common: a 
hard, calculating glance in their eyes, even when their lips were laughing, and 
scars. Not a single face was free of a disfiguring sword cut or torch burn, and 
some injuries looked fresh.
As Mycelle followed Jaston, she realized that it wasnt only men who sat at 
these tables. Mycelle was so startled that she tripped over her own toe. The 
small snake at her wrist hissed at her sudden movement.
In a shadowed corner, she spotted a trio of women wearing matching black 
leathers and cloaks. Three sets of twin crossed swords rested on the table 
amidst their mugs of steaming kaffee. Each wore her blond hair long and braided 
in back. Mycelle could have been one of their sistersand in a way, she was. The 
trio were mercenary Dro from Castle Mryl, where she herself had been trained in 
the art of the sword so long ago. At the time, Mycelle had shifted her shape to 
match the blond, tall women of the northern forests while undertaking her 
training. It was this form she had settled upon forever. It suited her well.
But what was a Dro trio doing here, among these pirates? True, a Dros sword was 
always for hire, but it was only granted to serve a cause considered noble 
enough for their sacred training, not to lend their strength and skill to 
pirates.
One of the trio noticed Mycelle. The womans blue eyes opened slightly wider, 
her only reactionbut for a Dro, it might as well
have been a scream.
Jaston stepped beside Mycelle and touched her elbow. I learned that Tyrus is in 
the back room. Were in luck. Hell see us right away.
Mycelle nodded. She had been so shocked by her discovery that she had not even 
noticed that the swamp man had left. The man to whom Jaston had spoken still 
stood nearby, an officious-looking fellow who wore the coned hat of a scribe. 
Tapping a toe in impatience, the scribe waved a battered ledger to get them to 
hurry. Mycelle noticed the mans fingertips were stained black with ink. It 
seemed even pirates needed to keep track of their accumulated plunders.
Mycelle pushed aside the mysteries of the Dro. For now, she needed a ship to 
hire. If Elena was in danger, as Cassa Dar sensed and Tolchuks heartstone 
supported, they did not have time to ponder the reasons for the trio of trained 
warriors appearing in a seedy
Port Rawl inn.
Lets find this pirate and get out of here, Mycelle grumbled.
Jaston followed the back of the tiny scribe as he led them through a curtain 
into a private hall, then down to a small door at the end. The skinny man kept 
tucking stray strands of brown hair back under his scribes hat. He knocked on 
the door.
Enter! was hollered back at him.
The scribe turned, smiled sickly at them, and opened the door. Lord Tyrus will 
see you now.
Jaston entered first. With the slightest hand signal, a common gesture used 
among the hunters of the deadly swamps, he indicated that it looked safe to 
continue, but to watch their backs.
Mycelle could feel the weight of steel riding on her back. She was slightly 
surprised that the guards had not asked them to leave their weapons behindnot 
that she wouldnt have managed to slip a dagger or two past any search of her 
person. Still, this lack of simple precaution made her more uneasy than if the 
guards had removed every weapon she had. Just how formidable an adversary were 
they about to encounter?
Mycelle entered the room and was stunned by what she discovered. Lord Tyrus sat 
at a table by himself, a half-finished meal before him, with an open book at his 
elbow. No guards. Yet Mycelle knew the man was well protected. She sensed the 
danger emanating from him like heat off a hearth. Even with the loss of her 
seeking ability, she sensed that his power was not born of black magick, but of 
simple skill and training. He was his own protection and feared nothing from 
them.
Licking her dry lips, she found his eyes weighing her every move, judging her 
for weaknesses and strengths. He smiled at her, a simple nod. She returned the 
nod, two warriors acknowledging one another.
Dangerous or not, she was unprepared for how truly handsome Lord Tyrus was. He 
was younger than she would have imagined, no older than thirty winters, with 
broad shoulders and an even broader smile. Under thick sandy hair, brushed and 
oiled back behind his ears, with a neatly trimmed mustache and small clipped 
beard, he could have been a handsome prince from one of the many kingships of 
Alasea.
Please, come and be seated, he said with plain civility. Ive taken the 
liberty of ordering a mug of swampbeer for the gentleman, and I believe the Dro 
have a preference for kaffee. You have no reason to fear for the others in your 
party by the dock. They are under my protection while we chat.
Jaston glanced at Mycelle. The man already knew so much about them.
Clearing her throat, Mycelle thanked him for his graciousness, and the two took 
the offered seats. If you know so much already, then you must also know we seek 
to hire a ship.
Indeed, to rescue some girl He paused, inviting them to fill in any 
additional details. With their silence, his smile grew wider.
As he smiled, Mycelle noticed one other detail about this handsome king of the 
pirates. He bore no scarsand this worried her most of all. How did he fight his 
way to the top of these hard men and show no sign of the battle? Just how 
skilled a fighter was he?
She found the question asked aloud before she could stop it. Where did you 
learn to fight so well?
His smile dimmed slightly. He had not expected a question from such an unusual 
direction. But he brightened quickly. Ah, you are perceptive Though long gone 
from Castle Mryl, you keep your skills well honed. A keen eye for detail is 
often more important than the keenest-edged sword. 
Mycelle started at his words. This last was an old adage taught to her by the 
mistress of the sword during her training long ago.
Lord Tyrus reached for his glass of red wine, and faster than Mycelle could 
follow, a long sword appeared in his other hand. She jumped back, knocking her 
chair away and sweeping out her two swords. But she was too late. The sword tip 
already lay in the hollow of Jastons throat. The swamper had not even had time 
to raise a hand.
The king of the pirates laughed, hearty and gay, and pulled his sword away. 
Just judging your speed. Im sorry, but I could not resist testing your Dro 
training.
Mycelle still shook from the sudden threat. The man moved with the grace and 
speed of a striking serpent. She kept her swords at ready, figuring she could 
negotiate just as well armed. She would not be caught unprepared again.
Tyrus eyed her swords, his eyes still laughing. There was no hard, calculating 
glint to his gaze, just plain amusement. He had not resheathed his sword either, 
she noted. Instead, he rested the blade on the table. Judging from the luster of 
the steel, the weapon was ancient. If she was not mistaken, it looked as if the 
steel had been folded at least a hundred times during its forging. Such a skill 
had been lost to bladesmiths for countless centuries. All in all, the sword was 
as handsome as its current wielder. She wondered from what rich owner this 
pirate had plundered such an exquisite weapon.
His hand finally slipped free of the hilt, exposing its design. Plain in form, 
it held no jewels, no gilt or filigree, just an arc of steel in the shape of a 
striking snow leopard.
Mycelles mouth dropped open. Sweet Mother! She remembered the trio of Dro in 
the common room. Sudden understanding lit her face. She fell to her knees and 
crossed her swords before her, bowing her head between the blades.
Mycelle? Jastons voice was full of confusion. Your Grace, she said, 
ignoring the swamp mans inquiry. Oh, on your feet, woman! Tyrus ordered. 
Ill not have you bowing and scraping before me. You owe me no allegiance. You 
swore fealty to my father, not me.
Mycelle raised her face and sheathed her swords. Blindly, she fumbled behind to 
retrieve her chair and pulled it upright.
Sitting, she stared again into his face and amused eyes. She now saw the father 
in the sons face. When last she had laid eyes upon Tyrus, he had been only a 
young boy. Old memories roiled in her mind. Prince Tylamon Royson, she named 
him truly. Please, here I simply go by Tyrus.
Mycelles mind spun off in a hundred different directions. What what happened? 
Why are you here? 
The Northwall has been sundered, he said. Castle Mryl has fallen.
What! Mycelle could not have been more shocked than if the man had said the 
sun would never rise again. Castle Mryl overlooked the great Northwall, an 
ancient barricade of solid granite, built not by man or any hands, but simply 
thrust up by the land itself. A league in height and a thousand leagues in 
length, it marked the northernmost border of the Western Reaches. Its 
impregnable bulk separated the black forest, the Dire Fell, from the green of 
the Reaches. If the Northwall had fallen How long ago did this happen? 
Tyrus features grew grim for the first time. Almost a decade. Her face paled. 
And the Dire Fell? 
My Dro spies report to me regularly. The Grim of Dire Fell have spread as far 
as the Stone of Tor.
So fast? Thats already a quarter of the way into the great forest. He just 
stared at her, letting her absorb it all. Her mind turned toward her own people, 
the silura. The Western Reaches was their home, their green bower. If the Grim 
of the Fell should continue their foul reach into the forest, soon the tribes of
her people would be doomed to flee the forests safety, likely to die in the 
mountains of the Teeth.
H-how did Castle Mryl fall?
For many winters, our scouts had been sent into the Fell and had returned with 
reports of strange lights and blighted creatures seen roaming the heights near 
the ancient homelands of the Mountain People, near Tor Amon and the Citadel. 
Then one winter, our scouts stopped returning.
The dwarves? Mycelle could not help glancing at Jaston, who only wore a stoic 
expression.
Tyrus nodded. The entrenched dwarf armies had been so quiet for so long that 
we didnt know what to expect. But my father called back all his Dro-trained 
warriors, calling for them to honor their oaths.
I heard nothing of this, Mycelle said, shame burning her face. Tyrus ignored 
her words. His eyes seemed lost in the past. That winter, something came out of 
the deep mountainssomething from the black core of Tor Amon. The Grim of the 
Fell grew stronger, fed and goaded by black magicks. My fathers Dro armies 
could not resist such strength, and my father died defending the last tower. 
His eyes filled with tears and anger.
Im sorry, Mycelle said, but even in her own ears, the words sounded hollow. 
Your father was a great man.
Still, Tyrus did not acknowledge her. His story seemed to spill from him like a 
torrent down a dry gully. The night before he died, he sent me out with the 
last of the Dro. He knew he would die the next day and did not want our 
bloodline to end. If there was ever to be a chance to regain our lands and 
repair the Northwall, one of the Blood must survive.
Mycelle understood the necessary caution. The Northwall was not a cold slab of 
granite. She herself had placed both palms on the great wall as she swore fealty 
to the Snow Leopard, Tyrus father, the king of Castle Mryl. The stone had 
warmed with her words until the granite almost burned her palms. The Northwall 
was a living creatureshe had even sensed its heart with her seeking ability. 
The granite heart was not in the stone, but in the man to whom she swore 
fealtyin the king of Mryl. The two were forever linked. Blood and Stone.
She stared at Tyrus. Here stood the new Blood of the Wall. So I fled, he said, 
the words all but spat out, leaving my father to die under the roots of the 
Grim. I fled as fast and far as I could to here. Once I could flee no farther, 
my anger exploded and knew no bounds. I let my heated blood boil through these 
streets and out into the cold seas. Not all I did during that time was noble or 
even good. No man could stand in my way. He laughed harshly, nothing like the 
amusement from a few moments ago. After two years of such raving, my blood 
finally cooled, and I discovered I was lord of these pirates. He stopped 
talking, picked up the ancient blade of his family, and sheathed it. The silence 
loomed like a fourth member of the conversation.
Finally, Mycelle spoke. I shouldve been there.
No, he said plainly. His eyes were no longer heated or amused, just tired and 
drained. Contrary to appearances, you are not Dro.
His words wounded her, but she could not blame him. Though she had never heard 
the summons to the Northwall, she still felt as if she had betrayed her oaths. 
Why did you end up here?
Its where my father told me to go, he answered. As Blood of the Wall, the 
land spoke to him and instructed him to send me here, to languish for near a 
decade among these heartless men.
But why?
To wait for the return of she who would give her blood to save the Western 
Reaches.
Mycelle knew he spoke of Elena and her blood magicks. The prophecies surrounding 
the child seemed to grow with each passing day, from all the lands of Alasea.
Tyrus turned hard eyes toward Mycelle and dashed away her assumptions. I came 
to wait for she who was Dro but not Dro, for she who could change faces as 
easily as the seasons.
Mycelles heart grew to ice in her chest.
I came to wait for you.
She stammered and fought to speak. B-but thats impossible.
You are siluran, he said plainly, ignoring her shock.
Jaston startled in the chair beside her, a gasp on his lips. Youre mad, he 
said. Ive known Mycelle since before she was
Mycelle placed a hand on his elbow and shook her head, silencing him and 
acknowledging the truth in Tyrus claim. As the realization
dawned in Jaston, she did not see the horror she had expected in his eyes, but 
simply wounded betrayal.
Im sorry, Jaston
He shook free of her touch.
Mycelle turned back to Tyrus. What do you expect of me?
To come with meback to Castle Mryl.
A rustle of cloaks announced the presence of others stationed behind her. Jaston 
turned, but Mycelle did not. She knew the rustle was done purposely to signal 
their presence. The Dro could move silently as ghosts. The trio of women 
warriors had probably been standing there all along.
Old oaths or not, I cannot abandon Elena, she said succinctly.
Tyrus smiled, all amusement again. Im afraid you must, or the witch you guard 
will die. He stood up, and she saw the granite behind his gaze. Thus the Wall 
has spoken.
Tolchuk worried about his mother. She had been gone only a short time, and 
though he imagined that dealing with pirates was best not rushed, he could not 
keep his heart from calling out to her. He had lost her when he was a mere babe, 
only to find her again and see her die. Now that he had her back once again, he 
feared having her leave his side for even the shortest time or the gravest 
necessity.
Fardale approached from where the wolf patrolled their encampment along the 
docks. His eyes glowed amber in the foggy darkness. As he approached, the wolf 
sent a fuzzy image toward the ogre: A wolf cub nestled in the curl of its 
mothers belly. All was safe, the wolf reported, but the maternal picture of 
mother and child only made Tolchuks heart ache more.
Tolchuk stretched atop his clawed legs and followed Fardale as he passed along 
the troupes edge. He needed to keep moving, keep distracted. He was glad when 
Mogweed stepped out of the shadows toward them.
The tiny shape-shifter greeted his brother with a nod as the wolf continued his 
sentry. Tolchuk stayed at Mogweeds side. It was clear the man wanted to talk. 
Im sure Mycelle is fine, Mogweed said.
I know, Tolchuk said. She be skilled with both swords and has little to fear 
from pirates.
Mogweed stared down the fog-choked alleys that led out from the docks. But 
still you worry.
Tolchuk remained silent. There were times when the shape-shifter rubbed 
Tolchuks bristles the wrong way, but every now and then, the man surprised him 
with his empathy.
You need not fear for her, Tolchuk. Besides her swordsmanship, Mycelle is a 
skilled shape-shifter. With the return of her heritage, she can slip away from 
any tight nooseeven fly away if she needs to.
Tolchuk rested a hand on Mogweeds shoulder. He heard the longing in the 
shape-shifters words. For a brief flicker, he sensed how trapped Mogweed must 
feel in this one form. Escape for him was impossible. Tolchuk offered him hope. 
If my mother could regain her abilities
Its not the same, Mogweed cut him off sourly. To cure meI mean both Fardale 
and myselfitll take more than a magick snake.
Well find a way.
Mogweed turned moist eyes toward Tolchuk. I truly want to trust your words, 
but time runs short.
Fardale suddenly raced back into their midst. His images were rushed, vague, but 
the meaning clear. A large group approached.
Tolchuk followed the wolf back toward where a dark street delved into the black 
heart of the port. Krai appeared at his side, blade in hand. Meric, Mama Freda, 
and the others hung back. Mogweed retreated to join them by the horses and 
wagon.
From out of the fog, a large, shadowy group took form. As they approached, the 
ghostly silhouettes became solid flesh. Tolchuk recognized his mother leading 
the group with the swamp man on one side and a tall stranger on the other. 
Mycelle raised a hand in greeting, empty palm forward, indicating that those she 
led meant them no harm. Still, Tolchuk noted that Krai kept his ax in hand.
Mycelle had no smiles of greeting as she joined them. She came with grim news. 
Over her shoulder, Tolchuk spotted a trio of dark shadows: women with braids as 
golden as his mothers, all outfitted with the characteristic crossed swords. 
They could have been his mothers sisters.
Tolchuk finally noticed a similar resemblance in the stranger who stood beside 
her. Like the women, this stranger could also pass as a relation to his mothera 
younger brother perhaps. Even his clothes
were the same mixture of worn leather and steel, but instead of twin swords 
crossed on his back, he bore a long sword at his waist.
We have a ship, Mycelle stated plainly, drawing all their attentions from the 
strangers. There was no satisfaction in her voice.
Krai spoke next. And who are all these others?
Crew and fighters sworn to take you safe to Elenas side, she answered, her 
voice tight.
Tolchuk heard the extra meaning in her words. What do you mean tate you} 
he asked.
She would not meet his eyes. I dont intend to travel with you all. I have been 
called to pursue another path.
The shock ran like lightning through the group.
What? Tolchuk could not keep the wound from his voice.
The stranger stepped forward. Weve arranged a small sloop that is well worn to 
the straits of the Archipelago, and a crew of four. The man waved to a group of 
four tall black-skinned men who stood behind him. They wore feathers in their 
hair and had eyes of piercing jade. Scars marked their browsnot from battle but 
from some old ritual. A crisscrossing of pale scars formed a different pattern 
on each mans forehead. Theyre marked with runes, Tolchuk thought.
The stranger continued speaking. This crew will serve you well on the journey 
ahead. The zool are skilled warriors and seamen, and well familiar with the 
channels of the Archipelago.
Krai growled at the stranger. But just who are you}
Mycelle stepped forward. This is Lord Tyrus, she said as introduction.
The leader of this citys cutthroats? Krai asked with clear disdain.
Also a prince of Castle Mryl, she said significantly.
This statement quieted the mountain man. Mryl? Below the Dire Fells?
Yes, she said, still not meeting Tolchuks eyes. You must know of the 
castle. It once housed your people as they fled the dwarf armies.
Krai finally hooked his ax to his belt. Yes, during the Scattering of our 
clans. We owe the Blood of the castle a debt that can never be repaid.
Tyrus strode forward. Never is too final a word, man of the mountains.
Krai crinkled his brow at this mysterious statement, but no further elaboration 
was offered. Tyrus turned to survey the others in their troupe while Mycelle and 
Jaston started organizing for their departure. Tolchuk could only stare numbly 
at his mother. She was leaving? The thought still had not fully reached his 
heartand he feared what would happen when it did. Sighing, he busied himself 
with loading the wagon and hitching the horses.
Once outfitted, Tyrus led his pirates and their group along the docks to a long 
pier. Berthed near the end was a twin-masted sloop. The name, Pale Stallion, was 
painted in red on the blond wood. It was not a big ship, but it would fit their 
company and house the horses.
With all the extra hands, the boat was loaded quickly. They would depart with 
the mornings tide. Already birds were stirring from their nests under the 
boards of the pier, greeting the dawns approach with song and noisy squawks.
Once all was ready, the group gathered on the pier. Mycelle had her back to 
Tolchuk, talking to Jaston. Tolchuk slid closer to overhear them.
 I should have told you, she said. Im sorry.
No, you owe me no apology. When we were together, there was always a part of 
you that was kept hidden from me. I knew it then, and it was probably that 
reason more than any I knew that we could never fully share a life together. I 
knew you cared for me, and I did you. But there was never a sharing of hearts 
that is true love, a love that will last until gray marks our hair.
Tears were in his mothers eyes. And Cassa Dar?
Jaston smiled and kissed Mycelle on the cheek. Some things only the fullness of 
time will reveal truly. In many ways, she is as wounded as you.
Mycelle returned the kiss. Something tells me you will find a way to heal her.
He smiled, a bit sadly, and bowed his head. I should see to our wagon and 
horses.
She nodded, touching his arm one last time as he turned away and left. Mycelle 
stared for a few moments, then turned around to find Tolchuk standing behind 
her. She met his eyes finally. The pain was clear in her face.
Before any word could be spoken, Tyrus intruded. He had stridden to Mycelle. 
Something is wrong here, he stated.
What? she snapped, venting her pain and frustration at him. The princes eyes 
widened a bit, but he seemed to understand her tension and spoke a bit softer. 
There are other shape-shifters here, he said, nodding toward Fardale and 
Mogweed. Their eyes give them away. He stared closer at Tolchuks eyes. And 
Im not sure about this large fellow.
Hes my son. A half-breed ogre, Mycelle said sullenly, the fire blown out of 
her. What does it matter about the other two?
They must come with us, he stated firmly. Why? By now, the content of their 
words must have reached the wolfs keen ears. Fardale and Mogweed approached 
nearer.
Tyrus acknowledged their presence. My fathers prophecy spoke of two other 
parties who must come to Castle Mryl. I thought wed meet them on the journey 
home, in the Western Reaches, not find them all here with you.
Who?
First, a pair of shape-shifting brotherstwins, I believe? Mogweeds startled 
eyes revealed the truth in Tyrus assessment. How did you ?
Tyrus faced them. Twins frozen by a curse. Mogweed stepped closer to Tolchuk. 
This was the first time either of the shape-shifters had been mentioned in any 
prophecy. The thought seemed to frighten Mogweed. A low growl even rattled in 
Fardales throat. D-did your prophecy mention a cure? Mogweed whispered, hope 
hushing his voice.
 Two will come frozen; one will leave whole.  The brothers glanced at each 
other. Hope and doom were mixed in these words. It sounded like only one of the 
twins would survive the lifting of their curse. A silent exchange passed between 
brothers. Tolchuk caught a glimmer of it. One was better than none. By now, the 
entire party had gathered around them. Mogweed touched his brothers shoulder. 
Fardale turned and sat on his haunches, the matter settled. Mogweed spoke. We 
will come
with you.
Their decision upset Mycelle. We cant all go with you, Tyrus. Theyre needed 
to lend their strength to defend Elena.
Tyrus brows drew up doubtfully. A spindly man like him and a
large dog? If the fate of this girl rests on this pair, then she is already 
doomed. He turned away. Besides, their decision has been made.
Mycelle was left red faced and frustrated.
Tolchuk was calmer. He spoke at Tyrus back. The stranger was leaving something 
still unsaid. You mentioned two parties. The pair of twin shape-shifters and 
one other. Who?
Another shape-shifter, Tyrus said, not turning around.
Tolchuks heart leaped, believing the prince meant him. Even Mycelle glanced to 
her son, a glint of hope lighting her eyes. He winced from her gaze. He could 
not go with her. Even now, the heartstone called to him to continue out into the 
Archipelago, an ache in his heart and bones that he could never refusenot even 
to stay with his mother.
But the choice was taken from him. Tyrus turned, swinging his sword out in a 
smooth pull and pointing it square into the chest of Krai. You, mountain man, 
are the last shape-shifter.
All eyes turned to Kral. He fought to keep the shock from his features. Although 
forged in darkfire, he was still one with the Rock. His features maintained a 
stony countenance. Youve been too deep in your cups, pirate, he said with a 
dark glower. Im no more a shape-shifter than you are.
The mountain man speaks the truth, Mycelle spoke up. He has no siluran 
blood. My son
No, Tyrus said, dismissing the swordswoman with a flash of fire in his eyes. 
Blood does not always show its true color. I am pirate and prince. You are Dro 
and not Dro. He waved his arm at Fardale and Mogweed. They are shape-shifters, 
but then again not. In life, few people are whom they appear to be. We all wear 
masks.
Not I, Kral said boldly.
Is that so? Tyrus continued his condescending grin. Then tell me, Are you a 
mountain nomad or an heir to the throne of Tor Amon?
These words stunned Kral. Even among his own people, few remembered that his 
clan, the Senta flame, had once composed the royal house, and his family, 
aDarvun, still bore a direct line to their abandoned throne. This secret was 
both his familys honor and
shame, for it had been Krais own ancestor who had lost their homelands ten 
generations ago to the dwarves, cursing their clans forever to their nomadic 
trails. Even now, the memory inflamed Krais blood, the beast in him snarling 
for revenge.
Tyrus must have read his thoughts. Does your heart still cry to reclaim your 
homelands, to return your clan fires once again to the
Citadels watchtowers?
Kral fought his cracking voice. Do not provoke me, small man.
What is this you rant about?
Tyrus partially closed his eyes, reciting from long memory.  With the twins, 
there shall come a mountain of a man who wears many faces, forms shifting like 
snowdrifts in a gale. You will know him by his hard eyes and a beard as black as 
his heart. But do not be fooled. In him, you will find a king who will bear a 
broken crown upon his brow and sit again the throne of the Citadel. 
Kral dared not hope the pirates words held any truth. It was too cruel a dream. 
After being driven off by the dwarf hordes, his people had become nomadsnot 
because they enjoyed the wandering life, but simply because they refused to give 
up the belief that someday their lands would be returned to them. Could Kral 
make this hope come true? Could he end his peoples centuries-long journey and 
take them home again?
Mycelle explained why not. He needs to join Elena. The mention of the witchs 
name pushed aside Krais dreams of thrones and crowns. He could not deny his 
masters will.
If the mountain man seeks Elena, he will kill her, Tyrus said
simply.
No one moved. Eyes glanced at Kral. From their worried gazes, they expected 
blood to be spilled for the insulting words. Little did they know how true Tyrus 
spoke; not even the pirate himself was
aware of it.
Tyrus continued, revealing the limits to his prophetic knowledge. I dont mean 
to imply that Kral would betray your young friend and slay her with his ax, but 
if he does not come with us, she will die just as surely. My fathers words were 
exact: Three must come, or the witch will die.  Tyrus sheathed his sword and 
crossed his arms.
Mycelle turned to Kral. The Northwall is rich in elemental mag-icks; it is a 
pure font of power direct from the lands heart. When I
could still seek, its power was like a lodestone. Its call drew me north, where 
I eventually learned the sword from the wardens of Castle Mryl. There I also 
learned of King Rys scrying powers when he linked to the stone. Though the old 
mans prophecies were rare, they never proved wrong. Mycelle glanced back at 
Tyrus. But sometimes the interpretations were. So beware of making your 
decision based on these words, mountain man.
Krai felt pulled within himself, two choices warring in his heart. The part of 
his spirit forged in darkfire refused to give up its quest for the witch, such 
was the Dark Lords brand upon his blood. But as in all illguard, a shard of 
his true self persisted, a spark of elemental fire that fed the Black Hearts 
spell. And this sliver of spirit could not ignore the call of his homeland. It 
swelled with the hopes of all his clans.
In any other person, such a fight would have failed, for the Dark Hearts brand 
was set with a fierce flame that none could erase. But Krai was not just a man. 
In his blood ran the magick that flowed through a mountains granite roots. And 
granite withstood even the fiercest flames. Though scorched by darkfire, the 
brand had not burned deep enough into Krais stony determination to make him 
ignore the cries from generations of his ancestors.
The Ice Throne was his familys seat, and he would claim his heritage once 
again! Beware any who would stand in his way!
Turning to Tyrus, Krai ran a hand through his rough beard and eyed the pirate. 
I will come with you, he growled hoarsely.
Tyrus smiled and nodded, as if he had expected no other decision.
Krais brows darkened. The Black Hearts compulsion still nagged at him, gnawing 
at his resolve. But he calmed the last of its heated demands with a soothing 
thought, a balm on the friction within: After he reclaimed his throne, he would 
hunt Elena down as a reward and shred her young heart. He would not forget his 
duty to the Black Heartonly delay it.
Krai hid a hard smile in his black beard.
Nothing would be denied Legionnot a throne, not even the sweet blood of a 
witch.
The Pale Stallion had been made ready, and the group now stood split into two 
partiesthose on the docks wishing the others a fair
journey and those on the boats watching friends ready themselves for a trek 
halfway across Alasea. Neither party was in good cheer. Faces were sullen at 
best, heartsick at worst.
Mycelle stared into the eyes of the one who seemed the most lost and alone. 
Before her, Tolchuk stood at the foot of the gangway, his features damaged. 
Most thought ogres stoic and of little emotion. But Mycelle knew the signs that 
spoke otherwise. Tolchuks fangs were fully draped by his down-turned lip; his 
eyes had lost their subtle shine; even his shoulders had fallen like shattered 
mountain cliffs after a devastating quake. You could come with me, Mycelle 
said softly, a hushed plea from her heart.
Tolchuk sighed, a rattle of boulders. You know I cannot, he finally said. 
The Heart of my people will allow me no other path.
She touched his cheek. I know. But I just wanted you to understand that Id 
even snatch your strength from Elena for a chance of us staying together. Now 
that I have you in my life again, Id give the land over to darkness to keep you 
at my side.
Her words finally brought a sad smile to his lips. Mother, you lie so well, he 
said warmly, and I love you the more for it.
Mycelle stepped forward and placed her palms on his cheeks. She pulled him down 
and kissed him. Do not be so sure what you
know, my son.
A voice intruded into their privacy. It was Meric calling from the ships rail. 
The captain says we must be off with the tide. We can
wait no longer.
Mycelle waved her acknowledgment to the elvin. Meric, his duty discharged, 
hobbled away on his cane with Mama Freda and her pet tamrink in tow. Aboard the 
ship, the small crew blew into purposeful activity as lines were stowed and the 
sails readied.
She did not have much time, but she could spare one moment more with her son. 
She and Tyrus had already organized their party, and they stood ready. Her 
gelding, Grisson, was saddled and tacked. Mog-weed and Fardale sat atop the 
small wagon loaded with their supplies, flanked by Tyrus and his trio of Dro 
warriors mounted on their own horses. Krai already sat upon his black 
warcharger, Rorshaf, both horse and rider clearly anxious to depart with the 
coming dawn. The other two horses, Errils steppe stallion and Elenas small 
mare, had been loaded and housed in small livestock stalls in the boats hold. 
All was in readiness.
Except for a final good-bye.
Mycelle turned to gaze one last time into her sons eyes. No words could lessen 
this pain. Mother and son simply collapsed into each others arms. It was like 
hugging a rough boulder, but Mycelle pulled her son harder into her embrace. She 
never wanted to forget this moment.
As she drew him tighter, memories of holding him as an infant clouded her 
vision, and a part of her responded. She felt the melt of flesh and bend of bone 
and soon found her arms reaching fully around his bulk. She remembered his 
father and the joy they once shared, and her body still continued to transform. 
The rip of cloth and leather whispered in her ears. She ignored it, unashamed.
Soon it was not woman and ogre who embraced, but mother and son, two ogres. 
Tolchuk pulled back slightly, sensing the change. He stared, eyes wide and 
shining with tears. Mother?
Mycelle knew what he saw. A small ogre female. His true mother. Clawed and 
fanged, she smiled. Her voice was the grumble of the mountains. You are my son. 
Never forget you are my heart. You are my proudest accomplishment. I look at you 
and know my hard life meant something.
They embraced again as the dawns glow warmed the horizon and gulls cried to the 
rising sun. It seemed even the birds felt the pain in her heartfor somehow 
Mycelle knew this was the last time she would ever hug her son.
Panting from the pain, Flint knew he would have only one chance. He needed both 
Master Vael and Captain Jarplin close beside him. As they prepared the bone 
drill, Flint flexed his fingers in secret to work circulation past his unbound 
wrists. Sparks of agony
danced before his eyes.
He had endured the first step in their treatment with only a single scream. A 
moment ago, Captain Jarplin had come at Flint with a dagger. Flint had cursed 
and spat at Jarplin, feigning that he was still securely tied. It would do 
little good to take out just the captain. So Flint had endured the agony when 
Jarplin had sliced the skin over the base of his skull, dragging the point 
cruelly against the bone. It had been no false act when Flint had screamed. For 
a moment, his vision had blacked, but he had fought the encroaching darkness, 
biting his lip and clutching his ropes.
Even now, he felt the blood running in thick rivulets down his neck, and the 
room threatened to spin if he moved his head too fast. Jarplin, dont do this, 
he gasped out. Be your own man! The captain only smiled.
His first mate, the yellow-skinned Master Vael, turned to Jarplin. Were 
ready. His voice had a slight lisp through his filed teeth.
Flint had read of tribes on the islands off the coast of Gulgotha where the 
savages fed on the flesh of other men, where they filed their teeth like beasts 
to better rip into raw flesh. It was said they worshipped the skaltum, eating 
human meat and grinding their teeth to fangs to be more like the winged demons 
of the Dark Lord.
Flint suspected here stood one of those foul islanders. He had already noticed 
that the man bore no hole at the back of his shaven head. No tentacled beast 
guided his will. The atrocities Vael performed were done freely by his own hand.
He was the true enemy.
Jarplin passed the fetid creature into Vaels open palm. The first mate crossed 
to Flint and wiped the blood from his neck. Flints skin crawled with the cold 
touch of the mans fingers. Vael then bathed the creature with Flints blood. 
The motion seemed to excite the tiny beast. Tentacles and blind, groping feelers 
tangled with Vaels fingers as he continued the caress. Prepare him, Vael 
ordered.
Jarplin followed after Vael with the long steel drill. They now stood to either 
side of Flint. He could wait no longer.
Gripping his small hidden knife in one hand and the wooden struts of the chair 
in the other, Flint screamed and attacked. Leaping up, he swung the chair out 
from under him and slammed it into Vael. The scrawny man went flying. Without 
pausing, Flint spun upon the startled captain. Before Jarplin could raise the 
drill as a weapon, Flint lunged and struck out with a fist. Jarplin spun with 
the blow, but Flint continued his assault, leaping atop the captains back.
They crashed to the plank floor, an old board cracking under their weight. Flint 
grabbed a handful of Jarplins steel-gray hair. He used it as a grip to smash 
his face against the floor, panting as he repeatedly cracked the mans head into 
the boards. He needed to win soon, for he was weakening rapidly. Submit, 
Jarplin! he yelled in the captains ear.
But the captain refused. He lashed back with an elbow that caught Flint on the 
chin, sending twirling sparks across his vision. Flint lost his grip on 
Jarplins hair. The captain pushed up under him, Flint now riding his back like 
a wild horse. If Jarplin should get loose
Flint raised his other hand; old instincts had kept the sliver of a knife still 
clutched in his tight grip. He had lived among pirates too long to ever lose 
hold of a weapon during a fight.
Without considering his next action, Flint again grabbed a handful of Jarplins 
silver hair and yanked it up, exposing the puckered hole at the base of the 
captains skull. He slammed the slim knife through the hole, then used the heel 
of his hand to slam the butt of the knife deeper into the skull.
Under him, Jarplin spasmed and threw Flint off his back. Flint rolled across the 
cabins floor, coming to rest beside a small desk. Jarplin convulsed a second 
time while still fighting to push onto his hands and knees. Blood bubbled up 
around the knifes hilt. Agony stretched the captains face.
Then, as if some taut string had been cut, Jarplin fell limply to the floor. 
Facing Flint, his tortured features were once again relaxed as death neared. His 
lips moved, but no sound came out. Yet Flint knew the words his former captain 
formed: Im sorry. At least for his last breath, Jarplin was once again a free 
man.
Flint went to reach a hand to Jarplin when something struck a numbing blow to 
his own skull. Flints vision blacked, and he fell forward to the floor. For a 
single heartbeat, his vision cleared. Dazed, he watched Vael step around from 
behind, cudgel in one hand, tentacled beast in the other.
No, Flint moaned as Vael retrieved the drill. You will be my new dog, and I 
your master, Vael lisped in his ear as he knelt atop Flints back, pinning him 
to the floorboards. When I am done, you will lick my boots.
Too weak and dazed to resist, Flint could only groan as he felt the drills 
sharp point dig into the wound at the back of his neck.
Again he heard the sibilant voice of his torturer. Since you will receive the 
last uljinn on board this ship, your friends below will serve in another 
manner. I believe that young girl will carve up nicely into several tender 
roasts.
Flint tried to struggle, but he was still too addled. He felt his forehead 
pressed into the floorboards. Now hold still, my grizzled dog.
Then steel bit into bone, grinding away the last of Flints consciousness.
Holding the dwarf hammer in hand, Elena stood over the col-lapsed body of the 
ships cook. His stained apron lay half ripped from where Erril had swung and 
slammed him into the wall. Like a sack of potatoes, the pudgy man had crumpled 
to the deck. Afterward, Erril and Joach had crept into the neighboring passage 
to check for other pirates, leaving Elena to stand guard over the cook.
If he should awaken, she was to ensure the mans continued silence with the 
hammer.
The boy, Tok, stood near the galleys entrance, a fist tight with worry at his 
throat. Is Gimli dead?
Watching the cooks chest rise and fall, Elena shook her head. Just a bad bump 
on the head. She fingered the hammer, running her hand over the carved runes on 
its long ironwood handle. If necessity warranted her using this weapon, the cook 
would have more than just a bad headache. She prayed he stayed unconscious.
Nearby, a pot on the hearth popped and gurgled with a thick stew, a fish 
porridge. Her own stomach responded to the warm smells. It had been a while 
since any of them had eaten. But they didnt have time to tarry on such minor 
concernsFlints single scream earlier had been all that had sounded. The 
silence afterward had worn on all their nerves as Tok had led them to their 
stored gear and then through crawlways and down cramped chutes to reach the 
galley.
From the doorway, her brother Joach appeared. All clear, he whispered. Tok, 
lead us to the captains stateroom.
The boy nodded, ripping his wide eyes away from the snoring cook. Its just a 
little farther. He darted out of the kitchen.
Elena followed with Joach at her side. They found Erril a short way down the 
passage. He knelt over the body of another pirate, but this one was not 
breathing. Elena saw the reason why. A small sculptured iron fist had latched 
around his scrawny neck, throttling the man. As they approached, the iron 
fingers opened and released. It floated up as Erril stood. As the plainsman 
turned to them, he flexed the fist as if it were his own, which Elena knew it 
was in a way. The iron talisman had been imbued with the spirit of the boy-mage 
De-nal and was linked to the plainsman. Erril could use it as well as his real 
hand when his need was great and his concentration focused.
He came at me from around a corner. Surprised me, Erril said, shrugging at 
the death he had caused. I lashed out harder than I should have.
Its Samel, Tok said softly, eyes wide as he stared at the dead man. He used 
to share his ration of sweetcake with me.
Im sorry, Elena said.
Tok shook his head. After th-they put that thing in his head, I saw him kill 
Jeffers. Slit his throat without a thought, even though they were once the best 
of chums. The boy turned to Erril. Maybe
its best hes dead now. I dont think he could live with what hes
done.
Suddenly the mans corpse jerked with a contorting spasm. Something pale and 
thick with trailing tentacles slid from under his head. It crawled like a slug 
across the planks.
Face twisted in disgust, Erril stamped his boot down upon the beast, grinding 
it under his heel. Its snaking appendages tangled and writhed at the leather of 
his boot, finding no purchase, then went limp. The stench of rotted meat filled 
the hallway.
Erril glanced at Tok. Take us to the captains stateroom. Keeping his eyes 
averted, Tok stepped over the corpse. This way. Hefting the hammer, Elena 
followed. Joach kept to his sisters side in the narrow passage, his staff 
clutched in a tight fist.
After a short climb up a ladder and a turn in another hallway, they came upon a 
double set of doors opening into a larger cabin. Tok stood before the door. The 
boy pointed and mouthed the words, In
there.
Erril nodded, eying the others for a moment to ensure their readiness. He 
raised a fist and knocked. The rapping seemed so loud in the cramped passage.
A voice arose from inside. Begone! I ordered us not to be
disturbed!
Master Vael, Tok whispered, naming the speaker.
Erril raised his voice. Master Vael, sir! Weve captured a stowaway! I think 
youd better come see!
Curse you all! Im almost finished here and will be on deck shortly! Secure the 
prisoner with the others! Yes, sir!
Erril nodded to Elena. She stepped forward and swung the hammer overhead. Due 
to the magick in the weapons haft, it was as light as a broom. She brought it 
smashing down upon the oaken door.
Wood splintered and exploded away, clearing the doorway.
Erril was through the flying debris before Elena completed the arc of her 
swing. Joach was quick on the plainsmans heels.
Elena stepped through the ruined threshold. Tok shadowed behind her. Inside she 
saw too much blood. The captain lay facedown in a pool of his own blood. The 
strange first mate sat atop Flints back, drill in hand, sweat upon his brow. 
His eyes were open with surprise as he stared at the rushing newcomers.
Erril had his sword at the mans throat before he could blink. Sound a word, 
and youll taste my steel, he glowered. Now get off my friend.
Elena rushed to Flints side. He still breathed, but there was so much blood. 
The wound at the back of his neck still bled fiercely. She went to stanch it 
with her gloved palm when a long pale snake arose from the wound, sucking at the 
air. With a look of horror, she tore her hand away.
Youre too late, the yellow-skinned first mate said, wearing a smile that 
exposed a row of filed teeth. The uljinn is already rooted. The man is mine. 
If I die, so does he. So does the entire crew.
So be it, Erril said, his face deadly. He tensed as he prepared to impale the 
Dark Lords lackey.
Wait, Joach yelled. The man may know something. Something we can use.
Vael spat. Ill tell you nothing.
Errils sword arm trembled, its point dragging a red line across the mans 
throat. Elena could read the plainsmans thoughts. He wanted so desperately to 
kill this fiend who had tortured and molested his friend, but Joachs words 
contained too much truth. As long as they held this one at bay, the rest of the 
pirates no longer posed a serious threat. If this yellow-skinned monster spoke 
the truth, a quick slash of his throat would kill the entire crew. Joach, tie 
this bastards arms behind his back. Tight.
What about Flint? Elena asked. The old seaman had not moved. He just lay dead 
still. The tentacle of the beast probed like a blind worm through the grizzled 
gray hair at the back of his neck.
Tok answered. It takes half a day for th-the thing to take control. He will 
either awaken then or die with the shaking fits. Elena lifted her gloved hand. 
Erril?
The plainsman knew what she asked. He nodded. What could it harm to try her 
magick to heal him?
Elena stripped off her glove and exposed her ruby stain. Vael hissed at the 
sight and struggled in Errils grip. But Joach already had him lashed securely, 
and the plainsman had his sword tight at the mans throat. You! Vael cried 
out. Youre the witch! Elena ignored him and turned to Flint.
Vaels voice became confused, lost. My master instructed me to watch for a 
small girl, hair shorn short and died black, not not a
woman. Vael groaned. If the Black Heart discovers how Ive failed him
It heartened Elena to know that the Dark Lords resources were not infallible. 
But this current ruse would only work this once. If Rockingham had lived after 
the assault aboard the Seaswift, the Gulgothal lord would soon know of her 
transformation. Elena shook her head. She would worry about that later.
Setting aside the hammer, she slipped the silver witch dagger from its sheath, 
cut into her thumb, and cast aside her worries. She had a friend to save.
Elena held her bleeding thumb over the wound at the back of Flints neck. A 
thick red droplet rolled off her finger and fell upon the snaking appendage of 
the monster. It writhed as if her blood scalded it. Satisfied, Elenas lips grew 
tight. So the trace of magick in the droplet could harm it. Injured, the beast 
retreated inside Flints skull with a snap of its tentacle.
Not so quick, my little pet, she mumbled and called forth her magicks. She was 
confident now that she could slay the monster hidden in Flint. But could she do 
it without also killing their friend? Such a healing would require the deftest 
touch.
Leashing her magick to her will, tendrils of fire climbed from her wounded thumb 
and reached out toward Flint. Careful, she whispered to herself and her 
magick.
Closing her eyes slightly, she used her magicks senses to explore the edges of 
torn skin. Where they touched, the rent tissues healed. Elena sensed the flow of 
blood slowing to a trickle. Cautiously, she sent the barest thread of fire 
deeper into the wound, hunting the lurker below.
Now she had to proceed on her magickal instinct alone. She sent her senses along 
the thread of fire, like a spider down a web after a hidden fly. Holding her 
breath, she closed her eyes fully and cut off any further distractions. Around 
her, even the soft sounds of whispers and the rustle of woolen garments faded. 
All she heeded were patterns of light and darkness. She entered a world of warm 
phosphorescence and knew it for Flints essence. She sensed that it usually 
shone stronger than it did right now, but the injuries and assault had worn away 
his brightness. Her own thread of magick was like a silvery red torch; she had 
to be careful that it did not overwhelm the glow around her. With too fierce a 
touch, she could burn away all
that was her friend, leaving him an empty shell. This horrible thought helped 
her hone her penetration to the thinnest spark.
As she cast deeper into this strange world, her magick a beacon before her, she 
spotted her enemy ahead: a dark blemish upon Flints gentle radiance. The 
uljinn. It sat hunched, a tangle of blackness, like snarled roots in the 
luminescent soil. Rootlets and fine traceries of darkness were already spreading 
out from it.
At its foul sight, an angry fire was stoked in her heart. The darkness felt so 
wrong. It was more than just a threat to her friend; it was as if it tainted 
life itself. It sickened her just to see it. An urge to blast it away, burn it 
to ashes, trembled her control. Her torch of witch fire flared brighter.
No!
She fought it back down. She would not let this hideous creature control her 
actions. Her flame died away to a sharp spark again as she delved toward the 
lurker. Now closer, she realized that not all the black roots ended at the edge 
of Flints spirit; two went beyond. She sensed power flowing strongly in these 
cords and cast her awareness nearer. Menace and disease throbbed out from them. 
Sickened, Elena lashed out and burned through them, severing both roots with a 
flash of witch fire.
As she did so, she noted two things. In one root, she sensed a twisted mind 
linked through it and somehow knew it was Vael. Her hatred for him bloomed. The 
momentary brush with his spirit was so corrupt that even this brief touch made 
her want to scrub her skin raw. But this short peek into Vaels mind was nothing 
compared to the impression she received as she severed the second root. It was 
as if she drowned in a sea of evil. It swept at her as she cut through the root, 
almost latching onto her own spirit. She railed against it, her magick flaring 
brighter.
Luckily, as quick as the assault came, it vanishedbut not before she sensed the 
pair of baleful red eyes staring back at her, eyes carved of ruby. Eyes of the 
wy vern. Elena suddenly understood the statues presence on board the ship.
She reeled back from the cut cords, watching the roots shrivel away. Dread and 
panic gripped her, but she kept her magick reined in. Turning to the remaining 
mass of darkness, she quickly thrust out a net of fiery threads and enveloped 
the uljinn with her magick. In short order, she burned away all traces of the 
darkness, leaving
Flints spirit unblemished. She lingered no further to appreciate her handiwork. 
A bigger battle loomed ahead before any of them could
be considered free.
As she withdrew her magick, Elenas awareness followed. She blinked her eyes 
open, taking a moment to orient herself to the real world. Once fully free of 
Flints spirit, she loosened her pent-up magick, and her fist blew forth with 
flames. The others backed from her abrupt display.
Elena did not care. Pushing to her feet, she stalked to where Vael stood with 
Errils sword at his throat.
Tok spoke up behind her, Is Flint ? Is he going to live?
The uljinn is gone, she answered, her voice cold with anger. What is it, 
Elena? Erril asked. He knew her too well. As answer, Elena grabbed Vael by the 
throat, her flaming fingers burning into his skin. He screamed as the smoke of 
his charred flesh scented the air. It would be a simple thing to burn through 
his scrawny neck, and for a moment, she even considered it.
Vael must have sensed her thoughts. No! he croaked. Why? she hissed at him. 
Why would you do it? He knew what she asked, terror clear in his eyes. She 
cared nothing for the tentacled uljinn and the slaves they made of these 
pirates. It was inconsequential compared to the larger menace hidden in the 
bowels of the ship. Vael tremored in her grip.
She lifted him by his throat, the magick giving her the strength of ten men. 
Answer me!
With his sword numb in his fist, Erril watched Elena shake the man like a dog 
with a rabbit, fury flaming her green eyes. Erril had
never seen her so angry.
Elena leaned closer to her prisoner. Why did you bring it here? Tears rained 
down Vaels cheeks as smoke curled up from his neck. The Dark Masters servant 
the one in the tower the Praetor he demanded it.
Erril knew to whom he referred. He stepped closer. My brother. Elena held up 
her free hand to silence him. She continued her interrogation of Vael. Where 
were you taking it? To Port Rawl?
Vael tried to nod as he hung in her flaming grip. Yes, and from there inland by 
river barge.
Erril could wait no longer. Elena, what is it that you know? He waved to 
where Joach and Tok stood guard by the door. Speak plain. The other pirates 
aboard will soon grow wise to our escape.
As answer, Elena tossed the thin man across the cabin. Vael struck the far wall 
and collapsed in a pile of jumbled limbs. He cowered as flames of witch fire 
climbed up her arm in an angry blaze, but Elena ignored the mans terror and 
turned to Erril. The statue in the holdits not just ebonstone. While inside 
Flints mind, I sensed the statues link to the uljinn and caught an inkling of 
its true heart, the darker secret in the stone. Elena began to tremble with 
fury. Joach stepped closer toward his sister. What is it, El? 
The stone is a womb, she answered. Its belly brews an evil so foul that just 
the thinnest wisp of its spirit almost snuffed out my own. Elena crossed and 
retrieved the Trysil from the cabins floor. With the rune-carved hammer in 
hand, she faced Vael again. Even if the hammer could crack the stone shell, I 
fear that what grows inside is already too strong for me to handle. If it should 
be unleashed now, it would destroy us all.
But what manner of beast is it? Joach asked, his voice dry with fear.
Elena shook her head and crouched down beside Vael, who still lay curled in a 
ball by the walls base. But/;<? knows.
Vael tried to press farther into the wall.
Raising her ruby hand, Elenas fingertips sprouted fresh flames, thin streamers 
of fire. Like outstretched claws, she threatened the man. Tell us what lurks 
inside the ebonstone statue.
I I dont know truly. The Dark Lords servant bound my blood to its power so 
I could control the uljinn. I was to deliver the statue to Port Rawl, then 
inland to the mountains. I was told nothing else. I know nothing else.
Elena drew back her magick, her anger waning with her growing exhaustion. Deep 
lines marked her tired face. He speaks the truth, she said forlornly.
Not entirely, Erril argued. He leaves out more than he says. Erril 
crouched beside the yellow-skinned foreigner. The man smelled of fear and dried 
blood. Erril used his sword tip to raise the mans chin until he stared into 
the mans odd violet eyes. Where in the mountains were you to deliver this 
stone womb?
Vael quivered under the point of the sword and under the intensity of their 
gazes. A small town near the highlands.
Name it.
Winterfell.
Elena and Joach both gasped. Erril just stared, trying to fathom a reason for 
this choice of location. Why the town where Elena grew up? What did that matter?
Flint interrupted their shock with a rattling groan. Eyes swung in his 
direction. The old man rolled to his side, too weak to rise. Erril kept his 
sword on Vael as Joach crossed and helped the older man sit up. Flints eyes, 
bleary and red, searched the room. He seemed quickly to take in the scenario. 
One hand fluttered to the back of his head. Joach spoke. Fear not. Elena rid 
you of the beast. He groaned again. Still it it feels like my heads been 
cleaved. Erril turned his attention back upon Vael. The statuewhat were you 
to do with it once you reached Winterfell?
Vael shrank away. Haul it to some old ruins and just leave it there. Thats all 
I know.
Flint struggled straighter in Joachs arms. What is this statue? Joach 
explained the discovery of the ebonstone sculpture and the Dark Lords plans 
for it. Flints face grew grimmer with the telling. Erril let the older Brother 
ponder the information, trusting to his friends keen mind.
I must see it, Flint finally said. He fussed against Joachs assistance and 
pushed unsteadily to his feet. Once up, he faced Elena. Can you clear a path to 
the hold? Elena slowly nodded.
Tok suddenly spoke up from near the ruined doorway. Someone comes! he hissed 
at them. He stepped to the hall for a brief moment, then darted back inside. A 
fierce clanging of a bell sounded from atop the ship. They know youve 
escaped!
Elena?
You want a path? Her eyes swung to Vael. By his own admission, he is the hand 
that guides these men. Before anyone could react, Elena raised her arm, and 
flames coursed out in a thick stream.
Erril ducked away, feeling the scorch as the witch fire passed. Vael scrabbled 
along the wall, attempting to escape the flames. He failed.
The end of Elenas stream of fire bloomed into a tangle of fiery filaments. They 
trapped Vael as surely as a spiderweb snags a fly. He screamed as he writhed in 
her web, clothes smoking, flesh burning.
Joach had joined Tok by the door. Theres at least five men at the end of the 
passage, he warned. Theyve swords and torches. And more are coming. They must 
know we hide here.
Elena, what are you doing? Erril asked.
The man knows nothing more. I sense it with my magick, she intoned, the words 
dull in her mouth. What she did next was done without passion. The flaming 
filaments snaked past Vaels stretched lips, flowing inside him. But he is 
bound to all the uljinn here.
Elena thrust out her hand, clenched a fist, and twisted her wrist. Vael jerked 
as if his neck had been snapped, and his body went limp. Cut off the head of a 
snake and the body will die, Elena mumbled and lowered her hand. The fires 
vanished like a snuffed candle.
Erril crossed toward Vael. Smoke still curled from his body. The girl had 
killed him.
He turned in horror to Elena.
She merely stared at Erril for several breaths, then spoke. You did not touch 
his mind. I did. She turned away.
Joach reported from the doorway. All the pirates just collapsed in the hall, 
he said in astonishment.
Flint nodded. Vael was the blood link. With his death, the uljinn die, too.
Tok, who had again crept into the passage to investigate, danced back into the 
cabin. His face was flushed with panic. The fallen torches and lanterns are 
starting a fire! Half the passage is already aflame! (
Erril straightened up from his crouch and hurried them toward the door. This 
was an old ship, its timbers ripe for the flame. A strong fire could burn the 
ship down to the waterline in mere moments.
Joach helped Flint, lending his shoulder for support.
Tok hung back, eying Vaels body, then suddenly ran and kicked the mans corpse, 
spitting on it. Tears streamed down the boys cheeks. They were my family, he 
yelled at the burned body.
Erril crossed and gathered the boy up under his arm. Tok latched onto him like 
a drowning sailor. They did not have time to waste on tears or comfort. Still, 
Erril sheathed his sword and pulled the lad up to his chest.
As he carried the boy toward the door, Erril caught Elena staring at him from 
the doorway. Her expression was one of sorrow and hopelessness. If he had had 
another arm, he would have gladly given it to her to lean on. But instead he 
could only softly urge, We must
hurry.
She nodded. Her lost look hardened to steel again as she stared at the sobbing 
boy. She mumbled something as she moved to march
alongside him.
Erril pretended not to hear the words, but he had. It was his own
early words to her.
 all of Alasea bleeds.
Elena climbed with the others out of the smoke-choked pas-sages onto the 
middeck. Behind them, flames already lapped skyward, lighting the early dawn 
with their own fire. Bodies lay strewn across the deck like scattered rag dolls, 
crumpled and forgotten. Even from the rigging, three men hung from tangled ropes 
after falling from where they had been working the sails.
As she watched, a lick of flame touched the foresail, and in a whis-pery rush, 
the fire raced up the sailcloth to the ropes and masts overhead. Hot ash rained 
down on them. Elena looked away as one of the bodies, hanging like a lantern far 
above, took flame.
To her side, Erril lowered Tok to the deck. We must abandon the boat. Now, 
the plainsman said. The fire spreads wildly.
As if accenting his words, an explosion belowdecks blew a flaming barrel of 
ignited oil up through the planks. It arced over the water in
a blazing trail.
Ducking, Elena followed Erril aft. What about the ebonstone statue? Elena 
asked. We cant just leave it here.
Erril waved Flint and Joach to their side as he answered her. Whatever evil it 
broods, the seas will claim it now. That is the best
we can manage.
Elena was unconvinced. Such evil would not so easily drown, even in a burning 
boat. With hammer in hand, she eyed the main
hatch.
Erril must have read her thoughts. No, Elena. Whatever its foul purpose in 
being hauled to Winterfell, weve at least stopped that part of the Dark Lords 
plan.
Flint, ashen in complexion and still leaning on Joach, hobbled to them. He 
coughed the smoke and ash from his lungs before speaking. Trouble, he said 
between gasps. There is no way off this ship, except over the rail.
Erril scowled and glanced through the smoke to the neighboring seas. Elena 
searched, too. They were far from the coastline and even farther from any of the 
Archipelagos islands.
Flint pointed toward the distant coast. There. See those lights?
Elena squinted. Where? she began to say, then spotted the scatter of lamps 
lighting the rocky shore just north of their position.
Its Port Rawl, Flint explained, stopping to cough on a gust of smoke. The 
currents here are strong, but with flotsam from the ship, we might be able to 
kick toward shore and make it overland to the city.
Erril glanced at the others. Elena knew he weighed their strength against the 
cold and currents of the surrounding waters. He frowned at the exhaustion he 
found in all their faces, but it mirrored his own. Flint persisted. We may not 
even have to swim all the way to shore. This close to Port Rawl, our fire will 
surely be spotted. Scavenging ships will be sent out.
More pirates? Joach asked.
Flint shrugged and fingered the healing wound on his neck. As long as theyre 
just pirates, Ill kiss their salty feet.
Suddenly, the mainsail blew aflame, brightening the smoky gloom. Elena even felt 
the heat through her boots as the fires hidden below began to cook the planks.
We dont have much time, Flint said needlessly. Stay here, Erril ordered 
them all. Covering his nose and mouth with a scrap of sailcloth, he dashed 
across the smoky deck. Flint and Tok took up position by the rail.
Joach sidled next to her. She took his offered hand in her own, a touch of 
family. Always flames, he mumbled. Hmm?
He smiled weakly at her. Whenever we get together, were always chased by 
fires.
She returned a tired grin, knowing he referred to the orchard blaze that had 
first driven them from their homes. Her brother was right. It seemed flames 
always marked her path.
Erril suddenly appeared out of the smoke, coughing, a small
wooden door clutched under his one arm. We can use this to keep afloat, he 
said as he leaned the door against the rail and turned away. Im going to fetch 
something more. I spotted a broken table
in the galley.
Before anyone could comment, Erril vanished back into the
thickening haze.
At the rail, nobody spoke, worry and fear clear in all their eyes. Elena studied 
the choppy waves. Could she manage such a swim? She searched the waters for 
signs of shark fins or other hidden menaces.
From somewhere far away, a horn began to wailat first softly, then stridently, 
echoing over the waters. It sounded like the mournful cry of a dying seabeast.
Port Rawl has spotted us, Flint explained, his voice a mixture of relief and 
worry. They sound the alarm. If we can
Suddenly the deck jolted under their feet. Tok was knocked to his knees. A 
shuddering roar burst from deep within the boat, as if the ship bellowed its 
death rattle. The yardarm of the mast, half charred, crashed midship, taking out 
the far rail. The ship listed and rolled, seawater hissing as flames were 
consumed.
Flint was at Elenas shoulder. We dare not wait any longer. We must abandon 
ship. Now! Shes breaking apart. The old seaman pushed her toward the scrap of 
door. Stay with your brother. Ill keep with the young lad. Strike out as best 
you can. Watch for any ships.
Elena stepped away from the starboard rail. But Erril ? Flint gripped her 
shoulder with fingers of iron and pulled her back. Hell manage on his own. 
Hes been in worse scrapes and
survived.
Joach stepped in front of her. Brother Flint is right, El. Help me
toss the door overboard.
Elena frowned but obeyed. The two heaved the chunk of wood over the rail. It 
struck the water, bobbed up, then quickly began to glide away. The current was 
strong.
Flint had managed to scrounge a section of broken rail from somewhere, and he 
and the boy were prepared to leap with it in their arms. Hurry, he urged.
Joach helped his sister atop the rail. Go, old man, he yelled to
Flint. Well manage.
Toks face was frozen in fear, but Flint gave the young lads arm a final 
squeeze and over they went.
Joach turned to Elena. Ready?
Yes, she answered and shoved Joach overboard.
He hit the water hard but floundered up, sputtering seawater. Elena leaned over 
the rail and pointed to the floating door. Fetch the door! Wait for me! Im not 
leaving without searching for Erril!
Elena! No!
She was already gone. She would not abandon Erril. With the ship crashing 
around their ears, the plainsman might be trapped under debris, and with her 
magick, she could quickly free him.
Racing through the smoke, she aimed for the hatch in the stern deck. Erril had 
mentioned something about the galley. Holding her arm over her nose and mouth, 
she sped through the hatch. Her eyes burned with ash and smoke. Tears washed 
down her cheeks.
She clattered down the steep stair, almost knocking her head when a step gave 
way under her. Without waiting, she fought her way to the kitchens. Through the 
smoke, she spotted a body, covered in ash. With her heart in her throat, she 
rushed over only to discover it was just the cook.
Elena straightened. The galley was small, but the smoke still made it difficult 
to see all its corners clearly. The sting of tears compounded the problem. For 
this reason, Elena did not spot the open trapdoor until she almost fell headlong 
down it.
Crouching, she stared into the darkness. Lit by a vague reddish glow, a ladder 
descended. She knew to where these steps led. Elena, Erril, and Joach had once 
stood at the foot of these same steps and listened to the bawdy singing of 
pirates. Down there was where they had been imprisonedand where the wyvern 
statue was stored.
Erril! she yelled down the trapdoor. Can you hear me?
She waited, holding her breath. Nothing.
Before she could convince herself otherwise, Elena swung around onto the ladder. 
She scrambled down the steps into the hot bowels of the ship. The glow, she 
discovered, was not from a lantern, but from a smoldering fire near the back of 
the short passage. The heat singed her lungs as she breathed. She would have to 
hurry.
Cautious but moving quickly, she darted down the hall toward the fire, its heat 
more searing with every step. But in five paces, she was at the door that led to 
the bilge cabin. She ducked into the room, fist raised before her and already 
afire with blood magicks.
What she found there so startled her that she froze in place. In the
center of the room were the remains of the cratebroken boards and charred 
remnantsand nothing else. The statue was gone.
From the scatter of wooden pieces, it was almost like something had exploded out 
from it. Elena glanced around as if expecting to see the wyvern statue lurking 
in a corner or hanging from the ceiling. But there was no sign of it.
Elena took a step closer. Her toe nudged a piece of debris that rolled across 
the floorboards. It drew her eye. A gasp escaped her throat as she recognized 
it. She hurried over and retrieved the small iron fist from the debris. It was 
the ward of Aloa Glen. So Erril had
been down here!
Wiping the tears and sweat from her eyes, she searched closer, on hands and 
knees. She found Errils weapon, the silver sword he had obtained from Denal. 
In horror, she realized the scatter of cloth scraps strewn about were actually 
the remains of Errils breeches and shirt. They had been shredded to ribbons. 
She lifted her hand. It held the leather tie that bound the plainsmans hair. It 
was singed
black.
Shock pushed Elena to her feet.
Her limbs shook. The grief and horror were too large for her to grip. No, she 
finally moaned and backed away, stopping only to collect the iron ward and the 
silver sword from the floor. Elena ran from the room. Her mind was too shaken to 
manage the ladder, especially encumbered by Errils items. But even if it meant 
her life, she could not discard them.
Elena struggled upward, her clothes and skin beginning to burn from the growing 
heat. She rolled out of the trapdoor and into the kitchen, sprawling across the 
deck. After the cramped oven of the lower hall, the kitchen felt almost icy. She 
closed her eyes, meaning to rest only a moment, but instead slipped into a numb 
daze. When next she was aware, the galley was thick with smoke, choking her. 
Coughing, she leaned up. Fires surrounded her.
Overhead, planks suddenly crashed down. Craning her neck, Elena saw a monstrous, 
dark shape reach toward her. No, she moaned, too grief-stricken to resist. 
Sharp claws grabbed Elena as
her vision blackened.
Beyond caring, beyond hope, darkness claimed her.
Elena awoke slowly. She struggled against the bonds that held her trapped until 
she realized it was just heavy blankets, snugged securely around her.
Hush, dear. Youre safe.
Turning her head, Elena watched an old woman move about the small room. Elena 
gasped as the elder swung back toward the bed. Above the womans small nose was 
only a plane of dark skin. No eyes. Elena shuddered at the sight. Who ? Where 
? Elena fought to sit up. From the roll in her belly, she sensed she was in 
some ships cabin. She glanced around the small chamber. A sea chest, a stout 
table, and the bed. There was not even a porthole.
Elena tried to speak, but a sudden fit of coughing choked her. She hacked and 
gasped for several breaths, spitting up a black phlegm from her throat. 
Afterward, with tears in her eyes, she slumped deeper into the thick goose down 
of the bed,,too weak limbed for any real resistance.
The old woman, her gray hair bound in a coil atop her head, turned toward Elena, 
stirring a steaming mug with a twig of willow. It smelled of cinnamon and a tang 
of medicinals. Drink this. The old woman held out the cup. I know your magick 
will help you heal eventually, but never turn down additional aid.
Elena leaned away warily. As she did so, she felt something burrowing under the 
blankets near the foot of the bed. She yanked her feet away just as a 
fiery-maned face popped from under a fold of
blanket. Its huge black eyes blinked at her; then a tail ringed in gold and rich 
brown fur wriggled free.
Tikal Tikal bad puppy, it intoned mournfully.
Elena caught a pungent whiff arising from that end of the bed. The beast looked 
oddly chagrined, head bowed, tail tucking around
its neck.
The old woman scolded the animal and shooed him away. Im sorry, dear, she 
said and sat on the edge of the bed, still holding the cup. Tikal is still 
upset by the sea voyage. Normally he knows to use a chamberpot. Ill fetch a dry 
set of bedclothes in a moment. She grimaced in the creatures direction, 
sending it scurrying to perch atop the nearby table. The old woman then turned 
to Elena. Hes upset because the last time either of us were aboard a sailing 
vessel was when we were first caught by the slavers.
Elena sensed no threat from the woman, but while naked under the sheets, she 
felt vulnerable. Am I with slavers now? she asked hoarsely, her throat raw.
The woman smiled. Oh, my dear, dont you remember anything? She laughed a 
quick note, a friendly sound. We rescued you from the flaming ship. Well, 
Tolchuk did, that is. He found you nearly blacked out in the lower decks. 
Luckily, an ogres eyes are sharp in dim light, and with his stone guiding him, 
he found you quickly. Any longer and the smoke would have killed you.
Elena remembered the sharp claws and the dark shape looming over her after 
climbing from the trapdoor. Tolchuk?
Yes. She patted Elenas blanket-covered knee. Luckily, we were already under 
sail when we spotted your smoke, giving us a jump on any other ship from Port 
Rawl. Now drink this elixir of fellroot and bitterwort. Itll help clear your 
chest of the smoke. The coughing may get worse over the next hour, but the herbs 
will loosen the phlegm so you can clear it. She smiled kindly and held out the 
mug again. Mostly you just need rest.
This time Elena took it. The stone of the mug felt warm and soothing in her 
clammy hands. Elena could almost sense the healing properties through the stone. 
My brother? she asked fearfully over the cups rim.
We fished everyone from the sea, except A knock at the door interrupted them.
Come! the old woman called out.
A familiar figure strode into the room. The slender limbs, the hawkish noseeven 
with his hair but a silver stubble, she could not mistake the elvin Meric. I 
have an extra pot of hot water he began to say. Then his eyes grew wide as he 
spotted Elena. Youre awake! he said with delight, such strong emotion rare in 
the haughty fellow. Elena noted that he needed a cane now to hobble across the 
floorboards to join them. I see youve met Mama Freda, he said as he leaned on 
the foot of her bed. Without her healing skills, neither of us would be here 
now.
What happened to you? she asked, noting the fading scars on his face.
He opened his mouth to answer, but Mama Freda cut him off. There is time for 
the exchange of tales later. Right now, Id like to get this child up and moving 
a bit. Shes been bedridden near on an entire day. And I think a short walk in 
fresh air will help her lungs.
Meric nodded his agreement but did not move, still staring at Elena.
Mama Freda just sighed. A bit of privacy, sir.
The elvins eyes grew wide. Of course Im sorry he mumbled, straightening 
up. Its just that shes changed so much. Flint warned us, but with her awake 
like this, its just so much more more astounding.
Mama Freda shooed him away. Let her finish her drink in peace.
Meric glanced one last time before slipping out of the room. She could be 
ancient King Dresdins first child, he mumbled as he left. The resemblance to 
the old tapestries is amazing.
Once the elvin was gone, Mama Freda removed a thick robe from the sea chest. 
After you finish with the herbs, Ill take you above.
Elena nodded. She sipped the elixir slowly. The cinnamons flavor could not 
completely mask the bitter tang of trie medicinals. Still, it was hot and 
soothed the raw ache in her throat. As she closed her eyes and inhaled the scent 
into her sore lungs, she tried not to think about Erril and what she had 
discovered below the decks of the tainted Stipjact. The memory was too tender, 
and no elixir in all the lands could soothe that pain.
Are you all right? Mama Freda asked. Is the medicine too hot?
Elena opened her eyes and realized tears had blurred her vision. No, the herb 
tea is fine, she muttered. How had the eyeless woman
noted her few tears? Pushing aside such mysteries, Elena sighed and drained the 
last of the mugs contents. Im done, she started to say, but the healer was 
already reaching for her empty cup.
Then lets get you some fresh air. Mama Freda helped her stand and slipped the 
robe over her shoulders. The old woman gave her a quick hug and whispered in her 
ear. Time alone is the best healer of
some wounds.
Elena knew the woman sensed the ache in her heart. She returned
the hug. I pray youre right, she whispered.
Mama Freda touched Elenas cheek with a warm palm, then turned to guide her out 
of the room. Tikal rode on the healers shoulder. Elena was glad the old womans 
cane kept her from moving too quickly. Elenas own limbs felt like those of a 
newborn, shaky and weak. Luckily, they did not have far to goonly down a short 
passage and up an impossibly steep set of stairs.
Holding the upper deck hatch open, Mama Freda helped Elena up into the clean air 
of late morning. The fresh breezes felt like ice in her lungs. Coughing a bit, 
she stood in place, taking in the bright sunlight and soft winds. Already she 
felt vigor returning in her limbs. You be looking much better, a graveled 
voice said behind her. Elena turned and spotted Tolchuk standing by the ships 
rail. He wore an awkward smile, yellowed fangs glinting in the sun. She crossed 
to the huge ogre and hugged him. Thank you for risking
your life to save me.
Once free of the embrace, Tolchuk patted his thigh pouch. The stone would 
allow me no other choice. Besides, a bit of flame be little threat to an ogres 
thick skin.
She patted his arm. Well, thank you anyway, she said, smiling at his humility. 
She glanced around the deck. Wheres Mycelle?
Tolchuks features clouded over with sorrow. She be gone.
Elenas heart clenched. She could not face more death. Is she
is she dead?
Tolchuk touched her with an apologetic claw and corrected Elenas 
misinterpretation. Sometimes I be thick in the head. Mycelle be fine. She and 
Krai, along with the shape-shifters, have gone to stop the Dark Lords armies in 
the north. She left a letter for you,
explaining it all.
Elena breathed again, relieved. They were not dead, but her mind was too fuddled 
to deal with the implications of the others
departure. She would ponder the loss later, but right now, she simply did not 
want to feel. Her heart was too raw.
From the stern, another familiar voice arose. Glancing back, she spotted Flint 
with a few black-skinned sailors by the wheel. From the flush to the old 
Brothers cheeks, he seemed to be in the middle of an argument with them. He 
waved to her, then returned to his discussion.
El! Joach rushed at her from where he and the boy Tok had been sparring with 
staffs on the deck. Youre up!
She endured his embrace, glad to see they were all safe. All this attention was 
beginning to tax her.
Joach straightened, a stern look on his face. If you ever shove me overboard 
again he scolded, but he could not maintain the ruse of anger. A foolish smile 
bloomed on his lips. Thank the Mother youre safe, El.
Mama Freda must have sensed her growing exhaustion. Come, leave her be, she 
clucked at Joach and scooted him back with her cane. From her shoulder, Tikal 
also scolded the boy with sharp squeaks. Once Joach relented, Mama Freda turned 
to Elena. Lets walk a bit, then back down you go.
Elena nodded. She crossed the deck, coughing every now and then. Mama Freda 
placed a palm on her forehead at one point, but the healer seemed content with 
whatever she felt.
They ended up standing by the rail, staring over the open seas. Green islands 
with shores of steep cliffs rode the waves all around them. They must have 
entered the Archipelago while she slept. Elena scanned all the horizons. Not a 
smudge of dark smoke marked the sky anywhere.
The boat sank quickly, Mama Freda said. We searched the waters for half a day 
but found no sign of him.
He was already gone, she muttered.
Mama Freda remained silent, just placed her hand atop Elenas.
Across the sky, gulls called to one another. Elena listened, her eyes staring at 
the swells as the boat rode the currents and winds.
Suddenly, Mama Fredas pet, who had been chittering softly and trying to unwind 
the healers braid, erupted with loud screeches. Elenas gaze darted up just as 
the gulls overhead began their own angry cries. Tikal clutched tightly to the 
thin neck of the healer, the beasts eyes wide with fright. He stared toward the 
skies above.
Whats wrong with him? Elena asked.
Mama Fredas blind face also stared upward. I see what Tikal sees, she said in 
worried tones. His eyes are sharper than those of a man. Its some strange bird 
flying this way.
The wyvern. Elena searched the skies for a black speck. It
must be coming back.
Its odd the healer mumbled.
Then Elena saw it. It dove out of the suns glare, as if birthed by its fires. 
As it shot across the blue skies, scudding under white clouds, its plumage shone 
like fire.
Elena and Mama Freda scrambled back as the bird plummeted directly toward them. 
Tripping on the old womans cane, Elena fell. A commotion arose behind her as 
others spotted the attacker, but Elenas eyes were fixed on the plunge of the 
winged predator. It was much too small to be the wyvern. But what was it? She 
raised her red hand against it, scrambling for something to poke her skin to 
release a flow of fire. Then it was too late.
She ducked back as the bird swooped at her. Elena gasped as its bright wings 
suddenly flashed wide. Its plummet ended as it landed gracefully on the ships 
rail. It perched, panting through its open beak, wings held slightly open to 
cool its flight.
The sharp fiery brilliance of its plumage faded enough to reveal the snowy white 
of its feathers. Its black eyes studied Elena, head
slightly cocked.
Its the sunhawk, Meric said, awe in his voice.
The elvin stepped around Elena as she carefully stood up, cautious of any 
sudden movement in front of the huge bird. It had to stand at least four hands 
tall. A sunhawk? she asked. Elena remembered the smaller moonfalcon that had 
led Meric to her so long ago.
Its Queen Tratals bird, he answered. The herald of the House of the Morning 
Star.
Flint had joined them by now. But why is it here? he asked. Meric turned to 
them all. She comes. The queen herself has left
Stormhaven.
But why? Elena asked.
He turned to her, his eyes full of worry. She comes to reclaim the lands from 
which our ancestors have been banished. He waved toward the bird. The flight 
of her sunhawk heralds the eve of war.
Sensations returned like an old nightmare.
First, a whisper across his skin, a touch so cold that it felt more like a burn. 
Then sound: a chorus of wails, distant but also as near as a lovers breath. The 
cries echoed inside his skull, begging him back to oblivion. He fought against 
this urge, swimming up from the drowning blackness. His reward for his effort 
was a final explosion of senses: a choking stench that reeked of death, and a 
burst of white light that shattered the darkness into fragments.
He wakes, a voice spoke from beyond the blinding brilliance.
Floundering in the sea of sensations, the drowning victim finally surfaced. 
Fragments of vision collected back together like a childs puzzle. He lay on his 
back atop a slab of stone: hard, unyielding, as cold as the marble of a crypt. 
The brush of icy air across his skin revealed his nakedness.
As his head lolled to the side, he saw walls of stacked granite blocks. Slitted 
windows, high up the walls, brought in little sunlight, only cold breezes.
Again the coarse voice spoke from behind him. He resists.
Another voice answered. It was oddly familiar, a whisper from some long-dead 
past. His magick still protects him. Hell not be turned by the black arts.
The listener fought to understand these words, but for now, he only lived in his 
senses; who spoke was of no concern. Even who he was himself was a question that 
had yet to arise in his fuddled mind.
What do we do with him then? He shouldve died when he entered the Weir.
His iron ward, the naggingly familiar voice answered. The talisman had the 
power to open it. As to surviving that dark path, again the magick in the Blood 
Diary protects him.
As the sleeper continued to wake fully, his mind began noting more than just 
smells and shivering skin. He began to focus ^gain on more important concerns. 
Who were these others? His hand rose to touch his face, to run a fingertip over 
his lips. Who am I?
Forget this new plan. We should just kill him, the coarse voice insisted. The 
listener now sensed it was an old man who spoke, his voice harsh with many 
winters.
No, the other answered. This was a young voice, full of youths strength.
Why? What difference does it make? The witch will still come. She will believe 
him dead. Why not make it true?
Whether the child comes or not does not bear on my decision.
But Elena should be
Around him, the voices and room faded. One word rose to shine like a torch 
before his awareness: Elena. An image bloomed to replace the single word: eyes 
of commanding green, cheek and neck softly curved, hair the color of a fiery 
sunset. With this one memory, the rest began to return.
At first just a trickle of images: An iron hand raised toward a black sculpture 
The rip of reality as the stone of the statue became a pool of black energies 
His struggling body caught and dragged by a fierce tidal pull toward the pools 
black maw Then then a darkness so deep and ancient that there were no words 
to describe it.
He shuddered against the memory, pushing it away.
As he did so, other memories rushed back in, a raging torrent of old faces, old 
tales. Five centuries of memories quickly refilled the yawning void in his 
awareness.
Mother above, what had he done?
Erril gasped as his thoughts were again his own. He struggled to sit up, anger 
and pain heating his naked skin. Elena he mumbled in apology.
To either side of him, two figures stepped into sight.
He knew well the dark-robed elder, his hoary face ravaged by time, his eyes gone 
cloudy from centuries of passing winters. Greshym.
The old darkmage bowed his head mockingly and raised his stumped right wrist in 
a crude salute. So I see your mind finally wakes, too.
Erril ignored him and turned to the other man. Where the darkmage was 
bent-backed and crooked, this other stood tall, straight, and broad of shoulder. 
Under black hair neatly cropped, eyes that matched Ernls own stared back at 
him. They were the gray of a snowy winter morn, the mark of a true Standi 
plainsman. But instead of finding the warmth of a shared heritage in the others 
gaze,
only coldness and blackness shone forth, as if Erril stared into an open grave. 
Too shocked, he found no words to speak.
The other was not so incapacitated. Welcome, dear brother, he said, its been 
a long time.
Shorkan, Erril finally croaked out.
His brothers smile held no warmth, only the promise of pain. Its about time 
we were reacquainted.
Erril spat in his face. You are not my brother, only a beast who wears his 
face.
Shorkan did not bother to wipe the spittle from his cheek. He only sighed. You 
will learn to love me again. That I promise.
Never! he answered with a snarl.
Raising a hand, Shorkan signaled with his fingers. From behind Erril, a third 
spectator stepped forward, a spy who had so far remained silent.
As Erril recognized this other, the shock almost thrust him back into dark 
oblivion. No! he said, remembering that night in the inn so long ago, his 
sword thrust through the back of the boy, pinning him to the planks. I slew 
you!
The small lad shrugged, his eyes bright with a feral light. Dont worry, 
plainsman. I dont hold it against you. It would take more than an ordinary 
sword to sever my ties to this world.
It was Denal, the boy mageand the third and final member of the coven who had 
forged the Blood Diary five centuries ago. Or at least it was what was left of 
him, the evil that had been freed by the spell. At the time, Erril had thought 
he had slain the boys evil half.
Shorkan stepped forward. Now that we have all the parties reunited from that 
fateful night in Winterfell, we can proceed.
Erril stared at the coven. I will not let any of you harm Elena.
You mistake my intentions, Brother. With you finally here, the witch hardly 
matters. If we succeed, she will be but a plaything of the master.
Succeed at what?
Greshym answered, his voice cracking. At correcting our mistake.
Erril glanced around the group of heartless faces and brutal eyes.
Shorkan finished the explanation. Together again, with your help, we mean to 
recast the spell and unbind the book. To destroy forever the Blood Diary.
Book Three
RAG0NF0LK

Deep within the belly of the leviathan, Kast felt trapped. Living walls 
surrounded him. As he followed Sy-wen, he ran a hand along the twisting 
corridor. The sea creatures leathery skin was drawn taut between struts of 
bone. Under his palm, he felt the tremor of the giant beasts heartbeat.
With a small shudder, he withdrew his hand. To live and make a home inside 
another creature was a concept too foreign for his Drerendi mind to fully grasp 
or accept. As a Bloodrider, the open air and the wide sea were his true home, 
not this world of cramped corridors and tiny cells burrowed under the skin of a 
gigantic beast that swam leagues under the sea.
Sy-wen seemed to sense his discomfort. She glanced back over a slim shoulder at 
him. Wiping back strands of flowing green hair, she spoke to him with a worried 
set to her lips. Its only a little farther. The council chamber is just 
ahead.
Kast nodded, little comforted, and continued after the small merai girl. Around 
him, the eternal soft phosphorescent glow from the walls had begun to strain his 
eyes with its weak light. Under his bare feet, the living floor yielded with 
each step, adding to his sense of disorientation and unease. It took practice to 
walk on this spongy footing.
As he concentrated on his steps, he noted that even the air felt wrong. It was 
too moist. He had learned that the giant leviathans somehow harvested fresh air 
from the seas waters and used it to fill these chambers and corridors they 
shared with the merai.
Kast shuddered and closed the distance with Sy-wen. He sought to distract 
himself from these distasteful surroundings. Do you think your mother will 
agree to your plan? he asked as he reached her side.
Sy-wen shrugged. It does not matter. Mother is just one of five elders. We must 
convince them all.
But if we could sway her, the others might come in line. She may be our best 
chance of getting a foothold in the council on this matter.
Sy-wens pace slowed. I fear my mother may be the hardest to convince. After I 
almost got Conch killed Her voice trailed off.
But you also saved your mothers dragons life.
No. It was the blood of Ragnark that healed his deep wounds. Sy-wen stopped 
and turned to Kast. Since I returned from Aloa Glen, my mother will hardly 
look me in the eye, let alone speak to me. Even though she and the council have 
agreed to help in the battle to come, she still bears a hatred for all things 
associated with the landwellersand now that includes me. She fears me lost to 
the world of rock and dirt. So do not place much trust on our blood relations to 
sway her opinion.
But she and the council did agree to join forces in the coming battle.
Yes, to honor our peoples ancient debts to the mages of Aloa Glen for aiding 
our escape from the Gulgotha, not from any real feeling of loyalty or concern 
for the people of Alasea. Sy-wen turned away and continued down the narrow 
corridor. My mother bears no love for any landwellers.
They continued the rest of the way in silence. Kast did not know how to end this 
melancholy in Sy-wen. Ever since they had left the coast to search for the 
Bloodriders and their dragon-prowed warships, she had sunk into a deep 
somberness that could not be shaken. Kast could blame his own sour feelings on 
the surroundings; almost a moon had passed since he had last seen the sky, and 
he grew more and more anxious as each day wore on. But this was Sy-*wens home. 
To be here should make her happy.
As Kast followed the young woman, his eyes traced the curve of her bare back and 
the smooth lines under her snug sharkskin breeches. He had yet to grow 
accustomed to the concept that he and this merai girl were bonded. His fingers 
wandered to his cheek and
brushed across the tattoo inked in magick and poisonous dyes that ran from neck 
to ear. He knew what lay there: a coiled dragon of black scale and red eyes, the 
seadragon Ragnark. Here was Sy-wens true bonded: the dragon that hid under his 
own skin.
Kast felt a slight warmth heat his skin as his fingers touched the tattoo. 
Emotions warred in his breast. A part of him raged against the curse that had 
been laid upon himto be forever half dragon, half man. But another part only 
wished for Sy-wen to stare him in the eye and reach to his cheek, to once again 
feel the burn and ecstasy of her touch on his skin, to once again become her 
full bonded. But was this his own wish or the dream of the dragon Ragnark, 
striving
to be released again?
Shaking his head, Kast followed Sy-wen. Dragon or not, he was also a man. And 
though his thoughts were swirled, one thing was clear. Since first they had met, 
his blood had stirred with the sight of her. Not from ancient blood debts or 
whispers of magickal bonds; it was as if a hole in his heart, an emptiness that 
he had never known was even there, had been filled. He knew in some way she 
completed himand there lay most of his resentment for his curse. Kast did not 
want to share her with the dragon that hid inside him. But this, in turn, led to 
even more questions, worries that kept him awake long into the night as he tried 
to sleep: Just who was Sy-wen truly bonded to? Kast or Ragnark? And if the 
dragon was not present, would she still even acknowledge Kast or welcome him?
Kast sensed that these same worries wrestled in Sy-wen, too. He caught her 
sidelong glances at him when she thought he wasnt looking, her silver eyes 
appraising him. He also saw the confusion in her gaze. It was clear she 
mistrusted her feelings. How much of her desire for him was magick-born? And how 
much came from her true
heart?
Kast wished he had the answers. But ever since their trials on the island of 
Aloa Glen, Sy-wen had kept a wary distance from him, refusing to discuss it. 
She was not ready to explore those answers yet.
Were here, Sy-wen said, a flicker of anxiety in her voice. She had stopped 
and now pointed to where the passage ended. The
council chamber.
Ahead, a merai guard stood stiffly by a blockage in the corridor. Like Sy-wen, 
he wore only a pair of sharkskin breeches, his oiled and hairless chest almost 
aglow in the shine from the walls. His hair,
a mane of light green with hues of copper, was loose and draped to his waist. In 
his hand, he bore a long spear of shark tooth.
As they approached, he spoke. Mistress Sy-wen, welcome. Your mother and the 
others await you.
The guard did not even bother to glance Kasts way. By now, Kast was used to 
such an affront: the merai had little warmth for those who lived above the 
waves. The name Iandwellers was used as a vicious slur among these people.
Sy-wen, though, bristled at every barb thrown at him. Even now, her cheeks 
reddened and she stared the guard down, not acknowledging his greeting until he 
corrected this slight in courtesy.
Finally, through clenched teeth, the guard spoke. And of course, Master Kast. 
The council awaits you both.
Sy-wen nodded, unsmiling and cold. Thank you, Bridlyn. If you would announce us 
to the eldersboth of us
He bowed again and pressed the center of the flap of ruffled leathery tissue 
that blocked the way further. Instead of swinging clear like a hinged door, the 
way ahead opened like a puckered mouth, the thick tissue spreading open from the 
center to bunch along the walls and floor.
Though a common sight, it still made Kast queasy. There was no mistaking this 
passage as an ordinary corridor.
Stepping through the doorway, the guard led the way into the chamber beyond. 
Bridlyn made their formal introductions, but Kast was too stunned by his view of 
the room to even hear him.
The chamber, though relatively small, appeared huge. This illusion was created 
by the wall to one side. Here the leviathans skin was as clear as blown 
crystal. The deep blue of the ocean seemed to spread forever. Around and above, 
schools of yellowfin and waving strands of kelp swept past the slowly swimming 
behemoth. Below, the landscape of rock and coral was festooned with anemones 
like living jewels, some aglow with their own inner light. In the distance, Kast 
even spotted several merai patrols atop their seadragons, mounts of every 
color: jade, alabaster, copper, gold.
The view trapped Kasts breath. He did not even know his feet had stopped until 
Sy-wen touched his elbow and drew him down a set of bone stairs. Still he could 
only follow slowly, his eyes wide, drinking in the sights.
Once he reached the floor of the chamber, his initial shock faded
to simple wonder. He found himself able to concentrate again on the 
conversations around him. Bridlyn was already heading back up the stairs; he 
wore a disdainful smirk at Kasts reaction to the view. The guards scorn helped 
sober Kast further. Kast was done acting
the awestruck child.
Turning his back on the window, Kast focused on the remainder of the chamber. 
Before him, seated along a curved table of polished coral, were the five elders 
of the council. Sy-wen already stood before the table, facing the elders.
Kast recognized Sy-wens mother among them, a stately woman with her daughters 
features. But the warmth and spark in Sy-wens eyes had long gone to ash in the 
gaze of her mother. It was the death of my father, Sy-wen had explained 
earlier. Something in my mother died then, too.
Even now, the presence of her daughter failed to bring any familial glow to the 
womans cold eyes.
Kast could sense Sy-wens hurt, the way her shoulders were not as straight and 
the way her hands, clamped behind her back, clutched with whitened knuckles. She 
refused to speak directly to her mother, instead speaking to the senior elder of 
the council, Master Edyll. We come with a request, she stated briskly to the 
old man. So it would seem, child, he answered her. Master Edyll was ancient 
for a merai. His hair had gone to full silver, but there was no mistaking the 
sharp intelligence in his old eyes or the gentle humor in the bend of his lips. 
But what has you so stiff and formal? Have you already forgotten how I once 
bounced you on my knee?
Of course not, Uncle um, I mean Master Edyll. Kast stepped beside the now 
blushing girl and placed a hand on Sy-wens shoulder. He spoke into her 
awkwardness. If I might
speak ?
Some of the humor faded from the elders lips, but not all. Please
elaborate then, Master Kast.
Sy-wen and I request permission to leave the leviathan.
To what purpose?
The merai legions have scoured the Shoals now for nearly a full moon. And as 
of yet, the Bloodriders escape us. Time runs short.
And do you know where your, people might be hiding out there?
Kast licked his dry lips. No, sir. But the merai move too slowly through these 
seas.
These words raised heated murmurs among the other elders. The merai were not 
wont to hear their shortcomings. Only Sy-wens mother and Master Edyll remained 
quiet.
Once again, Master Kast, what do you propose? Edyll asked after the others 
calmed down.
I propose that Sy-wen ignite the bond in me and release Rag-nark. The dragons 
ability to fly will greatly enhance the search and
Sy-wens mother spoke for the first time. No. We already discussed this when we 
left the coast. It is not safe. One dragon is no match against the fleets of the 
Drerendi. Unless the Bloodriders have grown lax, they will easily spot a huge 
black flying past their sails. Even if an arrow does not take you down, you will 
alert them to our presence. If we hope to pin down the Drerendi and bend them 
to our wills
Now it was Kasts turn to bridle. Bend them to your wills? Do you believe 
yourselves still our slave masters? The Drerendi cast their blood upon the seas 
so the merai could escape to the Deep. It was our ships that held off the 
Gulgothal forces so you might live. And do you come back now and think to take 
us again as slaves? We won our freedom in blood!
His words had no effect on the cold features of the woman. We know our 
histories. We also know that the Drerendi have one more debt to pay before they 
can be truly free. She waved a hand toward her own cheek. Do you still mark 
your sons with the tattoo of the seahawk?
Yes, we have not forgotten our old oaths.
But do you know why we asked this of you?
Kast remembered when Sy-wen had bonded to him. During the spell, they had shared 
a glimpse of an ancient sea and a deal struck upon a dragon-prowed boat. His 
ancestor had agreed to mark each male when of proper age with the tattoo of a 
hunting seahawk drawn in the dyes of the blowfish and reef octopi. Kasts 
fingers brushed his own cheek and neck where once such a seahawk tattoo had 
rested. He remembered Sy-wens first touch, before the dragon had claimed him 
and changed his tattoo. It had been a brand upon his skin, binding him to her 
will, enslaving him for as long as they touched.
Kast glanced at the row of elders. Why? Kast asked harshly.
What more do you want of my people? Im sure they will freely come to fight the 
Gulgotha. You do not need to enslave us again. Master Edyll answered. You 
misunderstand, Master Kast.
How so?
The humor had returned to the elders lips. Have you never suspected? When 
Kast did not respond, Master Edyll continued. In the old tongue, your very name 
declares your secret. Drerendi means dragonfoltr Master Edyll waited for his 
words to sink in and for Kast to understand.
Kast just shook his head.
The ancient elder finally sighed. The seahawk tattoo is not to enslave your 
people to us, Master Kast, but to bring them back home. Our two peoples must be 
united again.
Kast found it hard to breathe. What are you saying?
I am saying, Master Kast, that you are merai.
PlNORR DlRA, THE ANCIENT SHAMAN OF THE DRAGONSPUR, STOOD BY THE
bowsprit and stared out over the empty seas. The morning breezes tousled his 
long white hair. He combed the loose strands back from his eyes. Once, when his 
hair was still black, he had worn it in a warriors braid, but that was long 
ago, before the rajor maga had come upon him. Claimed by the sea gods, his sword 
had been taken from him, and he had had to untie his braid and don the robes of 
a shaman. It had been a day of both shame and honor. His lips grew hard at the 
memory. May he never suffer such a day again.
Pinorr sighed and studied the endless waves. Since he had woken this morning, 
the sea had called to him, summoning him with a nagging ache in his skull. At 
this age, he was well familiar with the call. What is it you want? he mumbled 
to the empty water. Cant you leave an old man to his warm bed and dreams of 
the past? But he knew better. The seas could never be refused.
Closing his eyes, he reached out with his senses. He pushed aside the salty 
scents from his nose and ignored the soft breezes that brushed his shaven 
cheeks. He searched much farther than his own skin. Reaching over the horizon, 
he found it at lasta hint of lightning in the air, the distant wail of wind. He 
knew the warnings. A fierce storm brewed, rising from the south.
He frowned and opened his eyes. Though the day was clear and
the sky blue, by nightfall, the seas would roar and the winds would scream. 
These southern storms were the worst, whipping the rain-laden clouds of the 
tropics to crash and tear at the boats of the Shoals. With the boom of thunder 
in his ears, Pinorr stared at where the ocean met the sky. What brewed over the 
horizon was one of the worst southern squallsa true ship killer.
Grim news for the fleet.
Pinorr spat into the sea, adding his water and salt to the great ocean, thanking 
the gods below for their warning.
Papa, a small voice said at his knee, theyre coming.
Pinorr continued to stare out at the sea. The child who sat by his ankles was 
not his own, but the daughter of his eldest son, whose spirit had returned to 
the waves before the babe was even born. And with her mother dying in 
childbirth, the youngster had known no other guardian but himself. Pinorr had at 
first tried to correct Sheeshons perception that he was her papa, but the 
poor child was weak in the mind and had never understood. Eventually he had 
given up trying.
Sheeshon, whos coming? he asked softly, coddling her delusions. He knelt 
beside the child. Sheeshon was almost ten winters of age, but she still had the 
wide-open eyes of an infant. When her mother had died in the midwifes arms, the 
poor child had had to be cut free from her cooling belly. Unfortunately, the 
healers had not been quick enough. The child had already been touched by death, 
her mind damaged.
Pinorr wiped the drool from the girls chin with the sleeve of his robe and 
smoothed back the drapes of black hair. Her face, though innocent, could never 
be considered pretty. The lids of one eye sagged, and she only had partial use 
of her lips on that same side. It was as if half her face had melted and 
drooped. He touched her cheek. Who will watch after you when I am gone? he 
wondered sadly.
Sheeshon continued to ignore his question and his touch. She concentrated on the 
piece of whalebone in her tiny fingers, working it this way and that. Her small 
carving tool continued to dig and scrape at the bone. Im almost done, Papa.
Pinorr smiled at her serious expression as she worked. Though she was addled in 
the mind, her fingers were skilled; they flew over the bone, feeling, digging, 
rubbing. With such skill, she might have been able to be apprentice to a master 
carver, but her dull wits made
such a dream impossible. He leaned closer. What is it youre carving, dear?
She waved him away. No peeking, Papa! I must hurry. Theyre coming! She was so 
earnest, her brows wrinkling together, her eyes pinched as she worked.
Come, dear, I must go see the keelchief. A storm rides down on
us. He reached for her shoulder.
No! Sheeshon stabbed at him with her small knife, driving him
away. I must finish!
Pinorr rubbed at the long scratch where the tool had caught the back of his 
hand. He frownednot in anger, but surprise. Normally, Sheeshon was so pliable, 
so easy to direct here or there. This new strident behavior concerned him. He 
matched it with his own stern words, in a voice that made many keelchiefs cower. 
Sheeshon, leave your carvings till after your meal. Ive work to do. Do you 
wish to be left with Mader Geel?
The childs fingers paused. She finally raised sad eyes toward him, tears 
streaking her cheeks. No, Papa.
He instantly felt like the lowest mud wader. He sighed and leaned closer to 
Sheeshon, enveloping her tiny hands in his large and bony fingers. Her hands 
were like embers in his palm. A sickness must be coming on the girl, her skin 
feverish. Was this the reason for her sudden temper? He regretted his words even 
more.
Im sorry, Sheeshon, he said. You are my heart. He pulled the damaged child 
to his chest. He kissed her on the top of the head. She mumbled something softly 
to his chest. Leaning away, he asked, What was that, my dear?
Theyre almost here, she said, not meeting his eye. Her fingers clutched the 
figure she had been carving, but she no longer worked
at it.
May I see? he asked softly, indicating the carving.
She hesitated, then slowly released her grip on the piece of whalebone. I 
wasnt done, she said in a half pout. I cant see them clearly until Im 
done.
Thats all right. Youll have time after the high sun meal. He took the 
offered chunk of carved bone and tilted back on his heels, raising the figurine 
to the sun.
He blinked at her work, stunned. Her skill was breathtaking and she considered 
this unfinished. The detail work, the smooth
curves, even the spread of fragile whalebone into thin wingsall was in such 
perfect symmetry. He rotated the sculpture in the sunlight. This could be a 
masters work.
I wanted to paint the dragon black, Papa. Its supposed to be black! She 
slammed her tiny fist on the deck planks. The childs frustration tremored her 
voice. And her hair is supposed to be seaweed green!
Whose hair? Then he tilted the sculpture and realized that a small figure rode 
the back of this handsomely rendered dragon. He had overlooked the tiny rider; 
she was dwarfed by the huge dragon. Who is this? he asked the child.
Sheeshon wore a crooked frown, one side of her lips slack. Papa, its whos 
coming. Arent you listening?
He smiled at her imagination. Ah, so these two are flying here to see you? He 
handed back the figurine. Where are they coming from ?
Clutching the figurine to her chest, Sheeshon glanced around the empty deck to 
make sure no one was eavesdropping. Once satisfied that they were alone, she 
turned wide eyes toward him. From under the waves.
Ah, so its a seadragon then, like from the stories of the merai.
But this one flies through the skies, too. She lifted the chunk of scrimshaw 
and dove and glided it about the air.
I see, he humored her. Are they going to take you up with them on fine 
adventures?
She stopped flying her dragon and turned to stare him in the eye. Her look was 
shocked. Oh, no, Papa, theyre gonna kill us. She then went back to flying her 
dragon about the air.
He sat back farther on his heels, watching his sons poor child. Pinorr rubbed 
his palms together as if to remove the clinging dust of whalebone from his skin. 
Mostly, though, he wanted to warm the chill that had suddenly set in with the 
girls words.
Just the ramblings of an addled mind, he told himself as he stood up. But in his 
ears, he still heard the distant boom of a storm from over the horizon. He 
stared again at the peaceful seas while lightning and thunder echoed in his 
skull. He was now certain.
Whether upon the winds of a squall or the wings of a dragon, doom raced toward 
them all.
Sy-wen stared at Kasts stunned expression, sharing his shock. How could Kast be 
merai? The large man stepped away from the coral table as if to escape the 
elders words. Blood drained from Kasts face, making the tattoo of Ragnark 
stand out like a black blaze on his neck and cheek.
What is this nonsense you speak? Kast muttered. Sy-wen turned to face the 
council. Surely Master Edyll was making some joke at the poor mans expense. 
Kast shared none of the aspects of her peopleno webbed fingers, no inner 
eyelid. Even his dark complexion was so unlike the pale and luminescent features 
of
the merai.
It was these very differences that had first attracted Sy-wen to the brooding 
man. Even now, the sight of him stirred her heart. His wind-hardened features, 
ruddy skin, and hair as dark as midnight waters were so unlike her own people. 
He was like a granite island in
a tepid sea.
Master Edyll sat silently, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he recognized her 
confusion. Sy-wens mother remained perched like a stone statue beside him. The 
other council members muttered amongst themselves, clearly upset with their 
senior members revelation.
Mistress Rupeli, a small brash woman who painted her cheeks in florid hues, 
twisted in her seat to face down Master Edyll. You speak our secrets too 
freely, she warned the old man. You may be the head of the council, but that 
does not give you the right to reveal merai secrets to to this this 
outsider.
He is not an outsider, Master Edyll said. He is a man of the sea, as are all 
Drerendi. And more than that, though you may wish to believe otherwise, he is 
also merai.
Sy-wen could keep silent no longer. But Kast is nothing like us. Just look at 
him! How could you name him merai? Sy-wen felt the Bloodriders eyes swing in 
her direction. His gaze burned her cheeks. She had not meant her words to sound 
so dismissive of Kast, as if the man were somehow unworthy to be classified as a 
merai.
Glancing a quick apology his way, Sy-wen noticed the hurt in his eyes. Her 
blurted words had wounded him deeply. She should have known better. In the days 
prior, she had sensed the feelings the man had for heremotions she had dared 
not acknowledge, not until she
knew her own true heart. Kast had waited these many days for any word from her, 
some sign that she shared his feelings. But for his patience and kindness, she 
now only rewarded him with her disdain.
Kast turned stiffly back to the council. Sy-wen is correct. He raised his 
hands and splayed his fingers, revealing the lack of webbing. None of my people 
are marked with the signs of the merai. You are deluded.
Master Edylls face grew grim. If you are so sure of merai history, 
Bloodrider, then tell me yours. Where did the Drerendi come from? What land 
gave birth to your clans?
Sy-wen turned to Kast, awaiting his answer. His feet shifted under him. After a 
long silence, he answered. We have no homeland. It is said we were birthed from 
the seas themselves. But the land grew jealous at our birth and cursed us, 
transforming us into ordinary men so that we might never return to the sea. 
Exiled from our mothers bosom, we forever ride the waves, seeking a way back 
home.
As Kast spoke, Master Edylls smile returned.
It is just a hearthside story, Kast stated, glowering at the senior elder. A 
myth. But in your eyes, I can see what youre thinking. You believe the story of 
our ocean birth to be some sign that our two people share a common heritage. 
Well, I say again: You are deluded! We share nothing with you, except a history 
of slavery.
Even there you are wrong, Master Edyll said.
Then speak plainly, old man, Kast said, a worried glint in his eye.
Master Edyll turned to Sy-wen instead. Im sorry, my dear. With the exception 
of a few scholars and the council itself, what you are about to hear has been 
kept hidden from our people. I must ask you to keep this secret.
Sy-wen glanced at her mother, but again the woman had grown distant, not meeting 
her eye. Swallowing hard, Sy-wen turned back to Master Edyll and nodded. 
Wh-what secret has been kept from us?
The true history of our people, he stated plainly.
Sy-wens brow wrinkled. But I know our histories.
You know what we taught you, not the truth. Shame can make one do foolish 
things, even hide the truth from ones self. He glanced significantly toward 
the other elders.
I dont understand.
First, I ask that you listen with an open heart, Master Edyll said.
He eyed the large Bloodrider beside her. You too, Master Kast. Then judge if I 
am truly deluded.
Kast simply nodded, his features gone hard, arms crossed. Master Edyll settled 
back in his seat. Long ago, before the lands of Alasea were even settled by 
man, the merai were fisherfolk. We lived on islands far out in the Great 
Ocean.
Sy-wen interrupted. You mean we lived in the seas near these
islands.
No, my dear, on the islands. We were once landwellers. A shock passed through 
Sy-wen. Even though she had spent time among the men and women of the coasts and 
had learned of their nobility and courage, a shred of old prejudices still 
sickened her blood at such an idea. She raised and displayed her webbed fingers, 
as if to disprove the elders words. How could we have ever been
landwellers?
We were, Master Edyll stated plainly.
Or so the ancient texts claim, the youngest of the elders added, speaking for 
the first time. Master Talon wore his pale green hair tied with bits of polished 
coral and mother-of-pearl. As he spoke, he fingered a strand of beaded and 
braided hair that draped over his shoulder. Not a// of us accept these old 
tales as our true histories.
Mistress Rupeli nodded her support. Some of us know these old tales to be 
fabrications. I, for one, dont accept your assumptions,
Master Edyll.
Assumptions? The scholars, one and all, agree with the validity
of the written histories, Master Edyll countered.
Scholars can be wrong, Talon said, throwing back his thin
braid.
And even if the texts were written at the time of our origin, Mistress Rupeli 
continued, that does not mean what was scribed in ink
was true. I say we
Enough! declared the final member of the council, the somber-eyed Master 
Heron. He slammed his fist on the table for emphasis. The past is past, he 
stated sourly, his bald pate shining in the walls glow. We waste our time on 
this foolishness. What does our past matter? We should address the current 
situation. The Gulgotha mass at Aloa Glen, and the Dark Lords minions scour 
the seas. It is only so long until they discover us and attempt to subjugate us, 
as they did Alasea. That is the issue we should be addressing.
Sy-wen watched Master Edyll during this outburst. He just sat quietly, ringers 
folded on his lap. Finally, he spoke again once the others were quiet again. 
The man has a right to know, he stated softly. He waved a couple of fingers at 
Kast. You cannot deny the truth that stands before you.
The elders eyes all swung toward the Bloodrider.
What? Kast asked, irritation and growing impatience clear in his tight lips 
and squinted eyes.
They ignored him. Sy-wens mother turned to the senior elder. Go on, Edyll. 
Finish the foul tale and be done with it. I, for one, have little stomach to 
dwell on this matter any further.
Master Edyll bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment and returned to Sy-wen 
and Kast. As I was saying, the islands were once our home, but it was not 
idyllic. On the contrary, the harsh seas of the distant ocean hardened our 
people. We started as a savage nation, attacking neighboring islands and ruling 
the conquered tribes like tyrants. We sacrificed children to our gods and drank 
from the skulls of our defeated. Our ancestors hearts were as cold as the ice 
floes of the north.
That cannot be, Sy-wen moaned. She had never heard these histories before. As 
she searched the elders faces, she saw a spark of sympathy for her distress 
enter her mothers eyes. The other council members kept their heads bowed, a mix 
of shame and anger clear in all their postures.
One winter, a man appeared among our people. Some say he was born from one of 
our conquered tribes; some say he was the bastard son of our king. He declared 
our ways wrong and spoke words of peace. The downtrodden flocked to him, 
attracted by his words of kindness and compassion. He traveled among our many 
islands, and his flock grew larger and more vocal. The merai ruler at that 
time, King Raff, sent his warriors out to slaughter these followers and bring 
back the head of this man.
Who was he? Sy-wen asked.
Master Edyll sipped from a cup of kelp tea. He bore several names: 
Spiritwalker, Dragonkin, Peacespeaker. But his true name was lost in history.
Further proof that the tales were mere myth, Master Talon scoffed.
Sy-wen did not want a new argument to ensue. So what happened to this man? she 
asked.
Master Edylls gaze drifted away, into the past. It was a long hunt. Entire 
islands were wiped out. It was said that the seas remained bloody for an entire 
moon. Finally, to end the massacres, the man came forward on his own, appearing 
in the throne room at the height of the slaughter. Let this end now, he 
declared, and gave himself over to King Raffs guards. They tortured the man for 
seven days and nights. They blinded him with flaming irons, they crushed his 
hands and feet, and finally they cut his manhood from him.
Sy-wen cringed from these words. How could this horrible tale be true? How could 
this be her peoples heritage?
Master Edyll continued in the same tone of voice. They lashed his bloody and 
broken body, still alive, onto a raft and sent him out to the sharks. He sang as 
his body floated awaynot a song of vengeance and hate, but one of forgiveness. 
Those of his flock who still lived, and many who heard his song for the first 
time, followed his raft into the seas. Even the kings own daughter entered the 
waves after this man. Some say she had been his lover; some say she was simply 
touched by his song. Either way, one thing was clearshe bore magick in her 
voice. As she entered the waters, she added her song to his, and from the seas, 
the mighty dragons arose, answering her calls. They claimed these exiles and 
took them safely from the islands. Master Edyll paused and reached for his cup 
of tea with trembling fingers. The old man clearly grew tired with the telling 
of
this tale.
And so the merai were born, Kast finished for him, a sour set to
his lips. Seadragon and merai united. How noble!
No, Master Edyll said, shaking his head slowly. You dont listen closely 
enough. The tale is not yet done. Master Edyll let his words sink in before 
continuing. After the rescue by the dragons, King Raff sent ships out to hunt 
his escaping people. He meant to slaughter them all, dragons included. But 
again, the broken man would not let him. Atop a great white dragon, he met King 
Raffs armada and asked for the bloodshed to stop. Take my life in exchange for 
your people, he had yelled across the waves, his battered body barely able to 
stay seated atop his mount. King Raff laughed at the blind man and ordered the 
warriors spears and harpoons loosed.
Dragon and man were pierced with a hundred blades. Dying, they sank under the 
waves, their blood mixing in the saltwater.
Master Edylls voice grew grim. But with the savage slaughter of their leader, 
the mans flock grew wild. Aided by the dragons, they attacked King Raffs 
armada and washed the decks with the blood of the slain, sparing no one. King 
Raffs head was spiked atop the prow of the lead ship, put there by his own 
daughter, and the fleet returned to their home islands. It is said not a single 
islander escaped their wrath. These wild warriors were cursed by the islanders 
as dragonfolkor in the old tongue, Drerendi.
My people, Kast said, horror in his voice. Yes. Led by your first leader.
Kasts eyes grew wide. The warrior queen Raffel. Sy-wen saw the look of 
recognition in the large man.
Raff-^/, Master Edyll elaborated. Daughter of Raff. One and the same.
Into the stunned silence, Sy-wen spoke. But how does this lead to our peoples 
origin?
Master Edyll sighed. As the seas ran red with the blood of the slain, we were 
already being born. The leader who preached of peace, he who had sunk under the 
weight of a hundred spears, did not die with his great white. For three days, 
under the waves, the blood of dragon and man mixed with the salt of the sea. The 
healing properties inherent in the dragons blood began to transform in the 
swirl of mixed bloods. Magick began to blur the line between man and dragon. The 
man became a little like the dragon, the dragon a little like the man. The two 
were forever fused and bonded.
He became the first true merai, Sy-wen said with a tinge of wonder in her 
voice.
Master Edyll nodded. Once fully recovered, the man rose from the seas atop his 
white dragon. His dark hair had gone white to match the dragons scale; his 
fingers and toes had become webbed like the great beasts. Dragon and man could 
now speak to one another as kin. But with all the changes, one aspect of the man 
remained untouched by the magickhis heart. When he saw the slaughter done in 
his name, he cried to the cruel skies above and cast his gaze forever from the 
world of sunlight and rock. But before he fled, he went to his followers on 
their bloody ships and commanded them to end their murderous ways. The Drerendi 
bowed before his
miracle and begged to join him. Not until the blood is washed from your hands, 
he told them. Serve the children of the dragon to come. Protect them well, and 
one day I will call you back home! With those words, the man left, taking the 
seadragons with him.
Kast cleared his throat. But he was only one man. How could he be the father of 
your sea-dwelling clans?
Our forefather was more than a man. He was part dragon now. Master Edyll 
stared Kast in the eye. And his white dragon was a female. From their union, 
the merai clans were born.
Now it was Sy-wens turn to struggle to speak, her voice grown incredulous. You 
mean we descend from the dragons themselves? We were once actual mates with the 
great beasts?
Yes, long ago. Though we can no longer conceive with dragons, we still share a 
blood bond with the great creatures that harkens back to such a time. Over the 
passing winters, other men and women, people from many lands, added their blood 
to our lines, expanding our clans. But then we fled with the coming of the 
GuP-gotha, exiling ourselves forever from the rock and coast. As he finished, 
Master Edyll glanced significantly at Sy-wens mother.
To Sy-wens surprise, her mother swung away from the elders gaze, almost in 
shame, but not before Sy-wen noted the flicker of pain and sorrow in her 
mothers eyes. Something unspoken had passed between them. Another secret.
Kast scowled. You expect me to believe all this? Master Edyll turned back to 
the Bloodrider. Believe what you will, but one thing is certain. Our two fates 
are tiedmerai and
Drerendi.
And you have something to prove the truth of your words? Before the old man 
could answer, Talon interrupted. Just dusty relics from the past. He puts too 
much potency in ancient scraps.
Master Edyll turned to the young elder. Sy-wen had never seen the old mans eyes 
flash so fiercely. You malign the past at your own risk, young Talon. You have 
lived too few winters to appreciate how quickly the past can bite you from 
behind if you stare only toward
the future.
Talon grumbled but could not meet Master Edylls furious gaze. Kast clearly grew 
tired of this bickering. What is this proof,
then?
Turning to face the Bloodrider, Master Edylls brows rose slightly.
He nodded toward Kast. Why, you yourself are my proof, Master Kast.
What do you mean?
It is time you learned who you truly are. The old man waved a hand, and a fold 
of wall pulled away to reveal an ancient painting hanging behind the council 
table. It was of a white-haired man seated atop a great dragon whose scale was 
the color of pearl.
Dragonkin, Master Edyll named the figure. Our forefather.
Sy-wen gasped, unable to restrain her outburst. She took a step closer to the 
painting. Even with the mans strange hair, Sy-wen could not mistake the 
familiar features. The man was Kasts twin even down to the dragon tattoo dyed 
on the skin of the mans throat.
Master Edyll spoke into their shock. You are our forefather reborn! Dragon and 
man united once again by magick.
It cannot be, Kast mumbled, his eyes fixed on the painting.
As THE SUN CRESTED HIGH IN THE BLUE SKY, PlNORR STOOD BEHIND THE
keelchief of the Dragonspur. The old shaman waited patiently for the ships 
chieftain to finish whipping one of the boats crewmen. The punished mans cries 
competed with the crack of the rawhide. Ten lashes was the common punishment for 
being found asleep on a watch.
The remainder of the crew went about the decks as if the screams of pain were 
nothing more than the cries of angry gulls. On a ship run by a hard keelchief, 
Pinorr had learned that such a chorus was routine. Still, as Pinorr watched 
Ulster soak the leathers of his whip in seawater, he noted the glint of hunger 
and pleasure in the young keelchiefs eyes. Not all chiefs soaked their leathers 
in salt to heighten the burn of their whips touch.
On this ship, the current keelchief always did.
Ulster caught Pinorrs gaze as he soaked the whip for the final lash.  Add 
salt to a wound to help them remember,  the keelchief said, quoting the old 
codes of the Drerendi, as if to justify the added harshness to his punishment. 
But the hard grin on the mans lips belied this excuseUlster truly enjoyed the 
pain he caused.
Pinorr simply nodded at the keelchiefs statement. He let no sign of his true 
feeling show on his face. It was not his place to question a chiefs punishment. 
Besides, Ulster was new to his chiefdom. After
serving on many ships under countless keelchiefs, Pinorr had known many such 
young chiefs who had tried to prove their toughness and strength by brutalizing 
their crew, striving to earn respect through fear. Only the passing of many 
winters would teach such young men that terror never won a crews respect; only 
honor and a chiefs firm compassion earned a ships loyalty.
Still, Pinorr suspected it was more than a lack of experience that spurred 
Ulsters cruelty. With the whip, the man exposed his true heart. Even now, 
Pinorr noted how Ulster had to shift himself in his breeches to hide how 
pleasurable he found these punishments.
As the keelchief turned away to deliver his last blow, the scowl that Pinorr had 
kept hidden rose to the surface for a brief flash, then retreated again under 
his placid expression. He hated this young chiefnot just for his easy cruelty, 
but for everything about him. He hated Ulsters continually smug expression and 
his habit of weaving his warriors braid in a pattern normally reseryed for the 
survivors of
mighty battles.
Even Ulsters chiefdom had not been earned through any triumphs of his own, but 
from the respect that the Drerendi had had for his dead father. Ulsters sire 
had been the fleets high keel for almost two decades and had led the fleets to 
their current dominance in the Shoals. During this time of glory, Pinorr had 
been the high keels shaman aboard the mighty Dragonsheart. But more than chief, 
Pinorr had considered Ulsters father a close friend. They had weathered 
triumphs and tragedies together: the death of Pinorrs dear wife, the loss of 
the high keels first son to the madness of the sea, the victory of the fleet 
over the Bloody Wights. After all this shared blood, Pinorr could refuse his 
friend nothing.
On the mans deathbed, with an arrow still sprouting like a weed from his bloody 
chest, the high keel had begged only two requests of his people. First, before 
he died, he wanted to see his son receive the dragons tooth brand of chiefdom. 
And second, he wanted Pinorr to serve his son as shaman. Nobody could dishonor 
the man by refusing. Before the sun had set that day, Ulster received the 
chiefdom of the Dragonspur, and Pinorr followed him to this smaller ship.
A scream of agony broke through Pinorrs reverie. He watched the whipped crewman 
collapse in his shackles to the deck. Bloody stripes scarred his back. The cuts 
were deep. Pinorr spotted the white of bone through one of the strokes. Pinorrs 
face grew ashen. There
was no excuse for such force. A lashing was meant to discourage and punish, not 
kill.
Ulster crossed to the prone man, carrying the bucket of seawater in which he had 
soaked his whip. As the chief drew near, the man moaned and tried to curl into a 
ball, as if expecting another blow. The pain had long driven the count of lashes 
from his poor mind. He was now just an animal in agony. Ulster stood over the 
pathetic man and slowly poured the salty waters over the mans wounded back. His 
screams began anew, stretching across the deck, flowing over the sea.
Pinorr tried not to cringe. He kept his features bland as Ulster finally dropped 
the bucket, now empty, and turned to Pinorr. The old shaman saw the look of 
satisfaction in the young mans eyes.
Clenching fists behind his back, Pinorr kept silent. How could this petty 
creature ever have been spat from the loins of such a fine man as the high keel?
Wiping his damp hands, Ulster stepped beside Pinorr. Now what news have you for 
me?
Pinorr fought to keep his tone even and respectful. I sense a storm coming from 
the south. A large one.
Ulster glanced at the clear skies and calm winds.
The doubt in the keelchiefs eyes almost drove Pinorr to throttle the man. No 
one disrespected the word of a shaman, especially not when that shaman was 
Pinorr diRa. All knew his rajor maga, his sea senses, were the most regarded of 
any shamans. The sea gods had richly blessed Pinorr, and for this scrap of a 
man to doubt not only the shaman, but also the gods, was a dishonor that could 
only be cut away with the edge of a sword. Still, Pinorr kept silent. Ulster was 
the son of his friend, and he would honor the dead mans memory by serving this 
fool as best he could manage.
So what should we do? Ulster asked, facing Pinorr again.
The storm that comes will strike with the night. We must flag warnings to the 
other ships of the fleet. We must seek
Ulster waved Pinorrs words away in impatience. Of course, of course. Ill have 
them signaled before the sun sets. What else do you have to report? My meal 
awaits.
Pinorr bowed his head slightly. I apologize for not making myself clear from 
the start, Keelchief Ulster. What rides down upon us
is no ordinary storm that requires only the reefing of sails, the laying of 
storm lines, and the battening of hatches. This squall hails from the deep 
south. A ship killer.
Again doubt shone in the mans eyes. What are you saying?
Im saying, Pinorr stated coldly, letting a bit of anger slip into his voice, 
that the fleet needs to be alerted now. To protect the ships, we must seek a 
sheltered harbor before the squall strikes.
Ulster shook his head, stiffening slightly at Pinorrs harsh tones. The 
Drerendi dont run from storms like so many thick-bellied merchant ships. Our 
keels will ride any squall.
Pinorr gave up any pretense of obeisance to this fool. Youre wrong, Ulster. 
Youre too young to have seen the worst that can blow out of the south. Ive 
seen storms that split boats in half, waves so high that boats topple end over 
end down their roaring troughs, skies so dense with lightning that night becomes 
day from their glow. What rides toward us now is worse than anything Ive sensed 
before. Pinorr leaned closer to Ulster. Send my warnings or die with the 
setting sun. It is your choice, Keelchief. He spat the honorific so it sounded 
more a curse than a respected title.
Ulsters face had grown red with Pinorrs spouting anger. The tattoo of a diving 
seahawk blazed on his jaw. You overstep your station, Shaman. Dont rely on 
your old friendship with my dead father to keep you from my whips.
Pinorr did not back down, not from this mud crawler. Send my warnings, Ulster, 
or Ill rip the blessing of the gods from this ships keel and no shaman will 
ever walk these cursed decks again. See then what crew remain aboard your ship!
The blood drained from Ulsters cheeks. You dare threaten me!
You are a keelchief here, Ulster, not a god. The order of shamans will not 
tolerate any disrespect, not even from the high keel himself. By ignoring my 
vision, you insult the sea gods who have sent us this warning. That I will not 
tolerate! I will not let a fool like you bring the wrath of the gods down upon 
the Drerendi.
By now, other crewmen had gathered nearby, feigning work: coiling rope, dry 
scrubbing the deck, mending nets. They sensed the storm brewing here and had 
come to see the play of thunder.
Ulster was well aware of the others gazes. His back grew straight and his 
shoulders square. I will not dishonor the gods, he said
stiffly. But that does not mean I have to suffer your tongue either, Shaman. 
You know the law: Shaman will guide, but keelchief will lead: 
Then heed my guidance, Keelchief Ulster. Send the warning, and lead our fleet 
to a safe harborbefore its too late.
Shaman and keelchief stood now only a handspan apart, neither ready to back 
down. Pinorr smelled a hint of spryweed on the others breath. So Ulster partook 
of the potent herb that heightened a mans pleasure while bedding a woman. Here 
was further proof of the mans foolish nature. Not only did the weed dull ones 
wit and judgment, but with continued use, the lust for spryweed could eventually 
outgrow even the desire for the bed of a woman. Only a fool would dabble with 
such a foul herb.
Suddenly a bell clanged from deep within the ship, announcing the midday meal. 
Ulsters ear bent to its clangor. I will flag the other boats with your 
warning, he conceded finally, his voice cold with the promise of revenge, but 
only after I sample the cooks grilled potfish.
Pinorr knew the delay was Ulsters attempt to soothe his wounded pride, some way 
to snub Pinorrs nose without directly disregarding a shamans vision. Pinorr 
allowed Ulster to have his little show. Why should he care as long as the 
keelchief spread the warning? He would not put his own honor above the safety of 
the fleet.
Bowing his head, Pinorr took a step back. So be it, he said, the fire gone 
from his voice and manner.  May the gods grant you stiff winds. 
Ulster nodded his approval and turned away, flipping his warriors braid for all 
to note his victory.
Pinorr shook his head as the man left. The dolt had missed the clear insult in 
Pinorrs final words. The quoted passageMay the gods grant you stiff 
windscame from an ancient shaman prayer, a request to the gods to help a man 
who could no longer keep hard for a woman.
With tight lips, Pinorr turned away. For now, he let his anger fade from his 
blood and spent a long time staring across the expanse of blue sky.
As he studied the far horizon, Pinorr again sensed the brewing storm clouds, but 
closer now. He scented rain, lightning, and a whisper of something else, 
something that he could not name. He raised
his fingers to the seahawk tattoo on his neck. Whatever the source of the 
foreign smell, even just a whisper of its scent made the dyes of his
tattoo burn like a torch.
As he traced the wings of the hawk with a finger, Pinorr remembered little 
Sheeshons seadragon carving and the small rider who rode the whalebone. 
Theyre coming, she had claimed.
But who? Were her fancies of dragons more than just the dreams of an addled 
mind? Had the child inherited the gift of the rajor maga? Was there some truth 
to her words?
Suddenly an urgent voice arose behind him, coarse and rasping. Shaman Pinorr, 
you must come.
Pinorr snapped from his reverie, surprised to find the sun lower in the sky. How 
long had be been standing in this trance? Turning from the sea, Pinorr found the 
crooked form of Mader Geel standing behind him. Her silver hair was tied in a 
severe braid, marking her prior years as a mistress of the sword. What is it? 
he asked with
irritation.
It is Sheeshon, the old woman hissed, then beckoned him to
follow.
What happened?
Keelchiet Ulster tired of her mumbling in the kitchens and Pinorrs heart 
clenched in his chest. What did he do? Mader Geel continued to urge him across 
the deck. The childs unharmed. The keelchief only threw her little carving 
against the wall and smashed it to bits. But the child She screamed, flying 
into a frothing rage, and attacked the keelchief. Even cut his hand deep with 
her little knife. I bustled her out of there before any worse could arise, but I 
cant calm her. And I fear Ulsters response.
Pinorr was now racing ahead of the bent-backed woman, toward his cabins, his 
vision narrowed with hate. Ulster had finally gone too far. Sheeshon was the 
last of Pinorrs family, and he would not see her harmed by the keelchiefs 
petty vindictiveness. Pinorr ripped open the hatch to the lower deck. If Ulster 
wanted this war, so be it! As he dashed below, he made a promise to all the gods 
of the sea: Before the sun rose again, either he or Ulster would be dead.
Kast pushed away the platter of steamed clams. He had no ap-petite. His mind 
still reeled from all he had heard this morning. Across from him, Sy-wen rolled 
some type of boiled sea tuber across her plate, clearly just as uninterested in 
her own meal. They eyed each other over their respective plates. Neither was 
ready to speak.
After the meeting with the elders and the unveiling of the ancient painting, the 
council had disbanded for a midday repast before any further debate was allowed. 
Sy-wen and Kast had been bustled off by the guard, Bridlyn, to this private 
dining room.
The chamber was comfortably outfitted with a small table of polished coral and 
chairs cushioned with pillows of soft sea moss, while the walls were adorned 
with woven reed tapestries depicting various sea views. As handsomely as the 
chamber was appointed, it still felt cramped to Kast. It seemed more a cell than 
a room, especially after the morning spent in the council chamber, with its 
expansive views of the wide ocean. And it did not help that Bridlyn made it 
clear he would stay posted at the door.
Kast rubbed the stubble on his chin. He needed to break the growing silence 
before it drowned them both. Nodding toward the tapestry-covered wall, he asked 
a question that had nagged at him since arriving. So just how did the merai 
ever train these leviathans to house your clans?
Sy-wen shrugged. The dragons can communicate with the great beasts. Leviathans 
supply the seadragons with sources of fresh air, and in turn, the dragons help 
protect and feed the larger creatures.
The merai were just incorporated into this mutual relationship. The Leviathans 
house us, and as payment, we help keep them healthy and clean. A small smile 
played on Sy-wens lips. But then again, who knows for sure? For all I know, 
maybe we merai were mates with these beasts, too. Who knows what your great 
grandfather fancied back then?
Kast blushed at Sy-wens frank talk. The Dragonkin was not my
ancestor, he insisted.
Maybe not directly, but still, the resemblance
As Master Talon said, its probably just a coincidence. Most Drerendi have 
similar features.
Even the dragon tattoo?
Kast had no way to dismiss this last statement. The males of his people were 
always marked with a seahawt tattoo, not a dragon. Under Aloa Glen, Kasts 
hawk tattoo had been transformed by the magick of Ragnark into a coiled black 
dragon, a twin to the design found on the painting of the Dragonkin. It made no 
sense.
Sy-wen seemed to sense his discomfort on this topic and switched to new 
mattersor old matters, rather: to the very reason they had sought the council 
this morning. Whatever history is true, maybe we should put aside such talk for 
now and consider again our idea about leaving here to search for your people. 
Were due to rendezvous with the others in only six days. Even if we left now, 
it would still take two days just to return to the point in the Doldrums where 
we were expected to meet. With time against us, I dont see any way of 
accomplishing our task successfully unless we commit to searching on our own. 
She glanced to the sealed door. With or without the councils approval.
You would defy your elders? Even go against your mothers
wishes?
Sy-wen stared at Kast. How do you think I met you? Do you think I had 
permission to travel to the islands with Conch, or to pursue the ships that 
caught him? Besides, over time, my mother and I have developed an arrangement: 
She gives me orders, and I follow
only those I agree with.
I see. Kast had a hard time not matching the ghost of a smile that wavered 
about the merai girls lips. Her silver eyes seemed to light up with mischief. 
So youre saying, one way or another, we make a run for the surface.
Her eyebrows rose. And why not? Have you not grown tired of breathing the stale 
air of the leviathan?
I guess I could use a bit of fresh air, he conceded, his smile growing wider. 
He would love to feel the draw of a breeze through his hair, the touch of ocean 
spray upon his face. He had been cramped for too long within the belly of this 
seabeast. He straightened in his seat. When youre ready, Ill be more than 
happy to fly away from here.
Sy-wen matched his expression, showing true joy at the thought of escape. I 
imagine Ragnark will be glad to stretch his wings, too.
At the mention of the dragons name, Kasts growing smile froze. He had 
forgotten that it was not he who would escape with Sy-wen, but Ragnark. Even if 
the two of them fled the belly of the leviathan, Kast would still be 
trappedthis time under the scales of a monstrous black dragon.
Sy-wen seemed to recognize his change of mood. She reached a hand to him and 
touched his arm. He could not meet her eye.
I am not like my ancient ancestor, she said softly to him.
What do you mean? he grumbled.
I mean that I dont share my forefathers passion for dragons. She squeezed 
his wrist. When I choose a husband, he wont be covered in scales and bear 
wings.
Kast glanced up to Sy-wen. But youre bonded to Ragnark?
So? Bonded to a dragon does not mean the beast consumes your whole heart. In 
truth, I have stronger feelings for my mothers dragon, Conch, than for 
Ragnark. In many ways, the dragon inside you frightens me. There is a wildness 
in him that can never be tamed, touched, nor drawn near tonot even by me.
But Ragnark will always be a part of me, even his wildness.
She smiled sadly at his words. I have studied you, Bloodrider. You may bear a 
dragon inside you, but your heart is your own. That I know.
How? he asked, his voice cracking.
She reached and touched his cheek, the one without the dragon emblazoned on it. 
I know your heart, Bloodrider.
Kast wished he could say the same of her. Was Sy-wen just consoling him, or was 
there more meaning behind her words? He dared to lean into her touch, just a 
little, letting her palm warm his skin.
But she pulled away as murmuring voices arose from beyond the
rooms door.
The portal puckered open, and Master Edyll stepped through the entry. I hope 
Im not disturbing your meal, he said and waved
Bridlyn away.
N-no, Uncle, Sy-wen stuttered.
Kast glanced at her, but again he could not read the woman. Was that relief or 
embarrassment that rattled her?
Master Edyll signaled the door closed, then crossed to join them. Kast stood and 
pulled another chair to the table, only sitting after the old elder had settled 
into his own seat.
Thank you, Master Kast, he said, patting the Bloodriders wrist as Kast 
resumed his place. Master Edyll eyed them both silently for a moment, then 
spoke. So whats this about you two leaving?
Kast glanced nervously at Sy-wen, whose expression remained placid. What do you 
mean, Uncle? Sy-wen asked.
I thought wed discuss in private the reason the two of you approached the 
council this morning.
Kast slowly let out his breath. He had been sure the elder had been privy to 
their secret plans. Should we not broach this before
the full council?
Master Edyll scrunched up his old features and shook his head sourly. Theyll 
still be bickering for the next three days about me spouting merai secrets. For 
a group so adamant that my words were false, they get quite heated when the 
subject is spoken aloud.
But why were these histories kept hidden anyway? Sy-wen asked. Master Edyll 
sighed. It is what the Dragonkin wanted. It was our forefathers first dictate. 
After fleeing under the sea and starting the merai clans, he immediately banned 
any ties with surface dwellers. He thought to create a peaceful, idyllic society 
under the waves and wanted his people to believe the seas had always been their 
home. Master Edyll finished with a derisive snort. So what went wrong? Kast 
asked.
Ah, so you happened to notice that his grand plans failed? he
said with a chortle, but then grew more pensive. Kast saw the true
pain in the elders eyes. In some ways, our forefather was a fool.
Sy-wen gasped a bit at such open disparagement of their ancestor.
Master Edyll sat quietly for a moment, then continued. He had
thought to escape our heritage by fleeing under the sea. But it is never that 
easy. He just ended up dragging our violent heritage along behind him. Whether 
he hid the fact or not, our blood still rose from a people with a fiery 
temperament, and future generations were cursed with this same inner fire, a 
mixture of willfulness and an intense suspicion of others. To make matters 
worse, the merging of dragon blood in our bloodlines only added logs to this 
blaze, inflaming a fierce pride in our ancestors veins. We grew to consider 
ourselves superior to the foul landwellers. Why else should we hide from them? 
We came to think ourselves rulers of the sea.
Master Edyll shook his head and gave a slight shudder. Even among our own 
people, before we fled the coasts, we used to cast out those who broke our 
rules. It was a cruel act. Away from the dragons, the sea magic would wear off 
those poor souls, and they would walk again like ordinary men, their merai 
features fading away forever, damning them from ever returning to the sea. It 
was our greatest punishmenteternal banishment.
Kast saw the horror on Sy-wens face and caught an inkling of what such a 
punishment would mean to such a close-knit, insular people.
Master Edyll let them absorb his words in silence before he finished. When next 
he spoke, his voice was granite. I tell you all this as a warning. You must be 
careful what you plot. Since fleeing the Gulgotha, the banishments were 
stopped in order to keep ourselves hidden from the Dark Lord, but that does not 
mean we have grown less strict. For those who wont abide by our rules He 
glanced first at Sy-wen, then at Kast. our punishments are still severe.
You now slay them, Sy-wen said heatedly.
Her words startled Master Edyll, his pale face reddening. So you know already?
While among the people of the coast, I learned that I was the first merai to 
step from the sea in over five hundred years. It seems the stories of banishment 
were meant to hide an uglier truth.
Lies are often less painful than the truth.
Like our peoples true histories, Sy-wen said sullenly.
As I said before, we could not escape our heritage so easily. The past has a 
way of strangling you when you ignore it.
Silence settled over the room.
Finally, Master Edyll stood up with a slight groan, rubbing his old knees. 
Enough talk. Its time we were under way.
Kast stood up reflexively, respecting the old man. Sy-wen remained seated, her 
face closed. But her anger could not be completely hidden. I have had enough of 
council meetings.
Master Edyll nodded. So have I, some days Luckily that is not
where were going.
His words drew Sy-wens eyes. Then where? she asked warily.
Its time I helped you escape.
Kast stumbled as he stepped toward the door. What?
The council has already met again and has banned you from leaving. I didnt 
agree. He shrugged. We must hurry and get you
both out of here.
Sy-wen was on her feet and following. But, Uncle, youre one of
the elders!
No, Im just an old mansome would say a foolish old man. But in this matter, 
the council is clouded by a fear of the unknown. They would rather hide under 
the sea than risk change.
Kast spoke as Master Edyll turned toward the door. What are we
to do?
The old man turned tired eyes toward him. Find your people.
Finish the dream our forefather started.
What do you mean? How?
A time of bloodshed and slaughter has come upon us again, as during the reign 
of King Raff. Master Edyll placed a hand on Kasts chest. But in your 
warriors body beats the heart of a man of peace. Free our people, both our 
peoples, from our heritage of hate and war. Show us the path to a lasting 
peace. With those words, Master Edyll turned and waved the doorway open.
As they followed, Sy-wen stepped beside Kast, and for the first time, she took 
his hand in her own. It seems Im not the only one who knows your true heart, 
she mumbled.
Kast stared at her hand as it rested like a soft peach in his granite grip. He 
was shocked and amazedand for a brief moment, he imagined even the improbable 
was possible. Even love.
PlNORR FOUND SHEESHON ROLLED UP IN A BALL UPON HER BED, ARMS
locked around her legs, rocking back and forth. He crossed to her, sat on the 
bed, and held her. Words tumbled from her lips in chaotic fashion: bursts of 
lucid words as if she were having a conversation with an unseen partner, then 
bouts of unintelligible phrases, even moments when her voice would suddenly 
change, going deep, sounding nothing like a young girl. Pinorr knew from past 
events that it was best to just let these ramblings run their course.
Nearby, Mader Geels granddaughter, little Ami, stood transfixed, eyes wide, 
fear clear in her unblinking gaze. Finally, Mader Geel shuffled in behind him 
and scooped her granddaughter under an arm. Pinorr glowered at the old woman, 
his eyes indicating Ami. The frightened child should not have been left as sole 
attendant to Sheeshon when Mader Geel had gone to fetch him. Sheeshons bouts 
could be frightening to behold, even for an adult.
Mader Geel made no apology, her face solid. I do not hide Ami from lifes 
harshness nor madness.
Combing his fingers through Sheeshons hair, Pinorrs eyes narrowed. Sheeshon 
is not mad. She is only a little weak in the head. His voice lowered as he 
stroked the child. I have even begun to suspect her bouts worsen lately 
because He raised his eyes toward Mader Geel. Because she approaches a 
quickening.
These last words broke the womans usual stony expression. Her madness must be 
catching, she stated dismissively. Why would the gods quicken such a broken 
child to the rajor maga ?
I never assumed to understand the mind of any of the seven sea gods. Their 
choice in bestowing their gifts has never been fathomable. In Pinorrs arms, 
Sheeshon seemed to calm with his voice and touch. Her flow of words died down to 
a trickle, and her rocking stopped. What makes you think shes touched by the 
sight?
You have seen her carving.
Mader Geels face darkened. She is skilled, Ill grant you that, she answered 
with clear reluctance. But many of the mad, even those who eventually have to 
be walked into the sea, are often possessed by a specific talent. I once knew an 
addled fellow who was so skilled in the working of sails that he could walk a 
ships ropes without using his hands, even in a fierce gale, as if he were 
strolling across a wide steady deck. She finally waved her hand to dismiss 
these accomplishments. But beyond these single skills, these folk were still
broken. You look too closely at Sheeshons one talent and call her touched by 
the gods.
But it is not only her skill with scrimshaw, he persisted. For a reason he 
could not name, he needed someone else to understand his growing realization. 
Until this morn, I myself never suspected her skill was tied to the rajor maga. 
But now I know!
Mader Geel scooted Ami toward some playthings piled in the corner. Most were 
bone figures carved by Sheeshon when she was younger. Ami sat down and picked up 
a tiny scrimshaw piece carved into the likeness of a handsome girl. For some 
reason, Sheeshon had insisted on painting the dolls hands with red dyes.
With Ami settled, Mader Geel approached the bed. She sat on the far side of 
Sheeshon. I know you fear for her, Pinorr
Mader Geels attempt at sympathy only goaded him further. We should all fear 
for her, he spat out. A danger approaches the fleet. It rides a storm that 
will strike this night. And I believe Sheeshon is the key to understanding it.
What do you mean?
Have you ever suspected falseness in my visions? he asked. She pulled back a 
bit. Never! Do not forget I served with Ulsters father, the high keel. I know 
how your sea senses saved many a battle.
Then know this, Mader. Sheeshon carved the dragon and babbled to me about a 
threat that approaches, something about dragons
and doom.
Just a childs fancies, the old woman insisted, but doubt now
flecked her words.
So I supposed as well. I had already sensed a great southern squall aiming our 
way and was impatient of her ramblings. But after I argued with Ulster, I again 
checked the seas. I sensed something new in the breezes. He paused and pulled 
Sheeshon up into his arms. The child seemed to be coming out of her trance. Her 
eyes tracked around her tiny room, a thumb planted in her mouth. She leaned into 
Pinorr, needing warmth and reassurance.
What? Mader Geel finally asked. What did you sense?
I scented dragons in the air.
Horror washed across her features. Perhaps you were influenced by Sheeshons 
words more than you had first suspected.
Pinorr stared over Sheeshons head. So you do doubt my abilities.
Mader Geel remained silent. The war inside her played across her
face. She did not want to believe his words but could not dismiss the accuracy 
of his rajor maga. Are you sure? she finally whispered.
He simply nodded. Sheeshon saw it first, then I. The merai come for us.
Our ancient slave masters, Mader Geel mumbled. For as long as Pinorr had known 
the hard woman, she had never shown a weak heart, even in fierce battle when the 
odds were severely against them. But fear now glinted brightly from her eyes.
Ami spoke up from where she played in the corner. She never looked up from her 
game, her voice plain. Sheeshie says were all going to die.
Mader Geel and Pinorr glanced to the girl, then back at each other.
Sheeshon is the key, Pinorr said and pulled his granddaughter closer. Locked 
in her head is the knowledge to free us from our doom.
A loud booming rattled the door to Pinorrs set of rooms. Both Pinorr and Mader 
Geel jumped. Ami looked up from her play, and Sheeshon merely moaned. Theyre 
coming, Sheeshon mumbled into Pinorrs chest.
Open the door! a voice ordered from beyond the latch. By order of the 
keelchief, the child Sheeshon must answer for her attack upon a member of the 
crew.
Pinorr passed Sheeshon to Mader Geel. She must not be harmed, he hissed at 
her. Do you understand this? Not just for the sake of my heart, but for the 
fate of the Drerendi.
Mader Geel stared at him for a full breath, then slowly nodded. I believe you.
The knocking resumed, less booming, more nervous. Pinorr knew the guards would 
not dare burst through, not even if the way was unlatched. The fear of a 
shamans wrath would keep them at bay for a bit longer.
Pinorr turned to Mader Geel. Then you know what we must do.
We fight.
Even with fear in his heart, he smiled at the fire in the old womans words, two 
gray-haired elders ready to take on a ship of warriors. Ulster thinks his youth 
and strength make him strong. We will teach him that only the passing of winters 
forges a true warrior. He pointed to his forehead. The true weapons of victory 
are wits, not swords.
Mader Geel nodded. I always said you were wise. Pinorr bustled across the 
room, gathering the items Sheeshon would need. When did you ever admit that?
Mader Geels eyes sparked with amusement. Well, never to your face. A shamans 
nose should not rise too high above the horizon. He stared daggers at her.
Oh, enough of this false humility, Pinorr. You always were headstrong and 
insistent on your views. Even Ulsters father often wondered who truly led the 
fleet.
Be that as it may, we must hurry.
The pounding resumed more boldly. Do not make us break down your door, Shaman! 
a new voice bellowed. It was Ulster. The keelchief must have grown impatient 
with his lackeys cowardice. Your sons daughter is not above the law. She has 
passed ten winters and is answerable for her actions. So open this doornow!
Pinorr knew Ulsters speech was more for the benefit of the guards than for 
Pinorr. Once again, Ulster tried to hide behind the letter of the law to justify 
his cruelties. Everyone knew Sheeshon was far from ten winters of age in 
judgment, and Ulsters attack was not to mete justice but to hurt Pinorr. Yet 
wrong or not, the keelchief could
not be disobeyed.
Shaking his head, Pinorr turned to Mader Geel, who had already gathered Sheeshon 
and Ami to her side. He crossed and hurriedly whispered his plans to the old 
woman. Once finished, he stood back and passed over the items he had gathered 
from Sheeshons room.
Can you handle your end?
Mader Geel nodded, a hard smile on her lips. Ill watch over the
girl. No harm will come to her.
Pinorr crossed to the door. Then let the battle begin.
Breathless, Sy-wen pushed into the room first. Master Edyll followed, assisted 
by Kast. Once everyone was inside, Sy-wen sealed
the door.
What is this place? Kast asked warily, eying the cramped, unadorned room.
Sy-wen turned to the Bloodrider. Were in a pod on the underside of the 
leviathan. She pointed to the rooms only feature: a deep well in the floor. 
Ocean water could be seen bubbling a short way
down the mouth of the narrow hole. We call this an obligatum she said, knowing 
the word meant nothing to Kast.
When the two had first come aboard the giant leviathan, the great seabeast had 
already surfaced, allowing Ragnark simply to alight on its wide back. Sy-wen 
had then hopped from the dragons neck, breaking physical contact and returning 
Kast to his present form. From there, merai guards had merely led them down 
into the leviathans interior.
But to leave now in secret would not be that easy.
An ob-obligatum? Kast glanced down the well.
Nodding, Sy-wen explained. Its the way the merai enter or leave a submerged 
leviathan. Also through this well, a dragon in the sea can extend its long neck 
and sip from a leviathans air without having to surface. Sy-wen studied the 
level of water in the throat of the well. Luck is with us. The leviathan does 
not swim too deeply today. She turned to Kast. If it dives too far, the rising 
weight of the sea squeezes water up through the obligatums throat and fills the 
chamber. It would block our escape.
Master Edyll chuckled. It wasnt just luck, my dear.
What do you mean, Uncle?
When I heard youd requested an audience with the council, I guessed your plans 
and ordered the leviathan to keep to the shallows this day.
Sy-wen frowned. When Mother finds out, shes going to know you played a hand in 
our escape.
She will only suspect, but without proof Master Edyll shrugged. You see my 
poor old ears were being bothered. I just needed a short rest from the 
pressures, so I ordered the leviathan to shallower depths.
Ah, I see, Sy-wen said, grinning at his fabricated alibi.
Now out with the two of you. Master Edyll unhooked an egg-shaped gourd that 
hung on the wall from a trailing stalk and handed it to Kast.
The Bloodrider accepted the offered apparatus and studied it, turning and 
fingering its stalk. What is it?
An air pod, Master Edyll said. Youll need it to breathe underwater. I think 
Sy-wen can hold her breath long enough. He glanced significantly at his niece.
Long enough for what?
Sy-wen nodded toward the hole. Master Edyll is right. I cant call Ragnark 
forth in here. The large dragon wont be able to squeeze out this tiny hole. 
Were going to have to leave on our own and call forth the dragon while under 
the sea.
Kasts eyes grew wide, but he didnt say a word. Sy-wen could see him fight to 
maintain his stoic self, even when faced with losing himself to the dragon 
again. Her heart ached for him.
Even Master Edyll seemed to notice his flaring tension. I should be going. The 
council will wonder where Im at if I delay much
longer.
Sy-wen slid around the well and gave her uncle a tight hug.
Thank you, she said in his ear.
He returned her embrace. May the tides carry you safely, he whispered. It was 
an old merai farewell.
They broke their embrace. Master Edyll said his good-byes to Kast and left, 
sealing the door behind him.
Now alone, the two grew quickly awkward. There was too much to say, too much to 
admit. To Sy-wen, it was as if the leviathan now swam a thousand leagues under 
the sea. The very air seemed thick.
and hard to breathe.
She stared at Kast but could not meet his eye. He too avoided looking directly 
at her. We should go, he finally said, his voice no
more than a croak.
She nodded. Ill go first and wait for you just outside the leviathan. She 
moved closer to him and silently showed him how to break the tip of the air 
pods stem and suck fresh breaths through it. Standing close to him, she waved a 
hand over his body. When Im gone, you should strip out of your shirt and 
leggings.
He nodded. When the dragon burst free, anything he wore was simply shredded. 
You should be going, he said.
Just as Sy-wen reached to hug him farewell, Kast stepped back, pulling his 
billowy shirt from his hard shoulders. She froze in midreach. He also stopped, 
his shirt half off, both immediately awkward. Even though Sy-wen had seen Kast 
naked before, she had never touched him unclothed.
She cast her eyes down and turned away. I I will wait for you
just outside the leviathan.
I Ill be right there. She stood at the wells lip, feeling the fool. She 
could not get her-
self to move. Seeming to sense her hesitation, strong arms suddenly circled her 
from behind. She tensed in the embrace for a single gasped breath, then melted 
back into the heat of his body. His lips brushed the tender hollow on the side 
of her neck. Neither spoke. Sy-wen dared not even turn around. They said their 
farewells with touches and soft noises.
At last, his arms withdrew, his fingers trailing down her bare arm as he stepped 
away.
She trembled as cool air traced over her flushed skin.
Without looking back, she dove smoothly into the sea, the cold water washing 
away the tears that had begun to well.
Once free of the leviathan, she arced under its belly and twisted around to face 
the opening. Sy-wens inner lids had already snapped up, so she could see 
clearly through the crystal waters. As she waited, she fingered the spot where 
the Bloodriders lips had touched her. Even in the chill of the sea, her blood 
warmed with the memory. She had no name for the flurry of emotions that stormed 
through her heart.
Sy-wen dropped her hand from her neck and kicked closer to the opening in the 
underside of the leviathan. She must not let her heart interfere with her duty. 
Kast was their forefather reborn. According to her uncle, the fate of her people 
rested upon Kasts shoulders. Kicking and paddling, she kept near the obligatum. 
It seemed forever until an explosion of bubbles marked where Kast crashed out of 
the leviathans belly.
She kicked nearer. He was all flailing limbs and twisting body as he tried to 
orient himself. Once close enough, she realized he was blind in the water. He 
did not have the extra lids to keep the sting and blur of salt from his eyes. 
She could imagine his panic at being thrust into this cold, blind world, 
depending only on her for his survival.
She grabbed his hand, and his thrashings instantly calmed. He did not even grab 
for her but let her come to him, trusting her skill. With his chest bare and his 
manhood covered only by thin linen underclothes, she found it hard to look at 
him. The sight of his strong legs and chest made it difficult to keep her breath 
trapped.
She swam in front of him and drew him closer, keeping her eyes fixed on his 
face. She had to wrap her legs around his waist a bit to keep them both steady.
She touched his chin and turned his face to expose the dragon tattoo on his neck 
and cheek. He tensed under her, knowing what was to come. The emblem of 
Ragnark, a coiled black dragon with savage red eyes, stared back at her. She 
could almost feel the imprisoned beast urging her to release it.
Readying herself, she let go of Kasts chin. His face swung back to her, but his 
eyes were blinded by the salty water. A hand groped up and touched her own 
cheek, a signal that he was ready.
She reached for him, but not to his tattoo. She slipped the stem of the airpod 
from his lips. He did not resist, still trusting her.
She cast aside the pod and pulled him to her, pressing her lips to his. He 
startled a bit under her touch, then pulled her hard against him, their arms 
wrapping hungrily around each other. Through tight lips, they shared each 
others breaths.
Time stretched toward eternitybut where hearts made promises that lasted 
forever, her air could not last that long. Before she could drown, her fingers 
reluctantly reached to his tattoo.
Good-bye, Kast, she sent silently to him. And for the first time, she allowed 
herself to add what her heart had known all along. /
love you.
With her touch, the sea vanished in a rush of scale and wing. A roar filled her 
ears and mind as the dragon inside Kast broke free. Before the waters could 
clear, Sy-wen found herself seated atop the back of the monstrous creature, its 
wings like sails to either side, its neck stretched far into the blue sea.
Ragnark turned to face his rider. Ruby eyes glowed toward her; a hint of silver 
fangs glinted in the refracted light. Sy-wen, the dragon whispered to her, a 
throaty purr. My bonded. The beasts exhilaration at its freedom rolled over 
her, overwhelmed her; but under its thrill, she also sensed its hunger, a dark 
well that seemed bottomless.
Sy-wen brushed her fingers along Ragnarks thick neck, scratching under the 
hard scale to the tender flesh underneath. Feed, she sent to her mount, weve 
still a long way to travel.
Reaching forward, she slipped free the tiny siphon that let her share the 
dragons air. She drew a breath, driving away the tiny sparks that had started 
to build from lack of air. It felt good to breathe again. But in her chest, an 
ache still remained. No amount of fresh air could dissolve away the sense of 
loss in her heart.
The dragon also freshened its own air by returning briefly to sip
from one of the leviathans obligatums. Once refreshed and its lungs full, the 
dragon twisted away and began its hunt.
Sy-wen settled closer to the dragon. Where in this great beast was Kast? With 
her thighs, she could feel the beat of the dragons thundering heart. She let 
herself imagine that it was the Bloodriders own heart. She leaned nearer, 
placing a hand over a thrumming vessel in the dragons neck. She let her eyelids 
drift partway down as the dragon flew through the water, snatching yellowfin and 
angelwhites down its long gullet. The pleasure of its feasting blurred with her 
own memory of lips on skin.
They glided above reefs like distant mountain ranges. In the distance, she saw 
other seadragons darting like falling jewels through the blue waters. Fading 
behind now, she saw the massive bulk of the leviathan drifting away, an enormous 
mountain rolling through the sea.
She closed her eyes and just drifted in a haze of sorrow and pleasure until 
Ragnark intruded on her thoughts. Belly full. Where now?
Sitting straighter, she slipped her feet into the folds at the base of the 
dragons neck. Up, she sent to him, up and away.
A trumpet of excitement coursed through dragon and rider.
After tightening his neck fold to cinch snug her ankles, Ragnark swept his 
wings wide and dove deeper, then spun in a tight arc to gain momentum, coiling 
in on himself. Sy-wen had to lean against the pull of the water, her fingers 
latched to a scaled ridge of bone. Just before she thought she would be thrown 
free of Ragnark, the dragons long tail snapped like a plucked bowstring. 
Ragnark sprang upward, his wings sweeping even with his body as he shot toward 
the distant light.
Sy-wen closed her eyes and held tight to the dragons back.
She felt the rush as Ragnark burst from the waves. Seawater cascaded over her, 
trying to drag her back into the ocean, but the dragon kept her feet clamped in 
his neck folds. She clung by hand and nail.
Then it was over. The dragon pulled up under her and again she rode his back 
easily. She dared to open her eyes.
They glided above waves now, and breezes whipped dry her green hair. She stared 
forward toward the distant curve of the world. The ocean was a featureless plain 
before her. The bright sun hid be-
hind scudding white clouds, giving the water a sheen of beaten silver.
The skies are angry, Ragnark sent to her. What? Sy-wen yelled into the wind. 
Suddenly a thundering crack exploded.
Craning around, Sy-wen saw the reason for the dragons words. Behind her, a 
short distance away, the entire world was black clouds, sheeting rain, and 
lancing bolts of light. Again thunder rolled at them, the rumbling bellow of a 
savage beast.
Flee, she urged Ragnark. We must not get caught in that storm. Ragnark swung 
to face the full fury of the tempest. The dragon opened its black maw and 
threatened the thunder with its own roar. Then it spun on a wing and swept away, 
sailing close over the waves. Hurry, she pushed.
The crack of thunder and the scream of winds grew louder in her ears. She leaned 
close to Ragnark. The dragon sped onward, a fire building up under her seat as 
Ragnark fought to escape.
As they raced, Sy-wen began to realize that she and Kast may have been rash to 
seek the Drerendi on their own. She should have heeded her mothers counsel. 
Thoughts of returning to her people danced in her mind, but she pushed such 
ideas away and stared at the sea under her. Perhaps they could flee under the 
waves and let the storm pass over while they sheltered within the womb of the 
sea. No, she thought savagely, bending lower over the dragon, urging him to 
greater speed. They had delayed too long already and dared not risk losing 
another day by hiding from the storm. Flying was not only faster, but free of 
the sea, their gazes could search from horizon to horizon. If the Drerendi were 
to be discovered in time, she and the dragon must outride this storm.
As if sensing her thoughts, a massive tangle of lightning burst behind them, 
casting the dragons shadow upon the still ocean. The seas below grew flat and 
glassy as the suns meager light was swallowed away by the savage squall.
The dragon spoke. The fangs of the sty are upon us. With this thought, the black 
clouds rolled over the pair and blew forth with jagged spears of lightning. The 
boom of thunder pounded at Sy-wens ears, and screaming winds threatened to tear 
them both from the sky.
They had lost their race.
The squall had caught them in its jaws.
PlNORR STOOD IN THE CROWDED COMMONS OF THE DrAGONSPUR. HaLF
the crew had gathered to witness this battle between shaman and keelchief. The 
room served mostly as ships galley, but this day the ale-stained benches had 
been shoved back, and a space had been cleared before the longest table. Though 
the reek of fish-belly stew still clung to the rafters, for the moment the 
galley had been transformed into a ships court.
Pinorr studied his judges. Seated behind the long table were Jabib and Gylt, the 
ships first and second mates. They were also Ulsters
cronies.
Pinorr eyed the pair with distaste. Jabib, the first mate, was a giant of a man 
as gaunt as he was tall, with a misshapen nose sitting like a broken scow atop a 
pocked face. Gylt, his second, was short and stocky, his dark face frozen in a 
perpetual scowl.
Sheeshon would find no mercy from those two. From Ulsters smug expression as he 
stood alongside Pinorr, the matter of Sheeshons attack upon the keelchief had 
already been settled. Supposedly a keelchief was the equal of any crewmember 
when a cause was brought forward, but here Pinorr spotted the veiled smiles 
shared between the pair of judges and Ulster.
Justice this day would be as blind as a mud crawler buried in silt.
As Pinorr sourly pondered his odds, Ulster stepped forward to begin the 
proceedings. The keelchief bowed deeply to each of the two judges, as was 
custom.
Pinorr followed but only bowed his headonce. The crowd behind him muttered at 
his slight.
The faces of the two mates reddened angrily at Pinorrs lack of deference. Jabib 
opened his mouth to reprimand Pinorr, but Ulster cut him off, further proving 
who truly ran these proceedings. Shaman, your sons daughter should be present 
before the tribunal.
Pinorr turned to his keelchief, keeping his voice respectful. I serve as her 
counsel here, as is allowed. I speak for her.
Counsel or not, she should still be present in this room.
Mader Geel watches her in my cabin, and your guards have the old woman and the 
frail child well in hand. Unless of course you fear
the two might overpower your men. I could bring her here if you fear for your 
safety while the child is out of sight.
Ulster began to bluster and redden.
Pinorr continued. We wouldnt want you to have to face such a dangerous 
swordswoman a second time, especially seeing as how she bested you once 
already. Pinorr nodded toward Ulsters bandaged hand.
Again the crowd snickered, their faces averted so Ulster could not see exactly 
who laughed at the shamans words.
Pinorr kept his features serious.
Fine. Let her remain in your rooms. I would never want to be
called unfair.
Pinorr swallowed back a snort. Then let us settle this matter. Clearing his 
throat, Ulster stepped forward. I accuse Sheeshon
diRa of an attack on a fellow crewman without properly declaring a
challenge.
Jabib nodded somberly as if considering his chiefs words, then turned to 
Pinorr. How do you answer?
Pinorr refused to step forward. This is a farce. My sons daughter could not 
declare a tehra, a blood challenge, because the word is meaningless to her. As 
all here know, Sheeshon is not hale of mind or body. She is but an infant in a 
young girls body. To bring her before the tribunal as a full crewmember is the 
act of a craven man.
The crowd erupted behind the shaman.
Ulster spoke into the uproar. Youre mistaken, Shaman. I never claimed the girl 
was a crewmember. That is for the tribunal to decide. I only follow the old code 
of the Drerendi. The girl has passed ten winters, and she has broken our law. 
The code is clear. She must face the tribunal and trust them to find where 
justice lies in her matter.
The crowd hushed to low murmurs.
Pinorr found the amused eyes of his judges studying him. It would be hard to 
fight the letter of the Drerendi code. Ulster had found a weak spot to exploit 
and now reveled in his sure victory here. But Pinorr was not finished. He knew 
that often a fire could only be met with fire.
You speak much of code, Pinorr said. But you have not read far enough back to 
remember one of our older codes: He who stands accused can claim jakra of his 
accuser. 
A blood duel} Ulsters face paled, but soon laughter bubbled from his hard 
lips. You grow foolish in your tottering years, old man. Has the madness 
ofrajor maga finally touched you, as it eventually claims all shamans?
I am not yet blinded by the sea gods touch. My mind is still my own. And as 
counsel of Sheeshon, I declare jakra for her. He pointed to the keelchief, a 
man with twice his muscles and half his age. I call you to a blood duel with 
Sheeshon.
The shock on Ulsters face had wiped away all traces of smugness. Pinorr saw the 
mans mind working on the puzzle set before him. He could not fathom where 
Pinorr was tacking in this storm. No one of sound judgment would choose the path 
of ja^ra. The archaic code had not been invoked in over a century. All knew that 
it was far better to face the harsh decision of a tribunal rather than face a 
blood duel. The odds were against the challenger. He who invoked a blood duel 
had to face his opponent unarmed, whereas the other, the accuser, was free to 
choose any single weapon at hand. In the long history of the Drerendi, no 
challenger had survived the ja^ra.
What is this game you play at? Ulster hissed.
Do you accept the challenge yourself, Ulster? Or do you wish to assign someone 
to take your place in the duel ring?
Now that Pinorr had called the keelchief craven, he knew Ulster dare not refuse 
lest he risk losing honor with the crew. I accept the challenge, the keelchief 
said warily. And I suppose you have someone in mind to stand up for Sheeshon 
who would be foolish enough to face me in the ring unarmed?
Pinorr shrugged. Me.
A gasp arose from the crowd. It was forbidden for a shaman to fight. Once the 
sea gods had called a man to the rajor maga, he was forced to untie his 
warriors braid and wear only the robes of the shamans. Even carrying a sword 
was forbidden. It was considered the worst insult to the sea gods if a shaman 
should ever fight as a common warrior. It sullied the gifts that the gods had 
bestowed, calling ill fortune down upon a boat.
You cannot enter the ring, Shaman. Ulster declared. It is forbidden. Choose 
another to stand for Sheeshon.
The code is clear. He who invokes the jaf^ra may choose any willing champion. 
None can refuse himwhether shaman or not. Pinorr turned to face Ulster. It is 
the code.
Ulster now stood red faced.
The silent Gylt raised his voice for the first time. But if you fight, youll 
bring the sea gods blight upon our prow, he blurted out. Jabib just glowered 
beside his fellow tribune.
But the crowd echoed Gylts sentiment.
Ulster noticed the panic rising in his crew. If you die, he said with clear 
menace, the code of the ja^ra is clear. Sheeshon, as the one who is 
represented, must die alsoby whip and ax.
I would rather have her dead than living on a boat cursed by the gods. Pinorr 
turned his back on Ulster. He let the keelchief dwell on the predicament at 
hand. Ulsters craven attack on Sheeshon now threatened to bring the wrath of 
the sea gods down upon his boat, and even if Ulster was willing to accept such a 
doom, his crew clearly was not. If Ulster proceeded with the duel, forcing the 
shaman to fight, he would find himself with an empty boat. No Bloodrider would 
step foot aboard the decks of a cursed ship.
Pinorr waited until the moment was ripe and turned to face Ulster again. The 
only other option you have, Ulster, is to dismiss your accusation and end this 
tribunal now.
Ulsters fists were clenched with anger. He knew he had been bested, tangled in 
the very code in which he had hoped to ensnare Pinorr. The keelchiefs features 
squalled with frustration, brows dark with thunderheads, eyes flashing with 
lightning. You win, Pinorr, he spat. I submit
Wait, Jabib interrupted. Before the matter is settled, we should bring 
Sheeshon before the tribunal.
Ulster tried to wave away his first mates objections.
But Jabib stood up. The first mate had always been Ulsters schemer. Pinorr knew 
the man now had the seed of some new plot in mind. But what?
The first mate held up a hand. The tribunal has the right to question Sheeshon 
on her choice of champions. Let us see if she truly wishes to watch her 
grandfather die for her.
For a moment, Pinorrs vision darkened. He began to understand the wiles here. 
He had left Mader Geel to drill Sheeshon, just in case the child had to name 
Pinorr as champion, but clearly Jabib meant to scare her into withdrawing his 
name. Even if they failed to wear Sheeshon down, they could always withdraw the 
charges and be none the worse. Yet if they should succeed, Sheeshon was doomed.
The blood duel had already been called forth and could not be withdrawn by 
Pinorronly Ulster could call it off by retracting his accusation. Sheeshon 
would have to call a champion who was willing to face the keelchief 
unarmedwhich no one would do.
Pinorrs face drained of blood, and a coldness settled in his chest. With his 
own words, he may have doomed his granddaughter. He had let his pride and 
overconfidence blind him. Pinorr noted Ulsters growing smile.
A pair of guards left to fetch Sheeshon.
Pinorr cleared his throat. This is not necessary, he tried futilely. She has 
already named me, and I accepted.
Jabib scowled at him. That is a matter for the tribunal to judge, not you. We 
have the right to hear her choice from her own lips. It is the code.
Pinorr knew it was futile to argue. As he waited, he prayed to the gods to 
protect his granddaughter. She did not deserve this punishment. He closed his 
eyes and willed strength to Sheeshon for the storm ahead.
After what seemed an eternity, the crowd, which had been mumbling and wagering 
the outcome among themselves, erupted with renewed vigor as Sheeshon was 
shuffled through the press of the crew. By now, even more of the ships men and 
women had pushed into the cramped commons.
Sheeshon was led to stand before the long table. Mader Geel was with her. Jabib 
nodded toward the old woman. You are no longer needed.
But Mader Geel eyed Pinorr and kept her place.
Are you deaf to the tribunals order? Ulster asked. He waved to the guards, 
who reluctantly approached the old swordswoman.
The child is frightened, she said in defense, holding Shee-shons hand.
Sheeshon stared around at the number of people, her eyes wide, her lower lip 
trembling. In her fear, the numb side of her face seemed to droop worse. Mader 
Geel was stripped from her side forcibly, leaving the girl alone before the 
table. Sheeshon tried to wander back toward Pinorr, but a guard held her by the 
shoulder.
Jabib, by now, had crossed around the long table. He knelt before Sheeshon with 
a smile and whispered soft words for her. Sheeshon listened but was clearly 
nervous, glancing frequently back at Pinorr.
Once he had her attention, Jabib raised his voice so the others could hear him. 
Now, Sheeshon, my little dear, do you know why you are here?
Sheeshon shook her head slowly. A hand raised to suck a thumb, but Jabib guided 
her hand down.
You must pick your champion. Do you know what that means? Sheeshons voice was 
a wisp before a gale. Mader says Im posed to point to Papa.
Oh, so you want your papa to die then. Sheeshons eyes grew round; tears 
welled up. Die? Jabib nodded. He turned Sheeshons face toward Ulster. That 
big man is going to slice your papas belly open with a big sword if you pick 
your papa. Do you want to pick your papa?
Tears welled up and ran down her cheeks. No, she said in a strangled voice. I 
dont want Papas belly opened up.
Pinorr could stand no more of it. Leave the child be, he said, his heart 
aching for his granddaughter. Please.
Jabib patted Sheeshon on the head as he stood. His voice rang above the 
murmuring crowd. You have all heard her words. She declines Pinorr.
Ulster stepped forward. She must choose a champion or face me in the duel. 
]akra has been issued.
Pinorr spoke up. End this, Ulster, he said. Take me if you wish, but leave 
poor Sheeshon out of our squabble.
And kill a shaman? Bring a curse down upon my boat? I dont think the crew 
would stand for it.
Pinorr just stared at Ulster. So you would slay an innocent child? Before your 
entire crew?
It was not my choice, Ulster claimed. I had only meant to have her punished. 
Two lashes of my whip was what I plannedto teach both of you a small lesson. 
But you have set this new course, not I.
Grimacing, Pinorr could not argue against the keelchief. The shaman had thought 
himself so clever, so wise in passing winters. If you take Sheeshon from me, I 
will find a way to destroy you. That I promise.
Ulster shrugged.
Mader Geel was allowed back to console Sheeshon. The old woman hugged the girl 
and whispered consolation in her tiny ears.
Pinorr knew he had lost. He tried to join his granddaughter, but guards held him 
back.
Instead, Jabib knelt again by little Sheeshon. You must pick someone, my dear. 
You must find someone to fight for you.
Pinorr had stopped listening. It was over. No one would agree.
Sheeshon pulled out of Mader Geels embrace. Her eyes were glazed and far away. 
Fear had driven her to retreat inside. Sheeshon tilted her head toward the 
rafters of the galley. Theyre here, she mumbled.
Suddenly a crack of thunder reverberated through the planks of the boat, as if 
the keel of the boat had snapped. Everyone jumped.
Jabib touched Sheeshons shoulder. Choose, he said impatiently.
In the throes of her madness, Sheeshon had the strength of a grown man. She 
shook free of Jabib and stumbled toward the crowd. The crew parted before her. 
No one would meet her eye. None wished to be forced to deny the child if 
pressed.
Jabib followed as Sheeshon began to run. The crowd stepped back, allowing Pinorr 
and Ulster to pursue at Jabibs heels. Sheeshon broke from the room and ran up 
the steps toward the outer deck. The crowd followed, surging behind Jabib, 
Pinorr, and Ulster.
As Pinorr stepped from the hot and cramped spaces below, the coldness of the air 
shocked him. Thunder again boomed. The skies to the south were a solid wall of 
black clouds stacked to the heavens. The sun, setting to the west, was already 
threatened by the storms edge. Though the seas lay calm around them, they were 
unnaturally so. The waves were flat and colored like hammered iron by the dying 
sun.
In the distance, flashes of signal lights marked the other ships of the fleet. 
Sails were being reefed, and snatches of bellowed orders echoed over the still 
waters.
Pinorr turned to Ulster. You never sounded the alarm, he said.
At least Ulster had the dignity to look momentarily guilty. His eyes, though, 
remained on the wall of storm.
But Pinorr knew he could not lay the entire blame at Ulsters feet. When 
confronted with Sheeshons danger, Pinorr had forgotten the warning from the sea 
gods, too. They had both been foolsand now the entire fleet was in danger.
Sheeshon stood near the starboard rail and studied the building
squall, searching the skies. Jabib was at her side. Ulster and Pinorr crossed to 
join them.
Jabib glanced to his keelchief. We must batten down the ship. This storm is not 
one we can run from. Our only hope is to lock up the ship and pray she stays 
afloat.
Ulster nodded mutely. This was the first time the young keelchief had faced a 
ship killer, and it had stolen his tongue.
Pinorr took advantage of Ulsters fear. Only the sea gods will protect us this 
night. Release Sheeshon of the jafyra, and I will beg a blood boon from the 
gods. Refuse and spout your own prayers. See how little the sea gods listen to 
ordinary men.
Ulster spun on Pinorr. This is all your fault, he growled, his fear lighting a 
fire in his chest. You have called this monster down
upon us
!
Jabib tried to place a consoling hand on the keelchiefs arm but was thrust 
away. The first mate stumbled back against the rail. We will need all the 
prayers, he urged, especially the shamans.
Ulster grabbed Sheeshon roughly by the shoulder. Pinorr has cursed us. Before 
this storm strikes, I will stab this traitor where he is most vulnerable. 
Ulster tried to drag Sheeshon from the ships rail, but she was latched like a 
barnacle. Ulster persisted, his face raging. The sea gods will know I follow 
the old code and will protect us.
Jabib hovered near his keelchief. Pinorr could read his worries. The first mate 
knew it was madness that Ulster proposed. To shed blood on deck before a storm 
was the worst luck. Blood invited more blood. The crew would not stand for it.
I call for the blood duel, Ulster screamed. Now! He finally yanked viciously 
at Sheeshon, ripping her from her post.
A squeak of fear escaped her as she was swung around. Papa? she cried, trying 
to grab at Pinorr.
Pinorr stepped directly into the path of the raging keelchief. Behind Ulsters 
eyes, the shaman could see the squall mirrored. It was called storm fever, when 
the might of an approaching gale destroyed ones reason. She must first choose, 
Ulster, Pinorr said firmly. By code, she has until sundown to choose a 
champion or for you to retract your charges and end this matter.
With these words, the storm clouds began to eat the sun. The light around them 
became a false twilight.
End this? Ulster waved a hand wildly. See? Even the skies tell us it is time. 
They drown the sun early, so the ja^ra can be held now.
Jabib stepped beside Pinorr, shoulder to shoulder, facing Ulster. The first 
mates words were firm. She must still choose, Keelchief.
Frustration and fury fought across Ulsters face. He trembled a moment, then 
pulled Sheeshon up by the arms and drew her to his face. Choose! he yelled.
She whimpered and struggled in his grip.
Release my granddaughter, Pinorr said coldly, or Ill take a sword to you 
right now.
You dare threaten me! Ulster dropped Sheeshon. She fell like a broken doll at 
his feet, then crawled back toward Pinorr.
Jabib held Ulster and Pinorr apart. He towered over both of them. Enough! he 
yelled. He faced Pinorr. The jafy-a has been called fairly, by your own mouth. 
Jabib then turned to Ulster. And until this matter is settled, I am still 
tribune. So you will bow to my authority, or I will have the high keel strip you 
of your rank.
His words seemed to dim the fever in Ulsters eyes. Then make her decide, the 
keelchief ordered, backing a step away.
Pinorr glanced down to Sheeshon. Again her blank gaze had wandered to the 
roiling skies. She did not understand any of this. She pointed to the layer of 
black clouds sweeping overhead now. Theyre here.
Pinorr found his own eyes drawn to where she indicated.
Suddenly a section of the thunderhead broke away. A fluttering piece of darkness 
fell toward them. Lightning chased it across the sky as thunder boomed in anger.
Other eyes spotted the oddity. What is that? Jabib said.
Pinorr held his breath. His sea senses screamed in him now.
As they watched, the shred of blackness grew in size, darting between bolts of 
lightning. It was a huge creature, wings swept to either side. But Pinorr knew 
it was no ordinary gull or tern. He had seen Sheeshons carving. Get back! he 
yelled, hauling Sheeshon with him, but the child slipped free.
Sheeshon danced forward, arms raised toward the sky. Theyre here! Theyre 
here! she chanted.
Ulster had his hand on his swords hilt. She calls a demon to us!
By now, everyone on deck had stopped their hurried preparations
to secure the ship against the storm. All eyes watched the descent of the great 
black beast.
Not demon, Pinorr said, drawing Ulsters fury. Worse.
What?
Dragon.
Thunder drowned out further conversation, booming, rattling the rigging. 
Overhead, Pinorrs statement proved true. The great beast sailed past the tips 
of the masts. Black scale reflected the lightning like oil on water. Suddenly it 
banked and turned on a single wing tip. Its red eyes held all the storms fury.
Cries of terror spread throughout the deck. One man even jumped overboard in 
fright.
Man the harpoons! Jabib screamed, caught up in the panic. Then it dove at 
them, dropping like a boulder from the sky. Pinorrs eyes widened. It aimed for 
the empty center of the deck right where Sheeshon now stood, staring transfixed 
at the beast. Sheeshon!
But Pinorr was too late. The dragon crashed onto the deck, wings braking and 
claws digging long gouges from the planks as it skidded to a halt. Once stopped, 
its hot breath steamed and fogged from its throat into the cool air. Red eyes 
stared at the men frozen on deck. Silver teeth longer than a mans forearm 
glinted brightly in the last glimmer of the sun. Suddenly it stretched its neck 
toward the folded sails and bellowed at the skies.
All across the deck, men fell to their knees, crying out supplications. Others 
ran for the hatches. A handful were brave enough to leap for swords and spears.
Pinorr waved the warriors back. Sheeshon was still out there. He stepped 
forward, palms raised, trying to indicate that he offered the beast no threat. 
The dragon bent its neck to study the approaching shaman. Pinorr ignored the 
menace in those crimson eyes. He cared only to see if Sheeshon was safe. Once 
close enough, he spotted a small drenched girl collapsed atop the back of the 
dragon, her green hair sluiced with water. Her skin was pale and ashen. Though 
he could see she breathed, the rider seemed near death. What was happening here?
Suddenly Sheeshon stepped out from under the wing of the great beast. The dragon 
startled a bit at the childs abrupt appearance. It hissed and pulled back its 
wings.
Ulster and Jabib crept forward to shadow Finorr.
Sheeshon wore a lopsided smile as the dragon towered over her. She pointed at 
the great beast. I choose him, she said clearly, her voice ringing sharp 
across the silent deck. Even the thunder had quieted for the moment.
Pinorr turned to the keelchief. Its what you asked for, Ulster, he answered 
grimly. Sheeshon has chosen her champion.
Sy-wen heard voices and a familiar accent, deep and rich. Kast. She struggled 
through the black void back to a world of cold winds and rain. Where was she? 
She rolled her head and saw watery images, dark figures moving all around her. 
Lightning split the night and thunder roared, drawing back her memory. She 
whimpered as she recalled the rip of screaming winds and the dragons flight 
through castles of black clouds. She pulled tighter to her mount. The sky opened 
up above her, and rain lashed down. But the heat of the dragon was like a 
roaring fire under her.
Bonded, Ragnark sent to her. The dragons hunger was an ache in her belly. She 
shared its senses of blood and meat nearby.
She pushed a bit higher, pulling her cramped fingers from their stranglehold on 
the ridge of scale. Rain pelted her bare back in stinging bites. The dragons 
hide steamed in the downpour, creating a thin, rising fog. She eyed her 
surroundings. Her vision had cleared enough to recognize that she and the dragon 
were on some boat. Overhead, a hastily tied sail had loosened a snatch. It 
snapped and cracked in the wind.
But all of Sy-wens attention was on the figures around her. A circle of hard 
men and women stood a wary distance from her, some kneeling, some armed. The 
lanterns swinging from yardarms and rail highlighted the sea-worn men. One 
feature was shared by all: the tattoo of a diving seahawk emblazoned on cheeks 
and necks.
Bloodriders, she mumbled. Kasts tribe.
One man stepped forward, his blue robe drenched and clinging to his tall frame. 
His hair was as white as Master Edylls. As he stared up at her, his eyes held 
no fear, only awe. He reached out a hand, and a small girl wandered out from 
under Ragnark, her small eyes wide with wonder.
Hes big, Papa, she said as the elder pulled the child to him, hugging his 
arms around her.
The robed man stared up at her. You are merai. Sy-wen nodded.
Hungry, Ragnark complained uselessly. Sy-wen still sensed the dragons burning 
belly. Ragnark leaned toward the two who stood nearest and sniffed at the old 
man and the child. Not much meat, but taste good.
No, Sy-wen sent him silently. You will eat no one here. These are who we hunted 
for. They may be new friends.
Dont need more friends. Need full belly. But Sy-wen sensed the acquiescence of 
the great beast.
Sy-wen cleared her throat, trying to mimic her mothers commanding voice and 
demeanor. I come seeking the Drerendi, she said aloud. We call upon your 
ancient debt to serve us one last time. Her attempt at dignity was ruined when 
a sudden gust of wind almost toppled her from her seat and she hastily grabbed 
at the dragon to keep from falling. She straightened and tossed wet strands of 
green hair back from her face. She did not feel like a herald of her people, but 
more like a drenched seal pup.
I am Pinorr, shaman of this ship. I welcome you to the Dragon-spur the old man 
said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Maybe it was just the resemblance to 
Master Edyll, but Sy-wen found herself instantly liking this fellow.
Two other men stepped forward and flanked the shaman. The ships first mate, 
Jabib, the old man introduced. And our keelchief, Ulster.
Sy-wen eyed the second man. His face was stone, but his eyes glinted with 
suspicion. His hand rested on the hilt of a sword at his waist. Why have you 
come here?  he asked with clear anger.
The small child, still clinging to the shamans robe, answered instead. They 
come to kill us all, she said cheerily.
Sy-wen blinked at this outburst.
Pinorr patted the girls head. My apologies, mistress of the merai, but 
Sheeshon is a bit addled. She does not always know what she speaks.
Sy-wen nodded. But perhaps she knows more than you suspect. For what I have 
come to ask of you may mean your deaths.
What is this you speak? the keelchief demanded.
Suddenly a new burst of lightning and thunder drowned out all further words. 
Winds and rains tore at the ship.
Pinorr sheltered the child against this sudden onslaught. When the winds calmed 
for a breath, he glanced up to Sy-wen and yelled into the thunder. I dont know 
if your dragon can weather the storm atop the deck, but we cannot. The squalls 
fury is about to strike. I recommend we continue this conversation below.
Sy-wen chewed her lower lip. Atop Ragnark, she felt little true threat, but she 
feared to be alone with them, even with Kast at her side. The crew easily 
numbered over fifty.
As if to goad her, a bolt of lightning struck the tip of the foremast with an 
explosive crack. Ragnark bellowed anger. Blue energies danced along the 
rigging. Sy-wen studied the furious skies. No number of men, no matter how hard, 
could match the danger that thundered toward her.
She turned back to the others. The keelchiefs narrowed eyes almost made her 
balk again. Sy-wen mistrusted him.
The shaman, though, drew back her attention. There is nothing to fear from us. 
I offer you full freedom of the ship. As shaman, you are under my protection. 
Pinorr glanced at the keelchief as if his next words were meant more for that 
man than Sy-wen. None will harm you.
Ulsters eyes twitched, but he lifted his hand from his sword and crossed his 
arms over his chest. May our hearth and keel keep you safe, he said, his voice 
cold and formal, weakening the invitation in his words.
Pinorr seemed satisfied and turned back to Sy-wen. The old man missed the flash 
of hatred in the young keelchiefs eyes. Clearly the storm above was not the 
only squall threatening this boat. Come, the shaman said, extending his hand. 
Join us below.
Sy-wen knew she needed to win these people to her cause, something she could 
never do atop the back of a dragon. Besides, she
uu nesn would go a Jong way to earning the BJoodriders trust. He was one of 
their peopJe.
Sliding over the neck of the dragon, she slipped to the planks. She almost lost 
her footing and fell, both the slippery deck and her own weak legs betraying 
her. Sy-wen managed to keep one hand on the dragon. She did not want to lose 
contact just yet. She ran a hand along its neck until she reached its massive 
head. Ragnark snuffled at her. Bonded. Sweet in my nose. She rubbed at the 
ridge between the beasts flared nostrils. The dragon brushed her palm, its 
thick tongue pushing out to lick at her. Its glowing eyes stared into hers. I 
dont want to go bact, Ragnark said sadly, almost a moan in her mind.
Her heart ached for the great beast. The dragon was a creature of simple 
pleasures but depthless heart. She hugged the huge beast warmly. Thank you for 
carrying me here safely, she whispered at him. But I must send you back for 
now. I have need of Kast.
Weat man, Ragnark said with a silent snort of derision. Im stronger than him.
I know, my big bonded, but some battles cant be fought with tooth and claw. I 
will call you back soon, and we will hunt the seas together.
A feeling of trust and pleasure suffused through her. You are my bonded. Go now. 
Ill dream of you and fishes, many big fishes. Dragon laughter echoed in her 
mind.
She smiled at him. Good-bye, Ragnark. Sleep well, my bonded. Sy-wen lifted 
her hand from the wet scales and stumbled back a few steps.
Behind her, the crew gasped and fled farther away. As expected, with the contact 
broken, the dragon began to fold upon itself. A twisting whirlwind of wing and 
scale, claw and tooth, spun down to reveal a naked man standing atop the deck. 
On his bare neck, the dragon tattoo glowed a bright ruby for several heartbeats, 
then died back down.
Kasts usual scowl deepened as he took a moment to orient himself. Sy-wen 
stepped closer, keeping her eyes slightly averted from his nakedness. The 
Bloodrider took her hand in his own as he studied those around him. You found 
the Drerendi, he mumbled, slightly awed.
She nodded. They offer us shelter from the approaching storm.
Speechless, Pinorr stepped forward, his mouth hanging open.
The small girl at his side was unfazed. That man is wearing no clothes, Papa, 
she said matter-of-factly.
Hush, Sheeshon. Pinorr stopped before them. His eyes were on Sy-wens 
companion. How ? How could this be?
Sy-wen tried to explain about Ragnark. On the island of Aloa Glen, we found 
a
Kast squeezed her hand, silencing her. The two men stared at each other for a 
moment, then Kast spoke. How fares my father, Pinorr?
Startled, Sy-wen glanced up at Kast. So they knew each other.
Your father died three winters past. Pinorrs voice grew angry. On his 
deathbed, he called out for you.
Kast remained quiet. Sy-wen felt his grip tremble in her palm, then grow calm 
again. I I did not know.
You should never have left, Kast. After you fled with that mad shaman, chasing 
after dreams, something died in your father.
But what of my younger brother? He was to watch over the old
man.
Before the shaman could answer, the keelchief interrupted, pushing forward. The 
man had fled all the way to the rail when the dragon transformed. As he 
approached, his hand again rested warily on the hilt of his sword. He eyed Kast 
up and down sourly.
The keelchief glared at the Bloodrider defiantly, fists on his hips. What are 
you doing back here, Kast?
Thunder crashed overhead as the storms edge finally rolled upon them.
With rain sluicing over the hard planes of his face, Kast studied the smaller 
man. Ulster, after ten winters, is that how you welcome home your elder 
brother?
Pinorr sat on the edge of his bed and shook his head at Kasts story. The 
Bloodrider and his ward, Sy-wen, had retreated to Pinorrs cabin while Ulster 
and the crew secured the Dragonspur against the storm. In a corner, Sheeshon 
played quietly with her scrimshawed carvings. Pinorr cocked his head and studied 
Kasts dragon tattoo. So this this Ragnark Hes a part of you now? Sy-wen 
can call him forth anytime with a touch?
Kast nodded, wolfing down fish stew and hard bread. He spoke
on
wling, Pinorr looked away. Ulster will not help. He is not the you left behind, 
Kast.
What do you mean?
After you left, Ulster bore the brunt of your fathers ire. As the
remaining son and heir to your family name, he was driven u d by your father, 
his head filled with dreams of glory. Your father would brook no failings from 
him. Eventually something broke in rhe boy, and he grew into a hard man, bereft 
of compassion, a lover of easy cruelties. He is no brother to you now. Remember 
that.
I cannot believe these words, Kast said.
Pinorr saw the merai girl slip her hand into Kasts, comforting him. It seemed 
that more than magick bound these two. Im sorry, Kast. I tried my best to 
guide Ulster after your father died, to mentor him in the ways of stewarding a 
ship. But I believe what broke in him will never heal. He now bridles against my 
counsel, turning his resentment for his father against me. Pinorr went on to 
explain about the recent attack on Sheeshon.
Kasts face was red with anger by the time the story was finished. How could my 
brother grow so craven?
Pinorr shook his head sadly. Let it go, Kast. Its over. With Sheeshon choosing 
Ragnark as her champion, I dont believe Ulster will press the blood duel now. 
Hell be glad to forget his threats.
For now, Kast said grimly. But what of later?
Well cross those rough seas when the winds blow us there, Pinorr answered, 
waving away Kasts concerns. I only tell you all this so you will understand. 
The Drerendi are not likely to consider your request. There are few who will 
even listen to you.
But your people swore oaths, Sy-wen argued and pointed toward the faded tattoo 
on Pinorrs neck. For your freedom, you promised to serve us one last time. Now 
is that time. We call you to honor your ancient debts.
Those are old oaths, faded and forgotten like the dyes on my wrinkled neck. 
None will place much strength on such vows.
Kasts face remained ruddy with an inner fire. Youre wrong, Pinorr. The 
Drerendi have no choice. He related how the tattoos held magick in their ink, 
how Sy-wen had bent his will to her desires. The tattoos bind us to the merai. 
If they have a need of us, we will be forced to serve. Trust me; I know.
Pinorr fingered the old seahawk on his cheek, his eyes wide. So they would 
enslave us again.
That is not our desire, Sy-wen persisted. Or even possible. Each of the 
merai can bond to only one of the Bloodriders. As I am bonded to Kast, I can 
command no others. Such a magick would not allow us to enslave your entire 
people. You outnumber us tenfold.
Kast supported her. Theyd rather have the Drerendi as allies, not slaves. The 
merai have as little interest in us as we do in them. They only ask us to honor 
our ancestors oaths and to unite against a common foe. Afterward, our two 
peoples can part ways with our old debts paid.
That is, if any survive, Pinorr replied under his breath, remembering 
Sheeshons words of doom.
Kast leaned closer to Pinorr. There must be some way to convince our people, to 
get them at least to listen.
Pinorr sighed and contemplated their words. Kast, with his eyes afire and his 
brows fierce, reminded the shaman of the younger mans father, his old friend. 
The flame of the high keel still burned in this elder son. Pinorr had never been 
able to refuse the high keel anything, especially when the mans blood was 
aflame.
Rubbing at his chin, Pinorr mumbled softly. There may be a way. He sensed that 
he was about to betray his people, to set them on a path of doom. Yet his heart 
told him to trust Kast.
How?
It will take the dragon, the one named Ragnark. Are you willing to forsake 
yourself to him again?
Kast nodded. If I must.
Pinorr turned to Sy-wen. What I ask of you is much worse. He told her what he 
needed accomplished. Only your hand can do this.
The womans eyes grew wide with horror, but she nodded her understanding.
You must reach the high keels ship before the morning, Pinorr finished. 
Otherwise, if the fleet regroups after the storm, you will need to face the 
full council of keelchiefs, and there are too many like Ulster for any chance of 
them listening. But the high keel himself is a just man. If you catch him alone 
in this storm, he will listen. Convince him and the battle is won. He must 
understand the truth of our two peoples shared histories.
But what of the storms fury? Kast asked as thunder boomed through the planks, 
rattling the bowls on the table.
We will have to trust the sea gods, Pinorr said.
Sy-wen was clearly not as convinced, her eyes full of doubt. You place too much 
trust in gods and ancient stories of dragons. Her gaze flicked toward the tiny 
child playing with her toys. Drool dripped from the slack side of the girls 
lips. If either proves wrong
Pinorr stood. I know what I risk. He crossed to Sheeshon and gathered his 
sons daughter up in his arms.
The girl smiled up into his face. Papa, where are we going?
Youre going to fly, sweetheart. Fly with a dragon.
Ulster sat hunched with Jabib and Gylt in the ships galley. The storm rocked 
the lanterns on their hooks, waving their long shadows over the walls. Thunder 
rumbled in a continual growl through the boat, erupting occasionally into fierce 
booms that shook their mugs of Tulusian kaffee.
Every such burst caused Gylt to duck his head and glance nervously upward, as if 
he were about to be struck. May the sea gods protect us, he prayed, then 
waited for the echoes to trail away.
Ulster scowled at his fears. The gods do not protect the foolish. Only a 
well-manned boat will survive this storm. He turned his attentions back to his 
first mate. Who have you assigned to pilot, Jabib?
Biggin, sir. Hes already lashed to the wheel. Hes a good man in rough seas.
What about Hrendal?
Jabib shook his head. Hes a better navigator, but he doesnt have Biggins sea 
sense.
Ulster nodded, satisfied with his first mates judgment. Jabib knew the crews 
strengths and weaknesses better than he. Good. With the rigging secured and the 
decks cleared, we should steer right through this storm.
Jabibs expression did not appear as confident.
Whats wrong?
The crew, sir. Ive heard rumblings. They say your fight with Pinorr has 
brought this storm down upon the fleet. They believe the
dragon was birthed by the skies to punish the ship and is being led by the 
spirit of your dead brother.
Ulster snorted. Thats ridiculous. Kast never died. He just ran off. The dragon 
and the girl are just some trick of his to rejoin the fleet. Well deal with him 
and his green-haired whore after the storm.
Jabib shrugged. Its just what Ive heard. The men are scared by the storms 
size and spooked by the queer happenings on the deck earlier. Their talk grows 
stronger. Rumors abound. Ive even heard some of the crew whisper plans of 
casting the shaman into the sea to appease the gods
That is not a bad idea, Ulster grumbled.
But Ive also heard the same threats against you and your brother.
Ulster pounded his gloved fist on the table. What are you saying? Is it mutiny 
they want?
Its just talk, sir. But a show of strength by you
Ulster pondered his words. What do you propose?
A demonstration of your love for the gods. Jabib glanced about the room, then 
leaned nearer. A sacrifice by your own hand.
And you think a spurt of goats blood will still the tongues of these 
whispers?
No, but maybe something stronger will. The shamans child her twisted face, 
her ramblings. She makes the crew uneasy. Mader Geel is the only one who will 
even look after the girl. Jabib looked significantly at Ulster. None will miss 
her.
Gylt spoke into the silence, his voice cracking with fear. She is cursed. All 
know it, but none have dared confront Shaman Pinorr. Tales say the child was 
birthed from a dead belly. One just has to look at that half-frozen face to know 
the gods have shunned her.
Jabib nodded. If you rid the ship of the child, the crew will see your strength 
and know you honor the gods. This will end their talk of mutiny.
But what of Pinorr?
Jabib leaned even closer, his voice a hushed whisper. In storms, accidents can 
happen.
Kast crept down the passageway. The deck rolled under his feet, seeking to 
topple him. Barefooted, he kept his balance and snuck upon the guard stationed 
near the hatch to the upper deck. His many winters at sea among the cutthroats 
of Port Rawl had taught Kast the art of the assassin. His prey was no challenge, 
his eye pressed foolishly to the peephole in the door as he watched the storms 
first rally against the ship.
Beyond the hatch, winds screamed like tortured spirits, masking Kasts final 
steps toward the mans back. Without pausing, Kast struck the man a sharp blow 
to his neck with the callused edge of his hand. His prey collapsed at his feet. 
Kast relieved the man of his sword, then hurried back five paces and waved the 
others forward.
Sy-wen, her eyes wide with fear, hurried toward Kast. Pinorr, his face red from 
both exertion and anxiety, held Sheeshon in his arms. We will not have much 
time, Pinorr commented. You must hurry.
Kast nodded. The storm is fierce. Stay close. Turning to the hatch, he threw 
open the latch, but the door ripped away on its own, torn free by the howling 
gales. The fierce winds fought to drag the lot of them onto the deck, but Kast 
fought the winds pull, legs braced, hands tight to the doors frame. Only 
Kasts strength kept the others sheltered within the opening.
Behind him, Sy-wen hung from his right arm, her cheek resting on his shoulder as 
she squinted at the storm. Her breath was like fire on his neck. I I dont 
think I can do this. The rain the winds
You must, Pinorr said.
A huge wave suddenly crashed over the rails, a monster of frothing foam and 
swirling currents. It tore loose a set of lashed barrels and sent them crashing 
across the deck. Kast scowled at such poor preparations.
He waited for the waters to sluice away and the ship to right itself. Now! he 
yelled and sprang out, keeping a firm grip on Sy-wens hand. Rain, whipped by 
the winds into stinging sleet, strove to hammer him to the deck. He sheltered 
Sy-wen under him. Before the fury of this storm, the small merai woman would be 
nothing but a stray leaf.
Pinorr had remained in the doorway, Sheeshon in his arms. Hurry! he called to 
them.
Once far enough out on the deck, Kast swung around, pulling Sy-wen into his 
embrace. Call the dragon, he yelled as the wind tore at his words.
Sy-wen seemed frozen by the fierceness of the warring skies. Lightning played in 
jagged spears across the underbellies of the black clouds. Thunder ached the 
ribs in their chests. We cant possibly fly in this
As she resisted, Kast drew her fingers to his tattoo. Ragnark can, he said. 
The dragon and I are one. We will not fail you. Trust me. Trust the dragons 
heart.
Her eyes were moist from more than just the rain as she glanced up at him. I 
will trust my bonded, she said, her words a whisper in the wind. Both of 
them. She gazed into his eyes, and for a moment, the storms howl vanished. It 
was as if they were alone on the deck.
In the silence between cracks of thunder, she placed her palm upon his cheek and 
leaned up toward him, her lips brushing his ear. I have need of you.
With those words of binding, the world around him vanished.
Sy-wen sat astride the dragons neck as Ragnark awoke to the storm. The great 
beast bellowed at the skies, its silver claws dug deep into the ships boards. 
Sy-wen knew that no wind or wash of wave could dislodge the huge dragon.
Its massive head swung in her direction. Red eyes glowed at her. Do we fly 
again? it asked.
Yes, she answered silently. We must make for the largest ship.
Ragnark sent his willingness to her in a warmth of bonded loyalty. His thoughts 
drove away the storms chill. He unfurled his wings.
Wait, she urged him. We must carry someone with us. A rasp of irritation flooded 
her. You are my bonded. Only bonded shares the winds.
I know, my dragon, but I have a great need and it is only a short distance.
A grumble, the equivalent of a dragons sigh, rose from his chest. Wings folded 
back down.
Sy-wen raised her arm toward the opening to the lower decks.
Pinorr and Sheeshon were still sheltered in the doorway. She waved to the 
shaman.
Pinorr showed no fear as he scurried across the space between door and dragon. 
As the waves rolled the boat, he almost lost his footing on the slippery deck. 
Soon he crouched in the lee of the beasts bulk, protected from the worst of the 
storm. Can you manage?  he yelled up at Sy-wen.
She nodded. Ragnark will keep us both safe!
Sy-wen leaned down and accepted the small child from Pinorrs outstretched arms. 
Sheeshon struggled and sobbed in fear, not of the dragon, but of the angry 
skies. Her eyes were wide as she stared at the lightning.
Sy-wen pulled Sheeshon into the space in front of her and wrapped both arms 
around her. Hush. Youre safe, she soothed, but in her heart, Sy-wen was not 
so confident. With her ankles locked in the dragons folds, Sy-wen had to trust 
the strength of her own arms to keep the child atop the dragon.
Sheeshon glanced up at Sy-wen. The girl struggled for bravery in the face of the 
storm. Your big dragon has a funny name.
Yes, he does.
Hes gonna eat me, the child said calmly.
Shocked, Sy-wen stared as Sheeshon turned and patted happily at the dragons 
scaled neck, her actions so incongruous with her words.
/ will not eat her, Ragnark argued grimly. Shes too small.
I kriow, my bonded. Ignore her words. She is addled. Still, Sy-wen shuddered. 
The child had spoken with such certainty.
Suddenly the roiling clouds unleashed their fury. A crash of icy hail pounded 
down from the black skies, pelting the deck with a roaring clatter.
Cringing from the stinging bites, Sy-wen leaned over the dragons shoulder and 
found Pinorr staring up at her. Fear not, Shaman, I will get the girl safe to 
the Dragonsheart. Kast and I will convince the high keel of our urgency.
His face was still lined with worry. You know what you must do.
Nodding, Sy-wen pulled back, her lips tight. She clutched tighter to the child. 
Sweet Mother, forgive me, but I do.
Pinorr retreated, bent against the hail. He fled to the doorway and waved an arm 
in farewell.
Sy-wen turned toward the raging seas. Fly, she sent the dragon.
Ragnark obeyed, wings snapping taut in the strong gale, catching the winds. The 
dragon released his claws, and the storm took hold of him. Ragnark sailed over 
the rail. Away from the ship, whitecaps blew up from the sea, reaching for them, 
struggling to tear them from the skies. Some waves towered as high as mighty 
cliffs. But the dragon sailed above their grasps.
Lightning chased them across the sea.
Ducking away from the thunder, Sy-wen considered ordering the dragon to dive 
under the furious sea to escape the storms brunt, but speed was essential. 
Flying was faster, and she feared the childs panic if they fled under the 
waves. Sheeshon could easily drown and that must not happen. The success of 
their mission depended on the girl.
Sy-wen kept a firm grip on the trembling child. Sheeshon was mumbling something, 
over and over. It sounded almost like a childs song, rhythmic and repetitive. 
The wind tore away most of her words, but occasional snatches reached her. 
Sy-wen pieced them together in her head:
Dragon heart and dragon bone,
only blood will shatter stone. Dragon dark and dragon bright,
only pain will win this fight.
Sy-wen pulled back, her mind working on the childs rhyme. What did it mean? Her 
skin prickled with the words. As with Kasts tattoo, she sensed old magick in 
the girls chant.
Touching the childs cheek, Sy-wen drew her attention. What are you?
Suddenly the world exploded. Time froze. Pain seared Sy-wens left side. Blind 
for an unknown length of time, Sy-wen came back to the world with a scream 
filling her ears. It took her a moment to realize that it was her own throat 
crying out. She stared in horror at the raging sea flying toward them.
Under her, the dragon dove in a spiraling fall, head lolling on a flailing neck. 
Sheeshon was still clutched in her arms. The child struggled an arm free and 
pointed to the left. Sy-wen glanced and saw the smoking tear in the dragons 
wing. Mother above, Ragnark
must have caught the edge of a lightning bolt! As she stared, other jagged 
spears pursued her injured mount.
Sy-wen concentrated on the dragon. Ragnark, wake! I have need
of you!
Somewhere far away she felt a slight stir. She reached out with her senses and 
sent forth her urgency. Awake! Help us!
A faint thought came to her. Sy-wen?
She knew this was not the dragon. She did not have time to ponder the miracle. 
Kast! You must wake Ragnark!
The dragons body swept into a trough between gigantic walls of frothing waters. 
Instinct kept its wings wide, so they glided along the valley between the 
mountainous waves. But they had only another few heartbeats before the dragon 
struck the water.
Kast struggled. 1 dont know how
Do what you must! Or the girl and I die!
Suddenly the dragon lurched under her. She was almost thrown from his back. The 
great beast wobbled, struggling with his injured wing. But finally his neck 
stretched long, scales slick with saltwater. His head swung side to side, 
surveying the situation.
A tower of water threatened to topple upon them, its top edge thrashed white by 
the winds. The dragon arched his back up, turned on his good wing, and fought to 
pull up from the trough.
Hurry! Sy-wen urged, watching the waves crest begin to tumble toward them.
Muscle writhed under her; wings fought wind and rain. A roar of frustration and 
rage bellowed from the dragon as he dragged his bulk upward.
Sy-wen twisted her neck and watched the wave chase them. It snarled and gnashed 
at the dragons tail.
Then it was over.
A final lunge and the dragon heaved above the monster wave. The waters crashed 
below, roaring their own frustration, missing the dragons tail by a mere 
handspan.
Crying in relief, Sy-wen collapsed over the girl. We made it, she moaned. 
Sy-wen rubbed her hand appreciatively along the dragons neck. Thank you, 
Ragnark-
It wasnt just the dragon.
Kast?
/ could not wate Ragnart. Sy-wen sensed the exhaustion and strain in the 
Bloodrider. The shoct and pain had driven Ragnark^ too deep. I was only able 
to reach his baser thoughtshis simple instincts and reflexes. But it was 
enough. With my will giving direction and purpose, the dragons instincts and 
reflexes powered his body. But how ?
The dragon tumbled downward, then caught itself. It its too hard to talt this 
way and control the dragon. Watch over the girl. Sy-wen sent her silent thanks 
and warmth to Kast. Around her, thunder boomed as the squalls fury heightened. 
As they flew, the winds grew fiercer, forcing Sy-wen to lean closer to the 
dragon, sheltering the girl under her.
Suddenly out of the rain-swept darkness, a ship appeared. Triple masted and 
dragon prowed, it fought the waves with a fury that seemed almost alive. Sy-wen 
knew this ship from Pinorrs description. It was the largest of the fleetthe 
Dragonsheart.
Her mount must have spotted it at the same time. The dragon leaned his neck 
down, and his body followed, diving toward the ship. Sy-wen clutched the child 
as the ship grew under them. The tumble toward the ships deck was not the 
artful glide of Ragnark in full control. Kast must be struggling fiercely to 
fly the giant. Wings beat and fought to both slow their descent and guide their 
aim. It was a close battle, the outcome uncertain.
The ship, rolling among the towering waves, made an unwilling partner. Its deck 
teetered, and the three masts stabbed at them like hostile spears.
The dragon roared at the stubborn boat, banking and twisting to match the ships 
tumble.
As the ships decks flew toward them, Sy-wen closed her eyes. It did no good to 
look. With her heart clenched in her throat, Sy-wen leaned and pinned the child 
under her, hugging the dragon tight. Kast, do not fail me.
A shuddering crash was her only answer. Sy-wen fought to keep her grip, but the 
impact was too great. Her ankles popped free from their footholds, and she and 
the girl slid up the dragons neck. Gasping, Sy-wen willed her arms and legs to 
grip with every fiber in her small body. The screech of claw on wood stretched 
forever as the dragon skidded across the wet deck. Sy-wen waited for the snap of 
rail and the final tumble into the roaring sea.
It never happened.
The dragon settled to a trembling stop under her.
Sy-wen kept her eyes closed and sent a silent prayer to all the gods of the 
world. Slowly, she opened her eyes. The tip of the dragons nose touched the 
rail. It had been closetoo close. The great beast lay stretched across the 
deck, too exhausted to lift himself. His chest heaved in huge gulping blasts, 
steaming into the cold rain. Behind her, Sy-wen noted the deep gouges dragged 
across the deck. Pieces of broken silver nail littered the trail.
Sheeshon also surveyed their surroundings. This isnt Papas boat, she said. A 
trace of fear etched her words.
Sy-wen placed a palm on the childs cheek. Its all right, Sheeshon. Youll be 
safe here until your papa comes.
A crash of wood sounded to the left as a hatch flew open. Sy-wen watched men 
rush out onto the storm-swept deck bearing spears and swords. When they saw what 
lay before them, they stopped, their faces mixed with fear and awe.
Sy-wen knew Kast should do the talking here. She lowered Sheeshon onto the deck. 
Stay by the dragon, she urged the child.
Then Sy-wen, conscious of all the eyes upon her, followed the child off their 
mount, careful to keep one hand on Ragnark. Once her feet were secure under 
her, Sy-wen took Sheeshons hand in her own and turned to face the growing 
audience.
Even the wicked storm could not keep the crew away. From among their midst, the 
tallest man Sy-wen had ever set eyes upon shoved through the crowd. Older, but 
still well muscled, he was as wide as he was tall. She heard a few whispered 
comments from the others gathered here. One name was spoken by all: high /(eel. 
The man stopped and stared at the two small women and the sprawled dragon. He 
wore a hard scowl; no twinge of welcome softened his features. His eyes were 
dark with suspicion.
Sy-wen swallowed. Kast was certainly the one to confront this man.
Stepping forward, Sy-wen removed her hand from the dragon, releasing the spell. 
She cringed away from the whirlwind to come but nothing happened.
Glancing over her shoulder, Sy-wen saw the dragon still draped across the deck. 
Only his steaming breath gave sign he was still alive.
Kast? she called out.
A harsh voice drew her back around. It was the high keel. His glare promised 
pain. What manner of storm demon are you?
As Pinorr returned to his cabin, worry gnawed at his belly. With his plan now 
under way, he was not as confident of his idea. It depended too much on the 
truth of ancient tales. If he was wrong, it could mean not only the failure of 
Kast and Sy-wens hopes, but the death of Sheeshon as well.
He reached for the latch to his door, thunder in his ears, lanterns casting 
twisted shadows. At that moment, a sudden lull in the storm saved his life. As 
the thunders roar died away momentarily, Pinorr heard the faint scrape of heel 
on wood. It was enough to draw his eye.
Hunched a short way down the passage stood the stocky Gylt, a stained blade in 
hand. From his furtive posture and the sudden guilt in his eyes, the shaman knew 
the crewman meant him harm. After checking the rest of the passage, Pinorr 
turned to face the man fully. So you come to murder in Ulsters stead?
The crewman still stood frozen in midstep, indecision wavering his 
determination.
I see you draw the sea gods wrath to your own shoulders, sparing Ulster. How 
brave of you to damn your own spirit. Pinorr narrowed his gaze. He began to 
understand the keelchiefs purpose here. Even though you may trick the crew and 
blame my disappearance on the storms fury, do not think the sea gods will not 
know which hand wielded the sword. Even now, they watch you through my eyes. 
They stare at your heart. A sudden burst of thunder shook the deck under their 
feet.
Gylt gasped and backed a step away.
Pinorr knew the man was easily cowed, especially when scared. He leaned closer. 
Hear how the gods call for your blood already.
Gylts eyes grew wide with horror. His sword trembled in his grip. I I wasnt 
supposed to slay you, Shaman. Truly I wasnt! I w-was only supposed to make sure 
you returned to your cabin.
Pinorr frowned at Gylt. He sensed the truth to the mans words.
Behind Pinorr, his cabin door suddenly swung open. He knew he had left his room 
empty. He had clearly stumbled blindly into an
ambush. He had not thought Ulster could grow so cravenat least not this soon.
In front of Pinorr, a shadow cast from the rooms lanterns spread on the far 
wall of the passage: a man with his sword raised. Pinorr watched the shadowy 
blade plunge toward his back.
Pinorr had no time to turn, only to duck sideways, raising an arm in warding. 
The blade sliced under his arm, just missing his chest and catching the edge of 
his robe. Pinorr saw the blades tip thrust out from under his raised arm. At 
that moment, old instincts returned to Pinorrunder his shamans robe still beat 
the heart of a Bloodrider. Though he had untied his warriors braid long ago, a 
part of him remembered.
Crying a warriors roar, Pinorr brought down his arm, trapping the flat of the 
blade against his chest. He clamped hard and twisted on a heel. As expected, his 
attacker was slightly off balance by his failed thrust. The clamped blade tore 
free of the others grip. Pinorr did not pause. As he continued his turn, he 
reached for the freed blade. After forty winters, his hands again settled around 
the hilt of a sword.
Sweeping the weapon forward, he faced his disarmed attacker. A rage burst in 
Pinorrs heart. His vision narrowed to sharp edges.
Pinorr heard the gasp from Gylt on his left. You must not bear a sword. You 
must not shed blood. Youre a shaman!
Ignoring the mans outburst, Pinorr stared at his attempted assassin. He was not 
surprised to find Jabib standing before him, always Ulsters dog. The first mate 
reached for a dagger. Pinorr was faster.
The sword buried itself in the first mates chest. Pinorr thrust deeper, 
stepping toward Jabib, until they were nose to nose, the swords hilt lodged 
between their bellies. Hot blood washed over Pinorrs cold hand. He trembled 
with rage as he faced his attempted assassin. May the sea gods feed your spirit 
to their worms, he spat as he stepped away, twisting the sword as he pulled it 
free.
Jabib gasped and fell to his knees. Blood frothed from his mouth and poured down 
his chest. Before the man could tumble onto his face, Pinorr grabbed the mans 
braid, holding him up by his corded hair.
Jabib raised his eyes in horror.
I send you to the gods without honor, Pinorr said coldly and
sliced the braid away in one sweep of his sword. Unsupported now, Jabib crashed 
to the planks, his lifes blood pooling under him. Pinorr turned, sword in one 
hand, Jabibs braid in the other. Gylt dropped his sword, eyes white with fear. 
You have cursed us, he cried. You have soiled yourself with blood.
You have cursed yourselves, he said. The sea gods warned me of your 
treachery, protected me. They silenced the storm so I might hear your tread. 
They cast Jabibs shadow on the wall, revealing his craven attack. Pinorr 
stepped closer to Gylt. They bless me this stormy night, so I might seek their 
vengeance upon those who plot against the gods.
Gylt shook his head, violently denying Pinorrs words. He slipped to his knees. 
No no he moaned.
Pinorr towered over the sobbing man. Yes, he said, his voice as harsh as the 
storm raging above.
Gylt must have sensed Pinorrs heart. He lunged for his sword but it was too 
late.
Pinorr swung his own blade with all the rage in his bones. Blood sprayed over 
his forearms. Pinorr stepped over Gylts body while the mans head still bobbled 
down the passage ahead of him.
With Jabibs braid dragging at his side, Pinorr continued deeper into the ships 
bowels. He knew that for too long he had allowed a foulness to fester in this 
ship. Fear for Sheeshon, fear for himself, had stayed his hand. With Sheeshon 
gone, Pinorr knew it was time he acted. This night, tides of prophecy drew all 
the players together, allowing none to escape their destiny.
By morning, the Drerendi would either be forged into their final purposebeaten 
into a weapon against the Gulgothaor sunk under the waves.
His peoples final fate would depend on a shamans cursed sword and the heart of 
a child.
WlTH LICHTNINO RIBBING THE SKV, Sv-WBN FACED THE HIGH
Raindrops pelted the decks in a constant ^^ the man, the deck bristled with 
spears and swords. other crewmen. All that mattered was the ^| her. He was the 
leader here, the one she and Kast had ^ sway. But nothing was going according to 
the old shamans la. as a fellow Bloodnder, was the one who was supposed to 
herald
cause, not her. ,
Glancing behind to the collapsed dragon, Sy-wen kne. plans needed to be hastily 
reworked, but she couId not thin^ Her thoughts worried on Ragnark and Kast. 
What had happened-Why hadnt the spell reversed itself? Was it the hghtninsmk^ 
Was Kast forever trapped in the dragons form? Her mind spun
with the implications.  wens
A small hand squeezed her own. Sheeshon tugged on Sy-wn arm. That mans bigger 
than Papa, she commented plamly, point ing to the high keel. The drenched ch.ld 
sh.vered &#9632; the wrn^
Hugging the girl closer to keep her warm, Sy-wen turn from a few paces away, 
Sy-wen rill had to crane her neck to face the man. His eyes were shards of blue 
steel, hi, braided ~*^~ silvered along the edges from passmg win**, n to 
righfi** clutched a whaling harpoon that towered oveHto..H<Y * between 
Sy-wen and the huge black dragon. W.th Ragnar k
her, he was cautious. ?
Again I ask you, he said, what manner of demon are you.
Sy-wen finally freed her tongue. Silence was not going to sway anyone. I am no 
demon, High Keel of the Drerendi, she said solemnly, bowing her head slightly 
in greeting. I am Sy-wen, emissary of the merai. I have been sent by Shaman 
Pinorr to seek your counsel.
His crew were too well trained to speak out of turn, but Sy-wen saw furtive 
glances pass among those who backed the high keel. Doubt and anger were mixed in 
their nervous stances. From their responses, Pinorrs earlier warning proved 
correct. The merai name was not well received.
The high keel spoke into the stretch of silence. His voice cracked slightly from 
the shock of her announcement, but it soon returned to its commanding tones. Do 
you have proof for such wild claims? he asked.
Sy-wen waved her free hand back to the dragon. If this is not proof enough, 
she said as she pulled Sheeshon in front of her, Shaman Pinorr also sent his 
only blood as his seal of support.
The high keel seemed finally to notice the small girl. He squinted at Sheeshon. 
I know this child he said hesitatingly.
Another man pushed forward, coming around the high keels shoulder. He was blue 
robed like a shaman, but where Pinorr was weathered thin and hard, this man was 
full bellied, one hand resting on his ample paunch. He eyed the skies fretfully. 
We should take the captives below, he said with a slight lisp. I fear this is 
but a calm before the storms true fury strikes. He glanced to the dragon, his 
gaze frightened. Bad omens still scent the winds.
The high keel nodded. He waved for two guards to flank the pair of girls. The 
men bore sickle-shaped swords; lightning reflected off their wet blades. If you 
are not demons, then come with us. Tell us why youve come, why my old friend 
would send you.
Sy-wen noted the raised blades. The high keels statement was no request, but 
she nodded anyway. We appreciate your offer of shelter, she said, then 
indicated the dragon. But my mount has suffered a grievous wound. I must first 
beg a boon from you.
Thunder again began to build around them. What is it? the high keel said 
impatiently.
The dragon needs a healer.
The Drerendi leader nodded to the boats shaman. Bilatus is this ships 
healer, but his arts serve men, not dragons.
The portly shaman nodded his agreement vigorously, his eyes
fixed on the steaming hulk of black scale and silver claw. I have no herbs or 
salves for such a beast. I could harm as easily as heal.
Sy-wens heart quailed at the thought of leaving the collapsed dragon unattended 
on the deck. What if a wave should wash him overboard? She glanced back at her 
huge companion. Twin streams f white billowed from his flared nostrils, but his 
eyes still remained
o closed
A hand touched her shoulder, making her jump. It was the high keel; he had come 
so silently upon her. Fear not. Your dragon will remain safe, Sy-wen of the 
merai. I have given my welcome. Until this matter is heard and judged, none 
will dare break my invitation. We will tether your mount with thick lines to 
mast and rail. Unless the Dragonsheart sinks, your beast will remain secure.
Thank you.
The high keel stepped closer to the great dragon, reaching a hand to touch it.
Careful, my high keel! the shaman called out from behind them.
The broad-shouldered man ignored the warning and placed his palm upon a wet fold 
of scaled wing. I never imagined Id see such a wonder. He shook his head and 
pulled his hand away. As he returned to his line of men, Sy-wen spotted the 
whisper of a smile again on his face.
Come, he said as he passed her.
She followed this time, discovering a twinge of respect for the man. She now 
understood why Pinorr had placed such trust in the high keel. There was no 
question that steel flowed through his veins. But she found that a keen 
curiosity also shone forth from his eyes.
With Sheeshon clinging tight to her side, Sy-wen followed the high keels back. 
Shaman Bilatus kept close to the mans shoulder, constantly glancing back at 
them as they entered the ship.
The high keel led the procession down a short stair and along a wide corridor. 
He pushed into a long room. Overhead, lanterns hanging from beams swayed with 
the roll of the boat. Tables and benches lined the floor. He faced the gathered 
crew. You all have your orders and stations, his voice boomed. I dont expect 
my ship to sink in this storm because my crew turned into a bunch of slack-jawed 
gawkers. Be off to your duties! He waved to one other fellow, a handsome man 
who stood almost as tall as the high keel. Hunt, accompany us.
Yes, High Keel. His eyes lit up with excitement. Suddenly Sy-wen recognized 
why the man seemed familiar. Is he your son?she asked.
And the Dragonshearts first mate, the high keel said proudly. Come. We will 
retire to my cabin and speak of these matters in private.
She nodded and soon found herself in a spacious room. The place was warm and 
inviting. Along one wall, shelves were crammed with weathered texts and crumpled 
scrolls. A desk stood nearby, a thick book spread atop its surface. Across the 
room, two goose-down chairs stood before an actual stone fireplace. A thick iron 
grate kept the burning logs within the small hearth during the storms tumult. 
The high keel waved Sy-wen to one of the thick chairs. She accepted the 
invitation, glad to get closer to the warm fire. The chill of their flight had 
set deep into her bones. The Drerendi clothes she wore dripped and clung damply 
to her skin. She wished she had kept her sharkskin breeches.
Once seated, she pulled Sheeshon into her lap. The girl raised her legs to heat 
the bottoms of her bare feet.
Bilatus was invited to the second chair, leaving the high keel and his son, 
Hunt, to stand. The two tall men flanked either side of the hearth. Side by side 
now, their distinct similarities were obvious: sharp eyes squinted at the 
corners, strong clefted chins, wide mouths made for easy smiling. Even their 
broad shoulders and stance were twins of each other.
Sy-wen found herself trusting these two and leaned deeper into the goose-down 
pillows.
Tell us your story, the high keel said simply.
Sy-wen cleared her throat and did as he asked. She explained about the coming 
assault on Aloa Glen, about the Gulgothal forces fortifying the islands, about 
the hope of the lands placed in the hands of a young witch. She related all she 
had shared with Pinorr except for the secret of Kast and the dragon. She 
suspected none would believe her, and right now, she needed all the trust she 
could muster from these three men. So I have come to ask you to lend your ships 
and warriors to our battle.
The high keel had remained silent during the entire discourse. Finally, he 
spoke. I believe you speak with a noble heart, Sy-wen of the merai. I even 
believe your cause just and righteous. The Drerendi
(AMES tLEMENS
share no love for the Gulgotha, but likewise we share no friendship with the 
merai either. Why join old enemies to fight new enemies? What matter to us that 
the Gulgotha torment the people of the
lands?
Sy-wen sat up straighten The Gulgothal lord will never be satisfied with just 
the land. Right now his eyes are turned toward the coast, but once that is fully 
subdued, his gaze will turn to you. Then who will be left to come to your aid?
The Drerendi are a free people. We call no lands our own. If the Gulgotha 
push, we will give way. As long as there are seas to sail, we will never fall to 
another mans yoke. He glanced significantly at Sy-wen. We remember too well 
when once we bowed to anothers sword. We won our freedom with our blood then 
and mean to keep it now. Why should we join this battle and earn the enmity of 
the Dark Lord?
You are already an enemy of the Gulgotha. Any who dont serve him are his 
foe. Sy-wen swallowed hard. Is it truly freedom if you are on the run from the 
Gulgotha? Are you on any less of a leash if his forces herd you this way and 
that? That is not freedom. Its blind cowardice!
The fat shaman gasped. Hunts hand dropped to his sword hilt. The only reaction 
from the high keel was a reddening of his cheeks. Then he burst out with a 
hearty laugh. No one can say you are not blunt, lass!
Sy-wen blushed at his words. I meant no true offense.
Again the high keel laughed.
Father, Hunt said. His face was dark red, but not with amusement. Will you 
allow such insult to the Drerendi?
What insult? The young woman speaks her heart. I would wish more would speak so 
plainly. He waved to Sy-wen. Fine. I can see your point. The Drerendi should 
sail where the winds dictate, not the Gulgotha. If we run from the Black 
Hearts beasts, we are cowards.
Bilatus stared at this confession with wide eyes. The sea gods will protect us. 
We have no need to fear the Gulgotha.
The high keel shook his head, the humor fading from his lips. Spoken like a 
shaman. But Ive learned that the sea gods protect those who protect 
themselves. He patted his sword. This is the only true defense.
Sy-wen could not believe her luck. The high keel warmed to her
cause. So you will consider lending your forces?
He stared at her silently for three long breaths, then answered. No. Sy-wen 
sat stunned. Her voice was meek when next she spoke.
But why? This is the best chance to strike a blow against the Dark
Lord.
Perhaps. But the Drerendi will never fight alongside the merai. When last we 
battled the Gulgotha, your people fled, leaving us to the teeth and axes of the 
enemy.
Sy-wen bristled. But it was not as if we betrayed you. You offered your aid 
freely, allowing us to escape.
Still, it bespeaks your peoples craven hearts. Now it was Sy-wens turn to 
react to being called cowardly. What of your old oaths? She pointed to his 
tattoo. Do you break your own vows? You promised to come to our aid one last 
time when we requested it.
The high keel remained silent.
Bilatus answered. That was long ago. Since then we have come to worship the 
seven gods of the sea. Our hearts and spirits are bound to them, not to the 
merai. We are slaves to you no more.
The high keel slowly nodded his head. Whatever debts we owed your people are 
long faded to dust.
Sy-wen wished she could show him how strong the tattoos mag-ickal bonds still 
remained, but she had already bonded to Kast and could not bring forth the 
magick of the tattoo in another. She sighed, knowing that only one chance lay 
open to them, the path Pinorr had suggested.
She glanced to Sheeshon, who had begun to doze in the warmth of her lap. Her 
heart went out to the small child. She had hoped to avoid Pinorrs full plan. 
Perhaps if Kast had been here
She shook her head and raised her eyes toward the high keel.
You place much on the differences between our two people__
merai and Drerendi. He shrugged.
Sy-wens voice grew firmer. I will share with you a merai secret, something to 
which even most of my own people are blind. I revealed this to Shaman Pinorr, 
and he sent his only granddaughter not only as proof of his support, but as 
proof of my next words. Bilatus sat up straighter at the mention of a fellow 
shaman.
The high keel narrowed his eyes. What?
We are not different people. She stared intently at the high keel. Merai and 
Drerendi are in truth one tribe.
Their shock halted further discussion. Finally, Bilatus made a rude noise with 
his blubbery lips. Impossible.
Sy-wen placed her palm atop the head of the napping Sheeshon. Here is the 
proof.
The high keel glanced at the child, then back to Sy-wen. I see no clue here, 
only an addled child with a face that half droops.
You will. Sy-wen clenched her fist. She hoped her words proved true. Glancing 
up at Hunt, she indicated Sheeshon. Can you carry her?
After getting a nod from his father, the young Bloodrider lifted Sheeshon from 
Sy-wens lap. The sleeping child only moaned a bit, then latched her tiny arms 
around Hunts neck.
Sy-wen stood. To show you, I will need blood from the dragon.
Bilatus had to push twice to extract himself from the chair. How do you propose 
to get?
Sy-wen slipped the long dagger from her wrist sheath. With this.
The sudden appearance of twin swords at her throat quickly taught her the 
foolishness of such rash action. Sy-wen had not even seen the high keel or his 
son move. The tips of their weapons held steady in the hollow of her throat.
Sy-wen finally found her tongue again. I mean no one harm. I only need the 
knife to draw blood from my mount. Sy-wen flipped the dagger in her hand and 
caught the blade, proffering the handle toward the high keel. If youd feel 
better, please keep it. I will even allow you to stab the dragon to gain its 
blood.
The high keel squinted at her, clearly trying to weigh the truth of her words 
and intent. Sy-wen did not waver from his hard gaze, though the dagger trembled 
a bit in her scared fingers.
Finally, the leader of the Drerendi lowered his sword and waved his son to 
follow his example. No, Sy-wen of the merai. If anyone is to poke that 
slumbering beast atop my decks, I think it best be you. Again the whisper of a 
smile flashed on his lips.
Sy-wen slowly slipped the dagger back into its sheath with a long sigh. I 
apologize for startling you all. I was not thinking when I bared my knife. I had 
only thought to clarify my purpose.
The high keel sheathed his sword. And what purpose might that be?
Sy-wen cowered a bit. After their reaction to her knife, maybe it would be best 
to leave Shaman Pinorrs theory unspoken. But all their eyes were upon her.
A sudden knocking at the door saved her from answering. Bilatus opened the door 
to an excited crewmate. The man pulled off his soaking hat as he entered, his 
eyes excited. High Keel, sir. Its the Dragonspur. Words come across the 
storm. Her masts been lightning struck. You kin even see her sails aflame!
Hunt glanced to his father. Thats Shaman Pinorrs ship. Again Sy-wen found 
all their eyes upon herand for the hundredth time, she wished Kast were here.
Behind Pinorr, cries of alarm echoed down the passageway. Shrill frightened 
voices mixed with barked orders. Pinorr ignored them and continued through the 
narrow corridors toward the ships bow. The bodies of Jabib and Gylt must have 
been discovered. He quickened his pace, sensing that if he slowed, the fire in 
his blood would fadeand this was not a night for cool heads or wise counsel. 
What festered aboard this boat could only be cleansed with flames.
Suddenly, as if the gods had heard his thoughts, thick smoke billowed down from 
an open hatch somewhere behind him. Pinorr coughed. He smelled burned wood and 
again heard snatches of bellowing voices. His pace slowed. He turned back the 
way he had come. Past the smoke, a hatch slammed shut amid frantic calls for 
help. Overhead, the tread of running feet clattered as men fled the galley just 
above him.
The entire ship was being roused.
Pinorr could almost smell the desperation behind the smoke. Something was wrong, 
something more urgent than even murdered crewmen.
Pinorr glanced at his bloody sword and the limp length of braid in his left 
hand. Was this commotion a new trick of Ulsters? Something staged to distract 
the crew while the keelchiefs minions disposed of the shaman?
He gripped his sword tighter; its hilt felt right in his fist. Whatever alarm 
had been raised, for whatever reason, it was no
longer his business. He was no longer the Dragonspurs shaman, nor even her 
warrior. This night Pinorr was the gods vengeance given form and steel.
Continuing toward the lone cabin in the forward section of the bow, he marched 
toward where, if Pinorr judged the keelchief correctly, the craven cur would be 
ensconced in his own cabin. Pinorr tightened his grip on his sword. He would 
enjoy seeing the keelchiefs expression when the man learned his assassins had 
failedthough in all likelihood, the sight would be Pinorrs last. For whether 
justified or not, Pinorr had no misconceptions that he himself would be spared 
for his attacks. It was forbidden for a ships shaman to touch steel, and it was 
death to draw blood.
Still, Pinorr knew his duty. Ultimately, the spiritual fate of the ship rested 
in his hands. He could no longer allow Ulster to befoul its decks.
Finally, Pinorr reached his destination. Stopping before a wide door banded and 
studded in iron, he waited a single breath. Then he raised his sword and pounded 
its hilt on the frame.
A voice snapped at him. I know of the fire! Im coming!
Pinorr blinked at this response. What fire? Before he could ponder the mystery 
any further, the door flew open. Ulster stood before him, pulling into a jerkin. 
Half dressed, the keelchief froze when he saw who stood in his doorway.
Neither man moved for several strained heartbeats.
Finally, Pinorr tossed Jabibs braid across Ulsters boots. It was the gesture 
of a warrior for a leader, a token of a kill done to protect the ship. The 
bloody tail slapped the planks like a length of soaked kelp. I believe this 
belongs to you, Pinorr said coldly.
Ulsters eyes flickered toward the braid, but his gaze remained mostly on the 
sword. It was clear that the keelchief was more shocked to see Pinorr with a 
sword than he was concerned for his first mates fate.
What have you done, Shaman? he asked with a note of horror.
What I should have done long agocut away a festering canker before the disease 
spreads to the rest of the fleet.
Ulster backed from Pinorrs sword. In his hurry, the keelchief had forgotten to 
don his own weapon belt. It hung from the back of a chair in the room.
Pinorr followed Ulster, step for step, words pouring out that had
been bottled in his heart. I loved your father. It was only his memory that 
kept my hand in check for so long. But when your brother Kast arrived, I finally 
recognized how little of your fathers blood runs in your own veins, Ulster.
The keelchief spat bile to match Pinorrs fury. Not like my father? Ulster 
laughed harshly. And you think these words insult me! The old man was more like 
me than you could imagine, Shaman. Were you at my side when my father lashed me 
bloody after my defeat in a sword spar with Zinbathis son? Were you there when 
my broken ribs were wrapped after one of his savage beatings? Or how about when 
the burns on my arms peeled and cracked for an entire moon? Ulster pointed to 
the doorway. Behind closed doors, men whose faces you think you know can 
change, Pinorr. Only I saw my fathers true countenance, the one he hid from the 
rest of the crew.
Pinorr stumbled a step at such lies. How dare you blaspheme your fathers 
memory!
You were always blind, Shaman. Though you may have been gifted with keen sea 
senses, my fathers heart was kept hidden from you. Ulsters gaze narrowed. Or 
were you just too scared to look deeply? Did you suspect what lurked there, but 
feared losing such a skilled leader? 
Pinorr stopped his pursuit of Ulster across the cabin. As much as he would wish 
to deny it, Pinorr could not disavow how hard the old high keel had ridden his 
son. But he had never suspected such depths of wrath. But your brother?
Kast? Ulster snorted. The bastard escaped before the worst, leaving me to 
face our fathers anger alone. The fire seemed to die in Ulster, like a spent 
candle. I can never forgive him for that.
Pinorr had to struggle to keep his own anger lit. Whether your story is true or 
not, what right do you have to wreak your fathers old savageries upon my 
family?
Ulsters eyes never left Pinorrs. Because you had the power to stop my father. 
He would have listened to you, Pinorr. Ulsters voice cracked, then hardened 
back again. But instead, you only looked out toward the glories on the 
horizons, rather than at the evil that stood beside you. So do not seek sympathy 
in me. Ulster turned and reached for his sword belt.
V> L E, Mt,

Stunned by his words, Pinorr could only watch numbly as the keelchief drew his 
weapon.
No longer will I let you ignore the evil of my father. Ulster faced Pinorr 
again. What it forged stands before you now. With those words, Ulster lunged.
Pinorr barely had time to raise his own sword. Steel clashed steel. Luckily, 
Ulsters attack was guided by anger more than skill. Still, Pinorr fell back 
under the assault. The keelchief was younger and stronger of limb. It was only 
Pinorrs instinct from his warrior days that kept Ulsters sword from his belly.
Pinorr fought desperately. The furious fire that had ignited his blood earlier 
had waned to mere embers. How could he righteously despise that which his own 
hand had helped forge? Pinorr retreated. His left foot slipped on the discarded 
braid of the first mate. He toppled to the deck, his sword clanging out of his 
grip as he hit the floor.
Ulster towered over him now, sword raised. His eyes glowed red with rage, his 
breath ragged and panting.
Pinorr knelt up to face his death.
The keelchief looked him in the eye. You should have heard my cries, Shaman.
Pinorr nodded once, briefly. Youre right, Ulster. Im sorry.
The anger in the young mans face twitched with confusion. His sword arm 
trembled as he held the weapon poised.
Raising his face higher, Pinorr spoke quietly. But Im also not your father, 
Ulster.
The keelchief shook his head and stepped away, his brows tight, his gaze shaky. 
I know youre not my father
Its not too late to try to heal what he wrought. Pinorr saw the pain in 
Ulsters stance. I can help.
Swinging toward Pinorr again with wild eyes, Ulster laughed and pointed his 
sword. You think you can help me? If you knew all, youd curse me as resolutely 
as my father did during one of his rages.
I wouldnt, Pinorr insisted, sincere in his words. He persisted in an attempt 
to reach the young mannot to save his own life, but to salvage what was left of 
Ulsters. Will you let me try?
Ulster lowered his swordbut only slightly. His eyes had narrowed to slits. Do 
you know how your son died? Sheeshons father?
Pinorr flinched from Ulsters words. The keelchief touched upon an old wound 
that had never completely healed. He he died during the Kurtish clashes. He 
took an ax in the brow. Pinorr had no desire to revisit that memory. A black 
pigeon had brought word to Pinorr from the far coast as Sheeshons mother had 
labored in birthing. When word reached the struggling woman, she wailed, and 
something broke in her. Blood poured over her thighs. She died shortly 
thereafter, almost stealing away the life of her daughter, too. Wh-why do you 
ask, Ulster?
Ulster leaned closer. It was my hand that wielded the ax. Pinorrs eyes flew 
wide. No!
Ulster leered. It was an easy thing. I thought little on it. During a skirmish 
aboard the Broken Fang, I discovered myself alone with your son. He turned to 
me, a smile on his blood-splattered face, the thrill of the battle bright in his 
eyes. But it was that grinproud, boastful. I couldnt stand it. So I buried my 
ax in his face. But even as he fell, the bastard still smiled.
The horror must have been clear on Pinorrs face. How how could you?
Ulster leaned nearer. Now that you know the truth, do you still wish to heal 
me, Shaman?  he asked with disdain.
A growl of pain exploded from Pinorr. He lunged at Ulster, knocking aside the 
blade, and tackled the man to the floor. Ulster gasped as he struck the planks. 
His head struck the wood with a resounding blow. Dazed, his sword fell free of 
his grip.
Pinorr did not wait. He snatched up the dropped blade, and using both hands, he 
raised the weapon and plunged it through Ulsters chest. The blade passed 
cleanly between his ribs and dug deep into the boards beneath. But Pinorr shoved 
even harder, his arms shaking with exertion. He drove the sword until its hilt 
was pressed hard into Ulsters chest. Dark blood welled around the hilt. Unable 
to push any farther, Pinorr fell atop the keelchief like a spent lover. How 
could you?  Pinorr cried in his ear, tears blurring his vision. He was like 
your own brother.
Ulster choked on blood, but still he struggled to answer. That that was why I 
killed him, Shaman. The keelchiefs gaze grew dull. He was like my 
brotherhappy and proud. I could not stand to see that light in anothers eyes.
Pinorr shook with sorrow and rage. Sobs wracked his old frame as he rolled off 
Ulsters chest.
The keelchiefs head lolled to face Pinorr. He spoke through bloody lips. I 
couldnt stand to see what was stolen from me. Ulsters voice faded, but his 
eyes found Pinorr. You should have judged my fathers heart as severely as you 
judged my own. You should have listened for a young boys cries from behind 
closed doors.
Ulster continued to stare at Pinorr. It took a long moment for Pinorr to realize 
Ulster had died. He reached with trembling fingers and closed the young mans 
eyes. Youre right.
Pinorr pushed slowly to his feet. He stared at the dead man. His legs were numb 
under him. I will mourn the boy you once were, Ulster, but I still cannot mourn 
what you became. I cannot mourn that death. Pinorr turned away, emptier than a 
hollow bone. He staggered from the room.
Shutting the door of the keelchiefs cabin, Pinorr turned and traced his way 
back up toward the deck. He would blame all the bloodshed discovered here on 
mutiny. His lie would be believed. None would question a shaman too closely. 
None would dare look too deeply.
Blindness, he had learned this night, was often self-inflicted, a defense 
against what one wished not to see. He wiped the blood from his hands as he 
walked the corridors, rhythmically rubbing his palms on his shirt.
Pushing out the hatch, Pinorr found the decks awash in flame. The aft mast was a 
torch in the stormy night. As Pinorr looked on, crewmen with axes chopped the 
burning mast free and toppled it into the sea. Steam hissed and writhed as the 
fire was extinguished, and the charred section of mast sank under the waves.
A cheer arose from the gathered men and women. The ship had been saved from 
certain death, the danger cut away and flung into the sea.
Someone finally spotted Pinorr.
Mader Geel crossed to him, her gray hair blackened with ashes. I think the 
worst of the storm has struck. But that was too close, she said with a tired 
grin. We almost lost the ship to the fire. But what a glorious sight it was! 
Flames leaping and dancing in the rain. Pinorr nodded slowly. Yes, evil often 
wears a handsome mask.
Sy-wen stood at the rail of the Dragonsheart. The high keel con-ferred with his 
son, Hunt, on her left. On her right, Bilatus grasped the rail with one hand in 
a white-knuckled grip while clutching his robe tight to his neck with the other. 
Wind bit at them. Rain stung exposed flesh.
You can smell the smoke on the wind, Hunt said. He still carried little 
Sheeshon under one arm. She clung to his neck.
But at least theyve put the fires out, the high keel noted. He swung to 
another crewman. Order the pilot to swing us about. We should see how 
theDragonspur fares.
The crewman nodded and dashed off across the slick deck. Thankfully, the storms 
fury seemed to be dying down. Lightning only flickered across the skies along 
the far horizons, and the roar of thunder had faded to a pale echo of its former 
fierceness.
Turning her back on the wind, Sy-wen saw that Ragnark still lay unmoving on the 
deck. Thick oiled ropes trussed his frame to mast and stanchions. Her heart 
ached to see such a majestic beast laid low and bound.
The high keel must have noticed her gaze. You mentioned earlier that dragons 
blood will reveal how our two people are alike? 
Not just alike, Sy-wen mumbled. We are xkyesame. We are one tribe.
Bilatus huffed. Impossible. Look at you. Webbed toes, webbed fingers. He shook 
his head in disbelief.
Sy-wen glanced at the three men. I had hoped that I could convince you, that 
youd honor your old oaths. But Shaman Pinorr spoke wisely. He knew youd doubt 
my words without actual proof. Hunt spoke up. What do you keep hinting at? 
What proof? Sy-wen chewed her lips. Id best show you. She crossed toward the 
slumbering black giant and slipped the dagger from her wrist sheath.
Once at the dragons side, she ran her free hand along an edge of wing and sent 
a silent apology to her mountand to the man inside. Before fear slowed her 
hand, Sy-wen stabbed the dagger into the beasts flank. She gasped as fire 
exploded in her own side. But she knew it was only a phantom pain, a whisper of 
shared senses with the dragon.
By now, the others had circled behind her, still keeping a wary distance. Only 
the high keel braved a step closer. Are you injured? he asked with true 
concern, noticing her pained expression.
Sy-wen shook her head and pulled free her dagger. Dragons blood welled over its 
blade. She flinched slightly and rubbed at her own side. The burn quickly 
subsided. Turning, she faced the others and held forth the fouled knife.
So your dragon bleeds like any man, Hunt said. How is this any proof of your 
claim?
Its not, she answered. Not by itself.
Confusion shone on all their faces.
Sy-wen felt a coldness settle over her. She suddenly balked at doing what Pinorr 
asked of her. The knife trembled in her hand, blood dripping from its tip. But 
she knew she must not fail here. Too much depended on her. She raised her face 
to Hunt. To prove my claim, I will also need Shaman Pinorrs granddaughter.
The young first mate of the Dragonsheart glanced to his father. The high keel 
nodded. Hunt detached the small girl from around his neck. He crossed to Sy-wen 
and knelt with the girl in his arms. What purpose does this child serve? he 
asked.
Shaman Pinorr sent her as proof of his support. Sy-wen raised the knife and 
plunged it into the girls chest. And as sacrifice.
Sheeshon cried out, her tiny arms spasming wide.
Hunt reacted quickly, jumping back and pulling the child free of the dagger. 
Before Sy-wen could move, she found a sword at her throat. She dropped the 
dagger; it clattered on the deck. With her role complete, the strength drained 
from her. Sy-wen dropped to her knees. I I had no choice.
The sword stayed at her throat, borne by the high keel. What foulness is this! 
he bellowed at her, leaning over her. You come seeking a boon from us and think 
killing an innocent will win our hearts?
Tears ran down Sy-wens face as she looked up. It was Shaman Pinorrs idea. 
Sy-wen watched Hunt carefully drape the child, now unmoving, on the wet deck. 
Bilatus crouched nervously beside the pale girl.
You lie! the high keel snapped. Pinorr would not order this. Stories of your 
people were always cruel! But I had never suspected the depths of your 
depravity.
Father! Hunt called out. The child lives! The high keels son knelt over the 
girl. He had ripped open Sheeshons shirt. With a scrap of the childs shift, he 
wiped away the blood from her pale chest. Her skin lay unblemished. There is no 
wound! Sy-wen sobbed in relief. Its the dragons blood. Bilatus nodded his 
head. Blood from such a beast is valued for its healing properties. But it is 
forbidden for the Drerendi to use such a cursed balm. It is one of our oldest 
dictates. The sea gods forbid it.
Hunt rubbed the childs wrists. Sheeshon still lay limp on the deck. But if the 
blood kept her from injury, why doesnt she wake?  he asked, concern in his 
voice.
All their eyes swung toward Sy-wen.
The high keel lowered his blade from her throat, but the fire in his voice was 
still present. He would not end her life until he had answers. What have you 
done?
I already told you. It was Shaman Pinorrs plan. He knew a blade drenched with 
dragons blood would not kill his child. The magick would protect her from a 
mortal wound. But I dont understand Sy-wen waved to the limp girl. She 
should be hale, uninjured. I dont know why Sheeshon wont wake.
What was supposed to happen?  the high keel demanded. Deaf to his words, 
Sy-wen stared at the pale child. Pinorr placed too much trust in the ancient 
tales passed down among our elders stories of the birth of our people. The 
first merai, our forefather, was said to have been forged by a savage mixing of 
Drerendi and dragons blood. And to this day, dragon magick is still necessary 
to maintain our current forms. Sy-wen waved her webbed fingers. Merai who are 
banished from the seas eventually lose their unique features and become like 
ordinary men and women.
I dont understand, Hunt said. What are you suggesting?  Before Sy-wen could 
answer, a gasp arose from Sheeshon. The girl twitched on the deck. Her arms 
batted feebly at some unseen menace. Then her eyes fluttered open. Hunt helped 
her sit up. Sheeshon stared at those gathered around her, then down at her 
chest. She rubbed at the spot where the knife had struck. It tickles here, she 
said.
Sy-wen let out a startled gasp of relief. Sheeshon! Thank the Sweet Mother.
The girls palm wandered to her face. It tickles here, too.
Sheeshon ran her fingers along her left eye and down her cheek to her lips. She 
smileda full grin, not lopsided. The side of her face that had been dead and 
slack had come back to life, also healed by the dragons blood. Sheeshon must 
have felt the change. Her hands rose and cupped her cheeks, her eyes full of 
wonder.
A sudden gust of wind blew across the ship, and quicker than the flutter of a 
birds wings, clear inner lids snapped up within Sheeshons eyes, protecting the 
childs vision against the sting of rain.
Sy-wen gasped. She was the only one close enough to witness the
event.
Whats wrong? the high keel asked, noticing her startled
reaction.
Sy-wen pushed off her knees and crawled closer to the girl. She was too stunned 
to hope, too shocked to articulate.
Hunt went to reach for his own sword in defense against Sy-wens approach, 
obviously fearing she meant the child further harm. But the high keel waved him 
off.
Reaching the girls side, Sy-wen tenderly picked up Sheeshons hand. Pinorr was 
right, she whispered.
Right about what? the high keel asked.
Sy-wen lifted the childs hand and spread her fingers wide. Small webs now 
traced from finger to finger. The blood of the dragon! It has made her merai. 
Sy-wen turned to the high keel. Here is the proof of our shared heritage. 
Dragons magick can still transform Drerendi into merai. We are one people!
The portly shamans voice filled with awe. No wonder the gods forbid us to 
touch dragons blood.
Sy-wen stood and pointed to the girl, who was now playing with the folds between 
her toes and giggling. Can you deny it now? Can you not see we are one people?
The high keel glanced from the dragon,back to the girl. His eyes were bright. 
It it could be some trick, he said warily, but his voice was unsure.
Sy-wen winced. What more could she do to convince him?
Overhead, the clouds parted, blown apart as the storm rolled away from the 
fleet. A bright moon shone down, almost as bright as the sun after the storms 
gloom. Everyone glanced upward, bathing in the moonlight.
Nearby, Hunt suddenly moaned.
The high keel and Sy-wen turned his way. Hunt still knelt beside Sheeshon, but 
the tiny girls ringers now brushed across the young mans cheek. The tattoo of 
a diving seahawk seemed to glow with her touch. Again Hunt moaned.
Sheeshon mumbled familiar words to Hunt, old blood oaths from the ancient past. 
I have need of you.
Hunt stood, pulling the child up in his arms. I am yours to command, he 
answered.
Bilatus stepped back. Its the ancient spell. The binding of our two people!
Hunt began to drift toward the rail.
The high keel went to stop him. Hunt, what are you doing? The young mans 
voice was dulled by the magick. I must return Sheeshon to her papa. I have been 
ordered.
Sy-wen touched the high keels arm. Do not try to stop him. Once bound, he must 
complete his mission. After Sheeshon is back with the shaman, the spell will 
break, and your son will be free again. Sy-wen recalled her own dealings with 
Kast. But in the future, I suggest that Hunt keep his tattoo covered when 
around the child. Or he will find himself running many errands for her. The 
high keel nodded, hesitant. Get a skiff ready for Hunt. With the storm dying 
down, the seas were still humped with swells, but the waves were not as fierce. 
Sy-wen glanced to starboard and saw that the Dragonsheart had already pulled 
near the fire-ravaged Dragonspur. Even from here, in the bright moonlight, 
Sy-wen spotted the familiar robed figure of Pinorr.
Sy-wen turned back to the high keel. Do you believe me now?  He turned hard 
eyes on her. You leave me little choice. Relieved, Sy-wen sighed. So will you 
reconsider your refusal to aid the merai in the battle to come?
The high keel remained silent, glancing over the seas at the many other ships of 
the fleet. Moonlight turned the waves to silver around his boat. We are one 
tribe, he said quietly, amazement thickening his voice. How can I refuse my 
brothers and sisters? That is not the Drerendi way.
He turned to face Sy-wen and placed a hand on her shoulder. His next words were 
spoken firmly and solemnly. We will join you, Sy-wen of the merai. We will 
honor our old oaths.
Kast struggled through darkness back to the light. He blinked against the glare 
of the sun. The taste of the air, the scent on the wjndhow long had he been 
asleep? He somehow sensed that more than a single night had passed.
A yell of warning burst out too loud, too near his ear. He felt a scurry of 
activity around him.
Wincing against the noise, Kast pushed up on one elbow. Where was he? Blinking 
away the suns glare, he found himself naked and draped in wet ropes. He shook 
free of the slick cords. Overhead, sails billowed in a fresh wind. The smell of 
salt helped clear his head.
It took a moment for Kast to recall his last memory: the frantic flight through 
stormy skies and his struggle to control the dragon. He sat up as memories 
flooded back. The last he remembered was the tumble through the skies and the 
crash upon the deck of the Dragonsheart. But what of Sy-wen?
As if in answer to his hearts fears, a door flew open only a short distance 
away. Sy-wen stepped forth. She stared at him, a hand at her throat. Her face 
was deeply lined with worry and fatigue. A breeze caught her hair and blew it 
into a green sail about her face. Kast found himself choking in relief. Tears 
welled up in his eyes. She was safe.
Crying out, Sy-wen rushed toward him. Thank the Mother, youre all right. 
Ignoring his nakedness, she fell into his arms.
Wh-what happened?
Two other figures crossed from the open hatch. One was the robed figure of 
Shaman Pinorr, but beside him hobbled another familiar silver-haired elder. 
Master Edyll? Kast gasped with shock.
Im not sure this walking on hard surfaces is natural, the elder grumped as he 
finally reached their side, but he wore a smile of amusement.
Pinorr studied Kast, cocking his head one way, then another. It seems you are 
correct. The blood of another dragon finally healed Ragnark and allowed the 
stunted spell to release.
Master Edyll nodded. But I had not thought it would take so long.
Another dragon? Kasts brow crinkled in confusion. I dont understand. t
Sy-wen pulled back, but she kept one hand on his shoulder as if afraid he would 
vanish like the dragon. You and the dragon were injured. You were both lost to 
us. But a draught of blood from my mothers dragon, Conch, was used to treat 
Ragnark. The injuries healed, but we still werent able to revive you or break 
the spell to release you. Sy-wens voice cracked. I thought you lost forever. 
She fell back into his arms, but not before striking him hard in the shoulder. 
Dont ever do that again!
Kast hugged her tight. Gods willing, Ive no intention of ever leaving you 
again. But just where are we? He pushed to his feet with Sy-wens help. Someone 
tossed a rough blanket over his shoulders, but Kast scarcely bothered to draw it 
over his nakedness. He was too stunned by the sights he discovered around him.
All about their ship, the seas bloomed with scores of white sails, spread from 
horizon to horizon. It was the entire Drerendi fleet! But the true miracle was 
what else shared these same waters. Among the many boats, hundreds of dragons 
plied the waves, like jewels strewn across the seas blue surface. In the 
distance, even the humped backs of the giant leviathans rose like living islands 
from the seas.
We are only two days out from the Doldrums, Sy-wen commented softly. We 
should just make the rendezvous with the witch.
You did it, Kast said in hushed tones, still staring at the spectacle before 
him. You brought our two peoples together. All the Drerendi. All the merai.
Sy-wen clung to his shoulder and pulled the blanket around them both. She 
burrowed tight to him, sharing her warmth. Yes, but Im more relieved to bring 
this one Drerendi and this one merai back together.
Kast grinned down at her upturned face. Their smiles melted away as they 
recognized the passion in each others eyes. He leaned down to her, his lips 
brushing hers. I have need of you, he murmured, then kissed her deeply.
SARGASSUM

Elena knelt in the hay. In the dimness of the ships hold, the gray mare seemed 
more ghost than flesh. After six days at sea, the horse was still skittish, 
shying from everyone. Elena held out a slice of apple. Cmere, Mist. Thats a 
good girl, she urged in soft whispers. The mare refused to step nearer, even 
for her.
Sinking into the hay, Elena knew why Mist still balked from coming closer. Elena 
had grown a head taller and fuller of figure. She was not the same girl who had 
combed and curried the mare since she was a foal. The abrupt change in Elenas 
appearance and the strangeness of the boat all tweaked the small horses 
edginess. The mare panicked whenever Elena neared, refusing even to recognize 
her scent.
From the neighboring stall, Errils horse, the snow-dappled Steppe stallion, 
huffed and pawed at his hay. Of hardier stock, the larger horse had adjusted 
quickly to the roll and lurch of the Pale Stallion. And the tall beast knew that 
any apple refused by Mist would end up in his own feed bucket. So the stallion 
was more than happy to see Elena fail.
I have enough for both of you, Elena called out sadly to the other horse. Even 
her voice made Mist skitter back a pace. Elena sighed. For the sixth morning in 
a row, she had failed to coax the mare to her. Though she understood the horses 
trepidation, it still upset her. Mist was a member of her family, and to be 
shunned like this wounded her deeply. The mare had always been there to comfort 
her when she was in pain.
And now more than ever, Elena needed to be comforted. The loss of Erril was 
still as raw as the day she had awoken aboard the ship, a dull ache in her heart 
that made the sun less bright and food bland and unappealing. Others tried to 
help, but no one understood. No words could ease this pain. The others thought 
Erril no more than her guardian, some knight who was more sword than man. They 
thought she had only lost some weapon, not a man who shared her heart.
Also, the others were all too busy with their own activities to offer any real 
compassion. Flint was constantly harried with running the ship and directing his 
sailors, the dark-skinned zool warriors. Meric, though not as busy, was 
distracted by the appearance of his queens sunhawk. His eyes were always on the 
horizon, and when Elena happened to catch his attention, he was stiff and formal 
with her. Even her brother, Joach, seemed more interested in discussing his 
staffs magick than in understanding Elenas pain. Only Tolchuk and Mama Freda 
offered Elena any real warmthbut neither was family.
If only Aunt My hadnt left on her own quest Elena could use the womans 
practical advice. Aunt My always knew what to say. For the thousandth time, 
Elena wondered how the others fared: Fardale, Mogweed, Krai. Now with Erril 
gone, too, it felt as if everything was falling apart. Elena stared sadly at 
Mist.
The scuff of heel on wood drew Elenas attention around. Beyond the stalls 
gate, a short man stood, peering in at her. His eyes glowed in the single 
lantern hung on the stalls post. Elena felt a flicker of fear, a shiver of tiny 
hairs. It was one of the zool pirates assigned by their guilds leader to man 
this boat. The dark-skinned sailor, his chest bare, wore only a set of 
knee-length breeches.
Can I help you?  she asked, her voice sharp and curt as she tried to hide her 
nervousness. Besides the two horses, Elena was alone in the hold.
Without an invitation, he swung the gate open, slipped in, and closed the 
stalls door behind him. Elena heard the latch click.
Quickly pushing to her feet, Elena brushed hay from her knees. With both her 
hands renewed with power, one from the sun, one from the moon, there was little 
she needed to fear from this man. She touched her magick, and it gave her the 
strength to straighten
and face the intruder. H-have you come to change the horses bedding?  Elena 
frowned at the crack in her voice.
The sailor held out an open palm. Elena backed a step away. Mist huffed at her 
movement.
Elena stared at the man. The zool sailors understood her language but seldom 
spoke. He just stood there, arm out. The man had a shaven head, except for a 
tail of black hair that ran from the crown of his head down his back. Feathers 
of azure and rose adorned his hair. His eyes, lit by lantern light, shone a deep 
jade. But his most striking feature was the design of pale scars that 
crisscrossed his dark forehead. Each of the four black-skinned sailors were 
marked with a different design, their meaning known only to the zool. This 
mans symbol appeared to be the edge of the sun peeking above a horizon, or 
maybe an eye just beginning to open. Elena found herself staring at it, 
transfixed.
Motion drew her eyes back to his raised arm. In his palm, there now rested a 
bright red apple. Elena blinked at the sudden appearance. Where had it come 
from?
The zool, still expressionless, stepped toward Elena.
She moved aside warily, but he passed her without a glance. The sailor 
approached the nervous mare, a whistling tune flowing from his lips. Mist pawed 
at the hay, clearly ready to bolt away. The man continued his approach, slightly 
more cautious but still whistling softly. Mists ears pricked at the tune, her 
head cocking slightly as if listening.
Soon the man had reached the mare and offered the apple. Mist sniffed at it, 
then pulled back her fat lips to nibble at the fruit. Elena could hardly believe 
the sight. No one had been able to approach the mare. Elena watched as the 
tension in the horses withers relaxed. Even Mists tail, which had been 
slashing back and forth, settled to a more contented swish.
The small sailor reached and rubbed the ridge between the mares eyes. It was 
Mists favorite spot to be scratched.
The man nodded for Elena to approach. She hesitatednot from fear of the man, 
but in trepidation at spooking Mist. Still, he persisted, his brow wrinkling 
with his demand.
Slowly, Elena drifted closer. One of the mares eyes rolled to watch her 
approach, but Mist made no motion to bolt. Elena reached the horses side.
The sailor shifted the apple toward Elena. Mist followed the half-eaten fruit 
with her nibbling teeth. He placed the apple into Elenas hand, and Mist 
continued her meal. With his palm now free, the sailor took Elenas other hand 
in his own and drew it up to replace the hand that scratched and rubbed the 
mares brow.
Once Elena had taken over his role completely, he stepped away. Soon the apple, 
core and all, was gone. Mist sniffed at Elenas gloved fingers, looking for 
more. Elena glanced to the sailor. He indicated for her to remove her glove.
She did. Mist snuffled her bare palm. Then the mare seemed to tense. Elena 
braced for the horse to bolt, but instead, Mist pushed her nose firmer into 
Elenas hand. A soft whinny of joy flowed from the horse. Mist stepped into 
Elena, rolling her head into her chest, sniffing and rubbing. She was asking for 
Elena to hug her.
With tears rolling from her amazed eyes, a small laugh escaped Elenas lips. She 
hugged her mare, arms tight around her neck. Elena buried her face against the 
horse. Mist had finally recognized her, remembered her.
Crying now, Elena hung on the horse, almost too weak to stand. As her nostrils 
filled with the scent of horse and hay, she was home again, at least for a brief 
moment. She rubbed and whispered nonsense to Mist, sometimes laughing, sometimes 
crying again. In her heart, the losses she had endured recently were still 
present, but a small bit of healing had begun. The ache could be shared in the 
warmth of the mare, in the remembrance of family, in the whisper of home.
Elena finally turned to thank the zool sailor. But the stall was empty. He had 
gone.
Tolchuk crouched by the ships prow as the sun crested toward midday. Salty 
spray misted over the bow as the Pale Stallion rode the waves. Once again he 
raised his heartstone toward the horizon. In the bright sunlight, the chunk of 
crystal radiated sharply, but little else. He frowned, baring his fangs, and 
pushed up with one of his long arms. He slowly turned a full circle, the 
heartstone outstretched in his other arm. Still the jewel failed to do more than 
glimmer handsomely in the midday sun.
Sinking back down to the deck, Tolchuk studied the faceted
stone. Ever since the Heart had led the ogre to Elena in the burning ship, it 
nad begun to grow quietno, not just quiet, almost dead. Tolchuk still sensed 
that the elemental power remained behind its facets, like the tremble in rock 
near an underground river. In the past, the stone had always guided him in some 
manner, given him some direction.
But now it was muted, dull.
Rolling the stone in his claws, Tolchuk prayed to his ancestors for guidance. 
With danger all around him, why had the Heart grown so silent? Tolchuk shook 
his head. Fingering open his thigh pouch, he began to burrow the stone inside.
May I see your jewel please? a voice said behind him. Tolchuk craned his head 
around to find the healer from Port Rawl standing at his back. The small 
gray-haired woman leaned heavily on a cane. The cool dampness of the ocean 
voyage did not seem to agree with Mama Fredas joints. She kept to her cabin 
mostly, wrapped in warm blankets, and only braved the decks when the weather was 
bright, like now. Though, in truth, her isolation was not as complete as it 
seemed. Her pet tamrink, Tikal, could often be found scampering through the 
rigging, nagging the sailors with its constant mimic. Tolchuk knew that Mama 
Freda was listening and watching through the beasts eyes and ears.
Please, may I just see your stone for a moment? she repeated. It be nothing 
but a bauble to you, he said with a trace of irritation. Why wish you to see 
it?
Mama Freda turned toward Tolchuk. Her lack of eyes made the bristles on his 
back quiver. Tolchuk turned his gaze to her true eyesthose of the tamrink. 
Tikal perched on her shoulder, his fiery cowl of fur framing two rich brown 
eyes. The pet blinked at him, tail wrapped tightly around the womans neck.
Cookie? it squeaked at him, digging at a large ear.
Hush, Tikal, the old woman scolded. Youve already eaten.
Mama Freda turned her attention back to Tolchuk. I would see
your stone. I smell a corruption in it. As a healer, I find it draws me.
Tolchuk hesitated, then passed the stone to her. Perhaps the old
woman might discover some clue to ridding the stone of the black
worm in its heart. Tolchuk explained the stones history to her and
its purpose in helping guide the spirits of his tribe on to the next
world. But the stone be fouled by a creature called the Bane, a
curse. The worm has trapped the spirits of my people and feeds on them to 
sustain itself. I go on this journey to find a way to lift the curse, to rid the 
stone of the Bane. Before rescuing Elena, the spirits in the stone guided me on 
my path, told me where I must travel but but now Tolchuks voice trailed 
off.
Mama Freda had listened to his story in silence, turning the stone one way, then 
another. Tikal bent down from her shoulder to sniff and eye the crystal. But 
what? she asked, obviously wanting him to continue.
But now the stone has grown silent. It guides me no longer. She nodded sadly 
and passed the stone back to him. It is no wonder.
Raising his eyes, his features tightened. What do you mean?  She patted his 
thigh and remained quiet for a moment. I can sense traces of life force in the 
stone, but they are faint. The corruption this Banefills almost the entire 
stone. She turned away and shook her head. Im afraid that these spirits of 
yours are almost gone.
What? Tolchuk clenched the stone as his own heart trembled. He suddenly found 
it difficult to breathe. He raised the stone in disbelief, but in his chest, he 
felt the truth of her words. In some small corner of his mind, he must have 
known this himself. It was what kept drawing him atop the decks to check the 
stone. With the healers words, Tolchuk was forced to admit that the pull of 
the stone had been fading gradually over the past moon, ever since the trials in 
Shadowbrook. He could no longer deny it. The Bane was growing stronger.
Tolchuk stared into the stone. His own father was one of the spirits trapped 
within the crystal. If the old woman spoke truthfully, Tolchuks father, along 
with the rest of his peoples spirits, was now fading, consumed by the worm.
Mama Freda turned back to him, her expression pained, her voice a whisper. I 
had not thought to bring you such dire news.
Tikal reached out a small paw and touched Tolchuks cheek. Cookie, the beast 
said mournfully. Bad cookie. Tikal pulled back his paw and sucked his thumb, 
pulling tight to Mama Fredas neck. Mama Freda lifted an arm to comfort 
Tolchuk, but something in his face must have warned her that no solace could 
ease this wound. Im sorry, she said and turned away.
Tolchuk remained on deck, hunched over his stone as the sun
shone brightly. If the spirits were fading, who would guide him now? He glanced 
to the horizons. Was there even a reason to continue this journey? With the Bane 
near triumphant, was there any
purpose?
He stared up into the merciless sun. Tears welled in his eyes. His heart was as 
hollow as his stone. He silently cursed the trio of ancient ogres, the Triad, 
who had sent him on this futile mission. Had he not suffered enough alreadyborn 
a half-breed and cursed with shame of his ancestor, the Oathbreaker? Must he now 
bear the loss of
his peoples spirits, too?
Tolchuk raised the stone between him and the sun. He stared into the dark 
interior of the stone. Behind the glinting facets, he saw the true source of all 
his anguishthe slow churning of the black worm.
Growling deep in his belly, Tolchuk squeezed the stone until its sharp facets 
cut into his palm. Blood dripped from his claws and down his arm to splatter on 
the damp deck.
Though no longer guided by the stones pull, Tolchuk would not forsake his 
journey. Even if he should fail to rescue the spirits of his ancestors, he 
promised himself one thing: Before he died, he would find a way to destroy the 
Bane! That he swore on his own blood.
We should reach the Doldrums by the next morn, Flint an-nounced. He glanced 
around the table in the small galley, studying the faces of his companions. Each 
evening, they all met to plan and discuss the upcoming day. I had hoped to hear 
some word already from Sy-wen and Kast, but we can only hope that theyre on 
their way to the rendezvous point with the ships of the Drerendi.
Joach glanced to his sister on his right, then back at Flint. What if the 
Bloodriders dont come?
Then we will continue the journey to Aloa Glen with just the merai. He 
leaned both fists on the table. We cannot wait. The Blood Diary must be 
retrieved before the Dark Lord gathers more
forces.
Elena spoke up. But only Erril knows um, hnew where the
book was hidden.
Not exactly, Flint answered. All knew the book was hidden in the catacombs 
beneath the Great Crypt, but the tome is protected in
a spell of black ice that cannot be breached without the proper key. It is that 
key that Erril has kept an enigma. Flints eye settled on the iron fist 
resting on the table. But I can guess Errils secret. He placed much value on 
retrieving the iron ward. I believe its magick is the key to unlocking the spell 
that holds the book safe.
But youre only guessing, Meric said from the other end of the table, disdain 
ringing clear in his voice. I say we wait until the queens armada arrives from 
Stormhaven. With the elvin warships
Your queen will be too late, Flint answered, cutting him off. Our best chance 
for success is a quick assault. We cannot let another moon pass, or the enemy 
will be firmly entrenched. Flint drove his fist into the table. Whether we 
gain the support of the Bloodriders or not, we strike now or lose any chance for 
success.
Sitting opposite Elena and Joach, the ogre grunted his approval. It was the 
first time Tolchuk had spoken during the evenings discourse. What be your 
plan, Brother? 
A simple one. The merai and their dragons will lay siege to the island, 
distract the eyes of the darkmages, while a small team slips past the islands 
defenses. I know of a hidden way into the catacombs, a passage known only to my 
sect. Gods be willing, it should be unguarded. Flint stared at the others. But 
this night, we must settle who will accompany Elena and me to the island.
Elena glanced around the table. I see no reason we need any others. Flint will 
guide me, and my magick will protect us. The fewer who come, the better. .
Im going, Joach declared sharply. He turned to face his sister. Father told 
me to watch over you, and I will not let you walk into that nest of vipers 
without my staff to protect you.
Elena shook her head. It is the darkmages staff. He may sense when it is near, 
especially if you call forth black magicks. You will draw the mages to us like 
lodestone to iron.
I can give it my blood. Transform it into the blood stave before we leave. Your 
witch magick will keep the staffs darkness hidden.
Flint watched Elenas mind try to fathom other ways around this problem. Flint 
ended her consternation. Joach should come with us. His magick may help us 
forge a path to the book or cut a swath of escape. We dare not limit our 
protection.
For the same reason, I must also go with Elena, Meric an-
nounced. I will not let the last of our kings bloodline end here. My skill 
with the wind will help keep her safe.
As will my strength of arm, Tolchuk added.
Elena stood, shaking her head. No. Too many will draw attention.
To guard you, four is not too large, Flint said softly. He could read the fear 
in the young womannot for her own life but for the others. He recognized the 
look of hopelessness in her eyes. The death of Erril had struck her too deeply. 
Flint rubbed his eyes. Curse the man for weakening the witch when her strength 
was most needed. Why had he challenged that foul statue on his own? Sighing, 
Flint lowered his hands and crossed around the tables corner. He knelt beside 
Elena. We offer our lives not for you, but for Alasea. You have no right to 
tell us to sit on our swords while others struggle to throw the yoke of the 
Gulgotha from our necks. Four is not too large.
Neither is five, a quiet voice said at the table. All eyes swung toward Mama 
Freda. She sat straighter in her chair. My skill with healing may prove of more 
value than the sharp edge of a sword.
Flint smiled and reached to pat the womans wrinkled hand. I appreciate your 
offer, but Ive seen you walk the deck with your cane. In this venture, speed 
will be vital.
Mama Fredas lips turned hard and thin. Do not belittle me, old man. Here on 
this ship, I merely conserve my strength. But among my potions is a draught used 
by warriors of my home jungles to heighten their reflexes and staminaan elixir 
combined from heart-root and hemlock with a pinch of nettlebane. Fear not. Its 
potency will keep me at your heels on any excursion.
Frowning at her words, Flint nodded. He turned to Elena. A healer would be of 
aid. It could make the difference in saving one of our team.
Elena waved her arm in submission, but she was clearly not happy. Fine. Let her 
come then.
Flint settled back to his own seat. With that settled, we should all get a good 
nights sleep. Tomorrow will be a fateful day.
And let us pray, Joach said as he scooted back the chair, that Sy-wen and 
Kast were successful in their search for the Bloodriders.
Flint watched the others mumble amongst themselves and drift away. Only Elena 
refused to move. She still sat hunched over the table. Flint studied her in 
silence.
Finally, Elena raised her face. Have we lost already?
What do you mean?
Prophecies all said that Erril would be the one to take the witch to the 
bookbut he is gone. How can we succeed when even the tides of fate work against 
us now?
Flint slid over to the empty seat beside her. Only blind fools trust 
prophecies.
Elenas eyes grew wider.
He smiled. I know. Strange words coming from a Brother of the prophetic order 
of Hifai, but true nonetheless. Most prophecies are not chiseled in granite. 
Theyre often just the shadows flickering on the walls of caves, vague glimpses 
mtopossible futures. But the future is like ice. It may appear solid and 
unchanging, but with the slightest heat, it flows and pours into strange new 
channels. He reached and squeezed Elenas hand. We are not without choices. It 
is our actions that will forge the future, not the words of some long-dead 
prophet. Only a fool bows his head to the fates and lets the ax falland you, 
Elena Morinstal, are no fool.
But Erril?
I know, child. He was a good friend of mine, too. But even he made his own 
choices when he decided to investigate the ebonstone statue. Do not let his 
mistake take your future away. You are strong enough to forge your own path.
I dont feel so strong, she mumbled.
He tilted her face until she met his gaze. There are depths to your heart that 
you are blind to, Elena, but that others can sense. That is why Erril cared 
deeply for you. You were more to him than just someone to guard. The shock on 
her face drew a sad smile from Flint. For those who knew how to look, his heart 
was plain as is yours, young lady.
Elena twisted from his grip. I dont know what
Do not deny what your heart cries loudly. If you are ever to heal from this 
loss, you must admit its depth. Only then can you move ahead. He patted her 
hand and stood. It is late. Think on my words. Now is the time to grieve for 
all youve lost, grieve honestly. Only then will your heart be truly healed, 
only then will you be ready to move on. To forge a future, you must be staring 
ahead, not behind.
Elena glanced up at him, tears moistening her eyes. I will try.
I know you will. Like Erril, I too sense the depth of strength in
your spirit. You will succeed. With those words, he strode away,
leaving Elena to tend her grief.
Elena felt numb, as if her body were not her own. The old
Brothers words burned in her mind. What had Erril truly meant
to her?
In the past, she had refused to acknowledge her feelings. Even when his presence 
had fired her bloodthe touch of his hand, the brush of his breath on her cheek, 
his crooked smileElena had dismissed her reactions as inconsequential, as 
something childish. How could Elena dare consider herself worthy of a man who 
had lived for
over five centuries?
But Flint had judged her correctly; she could not deny her own heart. In the 
past, she had labeled her warm feelings toward the plainsman as merely the 
familial love for a father or a brother. But Erril had meant more to her.
Elena confronted her true heart for the first time in the empty room. I loved 
you, Erril. Her voice caught on his name, cracking. By speaking those words 
aloud, something in Elena broke. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and wracking sobs 
shook her frame. Elena collapsed upon the table, face cradled in her two gloved 
hands.
It was as if a dam had burst within her heart. Walled-off emotions flooded her: 
sorrow for never speaking these words while Erril was still alive, shame at her 
cowardice, rage at Erril for leaving her too soon. But mostly a profound sense 
of loss washed over her. She could now admit that it wasnt just Erril who had 
died aboard the pirates ship, but the secret dreams of her heart as well.
Finally understanding the nature of the pain that had strangled her heart, Elena 
allowed herself to crynot just for Erril, but also for herself. She hugged her 
arms around her chest, rocking slowly in her seat. Her sobs and tears flowed 
from her unchecked. She did not try to rein them in. For now, she let herself be 
weak.
The passage of time became meaningless as grief overwhelmed her. Her fingers 
found a pocket and pulled forth the length of leather cord. It was the scrap of 
dyed leather that Erril had once used to tie back his lanky hair. She pulled it 
to her lips. The scent of smoke and fire still clung to it, but under this 
reminder of his death there still
remained a hint of Standish loam and the salt of his sweat. Taking the length of 
red leather, she slowly braided it into her long tresses. Silently, she said her 
good-byes.
It was time to release the ghost that had haunted her.
With her heart still bruised but healing, Elena wiped the last of her tears. She 
had lost any sense of the nights passage. It seemed that dawn must be near, but 
she was not sure. Slowly she became aware of soft music wafting though the open 
doorway behind her. It arose from somewhere on the upper deck. Her spirit was 
drawn to the mournful chords. It spoke to her own loss.
Elena straightened in her seat as the music wrapped around her. She knew the 
instrument that sang with such a sorrowful voice. It was Neelahns lute, carved 
from the last of the nyphais dying trees. Its notes reminded her of the other 
companions not here Mycelle, Krai, Mogweed, Fardale. Without even knowing she 
had moved, Elena was on her feet. She was called toward the music like a moth to 
flame.
In the strum of strings and echo of wood, Elena heard the whisper of her 
deceased friend. Neelahn had given her own life, like so many others, to bring 
light back to Alasea, but death was not what the ghost mourned in the whisper of 
the strings. It sang softly of the wonders of life. It whispered of a cycle of 
death and rebirth. In the flow of chords, sadness and joy were mixed.
She stepped into the cool of a late summer night. The stars shone brightly, and 
the sails flapped sluggishly as they caught the occasional stronger breeze. 
Moonlight bathed the damp decks in silver. Near the prow, Meric sat, leaning 
against the rail, the lute in hand. He seemed to be staring up at the moon as he 
played. Near his feet, the young boy Tok sat mesmerized by the elvins music.
Under the stars, the power of the strings and wood swelled. Elena was lost in 
the wonder of its song. Where the reminder of Neelahns death should have 
heightened Elenas grief, the opposite proved true. Elenas eyelids drifted 
lower. She let the music soothe her aching heart. Death was not an end, the lute 
sang, but a beginning. A picture of green life springing forth from seed bloomed 
in her minds eye.
The music guided her feet toward the ships prow. Tok mumbled something as she 
neared, but his voice could not break the spell. Elena soon found herself at the 
rail, staring out across the seas. In the
distance, ghost trees seemed to sprout from the waves, as if the music had 
conjured a forest to appear. Elena smiled at the sight.
Suddenly, under her feet, the decks trembled, and the ship lurched harshly. 
Elena came close to tumbling over the rail as the boats course abruptly slowed. 
She clutched the rail with a gasp.
The lutes enchantment shattered as Meric flew to his feet. He joined Elena at 
the rail, searching the waters. He clutched the lute by its fragile neck and 
brandished it like a weapon.
Tok had clambered to the other side of Elena. What happened? In the distance, 
the ghostly forest had not disappeared with the lutes music. In the moonlight, 
it became clear that whatever lay ahead was as real as their own flesh. Elena 
stared at the tall boles sprouting from the seas. Their fronded tops waved in 
the silvery light. Thousands of trees filled the horizons. It was as if they 
were about to sail into some drowned forest.
By now, Tok had climbed atop the lower rail and was bent over the top rail to 
stare at the waters under the keel. Look at this! Elena and Meric joined him. 
The boy pointed below. What is that? Meric asked.
Elena shook her head. To either side of the ship, the waters were thick with a 
red vegetation. It seemed to choke the dark waters all
around them.
Flint suddenly appeared behind them. It is sargassum weed. His voice was not 
fearful, but oddly bright. It grows heavy in this region, trapping many a boat. 
Thats why few come this way. One must know the safe channels through the weeds 
or be forever lost.
So why are we here? Meric asked.
Glancing over her shoulder, Elena saw Flint staring toward the ghostly forest. 
He seemed deaf to the elvins words. His voice was far away. Ahead lies the 
expanse of the sargassum forest. Only the foolhardy venture there.
Elenas eyes narrowed. Where are we?
Flint nodded toward the trees. The Doldrums.
As HE RESTED IN THE DARK CORRIDOR, GrESHYM CURSED THE LOSS OF
his old staff for the thousandth time this night. He leaned heavily on the oily 
length of his new poiwood staff. The fresh stick was still
weak in its power. He had been too busy to bathe the rod in virgins blood, 
sanctifying it for the blacker arts. Presently, it could hold only the mildest 
spells. The original, lost somewhere in the drowned bowels of Aloa Glen, had 
been honed for three centuries into a dire tool of black magicks, and over time, 
it had grown to be an extension of himself. Its loss wounded him deeply, as if 
one of his own limbs had been hacked off.
Scowling at the fates above, the bent-backed mage continued his trek through the 
crumbling heart of the citadel of Aloa Glen. He kept his route circuitous 
through its lowest levels. He did not care for prying eyes to know his comings 
and goings this morning. He had to be cautious, keep his true purpose hidden. 
But he was well accustomed to this game of masquerade. Just a moon ago, Greshym 
and Shorkan had disguised themselves in white robes and pretended allegiance to 
the Brotherhood hidden here. His centuries of subterfuge among those white robes 
would serve him well this morning among the black. Before the sun fully rose, he 
had two allies to meet; one who had already been forged to his cause and one who 
would still need convincing.
With his joints aching and his head pounding, Greshym finally reached the barred 
double doors that led to the Edifices row of dank cells. He paused to rest, 
studying the iron door.
While the Brotherhood had held the island, the cells had been seldom used. Only 
the occasional drunken cook would be looked away until he sobered. But after the 
Praetor had wrested control, the dungeon had been reopened in all its bloody 
glory. Shorkan had collected all the white-robed Brethren and corralled them 
into the cells. Then he had gone to work on them. The screams had echoed from 
these shadowy halls for almost an entire moon. Those who couldnt be converted 
into illguard or bent to the Black Hearts will were fed to the demon spawn or 
spent as fuel for the creation of black spells. It seemed there were never 
enough hearts for all the spells Shorkan wished to cast.
Sighing, Greshym tapped his staff on the iron door of the dungeon. A small 
peephole opened. Eyes studied him. Greshym did not bother speaking. He was well 
known by all the dog soldiers who manned the key stations of the keep. Greshym 
had made sure of that, He heard the scrape of a key in a lock and the shift of 
bars. The door swung open.
As he passed through, he waved his hand before the guards hel-jneted face. 
Forget all who passed this way. None entered the dungeon this night.
None entered the guard repeated dully. The quick spell of influence would 
keep the guard forgetful of his movements. It was a crude spell, but Greshym had 
already primed and worked on the key guards so that a small push was all that 
was necessary for them
to do his bidding.
Greshym continued down the short stair. Let Shorkan busy himself with the bigger 
schemes. Let him gather dire forces and work black magicks as he prepared for 
the arrival of the witch. With the Praetor diverted, Greshym devised his own 
small magicks.
In only four days, the moon would rise full again and the plot to unbind the 
Blood Diary would commence. Greshym must succeed before that happened. When in 
the company of Shorkan or that nefarious boy Denal, Greshym continued to voice 
his eagerness for destroying the book. He wet his lips and plotted along with 
the others. But in the blackest corners of his heart, he knew he must thwart 
them. The book must not be destroyednot until he gained the magick to return 
his youth.
Anger built up in his chest. Both the boy and the Praetor had been gifted with 
eternal vigor and vitality. Neither was marked by the passage of centuries, 
unlike Greshym. Though he could not die like ordinary men, his body continued to 
rot from his bones. He shunned mirrors to avoid glimpses of his wrinkled and 
bent form. He was no more than a walking corpse.
Greshym shook his head. Only the Blood Diary could correct this injustice. With 
the cursed tome in hand and wielding a spell he had learned from ancient 
scrolls, Greshym knew he could return vitality to his decaying body. But if the 
book was destroyed firstif it was unboundall would be lost.
He must not let that happen. If it meant betraying the others, so be
it. He would have his youth back.
At last he reached the bottom stair and spotted his first quarry of the night. 
The slim figure stood nervously under the single lamp in the dungeons empty 
guardroom. His brown limp hair and small mustache were familiar, though now his 
eyes bore a hollowness that had not always been present. The poor golem had been 
sorely abused of late.
Greshym pushed into the room. Rockingham. Did you have any trouble getting here 
unseen?
No. Rockingham shifted his feet. He kept his arms wrapped around his chest as 
if his limbs alone could keep the Dark Lord from knowing of the treachery that 
was plotted here. Greshym knew the man was a dark conduit to the Lord of 
Blackhall. The golem had once carried foul creatures under his skin but had now 
been infested with an evil even fouler. In his hollow chest, the mans heart had 
been replaced with a chunk of ebonstone blessed with the magic of the Weir. 
This tiny Weirgate was too small to allow the Dark Lord himself to pass here, 
but it was large enough for his black Spirit to enter the man and peer through 
Rockinghams cracked ribs.
Are we alone? Greshym asked, nodding toward Rockinghams chest.
He is not with me for the moment.
Good, Greshym said. Now tell me what you reported to Shorkan.
Rockinghams pale face grew whiter. You you said youd give me a sample of 
what you promised.
After you tell me what you know, Greshym said as he leaned in closer. He had 
bought this ones loyalty with a simple treasure. What have you learned?
The few sea goblins who did not flee after the death of their queen succeeded 
in following the witchs boat. It has sailed south of the Archipelagos 
islands.
Do they seek to flee?
I dont know. Once they rounded the Blasted Shoals, the boat entered waters 
that even the drakil fear entering, seas choked by a forest of floating 
vegetation.
Yes, the Doldrums, Greshym commented. Wise move. It would be hard to trace 
them through the sargassum forest. But what of the merai and their dragons?
No word.
Greshym scowled. If only the witch would attack before the full moon, he 
grumbled. Any distraction would suit my needs well. He turned to face 
Rockingham. Anything else?
Only one thing Something you will want to hear.
Greshyms eyes narrowed. What?
Rockingham tugged at his mustache nervously but shook his head. First what you 
promised.
Greshym clenched his fist around his staff. He had needed an ear among those who 
plotted against the witch. After he had lost Elenas brother, Shorkan had cut 
him off from the main flow of information. Rockingham, his old companion, 
however, now filled that role. At first, Rockingham had balked at sharing what 
he knew, but every man has a priceand Rockinghams was cheap. Greshym bought 
information with information, an even exchange. Greshym wanted to keep updated 
on the whereabouts of the witch, and Rockingham wanted the darkmage to fill in 
the gaps of his own memory. It seemed lately that Rockingham had been getting 
disturbing glimpses of a life he could not recall. Like bubbles rising to the 
surface, strange smells, snatches of conversations, and other bits and pieces of 
fragmented memories had been rising to the surface. Rockingham wanted Greshym to 
bring forth his memories in full. He wanted to know who he had once been. 
Please tell me, he begged.
I will give you one more piece of your past, but until I have the Blood Diary 
in hand, you will never know your complete heritage. Serve me well, and I 
promise you that all will be made clear.
Anything Tell me anything.
Greshym had to choke back a laugh at the mans desperation. I will tell you 
this, Rockingham. It was not without merit that the Dark Lord sent you as 
emissary to the sea goblins. In ways, you are
not so unlike them.
Rockingham scrunched up his brow. What nonsense is that? You
give me riddles when I ask for answers.
Greshym shrugged. That is all you will get. Bring me information that will put 
the Blood Diary in my hands, and I will sit and tell you your lifes history in 
full. Otherwise, bring me scraps and that is all you will get in turn. Greshym 
pointed his staff at Rockingham. Now tell me what else youve learned.
Rockingham seemed hesitant, but Greshym stared him down. Do you never want to 
know the mystery of Linora ? the darkmage teased.
The womans name had its usual effect. Rockingham jolted with its mere whisper. 
His eyes filled with agony; his fists clenched in
frustration. Greshym waited. He knew the womans hold on the fools heart was 
still as strong as ever. Love truly blinded a man. Even when the physical 
memories were obscured, the emotion still remained to bind the heart with 
thorns. Greshym smiled at Rock-inghams pain.
The golems shoulders finally sank, defeated.
So what else have you learned? Greshym repeated. I wont ask again.
Rockinghams voice was dull. Shorkan has moved the date of the books unbinding 
forward by one day.
What? Greshym could not keep the shock from his voice. Rockingham shrugged. 
He has perused some ancient texts and determined that the stars are in better 
alignment on the first day of the full moon, rather than the second.
Greshyms vision dimmed. All his careful plans would have come to naught if this 
vital piece of information had been kept secret. For a moment, Greshym wondered 
if Shorkan suspected his betrayal. But Greshyms vision cleared. Impossible. 
Shorkan had his nose too buried elsewhere to notice the bent-backed mage. No, 
this slight in not informing Greshym was just another example of the Praetors 
lack of interest in the wrinkled old mage.
Greshym would eventually teach the fool how blindness kills. Turning to 
Rockingham, Greshym waved him off. With a day less to plan, he did not have time 
to tarry with the golem. Keep your ears and eyes open, he warned. If you have 
more information to trade, you know how to reach me.
Rockingham stood another moment, wringing his hands, clearly wanting to beg for 
more substantial answers. Finally, though, he nodded silently, turned on a heel, 
and disappeared up the dark stair. Greshym waited until the iron door above 
clanged shut, then turned to face the door that led to the prisoners cells. He 
still had one more meeting this morning, one more ally to hire. But he did not 
worry overmuch. As with Rockingham, he knew this mans price.
Crossing the room, he pulled open the thick oaken door. The smell of human waste 
and dried blood assaulted his nose. He took a moment to choke back the rising 
bile in his throat. Once ready, he entered the dungeon proper.
As he walked, he passed rows of small doors on the left, so low that one had to 
crouch to enter. From beyond some of the doors,
small moans and sobs issued. None slept in these cells. Terror kept ones eyes 
pried open. As he clopped by one door, something huge slammed into the wood; an 
inhuman mewl erupted from the beast. It had smelled his blood. Claws scraped at 
the wood. It was hard to believe that what lurked behind that door had once been 
a man. Greshym shook his head. Shorkan had grown in skills. Greshym stopped 
before the next door. Here was his goal. Bending with a slight groan, Greshym 
moved his staff to the crook of his stumped arm, freeing up his hand. He pointed 
a finger at the &#9632; lock and twisted his wrist. The catch snapped open. Greshym 
smiled. He too had his skills. Shoving the door open with his staff, Greshym 
crawled into the cell.
What are you doing here? a voice inside growled. Greshym straightened and 
kicked aside a rat. Your brother does not treat you well, Erril.
The plainsman spat at Greshym but could do little else. Naked except for a 
soiled loincloth, Erril was trussed by chains to the far wall. Shorkan could 
not kill his brother; Erril was too vital to the unbinding spell. But neither 
did he care if his brother suffered until then. Fouled in his own filth, bruised 
from beatings, and smelling of disease from where the iron cuffs had cut into 
wrist and ankles, the once-proud plainsman appeared a beaten man.
Shorkan had ordered Erril strung up in chains mostly to restrict the man from 
killing himself. The Praetor could not let that happenat least not until after 
the book was unbound.
Greshym leaned his staff against the wall and slipped a dagger from his robe. He 
himself had no such qualms. Errils death would mean the book was forever safe 
from Shorkans spell. Greshym watched as Erril eyed the blade, almost hungrily. 
But Greshym dispelled such hope. This is not for you, Erril. You are worthless 
to me dead.
You might as well kill me now, Erril said hoarsely. I will never help you 
unbind the book.
Greshyms eyebrows rose. Who said I wanted you to? I have less of an interest 
in seeing the book destroyed than you do. As a matter of fact, I come to make 
you a proposal.
Errils eyes narrowed warily. His lips cracked as he spoke, blood dripping down 
his chin. And what might that be, traitor?
I offer you your freedom. Greshym waved his dagger about the rank cell. 
Unless you have grown fond of your accommodations?
Do not toy with me, foul one.
It is no idle offer, Erril. I want the Blood Diary for myself, and you are the 
only one who knows the secret to unlocking the spell that protects the book. 
Its that simple. Free the book, hand it to me, and I will free you.
And why should I trust a traitor?
Because I am your only hope. In three nights, Shorkan will unbind the Blood 
Diary and kill you afterward. That much is certain. So what do you have to risk? 
Even if I betray you, you are none the worse off. But if I speak the truth, you 
will have your freedom though the book will be kept from Elena. You can run 
back into the arms of your little witch. And who knows? Maybe someday I will 
tire of the book and gift it to her. I have no love for the Black Heart. Let her 
take on the Gulgotha. What do I care?
Errils brows darkened. Greshym knew the plainsman balked at joining in any 
such bargain with the enemy, but the man was no fool either. Danger or not, it 
was a chance to do something. Erril had lived as a warrior all his life. How 
could a swordsman decline an offer to shake free of these chains and at least 
attempt to fight for his cause? Greshym knew Errils decision even before the 
plainsmans gaze confirmed it. What do you propose? Erril asked, fire 
returning to his tired eyes.
Greshym smiled. Every man had his price.
Taking his dagger, Greshym sliced a small sliver from his new staff. Let me 
show you.

At dawn, Elena stood with the others gathered along the ships bow rails. The 
Pale Stallion drifted toward the sargassum forest, its bow parting the red 
seaweed before it. Elenas nose curled. The vegetation reeked of brine and 
decaying roots, and the odor grew more pungent as the ship delved deeper into 
the Doldrums. In the distance, from beyond the tree lines, gulls and nesting 
terns warned them back from the forests edge.
Overhead, the sails had been reefed on Flints orders. He had said the sea 
current would propel them from here. His words proved true. The pace was slow 
with the weeds choking their progress, but Flint seemed to know where the 
vegetation grew less thickly. Positioned around the boat, the zool sailors 
called orders to one another in their foreign tongue. Manning the wheel at the 
stern, Flint listened and seemed to understand. He made tiny adjustments in the
rudder.
As warning against any mistakes, the hulking ruins of ghost ships dotted the 
seas. Rotting behemoths, half submerged in the weeds, spread to all horizons. 
Nearby, a section of a mast poked through the red vegetation, a scrap of stained 
canvas flapping from its tip as they passed, as if begging for release from this 
choking death. It be a haunted place, Tolchuk grumbled. Meric agreed. A 
long-neglected graveyard. About them, the chatter among the zool sailors died 
down as the line of forest grew. A hush descended over the party. With the sun 
rising, the trees ahead lost their ghostly haziness. They towered
twice the height of the Stallions masts, but their trunks seemed too thin to 
support the waving canopy of branching fronds.
Look! Joach said, pointing up toward one of the trees. Unlike the inland 
forests, these growths sprouted leaves the color of sunset, burnt orange and 
pale rose. A stray breeze fluttered the foliage. Buried among the leaves, 
delicate flowers were also revealed, so darkly red they appeared almost black. 
Those must be the flowers Flint told us about, Joach continued. The ones his 
sect harvested for sleep powder.
Elena nodded and stared as their ship slipped into a narrow channel through the 
wood. According to Flint, the forest was not exactly composed of trees. Each 
tree was in reality a single shoot from the mass of red weeds, fronded growths 
thrust up to better catch the suns light. But entering the forest now, Elena 
doubted his words. It was as if they drifted along a river that had only flooded 
its banks, swallowing the roots of the surrounding trees. The open seas seemed 
far away, a figment of some terrible dream. The world was now trees and water.
As if to enhance this effect, in the distance, hillocks of red weeds sprouted so 
densely that they appeared almost like land. Upon some of these matts, other 
flowering plants had taken seed. One tall hill was covered with what looked like 
yellow-petaled daisies. Elena even spotted a small furred animal scampering 
across one of these patches, its bushy tail sticking straight up. It darted up 
into a tree and vanished as their ship passed.
Its hard to believe were in the middle of the ocean, Joach said.
Mama Freda nodded. It reminds me of sections of my own jungle home back in 
Yrendl. In some regions, the rainfall is so constant and heavy that the jungle 
has become swamped like this.
But is this place safe? Meric asked grimly. We could be easily trapped here. 
Why did that old man pick this place to meet up with the merai?
He must have his reasons, Elena said.
Flint spoke up suddenly from behind, startling them. Their conversation had 
drawn him from his wheel. Fear not, he said. For those who know the Doldrums, 
there is no safer place to hide a large force. This maze of channels, trees, and 
weeds has hundreds of exits and escape routes. But for those who dont know its 
paths, it can be a deadly trap.
And you know this forest well? Tolchuk asked.
Aye, the sect of the Hifai, my order, has mapped these lands in detail. 
Besides the sleep powder, it is a bounty of botanical treasures. Flint gazed at 
the surrounding trees. But there is another reason I chose this rendezvous 
spot.
They waited for elaboration, but Meric grew impatient. Why?
he snapped.
Flint waved an arm to encompass the forest. These trees may appear like those 
that grow on land, but its a deception. Each tree here sprouts from a common 
rootthe sargassum weed. All around you are not individual trees but one single 
growth. This entire region the submerged weeds, the entire forestis all one 
creature. Elena stared out at the wide landscape. A creature? Flint nodded. 
In its own way, it is as intelligent as you or I. But it has a very foreign 
mind. It existed here before anyone stepped foot upon the shores of Alasea. It 
measures its life in centuries, as we measure days. The passing of a mans life 
is but a blink in its long existence. We are but gnats to this great giant.
So why are we here? How does this help us?
Long ago, centuries before the Gulgotha plagued our shores, a Brother of the 
Green Order, Brother Lassen, made contact with the intelligence here. They 
conversed. Unfortunately, the forest thinks and speaks as it livesover winters, 
instead of breaths. Just their initial greeting took one decade in the Brothers 
life. Their entire conversation consisted of four sentences and took six decades 
to complete. The entire time, Brother Lassen had to sit quietly in the heart of 
the Doldrums. Food was brought to him. He slept between syllables of the giants 
speech. The poor Brother aged and died while saying good-bye and passing on his 
thanks.
What did they talk about? Elena asked. It must have been important to cost a 
mans entire life.
Flint shook his head sadly. No, their conversation consisted of a discussion of 
the weather. Nothing more. Meric scoffed. Foolish waste.
Perhaps, but the forest here respected the mans death. It seemed to sense the 
sacrifice the man made to simply acknowledge and pay his respects. Ever since, 
these lands have been a welcome haven for any of the Brotherhood. It has learned 
to be more responsive, listening for us. It now protects and cherishes us. There 
is no safer place.
How do you know it will protect us now?
Flint pointed to beyond the ships stern. It has heard my silent pleas, and 
even as we speak, it hides our path from those that might hunt us.
Elena turned. The channel behind the ship had vanished. Trees and matts of weed 
blocked their way back to open waters. They were now surrounded by the floating 
forest, swallowed within its belly.
Elena hugged her arms tight around her chest and gazed out at the landscape of 
draping trees and hills of weed. She tried to absorb all she had heard. So the 
forest was all one creature, some strange intelligence who viewed the lives of 
men as mere flickers of a candles flame. Elena stared out at the endless spread 
of trees. It seemed to stretch forever. Elena was lost in the enormity of the 
beasts size and life span.
She glanced to her brother. Joach shared her same expression.
Flints revelation had been meant to ease their worries.
It had failed.
ROCKINGHAM KEPT VERY STILL. K.NEELING ON THE THICK WOOL CARPET
in the Praetors study, he tried to shrink into the background as the trio of 
darkmages argued. With his head bowed, he concentrated on the whorls of reds and 
golds in the rug under his knees. His calf muscle cramped, but he ignored it. He 
knew better than to massage the limb or even to shift to accommodate the cramp. 
A spasm of pain was nothing compared to drawing the gaze of the Praetor. So he 
sat frozen and listened as his fate was discussed.
He had brought word this morning from his drakil spies. The witchs boat had 
been discovered entering the sargassum forest of the Doldrums region, 
inhospitable waters even for the sea goblins. The drakils had refused to 
follow.
We need further information, the boy mage argued in his childish voice, 
sibilant and whining. Denal, a sandy-haired youth, lounged in one of the 
overstuffed chairs, kicking his heels against one of its legs.
Denal is right, Greshym agreed, grumbling a bit. We know they seek the 
merai. If they should join
There is only one thing the witch seeks, Shorkan said, interrupting starkly. 
His words frosted the air in the small tower chamber. She needs the Blood 
Diary. Let her scurry and gather scraps of supporters. I invite them all to come 
and dash their bones on our rocks. None can hope to penetrate the forces here. 
From the carnage, we will collect the Black Hearts prize, dead or alive, and 
deliver the girl to Blackhalls dungeons.
Greshym dared to argue. Shorkan, as long as Ive known you, youve always put 
too much trust in your power. Has the witch not shown that she and her 
companions are devious? Theyve defeated drakil forces and demon ravers. Only a 
fool would underestimate
her.
Watch your tongue, old man. The rooms warmth suddenly chilled. Those were 
minor battles, meant only to hinder her
progress.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rockingham glanced at the combatants. The Praetor, 
dressed in white robes, towered over Greshym. Small flames of darkflre danced 
across the pristine whiteness of his robe as he threw back its hood. Rockingham 
could not mistake the kinship of this fellow with his brother, Errila rugged 
face built of hard planes, piercing gray eyes, and hair as black as a moonless 
night. Before this ones youth and vigor, Greshym appeared like
some crippled beggar.
Still, the old mage stood steadfast before the gale of Shorkans anger. But 
what about her blocking the shipment of the ebonstone
Weirgate?
Only luck played a role in her victory there. Who knew Errils
iron ward had the magick to activate the gate?
But luck or not, she still thwarted you.
She did not thwart us, only delayed us. We still have plenty of time to 
establish the Weirgate at Winters Eyrie. It is only a minor inconvenience.
Greshym scoffed. You describe the fact that she almost stumbled
upon the Black Hearts ultimate design as minor}
They will never suspectat least not in time. The boy Denal added his voice to 
the fray. What of the other
Weirgates?
Shorkan seemed to regain his composure, his back straightening,
his spate of darkfire dimming. The gates at the South wall and the Northwall 
are almost complete. Once the witch is neutralized, either by killing her or 
unbinding the book, then none will have the strength to combat the Weir.
Perhaps, Greshym argued. But do not turn your back on this witch, or you may 
find her at your throat.
So what do you propose?  Shorkan finally relented. We attack her before she 
can gather her strength. Shorkan dismissed the idea with a wave of a robed arm. 
For now, she is too well protected. The forest will honor its pledge to our 
ancient Green Brother, Lassen. The sargassum weed will keep her hidden. We would 
waste forces hunting her in that watery maze.
Maybe not, Greshym said. Shorkan glowered at the crippled mage.
Greshym simply continued. Perhaps we could send an emissary whom the weed will 
take better to heartsomeone the weed will trust more than the companions of the 
witch. With the forest as an ally, it would be a simple thing to shred the 
defenses of our enemy and capture the witch. With the right emissary, we could 
forge the weed into a tangled trap. Greshyms gaze flickered toward Rockingham. 
Rockingham cringed. He had caught the meaning in Greshyms milky eyes. He was to 
be this emissary. A tremble began to build in his shoulders as he continued to 
kneel. What was the foul darkmage plotting?
Shorkan had the same concern. What is your scheme?
Greshym seemed to enjoy the sudden attention and interest of the other two 
mages. If we sent our dog here out with a stick, a token of our affection for 
the sargassum, it might listen to our plea for aid.
Speak plain. Out with it.
Greshym bowed his head in feigned obeisance. We must learn to use the resources 
that our ancestors conveniently stored here. Among the dusty relics of the 
Edifices libraries and storerooms, there are many unusual items of worth.
Like what? Denal asked, sounding like a child begging for a treat.
Like the old staff of Brother Lassen, Greshym answered. The old mage simply 
crossed his arms, as if this was answer enough.
So you propose to send this lackey out to the weed bearing Brother Lassens old 
staff as herald?
The weed will remember. Time moves oddly for the great beast. Though centuries 
have passed, it is only a handful of days to the sargassum. It will honor the 
man who comes bearing Brother Lassens staff. It will do his bidding.
Shorkan seemed to warm to this idea. He turned his back on the others and pulled 
up his hood as he contemplated. It is worth attempting. But our man here will 
need more support than a scattering of stray sea goblins. If we attempt this, we 
must strike vigorously. No more teasing and nipping at the heels of the witch. 
This time we strike with full force. Shorkan swung back to the others. Fetch 
Brother Lassens staff, he ordered Denal, then turned to Greshym. And you 
prepare your man for his role.
Greshym nodded as he stepped toward Rockingham. And what will you do, Shorkan?
Black flames again blew forth and coursed in rivulets of darkfire along the 
Praetors white robe. I will loosen a legion of skaltum from the islands 
defenses to go with the herald. We strike at nightfall.
Though Greshyms lips spread into a wicked smile at these words, Rockingham 
quaked. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. He feared the winged servants of 
the Dark Lord with their poisoned claws and shredding teeth. To be accompanied 
by a hundred of such demons was a terror beyond reckoning.
Greshym reached Rockinghams side and nudged him with his staff. Come. We will 
retire to my room.
Rockingham rose on numb legs and stumbled after Greshym. The Praetors room 
topped the westernmost tower of the Edifice. It was a long trek down. Once free 
of the chamber and upon the tower stair, Rockingham found he could breathe 
again. Denal, on his young legs, had long since disappeared into the descending 
gloom, leaving the crippled mage to struggle his way down on his own. Alone with 
Greshym, Rockingham finally felt free enough to speak. Wh-what is your real 
plan? I smell a plot behind the one you speak aloud.
Do not concern yourself with my plans, Greshym wheezed. Obey me in this 
matter, and what you wish will be granted. You will learn your true past, 
Rockingham.
And there is nothing you are willing to tell me now? Greshym paused at a 
landing. He leaned heavily on his staff, exhausted already by the steep descent 
of the winding stair. I will
grant you a boon. I will give you a question to ponder, a clue to your prior 
life.
Rockingham knew the old mage wanted him to beg. He did not care. He was long 
past worrying about such minor concerns as dignity. There was only one drive 
that kept him from flinging himself from a tower, and that was to discover the 
mystery of his past. Please tell me what you know. I beg this of you.
Greshym smiled. After dealing with the haughty Praetor, it obviously soothed the 
old mages wounded pride to have Rockingham bow and scrape before him now. I 
will grant you a farewell gift then. A riddle to ponder on your journey to the 
Doldrums. There was a reason we dragged you from your shallow grave up in the 
mountains after the witch defeated you the first time, a purpose in 
reinvigorating your corpse and making you our spy along the coast. But why? Why 
did we do this? What makes you so special? The answer is a clue to your past 
life.
Rockingham had to restrain himself from throttling the man. What clue was this? 
How was he ever to answer this dark riddle?
Amusement shone in Greshyms eyes. The sea is where you will find the answer, 
Rockingham. The sea is your clue.
Wh-what do you mean?
Greshym turned on a heel and continued down the steep stairs. Come. Half the 
day is already gone. By sunset, you must be off to set a trap for the witch. 
Greshym glanced back over his shoulders to where Rockingham still stood on the 
landing. And who knows what else may fall into our watery snare? Often the 
oddest things can be dredged from the sea.
With rage building in his chest, Rockingham followed, fingering the closed scar 
on his sternum. He sensed the corrupt shadow that lurked at the edges of his 
awareness. He let his fingers drop. No matter what horrible deeds had haunted 
his past, this punishment was still too steep a price. No man should have to 
suffer this fate.
On leaden feet, Rockingham traversed the stairs and made a promise to himself. 
Before he left this world, he would know his true past, know why he had been 
cursed with such a burden, and have his revenge on those who had yoked him to 
such a fate. This he swore.
P
gy MIDDAY, JOACH WAS ALONE ON THE DECK, EXCEPT FOR THE STRANGE
black-skinned sailors who kept the Pale Stallion languidly gliding through the 
endless forest of red-fronded trees. His other companions had all retreated 
below to escape the suns glare or to pursue individual goals.
Left alone, Joach had nothing but his own thoughts to occupy his time. He sat 
cross-legged in the shadow of the mast. His gloved hands kept rolling the dark 
staff across his knees nervously. He stared out at the passing forests edge. 
After learning that the sargas-sum weed was intelligent, Joach could not escape 
the sensation that the forest was staring back at him. Joach wet his lips. It 
was as if a thousand eyes examined him: every hair, every patch of skin. The 
sensation worsened the deeper into the forest they sailed. Was this the true 
reason the others had fled below? Had they sensed the immense presence judging 
them?
Something touched Joachs shoulder. He gasped and rolled away, his staff coming 
to his grip. He found himself staring up into the face of one of the zool 
sailors. This one was marked with a pale scar of a rising sun on his dark 
forehead. The fellow showed no sign of noticing the staff that Joach still held 
threateningly. Instead, he simply stared into Joachs eyes.
Feeling foolish, Joach lowered the length of wood. Im sorry. You
startled me.
The fellow nodded and waved for Joach to follow him to the starboard rail.
Not understanding but afraid to insult the fellow further, Joach followed his 
bidding. What is it? Joach whispered. With the sailor so silent all the time, 
Joach felt as if his own speech was loud and
crass.
The dark-skinned man turned back to Joach. Eyes watch us, he
said, struggling with their language.
Joachs skin crawled with these words. So the sailors sensed the forests 
presence, too. Its the trees, Joach said.
The small man nodded. Many eyes but one heart. He turned back to study the 
passing forest. It watches us as we watch it.
Brother Flint says it means us no harm. It barely knows were
here.
The zool made a noncommittal grunt. It knows, he mumbled. A long stretch of 
silence followed, each lost in his own thoughts as
the forest grew more dense around them. The leafy limbs now spread high enough 
to filter out most of the sunlight, an arched bower overhead. It was as if they 
floated down some shadowy tunnel.
Joach glanced sidelong at his companion. He realized that, during the many days 
at sea, he had never learned any of the black-skinned sailors names. They 
usually ate and lounged together, rarely socializing with the others.
The man turned to him. Names have power, the zool said plainly.
Joach could not hide his shock. It was as if the man had read his thoughts.
No, the man said, staring directly at Joach. The sailor traced the pale scar 
upon his dark forehead with a single finger. I am a tribal wizen. I see only 
what is written on a mans heart. The small sailor then reached and placed his 
palm upon Joachs chest. I read what is written here, not what is shadowed by 
thoughts.
Joachs face scrunched up as the sailor removed his hand. You mean emotions. 
You can sense anothers feelings.
The man shrugged and moved his hand toward Joachs face. He traced a symbol on 
the boys forehead, the same as marked the sailors brow. You are wizen, too. I 
sense your hidden eye.
Leaning away from his touch, Joach rubbed his forehead. He could still feel the 
trace of the mans finger. Joach realized the scarred symbol was not a rising 
sun, but an awakening eye.
The sailor continued to stare at him, waiting for an acknowledgment.
Joach found he could not deny the mans words. He knew the sailor would sense 
any falsehood. Yes. I have a talent like you. I can read the truth of dreams, 
see paths of the future.
The sailor bowed his head solemnly and remained silent for several breaths. 
Joach saw the mans lips move, as if in some silent prayer. Once done, he raised 
his face and lifted his arms openly. Fellow wizen may share names in 
brotherhood. I would share my name with you.
Joach bowed his own head. It would be an honor.
Not an honor the man intoned. A responsibility. To take a name is to accept 
a burden. The man slipped a hand into a pocket and removed a small object. I 
offer a gift for the weight of my name.
The man held out his hand. Cradled in his palm was a rare black pearl the size 
of a robins egg. Joach hesitated to accept such a precious offering, but the 
sailor shoved his hand brusquely toward the DOy. Joach sensed that it would be 
an insult to refuse.
Taking the pearl, Joach closed his fist around it. I accept your offering and 
your name.
The man bowed. I am called Xin.
As the sailor spoke his name, the pearl seemed to grow warm in Joachs fist, but 
it may have been just his own nervousness. He sensed that to this black-skinned 
sailor, a name was more precious than all the oceans treasures.
Xin straightened from his bow and looked expectantly toward
Joach.
Blinking, Joach realized he would need a gift to offer this sailor, too. He 
patted his pockets. Empty. He glanced at the staff. No, he was blood bonded to 
the length of wood. He could not part with that. Then he remembered. Pocketing 
the pearl, Joach reached to his throat and removed the dragon-tooth pendant that 
hung from his neck. It had been a parting gift from Sy-wen before she left to 
search for the Bloodriders with Kast. Joach did not think she would mind this 
exchange. It was done with honor.
Joach held out the dragons tooth. A gift for the weight of my name.
Xin nodded and accepted the offering.
Joach bowed, as the sailor had done. I am called Joach, son of Morinstal.
Xin placed the cord around his own neck, touching the dragons tooth to his lips 
for a moment. The white tooth shone starkly against the black hollow of the 
mans neck. It seemed to belong there.
We are brothers now, Xin said. We bear each others names in our hearts. 
Names hold power. When either heart needs the other, they must come.
Joach reached and clasped the sailors hand, understanding that a commitment was 
being forged here. We are brothers.
A commotion suddenly erupted near the bow of the ship. Breaking their handshake, 
both turned to see one of the zool sailors frantically point past the ships 
bow. He chattered in the tribal tongue of the zool.
Joach rushed forward with Xin.
Once at the bow rail, Joach saw the reason for the outburst. Ahead, the 
tree-lined channel ended in a huge expanse of open water. At first Joach had 
thought the ship had traversed the entire weed and that the ocean itself lay 
ahead. But he quickly realized his mistake. These waters were too still. Not a 
wave disturbed the glassy surface. As they floated closer, Joach spotted more 
forest through the mists on the far side of these calm waters.
It was not the ocean. It was a lake.
As Joach stared, the Pale Stallion drifted into the wide blue waters. Forest lay 
all around them, encircling their ship. With the channel closing behind them, 
soon there was no break in the continuous spread of weed, no path out from this 
weed-choked lake.
Joach sensed that they had just entered the sargassums heart.
Beside him, Xin motioned for his tribesman to go belowdecks and fetch the 
others.
Joach stared up at the open skies. After almost the entire day hidden by the 
trees, the full sun seemed too bright. Joach suddenly felt exposed. A knot of 
edginess formed in his chest.
Something comes, Xin said behind him.
Glancing to the small sailor, Joach saw that Xin stared up at the skies, too. 
Joach followed his line of sight. At first he saw nothing but thin, scudding 
clouds high overhead. Then the suns glare seemed to wane, and he spotted the 
small dark speck against a white cloud.
Joachs staff responded. Small flares of darkfire trickled along its length. But 
Xin touched his shoulder, calming him. I sense no threat only only Xin 
shook his head. It is too far away.
By now, others began to gather on deck. Flint crossed to them, Elena at his 
side. Joach pointed to the slowly circling beast up in the sky. He met Elenas 
glance and saw the matching worried look in his sisters gaze.
No one spoke.
Flint raised a spyglass to his eye and studied the interloper. Thank the Sweet 
Mother, he said, relieved. Its the dragon. Flint turned to one of the other 
zool. Light the signal fire. Let them know its us!
Elena clutched Flints shirtsleeve. Is it truly Ragnark?
Flint smiled. And Sy-wen. They made it.
Though relieved himself, Joach could not shake off the sense of unease. As a 
signal fire was lit among cheers from the others, Joach
remained at the bowsprit. He stared at the circle of forest. Xin remained at his 
side.
Joach glanced to the zool wizen. You sense it, too. Xin nodded. Many eyes 
still stare at us.
Overhead, a roar cracked across the sunny skies. Ragnark had spotted their 
signal fire. Joach shuddered. It sounded like an approaching storm.
Look! It was Elenas excited voice.
Joach drew his eyes from the forest to stare at the waters around the ship. 
Bubbles rose all around, disturbing the waters placid surface. It was as if the 
lake had begun to boil. Joach clutched his staff tighter. Soon hundreds of 
scaled heads surged forth from the salty waters. Dragons of every jeweled shade 
rose from hiding in response to the roar from Ragnark. The entire lake filled 
with their twining necks and humped backs. Atop the dragons, riders waved to the 
boat in a salute of greeting.
Overhead, Ragnark swooped over the boats masts. Another roar of greeting 
flowed from his black throat. The dragon slowly tilted on a wing above the 
gathered army; sunlight sparked off his pearlescent black scales as he turned. 
It was a wondrous sight. But just as a handsome face can suddenly reveal a 
malicious soul, Joach caught a glimpse of the horror hidden behind the 
jubilation.
Joach froze at the rail, his heart clenched in a knot. Sensing the boys 
distress, Xin touched his arm, but Joach could not move. His sense of foreboding 
trapped him.
I can read the fear in your heart, Xin said.
Joach found no words to describe the claw of dread that pierced his throat. For 
the briefest moment, as Ragnark had banked over the merai army, a phantom 
scene had appeared before Joachs eyes, overlaid atop the one before him now. He 
had seen the lake turn bloody, dragons writhing in death, the skies full of 
demons, the waters frothing with slaughter. But in a blink, the scene had 
vanished, leaving Joach frozen and bewildered.
He was no longer sure of what was real and what was imagined. Had the appearance 
of Ragnark somehow ignited his weaving talent? Had this horrible sight been a 
glimpse of the future? Ragnark, once a font of elemental magick as the dragon 
slumbered under Aloa Glen, was still potent with magicks. Even now, in the wake 
of the dragons passage, Joachs blood tingled with flared energies.
But magick or not, Joach also remembered his false dream of battling Erril atop 
a tower in Aloa Glen. With that clear mistake, he had no confidence in his 
prophetic abilities.
Joach touched his forehead, confused.
Xin whispered at him. Share, Brother. Spread the fear to loosen its hold.
The small mans calming words finally broke through to him. His voice trembled 
as he spoke. I I saw a massacre. I think we were betrayed.
Xin studied Joach for a moment, his head slightly cocked. Then he reached to 
Joach and again traced the awakening eye upon his forehead. You are wizen.
The steadfast gaze as Xin traced the mark on Joachs brow helped clear the 
muddle in his mind, and Joach suddenly sensed the truth of his vision. He turned 
toward the others gathered around the rails. Flint was wrong, Joach said, his 
voice growing as firm as his resolve. The sargassum weed is a trap.
Voices argued across the crowded galley table. Elena listened, one hand resting 
in her brothers as they sat beside each other.
The weed would not betray one of the Brotherhood, Flint insisted.
A tall stately woman frowned from across the table. She encompassed both Flint 
and Joach in her displeasure. Her skin was the color of ivory, while her hair, 
hanging straight and long, shone like a cascade of sunlight in the glow of the 
chambers torches. Elena recognized the similarity of features between this 
woman and Sy-wen, who was seated nearby with Kast. There was no question that 
this was their friends mother. I entrusted half of the merai forces to join 
you here in this sea of weeds. You promised it to be a safe haven. Now word 
comes of a trap.
Not word, Flint insisted. A vision. Even if the boys sight was truly 
prophetic, a weaving is only a possible view of a future, not a certain one. The 
future is fraught with many paths.
Elena heard the exasperation in the old seamans voice. The brief moment of 
jubilation at the arrival of the merai and their dragons had quickly ended when 
Joach had rushed from the foredeck to warn Brother Flint of some unknown menace 
in the forest. Joach
had described his vision of the attack upon their forces here. With such 
threatening news, Flint had quickly called an assembly of leaders to discuss 
their options.
As a representative of the Council of Elders, Sy-wens mother had been sent with 
the expeditionary force into the sargassum forest. She would speak with the 
voice of the merai. Kast, on the other hand, had been given the aegis to speak 
for the Bloodriders by their leader, the high keel. Since the Drerendi fleet 
was too large and cumbersome to traverse the weed, the Bloodriders had anchored 
on the southern fringes of the Doldrums to await the others. So far, Kast had 
added no word to this argument. He had just sat silently, stone faced, as the 
others argued.
Everyone seemed split on what to do. Flint had suggested they wait until he 
could at least study Joachs vision to judge its veracity. Meric, though, had 
insisted that Elena was too vital, that they should leave the sargassum now. 
Sy-wens mother had frowned even at the elvins plan. She spoke of not only 
leaving the sargassum, but of abandoning their planned assault on Aloa Glen 
entirely. It was as if all their careful plans were being shredded before 
Elenas eyes.
Glancing down the row of worried and angry faces, Elena knew that the fate of 
Alasea rested on what was decided in this room. Without a united army at her 
back, she would never retrieve the book from the clutches of the Dark Lord. And 
if the Blood Diary was not retrieved, Alasea had no hope.
Elena knew she must somehow find a way to unite this group. Kast finally spoke, 
clearing his throat loudly enough to draw the others attentions. Since he had 
yet to speak, they all listened raptly, hoping the Bloodrider would add his 
support to one of their individual sides. Kast leaned forward. Are you all 
blind? We must not hide! He turned to stare over Sy-wens head toward her 
mother. Have we not fled for generations from the Black Heart of the 
Gul-gotha? Are you not tired of tucking tail and running? If we ever mean to 
shake these foul shackles, we will have to fight sometime. Yes, men will die. 
Dragons will perish. Did any of you come here expecting otherwise?
Kast pointed to Joach. The boy has brought us a word of warning. I repeat: 
warning. Kast glowered at Flint. I care not if his vision tests true. He has 
warned us of an attack. Instead of testing him, we should prepare. An ambush 
only works if the victim is blind to it.
Forewarned, as we are now, we can pull the fangs from this beast, turn their 
ambush back upon themselves. Why flee? 
Elenas eyes grew wide with the Bloodriders passion. She found herself on her 
feet. Here was the ally she needed. Kast had forged an opening, and she must 
break through it. She slipped the gloves from her two hands. Kast is right, 
she said before anyone else could speak. She felt all their eyes upon her. If 
we flee, we run blind. Here, at least, we know what comes.
But what if Joach is wrong? Flint said.
Kast came to his feet, adding his support physically to Elena. So? Then we move 
on. It costs us nothing to prepare. Flint nodded, clearly considering their 
case.
Elena persisted. She could not let the momentum slow. There is another view 
that no one has voiced, she said. She glanced specifically at the cold 
countenance of Sy-wens mother. From the womans expression, the merai elder 
had been little swayed by Kasts words. Elena pointed toward Joachs staff. My 
brother is already touched by black magicks. What if his vision itself is a 
trap?
What do you mean? the elder said with disdain. What if the vision was sent by 
the enemy, meant to trick us into fleeing the safety of the sargassum? Maybe 
they know were hiding here and hope to flush us out by sending visions of death 
if we stay. They hope to send us fleeing into their true snare.
Joach stood, meaning to interrupt. Elena knew her brother meant to argue against 
her words, to insist his vision came from within himself. But that would just 
weaken her arguments. She glanced sharply at him and he held his tongue, adding 
his quiet support.
Elena went on. Joachs vision offers no clear path. Death can be awaiting us 
just as surely outside the forest as within. Kast offers us the wisest path: 
Proceed as if an attack is coming. Catch the enemy in its own snare.
Flint stood. Elena makes a good point. With danger possible all around us, we 
might as well make a stand here as any other place.
Though her countenance had paled, Sy-wens mother remained unconvinced. There 
is one safer place, she said. Under the waves. In the endless expanses of the 
Deep, the Gulgotha will have a hard time finding the merai.
Sy-wen, red faced, pushed to her feet. Mother! Do you propose to flee once 
again? Do you expect these good people to lay down
their lives so that we might once again run and hide? Are we fated forever to 
repeat our craven history? Sy-wens shoulders shook. She grabbed Kasts hand in 
her own. I will not! Flee if you must, but I
am staying!
A flush rose in the elders cheeks, angry or embarrassed.
We will stay, too. Elena glanced to where Meric and Tolchuk
were now standing.
The healer from Port Rawl slowly pushed to her feet. If youre all staying, I 
guess Tikal and I arent goin anywhere.
This left only Sy-wens mother still seated. She seemed little impressed by the 
assembled group standing around the table staring down at her. Elena sensed that 
the pressure here would likely just stiffen the stubborn back of this woman. 
Waving her hand, Elena indicated for everyone to sit. Chairs shuffled as she was 
obeyed.
Only Elena remained standing, staring at her opponent. She did not want to lose 
the support of the merai during the coming assault. She spoke quietly, the fire 
gone from her voice. Ive lost parents, uncles, aunts, friends. So I have the 
right to ask this of youof all the merai. Join us now. Heed my brothers 
vision and make it false. The future is not set in granite. After over five 
centuries, one thin hope for driving the Gulgotha from these lands and seas now 
exists. I beg that you dont flinch from making the hard choices this day. The 
fate of freedom rests on the back of your dragons. Please do not turn
away.
The woman stared at Elena silently, lips pursed tightly. Slowly her face 
relaxed. For someone so young, you speak boldly, with perhaps too much passion. 
Over the years, Ive learned passion leads to mistakes. Her eyes seemed to turn 
inward. Ive paid dearly for those mistakes and have learned from them. I now 
do not make decisions
in haste.
It is not haste that
The woman silenced her with a single raised finger. I have not finished. 
Besides passion, you also argue well. Dare I say that you would even do well 
seated on the Council of Elders? She bowed her head slightly in Elenas 
direction. The merai will stay. We will help set this trap. It is time the 
dragons rose from the seas and were heard
again.
Elenas knees weakened. Thank you, she muttered. Elena found everyones eyes 
upon her. She knew words were expected
from her. Flint had told her yesterday that those assembled here gathered not 
for her, but for Alasea. Yet as she stared into the others eyes, Elena knew 
Flint was mistaken. As much as she might object, she represented Alasea: They 
were here for her.
Still standing, she spoke as if to herself. My uncle once told me stories of 
Alaseas past: stories of cities whose magick-wrought towers scraped the clouds, 
tales of gilded streets and lands of plenty where creatures from every land 
gathered in peace. As I listened, I thought such tales were just myth, mere 
childish fancies. How could such beauty and grace have ever existed in this 
world?
Elena lowered her hand slightly to stare at those gathered, tears in her eyes. 
I see that grace here nowand know such a world is truly possible.
Before anyone could respond, the door to the galley burst open, startling them 
all. The young boy Tok rushed inside. He led one of the merai, bare chested and 
still wet from the sea. Tok waved to the man. I told him you was discussing 
plans, but he says he has news you must hear.
The merai warrior gasped words between panting breaths. Something in the 
water It it !
The elder womans voice snapped at him. Bridlyn! Speak clearly.
The man gulped for a moment, then swallowed hard. The channel we came through. 
Its closed. Theres no way back.
What do you mean? Flint asked.
Sy-wen answered. While Ragnark and I flew over the forest, the other dragons 
swam under the floating weed. They came up here through a hidden passage below 
the lake.
Bridlyn nodded. We had sentries posted near the channel leading out from here. 
Just at dusk, the passage wove closed, weeds choking shut.
Flint raised a hand, a scowl on his face. Calm yourself! The weed did the same 
to our channel here. Its only hiding our paths.
Bridlyn looked at Flint with horror. It drowned both our sentries! Even their 
dragons were choked in weeds. Strangled!
In the moonlight, Rockingham stood atop a hump of red weeds. His boots were 
soaked down to his cold toes. The bottom fringes of his green robe hung heavy 
with saltwater from his lone venturing into the edges of this drowned forest. 
With one hand, Rockingham drew the robe tighter around his neck. Greshym had 
insisted he wear the heavy garmentit was the raiment of the Brotherhoods old 
sect that communed with the green life. In Rockinghams other hand, he bore a 
long white staff whose end was topped with a carved cluster of wooden leaves. It 
was Brother Lassens ancient oaken stave. Rockingham continued deeper into the 
strange wood, the footing treacherous in the bobbing matts and hills of weed.
Earlier that day, he had been sent by swift ship to the Doldrums and 
unceremoniously dumped into this forest just before sunset. Once here, 
Rockingham had knelt at the forests edge and performed the rites Greshym had 
taught him. He had begged the weed to hear him and to hold the witchs group in 
its grip. Though Rockingham had not heard any acknowledgment from the sargassum, 
he had felt it. A weight, not unlike a wind, had rolled over him and hovered 
over the branch of oaken wood in his hand. Then the weight had vanished. 
Rockingham somehow knew the intelligence here had understood his plea.
His only role now was to act the part of the Green Brother, to wander this wet 
land until the legion of skaltum arrived from Aloa Glen. Greshym had told him 
that he would have to traverse Brother Lassens old steps and venture into the 
forest alone, bereft of
any black magick. Greshym had warned that the use of the arcane arts risked 
overshadowing the faint traces of Lassens spirit in the wood. If they were to 
maintain their ruse, they dared not touch black magickat least not until the 
weed was won to their cause.
Afterward, once the weed had trapped the witch, a quick strike should destroy 
the forces gathered here before the slowly dreaming forest could even realize it 
had been betrayed.
Rockingham peeked at the stars shining through the mesh of branches overhead, 
searching for any sign of the skaltum. The legion should have taken wing just 
at sunset. It would not be long until the skies filled with their pale, scabrous 
wings.
Casting his eyes back to the forests floor, Rockingham continued deeper into 
the wood, thankful for only one thing. Through the fabric of his robe, he rubbed 
the long scar on his chest. As long as he maintained this foolish masquerade, 
the Dark Lord was forced to vacate him, leaving him in peace. Yet Rockingham 
knew such a reprieve would be short-lived. Once the ruse was shed, Rockinghams 
chest would again swell with dark energies and burst open with the Black Hearts 
foul presence. He would again be swallowed in the immensity of that ones evil.
Tears, unbidden and surprising, rose in Rockinghams eyes. For the moment, he 
was somewhat his own man. Using the boles of the trees and his staff as support, 
Rockingham worked his way deeper into the forest. A part of him wanted nothing 
more than to disappear forever into this quiet and wet place. He would be glad 
to drown in these brackish waters. But he knew death was no escape. He had died 
twice alreadyonce by his own hand and once while battling the witch. And each 
time, death had failed him. He tried to grasp the reason for his first death. He 
recalled a tumble from a high cliff into a surging surf. He could not recall 
anything before that, no matter how hard he struggled to remember.
Why? he called out to the silent forest. Why can I never rest? No answer was 
offered. Sullenly, Rockingham climbed a larger hillock of tangled weed. As he 
reached the summit, a thrill suddenly trembled down the length of the wooden 
staff. Rockingham almost dropped the stave in fright, but he recognized where he 
stood. Before him, a small granite pillar topped this rise. Here was where 
Brother Lassen had sat for decades communicating with the great forest. Here was 
where Lassen had also died.
]t was also where Rockingham was supposed to await the skaltum.
Shivering, he strove to collect himself. He stared at the unadorned
stone pillar, a monument to the ancient Brother. Rockingham knew
some words were needed to acknowledge the site and the mans deed.
j-Je grumbled as he stood over the mans grave. Lucky bastard.
With this utterance, the staff again trembled in his grip. Rockingham jolted. 
Against his will, his arm rose, reaching the staff toward the stone. As the 
carved leaves touched the plain granite, an explosion flung Rockingham backward. 
Catching a handful of weeds, Rockingham managed to keep himself from tumbling 
down the steep hill. Rolling up on his knees, Rockingham saw the staff hovering 
by the pillar. A hazy white cloud seemed to seep out from the stone and envelop 
the length of oak.
As Rockingham watched, the cloud swirled and shrank in on itself, coalescing 
tighter and tighter, until the mists seemed to gain substance. As it did so, a 
shimmering glow grew even brighter, and a figure was formed from cloud and 
light. It was a robed man. He held the oaken staff in his right hand. The mists 
swirled at the edges, but Rockingham could not mistake the face glowing from 
under the hood. He had seen the paintings when Greshym had instructed him in 
this duty.
It was Brother Lassen.
The apparition spoke, his voice echoing as if from far away. Who
calls me?
Rockingham sat frozen, unable to form words.
The ghostly eyes found his. It pointed the staff at Rockingham. Why do you 
disturb me?
I I did not mean to. Rockingham raised his arms in supplication. Forgive me, 
Brother Lassen. I did not know your spirit resided
here.
The coldness in the shades eyes grew focused. I am no longer just Brother 
Lassen. You also speak to the forest. I have been communing with this wood for 
so long that the line between the two of us is blurred. I am the forest, and the 
forest is me. We are now one. The forest allows me to see time for what it 
is-an endless sea. I give the forest the ability see the beauty in tiny 
movements of time, to appreciate the flight of a bird across the sky, to value 
the span of a single day, to see life through the eyes of a man. Each is a gift 
to the otherto see the long and short in life.
I I am sorry. I didnt mean to disturb either of you.
You are not to blame. The shade lifted the green staff and examined its 
length. I can sense you in the wood. Your pain has drawn me from my slumber in 
the stone. There is a corruption in you that cannot pass my grave unchallenged.
Cringing back, Rockingham feared the ruse of the darkmages was about to be 
exposed by this Brother of the wood. He dreaded the wrath of this strange forest 
and even stranger ghost.
But the shade continued speaking calmly. Do not fear. Though I sense the 
corruption in you, I also sense that your spirit rails against the evil inside. 
This is good. But in truth, it is no matter to me. The shades glowing eyes 
swung toward Rockingham. It is not revenge that drew me from my grave, nor 
wages of war. Neither the wood nor myself dwell any longer on the wiles of mens 
hearts. Here time is endless. Around us, cities rise, and kingdoms fall. It is 
of no matter. It is just another cycle of life. Instead, I come to you because 
your kindred nature calls to me.
I I dont understand.
That is because you are blind. Though you do not know it, we are both the 
samespirits entombed in stone.
Wh-what?
When I shed my body, allowing its substance to rot and nourish the roots of the 
sargassum, my spirit remained here to commune with the great forest. As the 
grave marker was erected, I bound myself freely to the stone. He indicated the 
granite pillar. Stone does not rot. It is not a part of the cycle of life and 
death. In stone, a spirit may reside for eternity.
Rockingham spoke before fear restrained him. But what does this have to do with 
me? 
You are also bound in stonebut I sense the binding was against your will. It 
is your pain that has called me forth.
Finding it difficult to breathe, Rockingham dared hope. How? Why was I bound ?
Why? I cannot see that far. I am no god to see into the mind of your tormentor. 
But I can see who stands before me now. I can see your heart and know it to be 
stonea chunk of black rock from the lands bowels.
Ebonstone, Rockingham groaned, raising a hand to his scarred chest.
There your spirit is entombed forever.
Is there no way to free me? Rockingham asked, almost a moan. Ah The shades 
lips drew into a sad frown. Here is your desire spoken aloud.
Can you answer it?
Yes, but once I do, I can answer no more. It is this need that has drawn me 
forth. Once I have answered, I can remain no longer. I do not belong to this 
world.
Rockingham fought to voice his hearts most intimate desire. How? How do I free 
myself?
The shade smiled, almost fatherly. It will mean your death. Your spirit has 
already been cast from your body and can never return to inhabit it. If freed of 
the stone, your spirit will simply move on.
I care not. I just want to be free.
Very well then. To unfetter your spirit, the stone must be broken.
But how can I?
Shatter the black rock in your chest, and you will be free. With these few 
words, the apparition slowly began to unravel, fraying at the edges first, then 
dispersing in folds of mist and cloud.
Still kneeling, Rockingham sank to his hands, hopelessness dragging him down. 
But but there is no way to break forged ebonstone. Only the Dark Lord himself 
can do that. Rockingham raised his face, begging for more of an answer.
But the stone pillar continued to draw the mists back into its cold embrace. 
Unsupported, the staff tumbled to the damp weeds. Please! Rockingham cried to 
the empty forest. A faint whisper answered him, a voice from an unimaginable 
distance. Brother Lassens final words echoed out to him. There is a way, my 
friend. Only time itself is unchanging. Know yourself, and a path will open.
With that, the hill grew silent. Only the pillar remained as if to mock him. He 
had come so close to answering the mysteries of his life, only to have more 
riddles cast at his feet. Rockingham pushed up out of the tangled vegetation. In 
the moonlight, the weeds were the color of dried blood.
Standing now, Rockingham stared at the pillar. Know yourself, and a path will 
open, he said, repeating the shades final words. Useless words for someone 
whose past has been stolen from him. Rockingham turned his back on the stone 
and stared at the skies.
Greshym had promised to return his lost memories if he succeeded in his duty 
this night.  Destroy the witch, and you will have what you desire. 
Rockingham sighed. If the shade spoke truthfully, regaining his past could 
perhaps hold a key also to freeing his spirit. He pondered this realization. If 
true, was this the reason why his past had been kept from him? To keep him 
forever trapped in stone? But what mystery of his past life could break 
ebonstone?
Somewhere, buried in a guarded corner of his memories, a scent similar to 
honeysuckles and soft whispers still existed. It was a single rose growing in a 
barren field. He knew the name of this sweet flowerLinora. But there was 
nothing more, only that fragile memory he kept near his heart, protecting it 
from harm. Who was she? he cried in his head.
Rockingham shook his head at this useless quandary. There was only one way to 
answer the mystery. Destroy the witch, he mumbled to the stars.
As if he had been heard, the northern stars winked out one after another, 
swallowed away by an approaching storm. But it was not thunderclouds that rolled 
toward his position. Rockingham watched a single winged shape blacken the moons 
glow overhead. His skin crawled at the sight.
The legion of skaltum had arrived.
A crash of breaking limbs sounded off to his left. Swinging around, Rockingham 
saw stalked branches shatter as something large forced and clawed its way 
through the canopy. Rockingham fled back a few steps.
The pale-muzzled face of a skaltum burst from the shredded foliage. It hissed 
at him, needled teeth shining in malign mischief. A long snaking tongue licked 
its lips, and its tall ears twitched this way and that. It tore itself free from 
its perch and crashed to the hill, knocking over the stone marker of Lassens 
grave and snapping the Brothers staff under its claws. It stepped toward 
Rockingham. Its twin black hearts could be seen beating through its translucent 
skin. Behind its skeletal shoulders, wide pale wings shook and spread 
menacingly.
Rockingham stood his ground.
It is time to cast assside our masksss, it wheezed at him. The heat of the 
beasts skin steamed in the damp weeds.
Rockingham shrugged. He knew their masks were no longer
L f. M C IN
needed. The wood, through the shade of Lassen, had already declared its 
neutrality. From here, each side would fight alone.
Stepping forward, Rockingham opened his arms to the foul beast. It had been 
assigned to carry him to the ship of the witch. Let us be off, he commanded 
the creature.
Ssso eager, it hissed at him, then scooped the small man up in its oily arms. 
Do you lussst so much for the bloodshed to come?
As the skaltums leathery wings spread for flight, Rockingham answered. Yes. I 
am ready for death.
It was now more than ever that Elena missed Erril. Alone at the rails of the 
Pale Stallion, she stared across the silent moonlit waters. She did not miss his 
sword or his strength. What she missed most was simply his quiet presencehow, 
whenever danger lay ahead, he would stand at her shoulder, speechless but never 
silent. His scent would whisper to her of his Standi plains, of home and peace, 
while his breathing, steady and unhurried, spoke of calm power and untapped 
vigor. Even his slight movements, the rustle of leather on wool, the scuff of 
boot, sounded like a stallion testing its bit, ready to explode forward with the 
slightest flick of a rein.
All this she would hear. And as he stood guard, a part of his iron would enter 
her. He gave her the strength to face even the worst horror. With Erril nearby, 
anything seemed possible.
But no more.
Elena glanced back to the empty decks and sighed. Other of her companions were 
also missing. Right now, Elena could use the stony calm of Krai, the flashing 
blades of Aunt My, the stout heart of Far-dale. Even the tricky wisdom of 
Mogweed would be welcome now.
Across the ship, Flint must have noticed her melancholy. The grizzled Brother 
finished his discussion with the zool sailors and crossed toward her. One of 
the zool followed. Flints face was grim as he joined Elena at the rail.
Strange news, he said. I just got word from the merai guardsman, Bridlyn, 
that something has changed in the weed. The channels leading out from the lake 
have again reopened. The sargassum no longer holds this region clenched in its 
strangling grip.
But does it open a path for us to escape or open a channel so the enemy can 
reach us? Elena asked.
Flint shook his head.
Surprisingly, the zool answered. Neither. The forest no longer looks at us. I 
sensed its distaste for a moment, then nothing. It has abandoned us.
But why?
The zool simply shrugged and turned away, as if the question held no interest 
for him. The tiny man stared out across the glassy surface of the surrounding 
sea. At sunset, the dragons of the merai and their riders had retreated beneath 
the lakes placid surface. Hiding in ambush, they lay in wait for any attackers. 
To any who would spy upon them, all that would be seen was the Pale Stallion, 
drifting alone in the center of the great lake.
Elena swung back to Flint. Maybe we should take the chance and leave? Should we 
reconsider our?
The zool spoke again, talking to the empty seas. The black-skinned sailor 
raised a hand toward the northern skies. A sickness approaches.
Flint pushed forward to study the dark skies. A few thin clouds obscured the 
stars, but otherwise the skies were clear of any enemy. Call the others to 
their stations! Flint ordered the small man.
What? Elena began to ask, but then she heard it, too: a distant flapping, 
like a large rug fluttering in a strong wind. At first it was faint; then it 
grew in volume and number. It sounded to her like the angry thrum of wings heard 
from a toppled hornets nest. Something vile disturbed the night skies and flew 
this way.
Elena glanced to Flint. The zool sailor had already left to raise the alarm. 
His other tribesmen lit signal torches along the boats rigging. In the 
distance, Elena heard the soft splashes as some of the merai sentinels who had 
been stationed in the branches of trees along the forests edge dove down to 
alert the hidden army.
The grizzled Brother spoke to the skies. It is time.
Elena slipped the pair of lambskin gloves off her hands. They were no longer 
needed; she dropped the gloves to the deck. From here, it was useless to hide 
her heritage. The witch could no longer be denied.
Vaguely, the faint sound of drums carried on the wind. The rhythmic beat, though 
just a whisper, drove to the bones, shivering the marrows. It made Elena want to 
bolt.
Flint gripped her elbow. Dreadlords. SkaPtum, he whispered. They sound their 
bone drums to unnerve their enemies.
How many do you think?
Flint listened, then spoke with worry. I judge at least a legion.
The hatch to the lower decks crashed open. Tolchuk, bearing the dwarf 
warhammer in one huge claw, led the others atop the deck. Once the ogre was out 
of the way, Meric and Joach pushed to the
decks.
Joach clutched his staff under the crook of his arm. As he approached, he pulled 
off one of his own gloves with his teeth and spat
it to the deck.
Before he could grip the length of wood with his bared hand, Elena touched his 
arm, halting him. Not yet. Save your blood until its needed. From the fire in 
her brothers eyes, she knew the magick called to him. The lust shone bright in 
his eyes.
Joach positioned the staff before him, still holding it with his one gloved 
hand. Small flames of darkfire coursed its length, drawing the warmth from the 
night. Should I try striking with black magick first? He glanced to Flint.
No, the older Brother said. As your vision revealed, it is skal-tum that 
approach. Striking with black magick will only heighten the creatures dark 
protections. Do only as we planned. Change your staff into a blood weapon and 
use its magick-wrought skills to guard your sister. Imbued with Elenas magick, 
your staff should strike blows that will harm the beasts at close range.
But how can we hope to defeat an army of them? he asked.
We must trust in our plan, Flint said. He nodded to Elena.
She already had her silver witch dagger in her grip. She sliced a small cut in 
each red palm, the hilt of the dagger now bloody. She then turned to Meric. 
Rein the winds to your will, but wait for
Flints signal.
The elvin nodded. I will stay at your side. None of the winged
beasts will get near you.
Elena gripped Merics shoulder in thanks. He and Joach would be her bodyguards: 
Meric keeping any of the skaltum from reaching her, and Joach guarding her back 
with his blood stave. Tolchuk and Flint, along with the zool, would man the 
stone-weighted nets along the ships rails. Though the skin of the skaltum 
could resist
most attacks, the creatures were still beasts of the land. They could drown like 
any other. Their best weapon of attack this night would not be a sword, but the 
sea itself.
A tiny voice whispered above Elenas head from the rigging. Tikal, good puppy 
Want cookie Elena glanced up to where Mama Fredas tiny pet clung to ropes 
high above and hid behind a fold of unfurled sail. Its dark eyes were huge as it 
stared at the skies, too. Mama Freda remained below with Tok. With the boys 
help, she had set up a ward in the galley, her elixirs and balms already 
bubbling on the hearths in preparation for the injured. As she readied herself, 
Tikal was her eyes and ears above the deck.
There! Tolchuk bellowed from near the bow. He pointed his dwarf hammer 
toward the northern skies. The stars vanish!
All eyes swung to watch the black cloud sweeping across the night sky. Sweet 
Mother, Elena moaned. It was as if the entire horizon swarmed with the beasts. 
How could they ever hope to survive this night?
Flint stood at her shoulder. Do not let their enormity overwhelm you. Battles 
are not fought across wide landscapes. They are won at the length of your sword 
or flight of your arrow. Ignore all else around you but the foes within reach. 
Let the rest of the battle rage around you. He then raised his voice as he 
stepped away. To your stations! The battle begins!
Flint gave her a quick smile, a fire lighting his eyes that had nothing to do 
with magick. After so many centuries, the Brotherhood was once again on the 
attack. He strode toward Tolchuk and the nets.
Elena glanced to Meric. The elvins eyes were partially closed, and his cloak 
billowed about his form, even though not a wind stirred this night. As she 
watched, he floated until the toes of his boots just brushed the deck. I am 
ready, he intoned. He lifted one hand toward the slack sails, and Elena felt 
the brush of stiff winds on her cheeks. The sails filled, and the Pale Stallion 
drifted back from the approaching horde filling the sky. Meric would keep the 
boat tacking and turning across the lake, trying his best to keep the ship clear 
of the worst fighting.
Joach touched her shoulder, a question in his eyes. Elena nodded. Her brother 
gripped the staff with his bare hand. Elena saw his knees buckle slightly as his 
blood was drawn into the wood. Around
hjs hand, the dark wood paled to a stark white. With each beat of her brothers 
heart, the darkness was driven from the wood, spreading from end to end. 
Vaguely, streaks of red, Joachs blood, could be seen coursing within the staff, 
fusing wood to wielder. Once the transformation was complete, Joach regained his 
footing. The staff was no longer a shaft of black magick, but a blood weapon 
bent to
Joachs will.
With lips tight, Joach lifted the staff. He practiced a few parries and blows 
with the weapon. The flash of wood moved too fast for Elenas eyes to follow. 
Joach seemed satisfied and halted his staffs twirl. He met Elenas eyes. I 
only wish Father could see this, he
said quietly.
He would be proud of you, Joach, Elena said. They shared a sad
smile for their lost family.
From the rail, Flint signaled her.
Swallowing hard, Elena turned away from her two bodyguards. She faced the cloud 
of winged death that now dove toward their tiny ship. Flanks of darkness spread 
to either side, meaning to encircle
the small boat.
Sheathing her dagger, Elena raised her head and unfettered the magick locked in 
her heart. Her palms burst with flame; her right bloomed with the rosy flames of 
a sunrise, while her left burned with the cold blue of the moon. Let it begin!
She thrust her arms toward the night skies, reaching for the two flanks of her 
enemy. Tossing back her head, she screamed as the magick ripped out from her 
very bones. Elena felt herself lifted from the decks by the burst of energies. 
Above her head, twin shafts of fireone red, one bluesplit the black night. 
Where the flames struck, the dark clouds were shredded. As Elena had learned in 
the streets of Winterfell so long ago, the dark protections of the skaltum were 
no barrier against her blood magicks. All around the boat, pieces of blackness 
tumbled from the night sky to crash into the seas. But even such an assault 
could not entirely block the horde of demons that flew this night. Drums beat at 
her ears, and winds whistled as Meric fought to keep the Stallion from the grip 
of the beasts. He tried to buy the ship as much time as possible.
Suddenly overhead, sails ripped. A yardarm snapped. Too soon, Meric had lost his 
chase. Distantly, Elena heard the thud of massive bodies striking the deck. 
Screamed orders echoed. She ignored them
as Flint had told her. Her battle was with the mass of demons still flocking 
above. She cast her magick across the night sky, searing the darkness. But these 
were not dumb beasts she hunted; they were sly and learned quickly to avoid her 
flares of fire, banking and swinging away from her flames.
Elena noticed from the corner of her awareness that the decks had become a 
battlefield. Meric had given up maneuvering the ship and had turned his fight 
upon the winged creatures. He blasted the beasts as they tried to land, 
buffeting them into the seas. Meanwhile, those that did manage to land soon 
found themselves entangled in the weighted nets of the sailors. Tolchuk would 
then heave the writhing creatures over the ships rail and into the drowning 
depths. The ogres roar of blood lust echoed across the decks, drowning out 
even the bone drums of the skaltum
While the battle raged, Joach danced around Elena, his staff a weapon of death. 
Christened with Elenas blood magicks, the stave penetrated the skaPtums black 
magick and struck deadly blows. The heightened skill of the magick-wrought 
weapon forged Joach into a murderous force. But even skill and magick could be 
overwhelmed with sheer numbers. Elena saw the deep wound in Joachs shoulder. It 
steamed with poisons from a demons claws. Her brother could not maintain his 
dance much longer.
Still, Elena fountained her power into the night sky, destroying and fraying the 
horde above. She knew she must not abandon her own post, not even to help her 
brother, or all would be lost. If she relented in her attack, the boat would be 
instantly swamped with winged beasts. Elena knew she was all that stood between 
the mass of the horde and this boat.
Finally, Flint yelled to Elena, giving her the sign. Now, Elena! The flock is 
all above the lake!
Sighing in relief as the magick sang through her blood, Elena opened herself 
fully to the witch. For the moment, she and witch must be one. Bringing her 
palms together, she merged the coldfire of her left hand and the witch fire of 
her right. In her heart, witch and woman also fused into a deadly force. From 
these unions, Elena released her final weapon: stormfire.
From her joined palms, the frigid cold of the moons ice exploded with the 
searing fire of the sun. A gale of winds mixed with
hails of fire and spears of iced lightning tore up from her body. She gasped as 
a torrential whirlwind of energy coursed out to envelop the winged army.
Across the lake, the scream of her own magick was greeted by the bellowed roar 
of a dragon. It was Ragnark. The flare of Elenas stormfire had been the signal 
for the merai to strike.
Elena fell to her knees as her magick continued to hurl skyward. Around her, the 
battle grew more fierce across the decks of the Stallion. Overhead, the moon and 
stars were still masked behind the wings of the demon horde. No matter how many 
of the foul beasts died, the flow of skaltum seemed endless.
As Elena struggled with her own magick, she prayed the dragons would prove 
enough. But she still couldnt shake Joachs prophecy of dooma vision of the 
dragons drowning in a sea of blood.
Sy-wen clung to the back of her dragon. Ragnark bellowed his rage at the demon 
horde as he flew toward the flocks underside. Off to the right, a torrent of 
flaming storm winds attacked the massive host of winged monsters and illuminated 
the ship far below. The boat seemed such a tiny target on the calm lake, a 
childs toy bobbing in a puddle. How could they possibly protect such a 
defenseless target from this blanketing host?
We must get atop the monsters! she sent to her mount.
Ragnark roared his answer, arcing on a wing and stretching higher.
Soon they were among the beasts. Wings, claws, teeth assaulted them. But 
Ragnark was no ordinary seadragon; he was the stone dragon of Aloa Glen, a 
font of elemental magicks. Once the great beast had faced the Praetor himself; 
the dragons roar had blown back the black magicks of the Dark Lords 
lieutenant, snuffing the flames of the mages darkfire and leaving the man 
without a source of power. And now Sy-wen hoped the same proved true here.
As Ragnark attacked, he bellowed at the beasts and ripped at them with silver 
claws and daggered teeth. The dragons roar washed away their dark protections. 
Skaltum screamed, wings torn and shredded. They fell, fluttering and struggling 
with broken wings, to crash into the sea.
A single beast grabbed at Sy-wen. Even before she could scream, Ragnark was 
there. His head snaked back, snapped the monsters neck, and spat its flailing 
form into the roiling flock of its brethren. Tastes bad, Ragnark complained.
Chaos reigned as the skaltum realized the dragons deadly potency. A hole 
opened in the flock, and Ragnark dove through the opening. Sy-wen knew there 
was no way Ragnark could significantly hurt the flock alone. There were too 
many. For every one the dragon killed, two more took its place. But conquest was 
not their plan.
We must get higher, Sy-wen urged.
Ragnark thrust upward, ripping his way clear of the flock. Soon he winged above 
the flow of beasts. Sy-wen glanced to the sky, appreciating the starlight and 
moonlight. It gave her some small hope to see the moon shining brightly. But she 
must not tarry. Glancing down, she prepared once again to assault the gathered 
host. Below her, the moonlight shone off the monsters pale flesh, a sick sea of 
wings and claws that spread across the wide lake.
Sy-wen bit her lip against the hopelessness of their cause. But she gave 
Ragnark the signal: three thumps of her hand, her old signal for Conch to 
submerge. They must assault this foul sea.
Ragnark swung on a wing tip and dove toward the massive host. The dragon 
roared, and the flock fled from him, dipping lower to escape the dragons wrath. 
But Ragnark persisted, sailing back and forth over the host, driving the beasts 
lower and lower toward the lakes placid surface. From the dragons throat, a 
constant cry flowed. Occasional stragglers would attempt to attack Ragnark, but 
their broken bodies were soon tossed back into the pale sea of writhing forms. 
At times, Ragnark would reach with his silver claws and pluck one of the beasts 
out from its brethren, rip and tear at it, then drag its bloody corpse over the 
host, dripping gore over them as warning.
Slowly, as Ragnark wove a deadly pattern overhead, the sick flock was driven 
lower and lower. Like a herders dog among sheep, the great black dragon forced 
the host toward the lake, nipping at its heels. Sy-wen knew that eventually the 
waters would pin the skaltum and force them to deal with the dragon above, but 
Flints assurance of the monsters cowardice proved true. The demons had grown 
to depend on their dark protections and were not accustomed
to fearing anything but their lord. When faced with a true threat, they chose to 
flee rather than fight.
Their cowardice here would prove their downfall.
As the flock was finally driven close to the lakes surface, Sy-wen sent a final 
message to her mount: Now!
Ragnark stretched his neck, and a trumpeting blare burst from the dragons 
throat. The bright sound split the night.
Upon this signal, the entire lake erupted. Snaking heads of hundreds of dragons 
shot up from the waters dark depths and grabbed at the skimming skaltum flock. 
Though not imbued with magick like Ragnark, the seadragons had their own 
weaponsfangs and sea. Across the lake, dragons seized limbs and wings of the 
flying monsters overhead and dragged them down into the lake. The lake became a 
frothing battlefield. Dragons screamed; merai yelled; monsters wailed. It 
became hard to say where the sky ended and the sea began.
Attacked from below, sections of the flock attempted to flee, but Ragnark was 
there with claw and tooth. Those few that broke past the great dragon were still 
not safe. They tried to band together, but the night sky was still afire with a 
magickal torrent arising from the boat. There was no safe haven. The lake was a 
bloody trap, and the skies were menaced by the black dragon and by flaming 
spears of magick. Though many of the beasts yet survived, perhaps enough even to 
swamp the ship, their ranks had been shattered. The skaltum panicked among the 
chaos and fled toward the trees.
Sy-wen watched the tattered fragments of the foul army flap away but felt little 
cheer, numb from all the blood. A chorus of screams tainted the air. The battle 
still raged below. Sy-wen urged her mount lower to help her people finish the 
monsters trapped in the lake. Below, Sy-wen saw many dragons torn and lolling in 
the waters, most too far gone for even draughts of dragonsblood to cure. Merai 
swam beside their dying beasts, offering what little comfort they could. 
Moonlight, now unblocked by the broken host, shone on the water like molten 
iron, the blue seas ruddy with the blood of the slain.
Tears rose to Sy-wens eyes but were quickly blown away by the winds of their 
flight. Oh, Sweet Mother, she moaned as more and more of the slain came into 
view, so many.
Tolchuk heaved the writhing form over the rail. Poisoned claws scrabbled at the 
entangling net, but it was too late. The screaming beast plummeted into the 
lake, and the stone-weighted net dragged it under the surface.
Straightening, Tolchuk snatched up the dwarf hammer and stared at the 
slaughter around the ship and in the skies. He knew the skal-tum host had been 
broken by their trap, but he also knew that now was the most dire time of the 
battle. The skaltum would make one last furious strike at the boat.
Tolchuk eyed Flint. The grizzled Brother panted, almost bent over with 
exhaustion. Across the foredeck, the four zool masterfully teased and trapped 
another of the skaltum in the net they carried. It wailed as it became fouled 
in the snagging ropes. Farther away, Joach held off two of the beasts with a 
blur of polished wood. Meric stood guard beside Elena, blasting demons from the 
deck with gales of wind, but the elvin clearly weakened. Elena herself seemed 
lost to the battle, her eyes on the skies and her fierce sprays of magick.
Flint drew back Tolchuks attention by lifting the edge of a net in his hand. 
This is the last one! From the old mans face, Tolchuk knew Flint understood 
the situation as well as he did. Though the battle had been turned, it was 
hardly over yet.
As if reading his thoughts, a scream of rage tore above them. Four of the 
slavering beasts crashed to the deck, dividing Tolchuk and Flint.
A pair of the skaltum grinned at Tolchuk, yellowish fangs glinting brightly. 
Weve never tassted ogre meat before, one of them hissed.
A cry of pain arose from where Flint fought the other two beasts with his 
flailing net. Tolchuk saw Flint stumble, his left leg torn and bleeding. Still, 
the man fought to keep the creatures from where Elena stood on the middeck; 
injured, he would not last much longer.
The ogre raised the hammer in his claw. The lightning-wrought iron glowed like 
spilled blood in the moonlight.
The other eyed the hammer. So you think to ssslay those who cant be harmed 
with a stick, do you?
Tolchuk roared, leaping and swinging his weapon with all the might of an 
ogres back. Before the skaltums smile could even fade, the iron split the 
beasts crown and drove into the softer matter in-
side. Gore splattered out. Poisoned blood burned where it struck Tolchuks bare 
chest.
The other skaltum froze, stunned by the damage to its
companion.
Tolchuk yanked his weapon free. This be no ordinary stick! Turning, the ogre 
drove the hammer into the face of the remaining
beast.
Around him, more skaltum, the final wave of the assault, crashed aboard the 
ship. Tolchuk carried his fight to the two creatures who harried Flint. His 
gaze reddened as a growing fire stoked his blood. Tolchuk hammered his way 
through to the grizzled seaman.
Once free of the two demons, Flint warned Tolchuk, leaning on one of the zool. 
Weve no more nets. It is up to you to keep the monsters back.
Tolchuk only grunted. He was beyond words. The fire of the^r-engata, the blood 
lust of an ogre, was upon him. Lifting his hammer, now steaming with blood 
poisons, Tolchuk hewed a swath of death across the deck. All the strangling 
rage in his heart at the loss of his ancestors spirits fueled his march. Guilt, 
anger, despairall exploded out in raw savagery.
Unaware, Tolchuk howled his clans ancient war cry as he struck and bludgeoned 
his way throughout the ship. His sight became a red blur. One skaltum swiped at 
his chest, gouging long burning tracks in his thick skin, but still Tolchuk did 
not pause. He continued his deadly march. None would keep him from his revenge.
He sang his rage against the cruelties of fate. Half-breed, orphan, cursed seed 
of the Oathbreater  Skaltum now fled from him, leaping in the air and 
flapping away. Still, he continued his swath of destruction, leaping, hammering, 
even tearing at the beasts. If he was descended from a cursed heritage, then let 
him not deny who he was any longer. He howled his lust and rage and opened his 
heart to the monster within.
Suddenly, a small figure stepped in front of him. Tolchuk struck at him, but 
the man darted to the side. As the iron slammed into the deck, Tolchuk was 
jarred enough to realize he had almost killed one
of the zool.
From off to the side, words finally penetrated his grief and rage. It was Flint. 
Stop, Tolchuk! Put down the hammer.
The ogre raised red-rimmed eyes toward the old Brother.
Flint limped closer, leaning on another of the zool. About the ship, only two 
or three skaltum still survived, but Joach and Meric dealt with them. Flint 
indicated the zool pushing to his feet near the splintered deck. The man 
sensed you were about to lose all control, to become a larger menace than even 
the monsters here. He tried to stop you.
The hammer fell from Tolchuks limp fingers, clattering to the deck. The ogre 
sank to his knees. Tears finally began to flow, washing the blood lust from his 
eyes and his blood.
His heart felt as drained as the stone in his pouch.
Flint crossed to him, shooing away the zool. He knelt beside the ogre. Do not 
despair, my friend. I know from where this pain and rage arose. There is evil in 
this world, but trust an old manit does not lie in your heart.
Tolchuk reached a claw to grip Flints hand. Do not be so sure.
As THEY FLEW, RaGNARk ROLLED AN EYE TOWARD Sy-WEN. It SHONE
brightly in the moonlight. Still, Sy-wen could sense her mounts growing 
exhaustion. Even a dragons heart had limits. For an endless time, they had 
thrust themselves into countless skirmishes between skaltum and dragon, 
slashing and roaring from above to slay the floundering monsters.
Little dragons die well, Ragnark sent to her. For once, the usual disdain of 
the great black for his tinier brethren was not present. Sy-wen sensed the 
sadness in his huge heart.
Sy-wen leaned and rested her cheek upon the scaled neck of her mount. She shared 
her grief with Ragnark. Below, the battle slowly died down. The skaltum had no 
defense against the drowning sea. The cries of war dwindled to spates of shouted 
orders and the occasional pained trumpet from a dying dragon.
Little green one died well, too.
Sy-wen just rubbed her great dragons scaled neck. It took her a few heartbeats 
for these last words to penetrate her grief. Her heart suddenly clenched. 
Ragnark could not mean?
Pushing quickly back up in her seat, Sy-wen asked, Do you mean Conch, my 
mothers jade? 
Yes. Tiny green dragon, friend of my bonded.
:
Sy-wens breath choked in her throat. Sweet Mother, no! Conch and her mother 
were not supposed to engage the flock, only direct and supervise. Conch was too 
old to fight. Ragnark must be mistaken. The black dragon had a huge heart but 
was not too bright. Ragnark must be wrong!
T-take me to where you saw the tiny green dragon, she said, unable to mask the 
pain in her voice.
The equivalent of a dragons shrug was sent to her; Ragnark swung upon a wing 
and swept over the carnage below. Small pale rnerai faces turned up to watch 
the great black pass overhead. A few raised an arm in salute, but most were as 
dull eyed and shocked as
she was.
Too soon, Ragnark skidded onto the lakes surface, wings stretched wide to cup 
the air and slow their landing. Once drifting across the lakes surface, the 
floating corpse of a skaltum bumped Sy-wens knee. It seemed to claw at her 
even in death. Crying in disgust, Sy-wen kicked it away.
Ragnark worked through the bloody waters. Just ahead, Sy-wen saw the green hide 
of a jade dragon bobbing in the gentle swells. Its huge head lolled lifelessly. 
It was not Conch. Sy-wen was sure of it.
But as Ragnark neared, Sy-wen spotted her mother clinging to the far side of 
the dead beasts neck. As the black approached, her mother lifted a face whose 
usual cold countenance had broken into a mask of pain and grief. Wet locks of 
normally sun-bright hair clung damply across her face. Her eyes were sunken and 
hopeless.
Oh, Mother, Sy-wen moaned. No
He he tried to protect me. Her mothers eyes drifted back to
the body of Conch.
Sy-wen still could not believe this dead dragon was her dear companion. Where 
was the gentle humor that always seemed to cling to him? Where was the 
ever-present love in his eyes? With his spirit gone, this bulk of green scale 
and torn wing was not Conch. Still, Sy-wen could not move her eyes from the 
lolling form.
Her mother continued to moan the details of her story. One of the monsters 
broke free. Under the sea, the creature thrashed and twisted. Her mother raised 
panicked eyes toward Sy-wen. I couldnt get away in time. It came upon me and 
attacked savagely.
Oh, Mother, where was your personal guard? Where was Bridlyn?
She waved her daughters question aside. Gone. Dead. I dont know. Only Conch 
remained. He fought back. Her voice cracked with sobs.
Leave it be, Mother. Well talk of it later.
Her mother did not seem to hear. But but the monsters are pure poison. They 
could not be harmed by a dragons tooth or claw. All Conch could do was hold the 
beast away from me. But all the while, the monster tore at his neck with claws 
and teeth. It was horrible. The blood So much blood
Sy-wen could tell her mother was near mad with grief and horror. The woman 
droned on, eyes wide with the recent pain. Even after the skaltum finally 
drowned, Conch clung to it, fearing it might yet attack. Even as blood flowed in 
thick rivers from Conchs wounds, he would still not let me near. Her mothers 
voice broke into sobs. Only when his great heart finally ended, only then did 
he finally let the monster loose. She raised her eyes up to Sy-wen. Wh-why did 
he do it? I might have been able to save him. If only I had been quicker.
Sy-wen urged Ragnark beside the sobbing woman. No, Mother, you couldnt have. 
Conch loved you. You know that. He died to protect you. It was the way of his 
heart. Sy-wen reached an arm toward her mother. Come, Mother, we must return 
to the ship.
No, let someone else go. I must stay here. She wrapped her arms tighter to the 
jade dragons neck.
The pain from the loss of a bonded dragon was known to cripple its rider. Sy-wen 
could not let that happen. She needed to get her mother away. A draught of 
numbweed tea and a warm bed was what her mother needed most right nowalong with 
the love of her daughter.
Silently urging Ragnark lower in the water, Sy-wen was able to reach her 
mothers shoulder. Once close enough, a great black wing rose under her mother, 
scooping her limp form from the water. She struggled slightly, but her grief had 
made her weak as a babe. The dragons wing slid the woman closer into Sy-wens 
embrace.
Hugging tight, Sy-wen wrapped her arms around her mother and
pulled her into the seat, cradling the crying woman in front of her.
Sy-wen had not realized how small and light her mother was. It was
as if the immense grief had not only broken the woman, but shrunk
her also.
Sy-wen pressed her mothers head against her chest and gently rocked. Im 
sorry, Mother, she whispered as she stared at the dead and dying across the 
wide lake. Im sorry for everything.
She urged Ragnark toward the lone boat drifting amidst the carnage. In the 
distance, the boat still fountained with spears of flame. Sy-wens brow crinkled 
with concern. What were they still fighting?
With the battle in the sky won, Elena fought to rein in her surge of stormfire. 
Upon the decks of the Pale Stallion, clashes still raged with the last handful 
of skaltum who had crashed to the boat. Elena sensed her power and magick were 
no longer needed skyward, but here.
As Elena struggled to guide her magick, the wild energies began to break free of 
her control. When first she had unleashed stormfire, back in the swamps of the 
Landslip, she had had only the dregs of power at hand. The magick had expired 
almost as quickly as she had lit it. But now, almost at full strength, Elena 
found the magick had grown beyond her ability to control. It took both sides of 
her spirit, the light of the woman and the darkness of the witch, just to keep 
the force of her raging energies directed upward.
Elena knew that even this meager control was about to be lost. With all her 
will, Elena fought the stormfires wild bucking and writhing. Still, she could 
not keep her palms from beginning to slip apart. The spread of her hands, 
instead of weakening her stormfire, widened the scope of her magick. The larger 
force became impossible to harness.
Concentrating fiercely, she ignored the cries of those around her. As the 
stormfire spread, one of the ships masts cracked near the top, caught by the 
edge of her gale of magick. It crashed near the stern and rolled into the sea, 
dragging two skaltum with it, tangled in its
ropes.
Elenas cheeks ran with tears, and not just from the strain. She had spotted one 
of the zool sailors dragged overboard along with the pair of skaltum. Elena 
had glimpsed the mans panicked eyes as he had rolled over the edge, a noose of 
rope around his neck.
Elena fell to her knees.
Grief weakened her control even more. Shouts of alarm rose from
the deck as the others sensed that her magick was about to tear the ship apart.
Joachs voice barked near her ear. Elena, weve won! Stop! What did her 
brother think she was trying to do? She could not collapse the magick. It had 
grown too large. Her only hope was that her magick would burn out. Lost in the 
eye of the storm, Elena knew such a hope was futile. She sensed that her well of 
magick was still too deep. The ship would surely be demolished before the rage 
of stormfire ever blew itself out.
With her heart failing, Elena searched for guidance, for some means of chaining 
her magick. As if in answer, she suddenly sensed a presence nearby. She glanced 
over a shoulder. No one was there. But she caught a whiff of scent, a whisper of 
Standi loam. In her ears, she heard the rustle of leather. And from somewhere 
far off, someone called her name: Elena. It was Errils voice, and the tone was 
clearly scolding. Her heart clenched. Elena knew it was no ghost that visited 
her in this hopeless moment. It was only her own memory. With her guard so 
weakened, a corner of her heart had stirred. She had thought herself just witch 
and woman, but she now realized she had grown into something more. Somewhere 
along this journey here, Erril had become a part of her, too. The iron he had 
gifted to Elena in the past had not died with the man. It still remainedin her 
own heart.
Elena shoved back to her feet. She must not die. She would not let this tiny 
spark of Erril expire forever because she was too frail. Only by living could 
she keep his memory alive. Standing once again, she fought the raging magick 
with a furious passion, part iron, part spirit.
Slowly, she began to pull the magick back into check, drawing her palms 
together. She screamed with the effort.
Above her, the fountain of energies died down to a savage spear. Finally, with a 
last wrench of her will, she clenched her hands together, entwining her fingers, 
stanching the flow. The stormfire blew itself out.
Sagging with sudden exhaustion, she fell to the deck. One of the zool caught 
her, and Elena stared at the destruction around her.
Nearby, Joach leaned heavily on his staff among the wracked ruins of several 
skaltum corpses, his eyes wide with concern for her. Flint limped upon a leg 
torn and bleeding. Tolchuk helped support the man, but even the ogre was not 
unscathed. He bore deep
scratches across his chest. Meric looked haggard and sunken, his spent magick 
wasting him.
A tiny call arose from the waters beside the boat. Help us
aboard!
Joach leaned over the starboard rail. Its Sy-wen and Ragnark. They have an 
injured woman with them. He waved the others
to help.
Flint, though, ignored the commotion at the rails and stared up at
the skies. The stars shone brightly. Its over.
No, whispered the zool at Elenas side. His eyes were not on the skies, but 
on the dark forest around them. Its just beginning.
From the bower of a treetop, Rockingham watched the slaugh-ter across the lake 
with dispassionate eyes. Perched on a neighboring branch, his skaltum 
lieutenant was not as calm. It hissed and worked its claws into the trees bark, 
ripping at its rough surface with undisguised frustration. The beast quivered 
with rage, but it had its orders: Stay beside the golem. Do its bidding.
Rockingham glanced toward the beast, and it cowered back. Naked from the waist 
up, the wound in Rockinghams chest steamed with wisps of black fog. The Dark 
Lord had come here, and none dared disobey.
Satisfied, Rockingham returned to studying the dying army. He discovered no 
emotion connected with the annihilation of the skaltum host. Not that he cared 
for any of the beasts. In truth, he wished them all dead. Still, their brutal 
massacre should have shocked him; the bloody lake and cold corpses should have 
sickened him. But the presence of his master dulled any such feelings.
With the stone gateway open in his heart, the man who was Rockingham had 
dwindled to a tiny spark, lost in the enormity of the black spirit that had 
squirmed and rolled out from the ebon-stone. The golem had had no say in what 
had happened or in what was to come. The orders had all risen from the darkness 
inside his chest, from a being who nested far away in the volcanic creches of 
Blackhall.
From his mist-shrouded wound, a voice whispered out. The sound was an oily 
poison that ate at his sanity. Call them forth.
Nodding, Rockingham raised an arm in the air. The Dark Lord could not be 
disobeyed. All around the lakes edge, a rustling arose from the tree line. A 
full third of his skaltum army remained yet un-bloodied by the previous 
assault. The master had sent the main mass of his host to draw out the enemys 
fangs. It had succeeded. The witch and her companions would be unprepared for 
the true attack. Now, the voice ordered from his cracked rib cage. Rockingham 
snapped his hand into a fist. From all across the lake, a pale force rose from 
the canopies, flocking into the air. Rockinghams lieutenant crawled atop him 
and grasped the man by the shoulders. With a rattle of bony wings, the skaltum 
took flight, carrying Rockingham clutched in the claws of its feet.
As Rockingham flew across the lake, his host flanked him, a pale sickness 
spreading over the water toward the lone boat. While leading this final surge, 
Rockingham should have felt some sense of victory or revenge. But he felt 
nothing as the mer people and their dragons stared at the passing horde with 
shock and dismay.
The attack was so sudden and unexpected that no resistance was tendered. With 
skaltum again filling the skies, dragons and their riders fled under the lake. 
As Rockingham swooped toward the deck of the ship, he watched men scramble over 
tangled corpses, seeking to retreat belowdecksas if that offered any 
protection. Still, Rockingham felt no emotion.
His lieutenant dove at the ship, throwing its wings wide to slow its dive, and 
settled Rockingham roughly to the deck. All around, sails ripped and rigging 
tore free as his hosts settled into perches among the masts and across the deck. 
Only a small section of the deck was
left free.
Rockingham recognized most of those clustered before the hatch to the lower 
decks: the witchs brother brandishing the darkmages staff, the ogre bearing 
a bloody hammer, the elvin looking fierce but hard worn. Yet there were others 
who were strangers to Rockingham: a green-haired girl; the man beside her, a 
hulking, tattooed brute with a long black braid and an even longer sword; and a 
set of identical dark-skinned men who threatened with nothing more than
broken oars.
Yet none of these mattered. His true target hid behind them, though in truth, 
Rockingham hardly recognized the woman. What strange magick had transformed the 
young girl into this comely lass
of thick curled locks and hard countenance? Curiosity arose in Rockingham, but 
he sensed it was only because the same emotion welled in the Dark Lord. It was 
this oddity that gave his master pause.
Come forth, the darkness called to the witch. You cannot win here. Give 
yourself freely, and the others will be allowed their freedom.
We would rather die! Joach called back.
Unbidden, Rockinghams shoulders shrugged. If my beasts must dig the witch 
from this boat, you will all wish for death. I can wield punishments far worse.
As the skaltum hissed in delight, Rockingham felt the others eyes meet his 
own. He stood as an example of how much worse the Black Hearts punishment could 
be. The wound in Rockinghams chest spread wider. He saw the gathered faces 
blanch at whatever was revealed.
Elena, though, pushed boldly through the others, shaking off restraining hands. 
You hide behind this flock of winged carrion, she spat at him. And skulk in 
the hollows of dead men. Come out and face me! Let us end our battle here!
A sound that could only be crudely defined as laughter answered her challenge. A 
flow of black energies rolled forth from Rockinghams cracked rib cage and 
pooled at his feet. From this dark well, screams echoed up. The voice spoke 
again. Then let it be!
Elena stepped forward, thrusting her arms out and bringing her hands together. A 
tempest of searing flames and ice swept toward where Rockingham stood. Normally, 
Rockingham would have cringed and ducked, but even this instinctual fear was 
denied him. Instead, faster than his eye could follow, the pool at his feet 
burst upward in a black shield, blocking the flow of witch magick before it 
struck him.
In the center of this conflagration, Rockingham watched the flames of dire 
energies cast by the witch dash against his shield. Ice and fire roiled like 
living serpents around his barrier, seeking a way through the blockage. But it 
proved vain. The black shield was impregnable.
A cry of frustration arose from the witch, and the torrent of magick flared 
brighter. Laughter answered her renewed efforts.
Beyond the shield, a harsh voice suddenly intruded, demanding
r
and panicked. Elena! Pull back your magick! He only seeks to
drain you!
With these words, the flames instantly died away. In turn, the black shield 
dropped. Rockingham saw a gray, grizzled elder leaning on a crutch, his leg 
bandaged from ankle to thigh. A silver stud marked the mans ear. Agony was 
drawn in deep lines upon his face, but not all of the pain, Rockingham 
suspected, was from the injured limb.
Elena stood before the others. Her hands, still raised, were pale
and white. Its too late, she whispered.
A coldness spread through Rockingham, a touch of hoarfrost and ancient ice. Even 
under his masters control, Rockingham shivered. The black energies at his feet 
grew even darker. Rockingham knew more of the foul ones spirit had pushed 
through the ebonstone gate in his chest. It was drawn by the despair of those 
gathered here. Elena glanced to the gibbous moon overhead. The Black Heart 
whispered with malign mischief. Renew, witch. The moons magick will do you no 
good.
Needing little urging, the witch raised her left arm toward the night sky. 
Bathed in moonlight, her hand vanished. As she pulled down her arm, her fist 
returned, rich again with ruby energies. Elena faced Rockingham, her words 
fierce. Useless or not, I will die fighting you with every scrap of iron and 
magick in my blood.
From the black well, a hiss of amusement. Submit, witch, and
Ill still let the others live.
Rockingham saw the girl hesitate, her staunch stance wavering.
The voice whispered now, trying to worm past the girls own shield. There are 
none to save you.
From beyond the others, a new figure shoved forth. A naked woman, eyes wild and 
hair tangled, burst free. The green-haired girl reached toward the clearly mad 
woman as she rushed past.
Mother! No!
The woman shook off the girl and ran at Rockingham, hands raised in claws. 
Y-you murdered Conch, you monster!
Rockingham froze. The first image of the womans face, wild and tear streaked, 
seared his mind, obscuring all else. He gasped and clutched his chest.
Something broke deep inside him.
In response, a howl of rage echoed out from his chest. But Rock-ingham ignored 
it. Old memories swamped him, drowning him. Emotions flamed through his core, 
swiping away even the black chains that bound him. A black stone the size of a 
clenched fist tumbled from his open chest and clattered across the deck.
Rockingham stumbled from the sudden release. Raising his head, he moaned the 
name that had been imprisoned in his heart for too long, the name of the woman 
who had burst from the doorway.
<l T  lit
Linoral
Speaking aloud, Rockingham felt his legs give out. He crashed to his knees.
His outburst struck the woman just as deeply. She halted her lunge and fell to 
her hands on the deck. Her eyes rose from Rockinghams wounded chest to his 
face. A look of recognition broke through her madness. She knelt back, covering 
her face with her palms. No! It cannot be!
The small girl danced forward. Mother? You know this creature? Linora croaked, 
her voice lost. Hes your father.
Sy-wen dropped back in disbelief, her hand rising in horror. No! Kast gathered 
the distraught merai girl within his arms. She sank gratefully into his 
embrace. How could this be? she cried. For so long, she had conjured pictures 
of her father in her minds eye. He was always as tall as Kast, even broader of 
shoulder, but bore none of Kasts scars. She always pictured him with a 
perpetual grin and laughing eyes. Not not this creature of nightmare dredged 
from the foulness of the Dark Lords dungeons.
The golem lifted an arm in supplication. Linora? Before any further plea could 
be spoken, a screeching howl blew forth from the stone at the mans feet. The 
noise tore at Sy-wens ears and shook the sails like a wind. The roosting 
skaltum scattered from their perches into the night sky like a startled rookery 
of starlings. Pale leathery wings flapped and sailed away from the ships two 
masts.
Amid the chaos, Elena stepped forward, eyes on the retreating creatures, fist 
blazing with coldfire. Flint stopped the witch with a touch and pointed down. 
Look!
Sy-wens gaze followed where the old Brother pointed. Upon the
&#9632;leek, the remaining pool of dark energies around the stone crackled
Ryith streaks of silver, matching the thin veins forking through the
&#9632;rock. It was as if the remaining splash of dark magick was in fact
melted ebonstone. As they all watched, the well of darkness drew
back into the rock until only the chunk of ebonstone remained.
None dared draw near it.
Flint spoke. Free of its host, the Dark Lord has fled. Glancing back to the 
golem, Sy-wen noticed that only Rockingham and Sy-wens mother seemed oblivious 
of the stones transfor-Smation. Instead, the couples eyes were locked on one 
another. Im
sorry, Rockingham moaned.
Elena stepped as if to intervene, but once again Flint restrained
her. Let them be. Though I might not be as rich in weaving mag-
. icks as your brother, I can sense when a flow of fate is best left
undisturbed.
Clenching her fist, Elena slowly backed away. Sy-wen could almost feel the 
hatred pulsing from the witch. Sy-wen knew Elenas story. This man, her father, 
had once played a role in the murder of
Elenas family.
Deaf to those around them, Linora and Rockingham knelt near I one another. What 
happened to you? Sy-wens mother moaned. | She reached to touch the mans face, 
but her hand faltered.
He looked away. You should have had me slain, like the others. I I didnt 
deserve your m-mercy.
Linora touched his cheek tentatively. I couldnt live with that. I barely 
survived your banishment. If not for Conch and the babe
your baby
Sy-wen realized they were talking of her, when she was a child. Sy-wens heart 
roiled with emotions. Shock and anger, along with disbelief, confused her 
ability to sort out her feelings concerning this revelation. He cannot be my 
father This was the man who had killed Conch. How could her mother touch the 
creature with
affection?
Kast leaned and whispered in her ear, reading her thoughts. We cannot always 
choose our blood. Ulster was my blood brother, but our hearts were different. 
Remember that. Even if this creature truly is your father in name, you do not 
have to take him to heart.
Kasts words gave Sy-wen the strength to push free of his arms and step beside 
the two kneeling figures. She deserved to hear the
truth finally. I dont understand. What happened, Mother? she asked sternly.
Her mother would not look away from Rockingham. We were wed on a midsummers 
eve. We promised to share the rest of our lives together. But then one winter, 
shortly after you were born, he tried to forge a pact with coastlanders. He 
broke the merai code of silence. A pang of anger etched her mothers features.
I could not help myself, Rockingham explained softly. I was so tired of our 
isolation. The world beyond the waves was so vast and varied. I wanted to bring 
these gifts back to the merai back to my newborn daughter.
Sy-wen listened to his words and found her own heart responding. His 
descriptions sounded so much like her own cravings for new horizons, new 
experiences. She remembered the silent pull the coastlines had once had for her, 
too, when she and Conch used to sneak off and explore the Archipelago. Had she 
acquired this strange yearning from her father? What went wrong? she asked. 
Rockingham looked down, silent.
Her mother answered. Dragon blood proved too rich a prize to the landwellers. 
Dragons were slaughtered, and for such a crime, the code was exact. As 
punishment, your father was to have been killed. Suddenly her mothers voice 
cracked, and tears flowed. But I couldnt allow it. As an elder, I begged the 
older punishment instead: Banishment from the Deep.
Rockingham took her mothers hand and held it between his own. But such a gift 
was no kindness. The man glanced up at Linora. At first, I tried to live with 
my punishment. I wandered the coasts and islands until the webbing between my 
fingers dried and flaked away. Soon I walked like any other Iandweller. Over 
time, I learned I could survive without the merai. Her father turned back to 
her mother, pulling Linoras fingers to his lips. But I could not survive 
without you. You were an ache in my heart. The ocean waves whispered your name 
to me every night. Rain on the water tinkled with your laughter. I should have 
left the coasts, but my heart bound me. He lowered Linoras hands to his lap, 
and his voice grew husky. One day, staring out at the seas from a high bluff, 
the pain was too great. I could stand it no more and sought to end my 
banishment. Tears traced down his face as he looked into Linoras eyes. I 
stepped off the cliff.
Sy-wen spoke, shocked. You sought to end your own life? Silently, her mother 
pulled Rockingham into her embrace as he dissolved into sobs. Her mother rocked 
him. Cradling the sobbing man, Linora held him until his wracking breaths 
slowed.
Rockingham continued, speaking between gasps. But but there was an evil 
festering in secret along the coast. It sensed my despair and was drawn to it. 
By forsaking my own life, I exposed myself to its corruption. It d-did things to 
me, horrible things. Its only kindness was in binding my old memories of you in 
stone. That pain was finally gone, but so was the man you loved. I became only 
half a man. What I did afterward He pushed from Linoras embrace, facing her. 
Conch all the others Can you ever forgive me?
She melted toward him. I can only love you. It was the evil that is to blame, 
not you. She kissed him on the lips, then pulled slightly back. Now that Ive 
found you again, I will never let you leave my
side.
Her mothers words only caused the man further pain. It cannot be, my love, he 
said. I am dead. I know this. I can feel it in my flesh. He nodded toward 
where the stone rested on the deck. Only the magick in the ebonstone holds me 
here.
Then we will keep the foul thing safe.
Rockingham shook his head slowly. No. The stone also binds me to the evil. The 
rush of old memories broke its cursed hold, but as long as it exists, they can 
always draw me back again, enslave me. It must somehow be destroyed. Only then 
will I be free.
No! I cannot allow it!
Rockingham smiled sadly. He touched her cheek. Do you seek to keep me alive no 
matter the cost, as you did once before?
Sy-wen saw her mother wilt. She crossed and wrapped her mother in her arms. 
Linora trembled in her grip. Hush, Mother, you know hes right. The decision 
was not as hard for Sy-wen. She could not fathom that this man was her father. 
Kast was correct. To her, he was still a stranger. Sy-wen raised her eyes to the 
man. How do we destroy it?
His voice became hopeless. I dont know.
I do! Elenas stern voice drew all their gazes. Sy-wen saw hatred burning in 
her eyes. Just as with Sy-wen, these newest revelations had failed to sway the 
witchs heart. Elena saw only the murderer of her family. The witch held no 
qualms about severing the mans ties
to this world. Elena nodded to Tolchuk and the rune-carved weapon he bore. The 
Trysil hammer can smash ebonstone.
Rockingham pushed to his feet. With hope in his eyes, he faced the wrath of the 
witch. I know of no way back to grace in your eyes. But please, if its in 
your power, free me.
Sy-wen saw how Elena hesitated. Was the witchs hatred so deep that she would 
balk at even granting this final plea for death?
Flint spoke at her shoulder. We must be quick. The skalturn have only been 
spooked by the loss of the Dark Lords presence here. But in the skies, they 
already gather again. I think they mean to strike.
Rockingham still looked with strained hope at Elena, his eyes pleading. Do 
this And if I am able, I will find a way to help you here.
What? By betraying us? Elena said coldly.
Wounded, Rockingham remained silent, eyes cast down.
Sy-wen turned from where she knelt with her mother. Let my father go, Elena. 
Please. Sy-wen turned and found Rockinghams grateful eyes upon her. I dont 
know this mans true heart any better than you do, but I know my mothers. Let 
the man who my mother married on a midsummers eve die in peace.
Elena hesitated, staring fixedly at her; then slowly the womans shoulders 
relaxed. Wordlessly, she waved Tolchuk forward. Do it.
Rockingham seemed to shrink in relief. Linora pushed free of her daughters 
embrace and climbed to her feet. Sobbing, she drew her lover into her arms. Let 
me hold you. I want you with me for every last breath.
He drew her tight.
From over her mothers shoulders, Sy-wen met her fathers eyes. He smiled sadly 
at her. Father and daughter. Two strangers.
Tears rose in Sy-wens eyes, and her legs were suddenly weak. Father. She 
moaned the word so softly that only her own heart heard. She slid toward the 
deck with grief, but Kast was there to catch her. His arms were always there.
Before she could even lean into the Bloodriders warmth, a sudden thunderous 
crack exploded from nearby. Sy-wen jumped, glancing to where the ogre was bent 
over his hammer. He swung the weapon again, and the fist of ebonstone was 
ground to dust under the mag-ickal hammerhead.
Sy-wen swung her eyes toward her mother. Linora still held Rockingham in her 
embrace, but from the way his head lay slack on her shoulder, he was clearly 
gone.
Mother ?
Linora suddenly shuddered. A scintillating fog blew forth from Rockingham and 
passed through her mothers form. She let the dead man slip from her arms, then 
swung around. The glowing mist swirled tighter to form a vague resemblance of 
the golem. He raised a hand toward Linora, but his fingers passed through her 
cheek.
Good-bye, my love, she whispered to the spirit.
The ghostly form stared a moment more, then turned to face the witch.
Elena scowled at the shade wavering before her. Even just the wispy outline of 
the murderer set her blood afire. Coldfire danced over her ripe fist. The mark 
of the Rose was now entirely masked behind spates of blue flame. Her shoulders 
trembled as the mans ghostly eyes focused on her.
When he spoke, his words were as insubstantial as his form, whispers from 
another world. Thank you, he said. There are no words to beg your forgiveness 
nor acts that can wipe away my atrocities, but as I promised, I will seek an 
ally to help you in the fight to
come.
I ask no boon of you, she said with ice in her voice. Only that you truly 
leave this world and never return again.
The shade bowed his head. So be it. But as I leave, I will still seek the shade 
of this watery wood and attempt to pry him from his eternal slumber.
Elena did not understand any of this nonsense. She waved her fist of coldfire at 
the shade, but her fist passed through him with no effect. Go then. Do not 
sully these decks with your presence any
longer.
The shade bowed his ghostly head. His form began to dissipate, fraying at the 
edges in swirls of mist and roiling tendrils of glowing fog. Suddenly, though, 
the ghost of her parents murderer grew more solid for a few breaths. One last 
word, Elena.
She shuddered. Just her name on his tongue rippled disgust through her body. 
Begone, demon!
But the ghost persisted, his voice just a hushed trace sounding from much 
farther off. You must know The plainsman, Erril he lives.
Elena gasped. The blue flames flared brighter, then died away. A part of her 
quailed. Errils death had almost torn her apart; it had taken all her strength 
to accept his lossand now to think he might still be alive. She could not 
handle such a loss twice. Elena reached a hand and fingered the strip of singed 
red leather braided into her hair. H-he lives?
The ghost wavered before her, fading away. He is a captive of the darkmages on 
Aloa Glen. In two nights, when the moon ripens full, they will use his blood to 
destroy the book. You must hurry.
The shade again began to mist away into nothingness. Elena reached with both 
hands toward the fading spirit, trying to gather its glowing remnants back into 
the semblance of a man. He must not leave yet.
As her hands wove through his ghostly substance, her pale right hand vanished 
when it drifted through a small cloud of scintillating mist. Elena yanked her 
arm back as if stung, expecting some last bit of malice on the shades part. 
Instead, as her limb pulled free, her hand returned, now aglow with a familiar 
rosy azure.
She raised the hand before her. Her palm and fingers were as insubstantial as 
Rockinghams shade. She could see the scurry of her companions through her palm. 
Elena had momentarily forgotten Aunt Filas earlier lesson. Spirit light! When 
last with Fila, Elena had ignited this same magick while venturing too near the 
spirit world.
Ghostfire, Elena mumbled, naming the magick now imbued in her right hand. She 
raised her left hand still swirling with the ruby stain of coldfire and clenched 
her two fists. Both spirit and stone, she said, bringing her two fists 
together, one ghostly, one solid. Whether the shade of Rockingham spoke 
truthfully, Elena knew that if Erril still lived, she would tear down the 
towers of Aloa Glen to free him.
A strangled voice drew her attention back to the decks. Elena?  Lowering her 
hands, she saw Joach staring at her with his mouth hanging open. Tolchuk and 
Meric stood at his shoulder, equally shocked. Elena glanced around the deck. 
Other eyes were also fixed on her. What?
Joach stumbled a step toward her. Y-youre gone. I see your clothes, but your 
bodys vanished.
Elena glanced down at herself. Not again. She remembered when last she had 
touched spirit light. Her flesh had become invisible to the eyes of others. Only 
her clothes had remained visible.
Flint neared her, walking in a slow circle around her, studying her. Still, he 
kept a wary eye on the skies. The flock of skaltum had gathered just at the 
lakes edge, but the pale cloud now swept slowly back toward the ship, circling 
in a closing spiral toward the boat. Perhaps it would be best if you disrobed, 
Elena. If invisible, you might survive the coming attack. His voice sagged with 
a note of hopelessness. Afterward, you could perhaps still join up with the 
Drerendi fleet south of here.
No! I will not sit idle while the rest fight and die, she insisted. Elena 
raised her hand and studied her insubstantial right fist. From her first 
dalliance with this ghost magick, Elena had learned to mask a dagger held in her 
palm by flaring out her magick. But what if the opposite was also true? Elena 
willed the rosy glow to draw inward, rather than flow outward. She drew the 
magick of her ghostfire down to a small bright ember in the center of her palm, 
draining it from her blood and body. As she worked, her fingers grew more solid. 
Elena could no longer see through them.
Joachs voice again gasped out. El, I can see you again! Elena ignored her 
brother. She must not break her concentration not yet. Clenching her teeth, she 
bound the well of ghostfire in place, tying off the font of power until she was 
ready to release it again. Once done, Elena raised her face to the others. She 
knew they could all see her. She returned their stares, her gaze fierce. If the 
shade spoke truthfullythat Erril might still be aliveshe would let nothing 
stand between her and the plainsman.
The pounding of the bone drums suddenly crashed into a thunderous cacophony. 
The skaltum strike! Flint called from the starboard rail. Ready yourselves!
A flurry of activity burst across the deck. Tolchuk swung the dwarf hammer to 
his shoulder and joined Flint at the rail. Joach and Meric posted themselves on 
the opposite rail. Even Mama Freda had abandoned the galley, leaving her brewing 
elixirs to the boy Toks care. She bore some strange weapon in her hands: a long 
slender pipe into which she fed a feathered dart.
Poison from the Yrendl jungles, she explained. It will kill even these beasts 
if I can pierce their hides.
Elena did not argue against the old woman arming herself. Every means of 
exacting death would be needed this night. They must survive until dawn, when 
the suns light would weaken the dark protections of the demons.
A throat cleared nearby, drawing her attention. She found Kast and Sy-wen 
standing ready. Kast spoke. Should we call the dragon?
On my signal. Elena raised her arm and faced the swarm of skaltum. They now 
encircled the boat, sweeping toward them from all directions, low over the water 
but unfortunately not low enough for the surviving seadragons to reach them.
The ship grew hushed around Elena. No one spoke any further words. Only the beat 
of the bone drums disturbed the night. Still, Elena waited. She wanted the 
sudden appearance of Ragnark to startle the forefront of the legion, to perhaps 
cast them in disarray for a few critical moments.
As she held her breath, arm raised, Elenas heart quailed at the sheer numbers 
they faced. Everywhere she looked demons flapped and glided toward their lone 
boat. She fought against the hopelessness of their cause. Even if she should 
live, how many on board would die?
Suddenly a shivering scream of rage burst from the countless throats of the 
beasts.
Elena could delay no longer. Let the slaughter begin! She began to swing her arm 
down, but her limb was blocked by the hand of one of the zool.
Wait! he snapped and nodded toward the seas. Something else comes!
Elena twisted out of his grip. How much worse could this night grow? She stared 
at the leading edge of the skaltum assault. They were only a stones throw from 
the ship.
Then the world suddenly exploded around them.
All across the lake, a tangle of weeds burst out from the water, snaking far 
into the air, twice the height of the forests towering trees. Twisting vines 
and coiled branches snatched the skaltum from the skies, grabbing wing and 
limb, pulling the beasts under the lake. Nearer at hand, whipping roots and 
leafy snarls thrust up and ripped into the approaching flock. A few beasts 
managed to scrabble
as close as the rail, but even these were quickly yanked away by snags
of vines.
Elena stared at the decimation. It was as if the Pale Stallion had become 
trapped in a whirlwind of pale wings and frothing weed.
Its the sargassum! Flint called above the screams of the
skaltum.
The war raged around the boat. One skaltum, crazed with fear, crashed into an 
unfurled sail, ensnaring itself in rigging and sailcloth. Its thrashing tore 
loose the sail, and the beast toppled into the sea in a net of its own making. 
That was the closest to the boat any of the skaltum managed to get.
And as quickly as it started, it was over.
In the moonlight, the writhing red weed slowly subsided, sinking back into the 
sea, dragging the last of the demons down with it. None of the skaltum had 
escaped its fury. Soon the lake was clear. Even the dead dragons had been 
whisked away. No one spoke, just stared, too stunned.
Across the lake, a scatter of living seadragons and their riders emerged warily 
from the depths where they had retreated earlier. With the moon and stars so 
bright, Elena could easily spot the drag-onriders amazed expressions.
Around the ship, there was no sign of the nights carnage. The waters lay quiet 
and pristine. Its over, Elena sighed.
Flint limped over to her. But why did the sargassum intervene? In her heart, 
Elena knew the answer. She glanced across the faces of her companions. All would 
live to see the dawn. Turning away, Elena stared across the lake, leaning both 
hands upon the rail. Tears of relief flowed from sore eyes. Alone, she whispered 
words she had not thought she could ever speak, words for the murderer of her 
parents. I forgive you.
With her words, a scintillation of lights swirled up from the depths of the dark 
sea, like fireflies on a midsummers eve.
Elena felt a presence appear beside her. It was Linora. The woman rested her 
hand on Elenas. Thank you, Linora murmured
to her.
Across the sea, the sparks of spirit light spread and faded until only the moon 
and stars were reflected on the lakes mirrored surface.

Erril awoke in his dark cell on the last day of his life. Though there was no 
window to indicate the suns rising, Erril knew dawn had come. After five 
centuries of living, the movement of the sun had ingrained itself into his 
bones.
Slumped in his shackles, Erril raised his head. Nearby, shadowy rats scurried 
through the hay and chittered angrily at each other, fighting for scraps of 
moldy crust left from last nights meal. On his bare legs were scabbed bites 
from where those same rats had investigated his sleeping form, sampling his 
flesh for when his corpse would be theirs.
From the neighboring cell, something cried and thrashed in its chains. The 
strangled howl of madness echoed down the cell row.
Erril tried to ignore the noise, but it rattled into his skull. Suddenly, 
somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open; iron scraped iron as a lock was 
undone. Then came the heavy tread of booted feet. Erril listened. He judged 
four men approached. Too many just to deliver the mornings gruel.
Straightening on his bed of hay, Erril strained his ears for some clue as to 
their intent. From the neighboring cell, the wailing creature had quieted. It, 
too, knew better than to attract the attention of any who ventured down here. 
Through the cracked mortar of the walls, only a soft mewling rose from the 
creature, like a dog about to be beaten.
But the beast need not have feared. The scuff of boots stopped before Errils 
small door.
Erril quickly fingered the tip of slivered wood poking from the back of his 
neck. It was still in place. With only his loincloth as clothing, Errils own 
skin was the best hiding place for Greshyms gift. He had imbedded the staffs 
sliver under the skin at the edge of his hairline until it was needed.
The small door slammed open, and two men dressed in the black and gold of dog 
soldiers crawled inside. A torch sizzled in one mans fist. The sharp light 
stung. They scowled at Erril and crinkled their noses at his squalid 
accommodations. Smells like a privy in here, one commented.
The other scrunched up his face. He had only one eye, the other orb lost in a 
long wicked scar. Throw in them leg shackles. Lets get out of these here 
dungeons before the contagion gets us all.
A set of chains and manacles clattered into the cell, chasing the rats back into 
their black warrens. But the fierce vermin did not flee too far. Their red eyes 
glowed out at the guards, watching warily over their scraps left abandoned in 
the hay.
The one-eyed guard crossed and kicked Erril in the shin. Git yourself up. 
Youre to be taken to the baths and cleaned. He leaned down and leered in 
Errils face. It seems the Praetor has plans for you. He nodded toward where 
the neighboring creature still mewled. Maybe to make another pet out of you.
The other soldier interrupted. Nock, quit goadin him and give me a hand with 
these chains.
Grumbling, the guard named Nock gave a final kick at Erril, then moved to take 
one end of the leg shackles. Both men quickly hobbled Errils legs and ran a 
chain up and around his waist. They then unhooked his arm from the wall bracket 
and reattached it to a single shackle on his waist chain.
Once trussed up, he was led from the cell, wearing only a stained loincloth and 
flushed from a slight fever. The air in the hall chilled Errils skin, raising 
a rush of gooseflesh. At wrist and ankles, the old shackles had left troughs of 
rent flesh, purplish with bruises and infection. He limped after the first two 
guards while two others, bearing spears and poking periodically at his back when 
his shuffling gait slowed too much, followed.
Soon he was escorted into a warmer room; steam and the scent of lye stung his 
nose. In the center of the room stood an iron tub. He was stripped of chains and 
loincloth and unceremoniously herded
L r, M I1.
into the steaming water. He bit back a scream as the hot water burned his 
wounds.
Clean yourself up and get dressed, Nock commanded, throwing soap and a brush 
in with him. And be quick about it. We dont have all morn. The guards backed 
to the rooms door and clustered in
the hall.
The stone room was featureless except for a fogged mirror and a single stool 
with a set of clean clothes laid out. Erril drifted back into the waters heat, 
letting its warmth drive away the dregs of his fever. Once his head stopped 
pounding, Erril took soap and brush to his wounds first. Clenching his teeth 
and struggling with his one hand, he scrubbed the filth and dried hay from the 
deep gouges. After the bath was red with his own blood and the wounds looked raw 
and fresh, he took the brush to his body.
As the water cooled, Erril let his thoughts drift to Elena and the others. In 
the days prior, he had purposefully kept his mind away from thinking about them. 
That path led to certain despair. Did they know he still lived? Had Sy-wen 
managed to bring the Drerendi to their cause? With the full moon rising this 
night, the darkmages would attempt the books destruction at midnight. If they 
succeeded, all the Bloodriders and witches in the world would be of no avail.
He covered his face with his one handnot against this dreadful fate, but 
because he found himself strangely disconnected from any true feelings about the 
book or the destiny of Aloa Glen. He would attempt to thwart the mages plot 
with every fiber of his body, but in his heart, there was truly only one 
concern. His mind conjured Elenas image in the shimmer of bath steam. Whether 
the Blood Diary survived or not, Elena must live.
If youre done soaking, Your Highness, Nock snapped at him from the doorway, 
git your scrawny arse out and dried.
Erril pushed from the tub with his one arm and stepped onto the icy stones. 
Crossing to the mirror, he toweled himself dry and awkwardly dressed in the 
linen underclothes and fine gray breeches, taking care to wrap his wounds with 
the clean bandages left by the tub. Slipping into a white, billowed shirt, he 
inspected himself in the mirror.
Gaunt, with his cheeks and chin covered in dark beard, his gray eyes seemed 
shadowed hollows in his face. If he was to meet his brother, he would not walk 
to him a defeated man. He ran a hand
over his rough neck and finger-combed his hair roughly in place. As he worked, 
his eyes grew hard with the flint of his homeland.
Nock and another soldier entered. Kicking the chain and shackles at Erril, Nock 
ordered him to truss up.
Erril barely heard his words, still staring in the mirror. He ran his fingers 
over the prickle of wood at the nape of his neck. Touching the sliver from the 
staff, Erril allowed himself a moment of hope. Black magick to fight black 
magick. Are you deaf? Git in those chains!
Erril turned to face Nock. The guard saw something in the plainsmans eyes that 
stumbled him back a step, the pale scar on his face going white.  Y-you heard 
me, he squeaked out, glancing at his companion for support.
With a tired shake of his head, Erril bent and retrieved his shackles, then 
locked his ankles. Nock waved for the other guard to hook Errils chains and 
wrist manacle in place. Erril stared at Nock while this was done. The soldier 
tried to meet and maintain the plainsmans gaze, but he glanced away and 
grumbled as he led Erril toward the door.
The trek to the westernmost tower of the great citadel, the Praetors Spear, was 
a long one. Erril kept his back stiff and his gait unhurried. Now that he was 
dressed and cleaned, the guards with the spears no longer harried him. They 
seemed to sense that a new man had risen from the steam of the baths, one who 
would not tolerate such barbs, even when chained.
At long last, they reached the twisting tower stair. Erril sighed; after so 
long without proper nourishment, the climb would be interminable. Even his old 
leg injury, where the rockgoblin had stabbed him almost a winter ago, 
complained at the number of steps. By the time the group reached the top 
landing, Erril was gasping between clenched teeth.
Nock crossed to the two guards stationed before a pair of huge, iron-bound oaken 
doors. Before he could speak, the doors swung open at his approach. The tower 
guards did not even register the movement, just stared straight ahead. Nocks 
single eye, though, grew huge. He bowed his head before the presence that seemed 
to flow from the opening portal.
Words trailed out to them. Tell my brother he is welcome. The icy voice belied 
the warmth of the invitation.
Stepping aside, Nock turned to Erril and waved him forward. The plainsman even 
felt the slight poke of a spears point in his back. It seemed the guards were 
more than eager to be rid of their charge.
Erril did not balk. Here was his quarry if he was to stop the books unbinding. 
With a clink of chain, he shuffled past Nock and entered Shorkans tower home.
As he stepped onto the thickly cushioned rugs of the study, the rattle of 
Errils leg irons became muffled. Inside, he found the tow-headed boy mage, 
Denal, lounging on a short couch, heels tapping the frame, and Greshym, smirking 
like a cat that just ate a pigeon, seated at a small cherrywood table. Only 
Shorkan, still robed in the traditional white of the Praetorship, had his back 
to Erril, indicating how little the plainsmans presence impacted him.
Shorkan stared out at the drowned city beyond his window as the suns early rays 
bathed the toppled and crooked towers. In the distance, Erril spotted the glint 
of blue that marked the ocean and even a few humped islands. Shorkan spoke as if 
continuing a conversation that Erril had rudely interrupted.
They come with full sails. The Bloodriders and the witch will be at our doors 
before night falls.
Erril could not help but smile with these words. So the Drerendi had been 
convinced to add their might to the assault!
Greshym spoke. With the loss of the skaltum legion in the sar-gassum, how 
stand our remaining defenses of the island? Erril caught the bent-backed 
mages glance toward him. Greshyms lip twitched. Will they hold out until the 
ceremony at moonrise?
Shorkan turned. Brother looked upon brother. Erril felt a momentary twinge of 
old memories: racing through fields, wrestling out behind the barn, manning snow 
forts on the windswept plains. But then Erril spotted the mans eyes, and any 
thoughts of a shared childhood evaporated into a foul smoke of blood and 
torture. Behind those gray eyes was no sign of the brother Erril had once 
loved. Instead, a presence that had little to do with men born of women lurked 
behind that gaze; it whispered of creatures hatched in poison and bred amid 
torture. Thankfully, the Praetor turned his full attention quickly away, fixing 
on Greshym.
Will our forces hold out? Shorkan mocked with clear disdain. Weve still 
another two legions of skaltum on the island and a fleet of ships that number 
in the hundreds, manned by uljinn-controlled
berserkers. With an additional thousand dog soldiers ensconced in the peripheral 
towers with longbows and flaming pitch, youll have no need to worry about the 
safety of your hide, Greshym.
Ah But if we are so safe, why are two hundred dwarf ax warriors spread 
throughout the Edifice?
A mere precaution. I will not have this nights ritual in the catacombs 
disturbed by anyone.
Greshym bowed his head, but not before once again glancing to meet Errils eye. 
This litany of the islands defenses had been coaxed from the Praetor for 
Errils benefit. The ancient mage wanted Erril to understand the current 
situation on the island.
Denal spoke up, his voice high and sibilant, a childs voice but with the 
boredom and malice of too many years. What of the golem Rockingham ?
Gone, Greshym answered. I sensed his spells unraveling. Denal squirmed his 
face into a boyish pout. But I so wanted to play with him some more.
It is of no matter, Shorkan commented. With the witch and her army here, he 
was of no further use. He delayed her long enough for us to prepare our 
defenses. The witch will find the island impregnable, and by dawn tomorrow, her 
armies will be nothing but shark chum. Now enough talk of the witchs approach. 
Instead, we must make preparations for the ritual at sunset.
Shorkan turned to Erril. It is time our roles were reversed, dear brother. 
Long ago, it was our blood that bound the book. To unbind it, the spell will 
require your blood this time, Erril. Unfortunately, we will require all of it. 
Erril shrugged.
Shorkan raised his eyebrows at this lackluster response. This does not concern 
you, Erril? Have the passing centuries weighed so heavily that you welcome your 
lifes end?
Erril spoke for the first time. I have no worries of death.
And why is that?
There is a traitor who stands amongst you, dear brother. Erril saw Greshym 
twitch in alarm.
Shorkan did not seem to notice the old mages surprise. A traitor? And who 
might that be?
Sighing, Erril shrugged again. Now if I told you, where would be the sport in 
that, dear brother? 

Aboard the Dragonspur, Kast stood beside Pinorr as the shaman studied the 
horizon, his eyes partially closed. Kast waited patiently, fingering the tattoo 
of the dragon on his cheek. It was best not to disturb a ships shaman when he 
sought his rajor maga, his sea sense.
To the stern of the ship, the Drerendi fleet spread from horizon to horizon. 
The sails from over a hundred ships were like the billowing clouds of an 
approaching storm front. Mixed among the boats were the remains of the merai 
forces, some hundred or so dragons and riders. Though a full quarter of the 
merai had died in the sargassum forest, the presence of those remaining kept 
the spirits of the Blood-riders charged. The victory against the skaltum had 
been sung on many decks this past evening.
Kast turned his attention back to his own vessel.
Elena and Flint stood nearby. Flints head was bowed in quiet conversation with 
the ships new keelchief. Hunt, the high keels own son, had been assigned to 
the ship after the mutiny during the night of the storm. Kasts brother, Ulster, 
had been found slain upon the first mates sword. Both the first and second mate 
were later also discovered dead; obviously the mutineers had fallen into some 
disagreement. Further investigation had turned up no other conspirators. Though 
Ulster had been no true brother, Kast still felt a twinge of anger at the mans 
death. He gripped his swords hilt in an iron fist. If any others were involved
Finally, Pinorr straightened his stance by the rail. He cleared his throat. It 
is of no use.
Kast tightened his brows. Can you read nothing of what awaits us?
Pinorr turned his dark eyes on Kast, then swung away. The seas are dark to me 
now. He reached for the hand of his granddaughter, Sheeshon, who sat on the 
deck nearby. But the girl ignored his offered palm, fiddling instead with the 
webbing between her toes.
Kasts eyes were drawn to the same. It was hard to fathom the transformation of 
the child. Even when faced with his peoples shared heritage with the merai, it 
was difficult to accept it fully. Kast turned his attention back to Pinorr. 
Were only a half days voyage to the Archipelago. Does the evil entrenched 
among the islands resist your abilities?
Finorr grunted noncommittally.
Kast reached to the old shamans sleeve. Do not fault yourself Pinorr. If you 
cant read anything on the wind, then no one can. ttye will have to trust that 
the merai outriders will bring back sufficient warning. Kasts mind 
momentarily flashed on Sy-wen. She had returned with her mother to the giant 
leviathan that trailed the fleet Linora sought the guidance of the elders in the 
battle to come.
Pinorr glanced up at Kast as if about to say something but then turned away. A 
certain awkwardness grew between them.
Before either could speak, Elena moved toward them. She knelt beside Sheeshon, 
giving Kast a quick smile. The witchs other companions had been left aboard 
the Pale Stallion while the boats damaged mast and sails were mended. As soon 
as the southern isles of Maunsk and Raibs Saddle came into view, the witch and 
Flint would return to the Stallion. As the battle ensued, she and the others 
would take the smaller sloop west toward where Flint claimed to know a secret 
route onto the island. Meanwhile, it would be up to Kast and Sy-wen, along with 
the Bloodriders and the merai, to keep the main forces of the island 
distracted.
Or so it had been planned. Kast only wished Pinorr had been able to ascertain 
some information about what lay ahead. The morning sun now climbed to midday; 
they would soon be in sight of the island and its drowned city.
You sense nothing from the seas?  Elena asked Pinorr. Sheeshon suddenly stood 
and waved her webbed hands through the air. Look, Papa! My hands are like 
birdies!
Pinorr smiled sadly and pushed her arms down. Yes, little Sheeshon. Lets go 
see if Mader Geel has our meal ready.
The girl wiggled in his grip, freeing an arm. She pointed out toward the 
northern horizons, toward the empty seas. That island over there has got big 
birdies flying around it. White ones with sharp teeth. But theyre not nice 
birdies. Elena and Kast exchanged glances.
More skaltum, Kast mumbled. He nodded to Sheeshon. Pinorrs granddaughter 
shares his gifts of the rajor maga. She can read mag-ick and the seas, like her 
grandfather. Kast leaned closer to Sheeshon. Do you see any other monsters 
around the island? 
Sheeshon scrunched up her face as if she had eaten something
of- I dont like that place. It smells like bad fish. She turned her
rtention back to the webs of her hands.
pinorr patted her head. She does not understand what she sees.
But at least she does see something. Kast stared significantly at
pinorr.
The rajor maga is a fickle gift, Bloodrider.
Before the shaman could leave, Kast stopped him with a touch on the shoulder. 
Is there something youre not telling us, Pinorr? Since the night of the storm, 
youve grown quiet and withdrawn. Do you see something that you fear voicing? Do 
you know what will come
this day?
Pinorr shook free of Kasts grip and picked up Sheeshon. As I
told you before, the seas are dark to me.
But why?
Pinorr turned away from Kast. Some answers are best left unspoken. With those 
mumbled words, the old shaman crossed the decks. Kast watched him leave and knew 
it was more than the weight of the old mans granddaughter that bent his back.
Elena spoke from the rail. Those shadows on the horizons, are those storm 
clouds?
Kast swung around and studied the sea and sky. No. Not
clouds.
What are they then?
Islands. Weve reached the southern edge of the Archipelago.
Elena glanced over as Flint stepped beside them. His eyes were fixed on the 
horizon, too. We should be returning to the Pale Stallion, Elena. It is time we 
prepared for our own departure.
How long until we near Aloa Glen itself? she asked.
Flint pointed to one of the dark shadows to the northeast. We are already 
there.
From the rail of the Pale Stallion, Elena stared through a spy-glass at the 
island. A chill breeze slipped past her woolen scarf and shivered her skin. 
After almost a full turn of seasons, her goal was finally in sight: Aloa Glen. 
As she stared, Elena felt no joy, only a cold dread that filled her belly. How 
could a place so fraught with darkness appear so bright in the midday sun?
Formed from three peaks, the island was roughly shaped like a horses shoe. Its 
two arms seemed to stretch toward her, welcoming her into its embrace. Through 
the glass, Elena spotted the city itself a bristling of towers and spires that 
climbed from the seas and spread up the slopes of the central peak. Atop this 
middle peak, like a crown on a king, stood a massive castle. Elena studied the 
structures towers and knew somewhere beyond its walls was hidden the Blood 
Diary and the fate of Alasea.
Yet as Elena drew her gaze over the battlements and broken towers, her thoughts 
dwelled on one other prize hidden behind its cracked walls: Erril. If 
Rockingham spoke truthfully, the plainsman was trapped in a dungeon beneath the 
castle; by nightfall, with the rising of the full moon, he would be sacrificed 
in an attempt to destroy the book.
Elena lowered the spyglass. She would not let that happen. Ahead of her, the 
massive ships of the Drerendi seemed to dwarf the Pale Stallion. The fleet 
filled the seas with sails and dragon-carved prows. With the sun shining 
directly overhead, the islands around them were no longer misty shadows but had 
grown into sheer red cliffs and towering green mountains.
May I see? Joach asked, reaching for the spyglass. Elena numbly passed him the 
tool. All around the rail, her companions had gathered on the deck. With the 
fleet sailing toward the island, the Pale Stallion would soon be parting ways. 
They would drift behind the last of the Bloodriders ships, and as the fleet 
rounded the isle of Raibs Saddle, the Stallion would slip farther west to the 
island of Maunsk. Flint knew of a back door to reach Aloa Glen in secret, a 
magickal gateway similar to the Arch of the Archipelago, but he kept the details 
a mystery.
Joach spoke, drawing her attention. I see watch fires in many of the drowned 
towers that edge the island. At least a hundred. They know we come.
Flint took the glass from him and raised it to his own eye. Theyve known our 
every movement since we first entered these seas, and we will use that to our 
advantage this day. The fleet and the merai will draw their gazes. While 
theyre blinded by our forces, well slip in a back door. With luck, well be in 
and out before they even know we were there.
Tolchuk grumbled nearby. Ogres do not trust luck. It be as
likely bad as good.
Flint patted Tolchuks arm. That is why we go with Elena. I do not trust fate 
any better than you, my big friend.
Meric leaned on a cane with Mama Freda at his elbow. After the elvins recent 
injuries, the taxing use of his elemental gifts had left him wasted, but at 
least the fire had returned to his blue eyes. Fates be damned. We risk Elena 
needlessly here. We should leave her within the protection of the fleet and seek 
the book on our own.
Flint shook his head. The book is bound in a spell of black ice. I wager it 
will take the wards magick and Elenas power to free it.
Elena added her support. I must go. If the Blood Diary is truly meant for me, I 
must free it.
Meric scowled but let the matter drop, knowing he could not
sway her.
The tiny fiery-maned pet of the healer clung to Mama Fredas shoulder. If you 
are all done admiring the island and plotting, she said, scratching the beast 
behind an ear, I have prepared an elixir to ward off fatigue and sharpen the 
senses. We should rest and be
ready.
Flint nodded at her words. She speaks wisely. The zool will man the sails and 
wheel. We will be striking on our own soon and
A sudden whoosh of expelled air and a spray of water exploded near the starboard 
side of the ship. All their gazes swung to the massive black dragon and its 
green-haired rider. Sy-wen spat out her breathing tube and raised an arm in 
greeting. I bring news from the merai outriders! she called and waved back 
toward Aloa Glen. A massive fleet lies in ambush on the lee side of the 
island, and flocks of strange, tentacled beasts lurk in the deep waters that 
border the sunken city. The Bloodriders fly ahead to flank both sides of the 
island, while the merai have been ordered to hunt the deeper seas for
the monsters!
Look! Joach called out and pointed toward the island.
The small, sleeker ships of the Bloodriders, nicknamed shark hunters, had 
already sped forward of the main fleet. As they coursed nearer the edge of the 
city, racing the waves with full sails, a cascade of flaming embers blew out 
from the half-sunken towers and rained down upon the smaller ships. A few sails 
caught fire, flaring bright.
Before the shark hunters could even begin dousing the flames, a barrage of 
boulders followed the trails of the fiery arrows, flung from catapults atop the 
towers. Even from this distance, the explosion of splintered wood and the 
concussion of striking rocks crashed over the waters.
Elena gasped at the slaughter. But she was not the only one to react.
Ahead, the larger ships of the Bloodriders dove forward, splitting into two 
flanks. They were a storm of sails upon the sea.
Suddenly, from around either arm of the island, foreign ships of every shape and 
size suddenly hove into view, ready to meet the Bloodriders.
Sy-wen called again from atop her huge black dragon as it glided the waves 
beside the boat. We must be off! Ragnark and I will coordinate the attack from 
the air. With these brief words, Sy-wen swung her dragon around. You must 
leave! Now!
Were off! But be sharp yourselves! Watch for our signal fire atop one of the 
towers near sunset! Flint called after her. If we get the book, we will need 
rescue from the island!
Raising an arm, Sy-wen signaled her acknowledgment. We know! All eyes will be 
watching for you! With these last words, the great beast surged away, wings 
rising from the water to either side. Striking out, the wings beat at the water 
and lifted rider and dragon from the seas. With a roar of war blasting from his 
throat, Ragnark climbed into the air, seawater sluicing from his scales. He 
angled over their ship, passing just above the tips of the masts. The whump of 
his massive wings beat down at them. In a flash of sunlight off pearlescent 
scales, he dove away.
Flint handed back the spyglass to Elena. We must not be caught in the edge of 
this fighting. Flint waved Tolchuk to his side and marched toward the stern 
wheel.
Elena raised the spyglass, unable to look away. She followed the dragons course 
across the blue sky as horns of battle blared from the Bloodriders ships. 
Spread out before them, the seas now frothed with cutting keels. Near the city, 
smoke from burning ships smudged the clear skies while pale tentacles rose from 
the depths to grab at rail and men as boats foundered.
Dragons rose, too, from the waves to tear at these blubbery beasts. Some of the 
seadragons also clawed aboard ships to protect their
^jo-bred brethren, while riders bearing swords attacked foe and ueast alike. For 
the first time in ages, merai and Drerendi were
united in battle.
Near the island, a giant leviathan suddenly exploded to the surface. From the 
behemoths belly, merai surged out of countless openings. With daggers and 
swords, they joined the battle at the citys edge, climbing towers to attack the 
soldiers inside. Merai, impaled on spears, toppled back into the seas even as 
others replaced
those who had fallen.
Elena covered her mouth in horror, tears blurring her vision. Everywhere she 
swung the spyglass, men and dragons died. It was as if the merai and Drerendi 
were a fierce surf pounding themselves to death against jagged rocks.
The spyglass was suddenly taken from Elenas fingers. She did not resist; she 
had seen enough. Without the aid of the lenses, the battle now seemed so 
distant, almost like a bad dream. But sound carried different tidings over the 
water. Screams, horns, bellows from wounded dragonsall kept the immediacy of 
the battle raw in
her ears.
Joach was at her side, pulling her away. He passed the spyglass to one of the 
zool. Xin, take this. Watch the battle and keep us
informed.
So much death, she mumbled. All for a cursed book. Joach tried to soothe 
her. Not for a book, El. They die for the chance at freedomand not just for 
themselves, but for their sons and daughters. They shed blood for a future 
dawna dawn only
you can bring.
Elena glanced at her brother. But when does a price become too
higheven for freedom?
That is not for you to judge, El. It is a price each man must
weigh in his own heart.
Elena glanced at the war raging around the lone island and judged her own heart. 
What price would she pay for someones freedom? She pictured the hard planes and 
gray eyes of Erril and knew
her answer.
She turned her back on the death across the waves. Some freedoms were worth any 
cost.
Meric opened the door to his cabin. He was greeted by the ruf_ fle of feathers 
from the perch by his bedside. The sunhawks snowy plumage flared brighter with 
the slight motion. Black eyes, unblinking, studied the elvin as he entered the 
room, but the bird did not raise an alarm. The creature knew Meric. The hawk had 
been seated above his mothers throne in Stormhaven for the past sixteen winters 
Slipping a bit of dried beef from a pocket, Meric crossed to the bird and 
proffered the tidbit. The hawk cocked one eye at the strip of meat, then shook 
its mane of feathers, declining the offering with a flip of its hooked beak. 
Meric frowned at the insult. He should have known better. The bird liked its 
meat fresh and bloody, not limp and salted. Chewing the meat himself, Meric 
crossed to the small chest at the foot of his bed.
He needed a moment to himself to prepare for the battle to come. He ran a hand 
over the scars on his face. Memories of old tortures threatened to unman him, 
but he fought back such feelings, hardening himself.
He would not fail his queen. He had been sent to recover the lost bloodline of 
the elvin king, and he must succeed. He would protect Elena with his own blood 
if necessary. Meric pictured the girl. Now grown into a woman by her magick, 
Meric recognized the subtle elvin features in her: her tall, thin physique; the 
slight curving of her ear; the sharp corners of her eyes. There could be no 
mistaking their shared bloodlines.
Still, Meric had to admit that his concern for Elena had grown into more than 
just a desire to see the kings line continue. He again fingered the scars on 
his cheek. He had faced the horror that walked this land and knew she and the 
others fought in a just and noble cause. On their long journey here, Elena had 
demonstrated that her heart was as noble as her heritage, and Meric had no 
desire to fail her, either. Luckily, for now, his role as protector of Elena 
served both women in his lifequeen and witch. Elena must be safeguarded not 
just for the preservation of the kings bloodline, but also for the hope of this 
land.
But as Meric eyed the stoic sunhawk, the symbol of his queen, he wondered how 
much longer the goals of these two women would share the same path. And if they 
should diverge, what path would Meric take?
Sighing, Meric pushed aside the question for now. From the sea
chest at the foot of his bed, he removed a small stone. Rubbing its cold 
surface, Meric lifted it to his lips and breathed across it. A brilliant glow 
blew forth from its heart. Satisfied, he placed the wind-stone on his bed and 
removed another object from the depths of his sea chest. It was a long thin 
dagger. He ran a finger along the flat of the blade; his touch brought forth a 
crackle of silver energies along its length. Like the sunhawk, the ice dagger 
was a heritage of his family- More a relic than a true weapon, it would have to 
serve him on the journey ahead. He rested the ice dagger next to the stone. 
Next, he tenderly removed the last object from the chest, using both hands to 
carefully lift it free. It was the true reason he had returned to his cabin for 
a moments respite.
He lifted Neelahns lute from the chest and settled it in his lap. He studied 
the whorls of grain in the wood. It had been carved from the heart of the 
nyphais tree as it died. Gently, he let his fingers strum the lutes strings. 
The sound was like a soft sigh, a whispered exhalation of relief at finally 
being able to speak again. Meric leaned into its allure, strumming through a few 
minor chords. He played softly to settle his heart for the battle to come.
As he let the lutes voice lull him, his mind returned to Elenas own quandary. 
Just what were they fighting for? Was it freedom, as Joach had insisted? Or was 
it perhaps something more tangible? In the music of the heartwood, pictures of 
Merics own home, the cloud castle of Stormhaven, bloomed in his mind. These 
fond memories drew Meric away from battle and warfare, at least for a brief
moment.
Suddenly, a scuffle of heel on wood disturbed his reverie. It came from just 
outside his door. The elvins fingers stopped their strumming. Silently, he 
crept from his bed, lute brandished like a sword, and crossed to the door. Meric 
listened for a moment. He heard no further sound, but he sensed that someone 
still stood at his doorstep. Reaching to the latch, Meric whipped open the door 
to find a small boy cowering in the hall. Meric lowered the lute. It took him a 
moment to recognize the terrified figure of Tok. Boy, why are you slinking 
outside my door? Werent you supposed to be sent to one of the leviathans for 
safety?
I I hid, he said sheepishly. With the horses. Meric scowled at the boy. 
Not a wise choice, boy. You would have been safer with the merai under the 
sea.
I didnt want to go with those others, sir. Youre youre allt^ people I know 
in the world.
Meric shook his head. Well, stowing away or not, why were yOu skulking in the 
hall just now?
Th-the music. He waved toward the lute still in Merics hand I wanted to hear 
it better. It makes me feel good.
Meric remembered how in the past Tok had always been underfoot whenever he 
played the lute. The boy had been constantly enraptured by its song. Meric 
settled back to his bed with the lute on his lap. Does the music remind you of 
your own home? Tok shrugged. I never knew no home, sir. Meric frowned. What 
do you mean you knew no home?  Tok shuffled nervously in the doorway, clearly 
unsure whether to enter or not. I was orphaned on the streets of Port Rawl, 
sir. I took up with the boats to earn a keep. The seas been my only home.
Meric weighed this story with his own history. He could not imagine what it 
would be like never to know ones past, never to call any place home. He finally 
waved the boy to the sea chest beside the narrow bed. Sit.
Toks shoulders slumped with clear relief. He scurried to the chest and sat 
silently. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the sunhawk on its perch nearby. 
But the boys gaze quickly returned to the lute, all but begging Meric to play.
Then what do you hear in the lutes music, Tok? What draws you to it?
The question made the boy squirm. When he finally answered, his voice was a 
whisper. It makes me warm. He pointed to his chest. In here. Its like like 
it takes me somewhere where no one laughs at me or tries to hit me. I close my 
eyes, and in my belly, I think I think I can finally belong somewhere. The 
boys eyes were bright with tears.
Merics gaze drifted to the lute in his lap. He found it hard to stare at the 
boy.
P-please play something for me, Tok asked so hopelessly. Just for a little 
while.
Meric did not move for several breaths. Finally, he handed the boy the lute. It 
is time you played for yourself, Tok.
The boy held the instrument at arms length, as if he clutched a writhing snake, 
horror clear in his eyes. I I couldnt!
put the lute in your lap. Youve seen me do it enough times.
Gulping past his terror, Tok did as he was told.
Now put your left hand on the neck of the instrument. Dont rrv about where to 
put your fingers. With your other hand, use vOur nails to brush the strings.
Toks fingers trembled, but he listened and obeyed. He treated the lute with a 
reverence that bordered on worship. When his fingers stroked the strings for the 
first time, the sound froze him. The chord hovered in the air like a frightened 
sparrow. Neelahns lute spoke more with its own voice than with the skill of 
the player. Tok raised his eyes toward Meric, joy and wonder bright in his gaze.
Now play, Tok. Listen with your heart and let the music move
your fingers.
I dont know what
Just trust me, Tok. And for the first time in your life, trust
yourself.
The boy chewed his lower lip and once again brought his fingers to the strings. 
He strummed lightly, almost apologetically. But soon his eyes drifted closed, 
and he let the music move through him. Meric watched the boy transform from a 
lowly urchin to something full of grace. Music flowed from the wood of the lute 
through the boy and out into the world.
Meric leaned back and listened. There was no art to the boys playing; it was 
all heart, passion, and an ache of loneliness. It was the last song of 
Neelahns blighted forest and the song of a boy who longed for a past that had 
been stolen from him.
Meric stared at the plumage of the sunhawk as it perched so imperiously upon its 
branch. In its stiff stance and unforgiving eyes, Meric saw himselfor at least 
the person he had been when he had first arrived on these shoresmomentarily 
mirrored. Haughty and righteously indignant with all others. But was he still 
the same? Since coming here, Meric had experienced acts both brave and craven. 
He had beheld those of low birth shine with the majesty of kings and witnessed 
those of noble heritage crawl through mud to satisfy their
baser lusts.
Glancing back to the boy, Meric noticed the streams of tears trailing down the 
lads face as he conjured forth a home that he would never know, and suddenly 
Meric understood the lutes song. Here was what they should be fighting fornot 
the ancient honor of a
banished people or the lost bloodlines of a vanished king, but simply peace.
Meric let the boy play, allowing him his moment of home and hope. And in this 
music, Meric also discovered a calmness of spirit. Here was something worth 
fighting for.
Suddenly the sunhawk let out a piercing screech. Meric sat straight in his bed, 
and the precious lute almost tumbled from Toks startled fingers. Both their 
gazes swung to the bird.
The hawk stretched on its perch, wings pinioned out. Its snowy plumage now 
flared with a brightness that stung the eye. Whats wrong?  Tok asked.
Meric was already out of his bed, reaching for the bird. Im not sure. The 
bird leaped to the elvins wrist. Claws dug into his flesh, piercing skin. 
Meric swooned as images flooded him. He saw ships riding stormwinds, keels 
cresting through clouds. Sweet Mother, not now! He had thought to have more 
time!
With the bird on his wrist, Meric hurried from the room. Tok followed. Meric 
hurried atop the decks. Joach, Flint, and the black-skinned zool were the only 
ones present. Their mouths dropped at the sight of Meric and the fiery hawk.
Meric raised his wrist, and the bird shot upward, sailing past the billowed 
sails and up into the sky. Lowering his arm, Meric stared out at the seas. The 
Pale Stallion had by now passed among the fringe islands of the Archipelago. The 
Drerendi fleet and the raging war could no longer be seen except as a smudge of 
darkness to the east and an echoing whisper of horns in the distance.
Flint crossed to Meric. What were you doing? That cursed birds brilliance 
could give away our position.
Meric watched the hawk disappear into the glare of the sun. Hes been called 
home. It seems other parties are being drawn to the battle here, like moths to 
the flame.
What do you mean?
Meric glanced back to the grizzled Brother. If you want the Blood Diary, we 
must hurry. This war of the isles is about to rage more fiercely. My mother 
comesQueen Tratal!
Flints brows rose with hope at the news. We could always use more allies. If 
we could get word to Sy-wen and coordinate
Meric clutched Flints arm and hissed at him. You are not listening! She comes 
not to aid our cause, but to end it! She means to lay
to Aloa Glen, to destroy everyone and anything on the cursed
island.
Flint blinked at his outburst. And and she has such strength
to accomplish this?
Meric just stared at Flint. The elvins silence was answer enough.
Flints eyes narrowed with concern. But what of the Blood Diary? It is meant 
for Elena. Why would your mother seek to thwart us?
Meric scowled and turned away. Because I asked her to.
The trio of mages led Erril through the Grand Courtyard of the Edifice. Two 
guards followed behind, bearing long swords. Not that Erril was much of a risk 
to anyone: Bound from ankle to shoulder with chains that limited his pace to a 
shuffle, he clanked with each small step. As he limped along the garden path of 
white stone, he stared up at the blue skies, squinting against the brightness of 
the afternoon after so many days buried in the dungeons of the citadel.
With the sun already drifting toward the west, the gardens of the central court 
lay pooled in shadow. Only the top branches of the huge koakona tree, the 
ancient symbol of Aloa Glen, stretched above the walls and reached the warm 
sunlight. But where the sight of the tree in the bright sun should have cheered 
him, the cries of battle from beyond the walls of the castle transformed the 
image into one of desperation. It was as if the dead limbs of the tree were 
struggling against its own demise, arms and fingers scrabbling against drowning.
To heighten this image, around the base of the trees trunk, among the knees of 
its gnarled roots, a group of black-robed mages gathered, encircling the tree. 
Ten muscled men leaned on long axes nearby, their expressions dark. Erril could 
almost smell the menace from this swamp of evil.
But that was not all he scented: Smoke stung the nose and marred the skies, 
while all around the city, drums and horns blared stridently. At first the war 
sounded as near as the castle itself; even the occasional snatches of shouted 
orders could be heard. Then the clash
f noises seemed muted, as if the battle had drifted far from here. Rut Erril 
knew neither was true. The seas played tricks with sound. In truth, the battle 
surged all around the island.
Earlier, he had viewed the launching of the attack from atop the westernmost 
tower. He had seen the ships of the Bloodriders and the dragons of the merai 
collide with the forces entrenched here: Monsters had risen from the sea; ships 
manned by foul berserkers had cut into the ranks of Drerendi ships; showers of 
flaming arrows and boulders had harried the dragons and riders. The waves soon 
frothed with blood and gore. Husks of burned-out ships ran aground against the 
drowned edge of the city. Bodies of the slainboth friend and foefloated amidst 
the wreckage. A few of the citys towers were now fonts of flame as the pitch 
and oil stored inside them were torched by the attackers. Everywhere one looked, 
carnage marked
the seas.
During all this, Shorkan had merely stood at the window of his tower chamber and 
stared at the slaughter below. No emotion had marked his face. Finally, 
responding to some signal known only to himself, Shorkan had turned and ordered 
them all to the catacombs for the final preparations for the nights ritual. He 
had seemed little concerned for the battle raging below the city.
It was this lack of concern that unnerved Erril the most. If the fiend had 
gloated at the destruction, shown some sign of humanity, Erril would have felt 
better. This total disinterest in the slaughter demonstrated how far from human 
this creature who walked in his
brothers skin was.
As they crossed the gardens, Erril studied Shorkans back. The only rise he had 
managed to get from the man had been a narrow-eyed suspicion when he had 
suggested that a traitor lurked within Shorkans party. But when Erril had 
refused to elaborate, the Praetors concern had quickly died away.
Still, Erril had managed to spark that initial response. As much as his false 
brother played the role of the stoic demigod, Erril knew some of the old 
Shorkan still survived behind that cold countenance. Nothing noble or good, just 
the baser sides of his brother that Shorkan had once kept buried and chained.
When he was a young man, Shorkans pride and confidence had sometimes 
overwhelmed his judgment. He had hated to be bested in a game of strategy. That 
childish rage still existed behind his
white robe. Though the Praetors face remained blank, Erril knew
Shorkans mind and blood roiled with thoughts of who the traitor
might be. Erril had planted a seed of suspicion, and he trusted his
brothers baser nature to grow this kernel into a true core of distrust
And a man who kept his gaze suspiciously fixed on those at his side
might miss an attack from the front.
Or so Erril hoped.
With his ankles chafing and his old wounds complaining against
the rub of the manacles, Erril was glad to reach the far side of the
Grand Courtyard. In the garden wall, a gate of intricate ironwork
molded and twisted in the shape of twining rose branches stood
locked against visitors.
It was the entrance to the subterranean catacombs where, for the past centuries, 
the deceased Brothers of Aloa Glen had been interred. Its passages ran deep 
into the volcanic core of the island. Some said the tunnels below were once 
natural passages carved from the flows of molten lava when the island was first 
born. Now the halls bore little resemblance to natural structures. Centuries of 
scuffling feet had rubbed the black rock to a polished sheen, and the skill of 
the citys early artisans had worked the walls and roofs with carvings and 
facades.
Still, behind the worn sheen, Erril had always sensed the natural rock of the 
island. It was like the thrum of a heart as one rested ones head on the chest 
of a lover. It was always there, a sense of eternity.
Erril suspected it was for this reason that the site had been chosen as the 
burial crypt for the island. It was also the reason why Erril had entombed the 
Blood Diary here. In these subterranean tunnels, time seemed to have no meaning. 
It was a perfect place to preserve the past and protect the future.
Suddenly, the screeching complaint of ancient hinges drew Erril back to the 
present. He blinked away the old memories of the past. Even this close to the 
opening to the catacombs, the halls below seemed to draw him out of times 
eternal step.
Lock the gate after us, Shorkan instructed the guard. None must disturb us.
The guard nodded his understanding, but Shorkan was already past him and 
entering the catacombs. Denal followed next, while Greshym kept guard behind 
Erril.
past the gate, a set of stairs climbed down into the first level of the 
catacombs. It was here that the most ancient Brothers were interred :n narrow 
crypts sealed with engraved stones. A pair of torches flanked the opening. Denal 
took one of the torches; but Shorkan merely raised a hand, and a spinning globe 
of silver fire drifted out from his palm and floated before him as he led the 
way.
The groups steps and the clink of Errils chains echoed hollowly along the 
passage. Their shadows danced on the wall to the hiss of
the torch.
Greshym kept pace behind Errils shuffling gait, guarding the rear. It was 
clear to Erril that the darkmage wished to speak but feared the others hearing. 
Yet it was also clear that fatigue plagued Greshym, keeping him from maintaining 
the pace of the pair of younger mages. When Erril glanced back, he saw the pain 
of protesting joints etched on the old mages face and noticed how Greshyms 
single hand clutched his staff in a white-knuckled grip.
Be ready, Greshym breathed at him, his voice lower than the furtive whisper of 
a secret lover. Erril nodded but did not answer.
The passage continued its wide spiral deeper into the islands heart. Other 
hallways branched and crisscrossed the main passage. It would be easy to get 
lost in here, Greshym whispered between wheezes as they walked; the other two 
mages had drifted farther ahead. The extent of these tunnels has never been 
fully mapped. One could easily vanish down here.
Erril only snorted derisively. Greshym was trying to suggest to Erril that 
escape might be possible. But of course, such a chance would only be offered 
after Erril freed the Blood Diary and turned the tome over to the ancient 
darkmage.
As their group wound deeper into the world of the dead, the etchings on the 
grave markers grew more legible as the age of the tombs lessened. Soon, they 
even passed a few open niches, graves awaiting
future occupants.
Still, Greshym continued, it is something to ponder.
Shorkan led them deeper, past the open graves to where the walls
roughened to natural stone. The depths of the catacombs reached
levels where the sea itself claimed the tunnels, but their group was
not going that far. Shorkan led them without warning off of the
main tunnel and into the narrow side passages. He continued without hesitation 
through the maze of crisscrossing passages and rooms moving unerringly toward 
his goal.
Finally, Shorkan followed a passage that ended in a blind chamber. Unadorned 
rock marked the walls to either side, but before them stood a sheet of black ice 
reaching from floor to ceiling. Its dark surface seemed almost to flow, as if 
the ice melted and refroze in an eternal cycle.
Shorkan approached the icy bulwark. In the glow of his flaming sphere, the solid 
barrier cast back their reflections. With a look of distaste, Shorkan turned his 
back on the sight. The mage who cast this spell for you, Erril, was skilled. 
For the past centuries, it has resisted my attempts to breach it.
Erril shrugged. He had owed me a favor.
Do not mock me. Brother Kallon used his dying breath and the magick gifted to 
you from the book to forge this tomb for the Blood Diary. He died with the spell 
on his lips, taking its secret to his grave.
Erril laughed sharply. Dont be so melodramatic, Brother. It is no great 
secret or arcane mastery. Brother Kallon was simply a better mage than you. You 
know this yourself. Before the book was forged, you complained many times to me 
of the old mages immeasurable skill, how he bested you at every turn. It was 
for this reason that I sought him once I realized the road was no longer safe. 
He was better than you.
Shorkans face remained cold, impassive, but Erril noticed how the flames of 
his sphere blew brighter with his anger. Brother Kallon may have been more 
skilled long ago. But over the past five centuries, I have grown in power and 
talent.
Shrugging, Erril nodded toward the wall of ice. Ah true. But I see you are 
still not strong enough to defeat Brother Kallon. His spell stands, mocking you 
to this day, a testament to his superiority. Shorkans countenance finally 
broke. A savage fury filled his eyes; his lips pulled back in a feral growl; his 
brow grew dark with a threatening storm. That will end this night! Brother 
Kallons spell will be defeated by one of my own! His death long ago will have 
come to naught. Both the book and you will be destroyed with the rising of the 
moon.
Erril remained calm in the face of Shorkans fury, his words slow
and deliberate. That is yet to be proven, my dear brother. Kallon ^as bested 
you beforeand he will do so again this night.
Shorkan glowered, anger choking him. He spun on Denal. Lay out the knives and 
prepare a mage ring!
The boy mage placed his torch in a wall sconce and hurried forward. Bending 
down, he slipped two rose-handled knives from wrist sheaths and a long white 
candle from a pocket. Greshym joined the boy, setting aside his staff and 
collecting one of the knives. The old mage glanced at Erril, clearly worried by 
the plainsmans goading of Shorkan. Finding no answer in Errils face, he 
returned to helping the boy. Denal lit the candle with a wave of his tiny hand 
and began dripping its wax in a wide circle before the wall of ice. They meant 
to recreate the setting when the Blood Diary was
forged.
As the pair worked, Shorkan stepped nearer Erril. I will succeed, he hissed. 
I will thwart Brother Kallon by destroying what he sought to preserve. And in 
doing so, I will watch your heart break as all your hopes and struggles are laid 
to waste before you. I will see you defeated! Shorkan slipped a knife from his 
own sleeve and held it before Erril. Do you recognize this?
Now it was Errils turn to fail at feigning disinterest. His breath caught in 
his throat at the sight of the old worn dagger. Fathers
hunting knife
Shorkan leered. On the night of the books forging, you gave it to
me. Do you remember?
Errils face paled with the memory. Long ago, he had lent the knife to his 
brother for the spell of binding. He had thought the knife forever lost. But to 
see the piece of his fathers memory now about to be employed for such a foul 
cause weakened his resolve.
Shorkan leaned over Erril. I know our father meant much to you, Erril. I will 
enjoy seeing his heritage help destroy all that you
hold dear.
Erril refused to cower before the vehemence of this other. He shot his words at 
Shorkan like arrows. Only if you first discover the
traitor in your midst.
Shorkans left eye twitched toward the pair behind him. Erril kept his 
expression fixed. So his seed of distrust had found fertile
ground.
Erril spoke clearly. If Shorkan thought to use their fathers
memory to dishearten him, he would return the favor. A traitor stands with you, 
Brotherin this very room. This I swear on our fathers grave and eternal 
spirit.
Shock and dismay bloomed on Shorkans face. Enough of the old Shorkan remained 
for the fiend to know that Erril would not voice such an oath unless it was 
true. Why warn me then? What trick is this?
It is no trick. I tell you because the knowledge will do you no good. You are 
too late, Brother. You are trapped. If you dont find the traitor before the 
moon rises, you will be betrayed this night. And if you manage to destroy the 
traitor, you will be missing a key player in the spell of unbinding. Either way, 
the book will remain safe. There is no possible way for you to succeed.
Erril leaned closer to Shorkan and drove his words deep. You have been 
outmatched, Brother.
Shorkan trembled with rage. No! He raised their fathers dagger and plunged it 
toward Errils throat. You will never win!
Stop! The command burst from Greshym. Shorkan, if you kill Erril, the spell 
will never work. He deceives you with his oath. Dont listen to him. He only 
tries to trick you into killing him. He lies!
The knife tip rested in the hollow of Errils neck. Shorkan lowered the weapon 
and turned to face the pair of mages. His voice went cold. No. Erril spoke 
truthfully. There is a traitor amongst us. He raised his free hand toward 
Greshym. I only threatened Erril to flush out the betrayer.
Greshym raised his arm in a warding motion, but Shorkan spun on Denal instead. 
Darkfire shot out of his hand and washed over the boy mage. As magick poured 
forth, Shorkan spoke. Denals silence revealed his mutinous heart. If I had 
killed Erril, it would have destroyed any chance of unbinding the book. Your 
timely warning, Greshym, proved your trustworthiness.
With a twist of his wrist, Shorkan tied off his magick. Denal lay bound from 
scalp to ankles in wraps of darkfire, like a fly in a spiders web, unable to 
move, unable to speak.
Shorkan turned to Erril. You erred in your plot, Brother. I dont need this 
traitors cooperation, only his living body. Bound and imprisoned, Denal will 
still serve his role in the spell. Afterward, I will kill you both. Shorkan 
stepped back toward Erril. So you see, dear brother, it is you who have been 
outmatched.
I Erril kept his face blank. So far his plan was going perfectly. Shorkan had 
fallen into his trap like a blind rabbit. But Erril kept his hopes reined.
The moon would soon rise, and the final act was yet to be played.
Elena met with the others atop the deck of the Pale Stal-Hon. Ahead, the 
towering cliffs of the isle of Maunsk filled the western sky. The sun had 
already descended past the twin peaks of the island. Under the shadow of the 
cliffs and mountains, it was as if twilight had already fallen. The seas became 
a midnight blue; the brilliant green of the island became darker with menace. 
Only the azure sky above promised ample time before the moon yet rose. Still, 
Elena hugged her arms tight over her chest. Evening approached too
quickly.
From behind, Meric stepped to the rail beside her. His eyes were
pained. Im sorry.
Elena glanced away, unable to face him. Why did you do it? Why did you call 
your queens forces here? I thought I could trust
you.
Meric was silent for a long time. When he spoke, it was strained. Back in Port 
Rawl, I sent a small bird from Mama Fredas menagerie with a request for aid 
from my mother. I thought I was protecting you. I didnt want you walking into 
the darkmages trap on Aloa Glen. If the island was destroyed first, I had 
hoped youd finally put aside this banner of the witch and end this war with 
the Dark Lord. Free of such a responsibility, I had thought youd return to 
Storm-haven and claim your true heritage.
You know Id never do that, she said firmly. With the book or without it, I 
will continue to struggle against the evil here.
Yes, Ive too slowly come to realize that. After the trials in Shadow-brook, I 
had thought escape was the best recourse. But on hearing the tales of the 
Drerendi and the merai, I now know that was a fools dream. You cannot turn 
your back on the evil here without losing a part of yourself, and even then the 
evil would still pursue you. His voice became soft. But that is not the only 
reason I knew you would not forsake this struggle.
She swung toward him, her voice harsher than she intended.
Then why else?
He raised bright eyes toward her. When Tolchuk and I rejoinefi you, I saw how 
much you had changedand not just in body. jt went deeper, something that struck 
me to the core. I finally saw the elvin in yousaw our king in you. I knew then 
that youd never forsake Alasea and that Id forever stand at your side.
Meric turned away. Im sorry, he said quietly. I should have told you. I had 
hoped wed have the book and be gone before she ever arrived. He raised his 
gaze to the skies again. But with the flight of her sunhawk, our time runs 
short. Her warships will soon be here.
Elena felt her knot of anger at Meric begin to soften. How long do we have?
No more than a day.
Elena joined him in searching the skies. Then it probably wont matter. By 
dawn, well either be off the island with the book or well be dead. She turned 
to Meric and touched his shoulder. Do not despair your actions, Meric. 
Sometimes understanding the truth in ones own heart comes too late. Elena 
thought of Erril. I know this well.
Meric glanced gratefully at her, his shoulders regaining some of their usual 
strength.
In silent forgiveness, Elena touched his arm, then turned to study the boat. 
Flint and the zool were involved in guiding their craft through the treacherous 
reefs that ringed the isle of Maunsk. Orders were shouted back and forth, and 
slow corrections were made to the ships progress.
El, can I talk to you a moment? Elena turned to find her brother crossing 
toward her from the ships hatch. He bore his staff in a gloved hand. What is 
it?
Its about Erril.
Elena fought to keep the wince from showing on her face. She had no desire to 
discuss the plainsman, but she could also not ignore Joachs worries. What 
about him?
Joach stopped beside her. He ran a hand over the thin reddish beard that now 
fuzzed his chin and cheeks. Elenas heart jumped. Just then, his simple gesture 
keenly reminded her of their father. He too had rubbed his chin in exactly the 
same manner whenever hed
hard words to speak. For the first time, Elena recognized the an in her older 
brother. He was no longer the boy who had run vild through the orchards with 
her. Now she saw their fathers stern demeanor in his green eyes. If Erril 
lives, he has spent over a quar-ter moon with the darkmages.
I know this, she answered sharply.
Joach sighed. Im just suggesting that, if Erril still lives, he may not be 
the man you once knew. I know how their dark magick can corrupt and bend you to 
their will.
Erril will resist them, she insisted, meaning to end this conversation. She 
feared Joach would renew her inner turmoil.
But Joach persisted. I hope youre right, El. I really do. But, please, I only 
ask that if you should come upon him on the island, perhaps its best if you 
assume the worst until proven otherwise.
Elena stared at her brother. He was asking her to distrust Erril. In her mind, 
she knew her brothers words were wise, but in her heart, she fought back the 
urge to slap Joach. Erril would never betray them!
Joach seemed to sense her anger. He spoke even more softly. Think on this, El. 
First, the black wyvern statue. Now Erril captured by the darkmages. Its 
almost like my earlier dream is coming true. He raised his staff, and small 
spurts of darkfire played along its surface. Maybe it was a true weaving.
We already discussed this with Flint and Moris. Why bring it up again? Are you 
trying to scare me?
Joachs eyes grew hard. Yes, El. I am trying to scare you.
Elena began to turn away, waving a hand to dismiss him.
Joach grabbed her arm. Listen to me, he whispered. I bring this to you now 
because because He glanced around the deck to make sure no one else listened. 
Because just now I was resting in my cabin and and I had the dream again. The 
same dream! The wyvern attacking, the flash from my staff driving it off, Erril 
locking us atop the tower and coming at us with murder in his eyes.
Elena shook her head. No
Joach squeezed her arm hard. At least be wary of him. That is all I ask! He 
let go of her arm.
Elena almost fell backward trying to escape her brothers words. Before she 
could respond, a sharp call arose from the ships stern. It
was Flint. He stood at the wheel and pointed forward. The en trance to the 
grotto! Were almost there! Gather your gear and b ready to disembark!
Elena stepped toward the ships prow, meaning to watch their an proach, but 
Joach stopped her. El?
She could not face him. I know, Joach. Ill be cautious. Clenching her fist, 
she stared back at the smudge of smoke that marked the distant island of Aloa 
Glen. But if Erril is corrupted, I will make them all pay. I will tear the 
island to its roots. Joach backed from her vehemence.
She ignored his distraught look. As much as it hurt, she knew
Joach was right. If Meric could betray her, then why not the others?
Had not Aunt Mycelle run off with Krai and the shape-shifters?
Elena turned and surveyed her companions here. Who could she
count on during the battle ahead? Tolchuk stood glumly, lost in his
own worries. She hardly knew Mama Freda. Even the steadfast Flint
was only human; he could be tricked or controlled just as easily as
Joach had been by Greshym. And what of her own brother? She
glanced out the corner of her eye as Joach held the staff that had killed
their parents. When would the black magick begin to taint him?
Shaking her head, Elena turned away. She pictured Errils face and his quiet 
gray eyes. In her chest, a small piece of her heart died. She could no longer be 
the scared child who had trusted all others. In the days to come, she needed to 
harden her spirit.
Elena turned to stare one last time at the smudged sky marking Aloa Glen. Im 
sorry, Erril.
Joach watched his sister walk away. He knew his words had wounded her, but Elena 
had needed to hear them. She needed to be cautious. Though she appeared a grown 
woman, Joach had suspected that a small part of her still remained his wide-eyed 
younger sister. But now, as Elena walked away, Joach knew that was no longer 
true. The child in her, her innocence, was gone. Elena was as much a woman in 
spirit as in form.
Swallowing hard, Joach turned away, and for a brief moment, he regretted coming 
to her. But as he remembered how Greshym had once controlled him, locked him in 
his own skull, he knew his decision had been correct. He knew that Erril could 
be just as easily
cpellcast. And no matter what anyone else argued, Joach was now cOnvinced that 
his dream was a true weaving, a glimpse of the future- Knowing this truth, he 
had owed it to his sister to warn her.
Resolute with his decision, Joach gripped his staff and crossed to join the 
others by the rail. They all watched their approach to the
island.
As the ship rounded the isle of Maunsk, the cliffs opened up before them. A 
deepwater channel led into the heart of the island. Overhead, the ships sails 
snapped as the craft heeled to the right. They now aimed directly for the narrow 
waterway. A soft shudder passed through the boat as its keel scraped a reef.
Flint called out from the stern. Dont worry! Thats the last of
the rocks!
His words proved true. The Pale Stallion glided smoothly between the steep walls 
of the ravine. To either side, green falls of foliage draped the rock. Pink and 
lavender blooms lay open to the late afternoon warmth, their fragrances so thick 
that their sweetness could be tasted on the tongue.
No one spoke as the boat sailed down the channel that split the two peaks of the 
island. The channels course curved gently to the left, then trailed in a long 
curve to the right. Finally it opened into a wide bay. As their ship drifted 
into the wider expanse, Flint called for the sails to be reefed. The boat soon 
slowed. Joach stared around. He saw no docks or beach to land the boat. In fact, 
the entire bay was surrounded by the same sheer cliffs as the channel. Looming 
over it all, the two peaks of the isle seemed to lean toward the boat.
Frowning, Joach drifted beside the zool sailor he knew. Xin, do you know where 
were going?
The small man tied off a line, then straightened and shrugged. My men and I are 
to stay with the boat. The little one, Tok, will keep us company.
So where are we going then?
Xin nodded toward the far side of the bay. A long narrow waterfall cascaded down 
from the heights to crash in a froth of spray at the foot of the cliffs. The 
old Brother says you go that way.
Flint called out to them. Ive dropped the anchor! We need everyone and their 
gear on deck! Now! Well row to shore from
here.
Joach turned and saw the other two zool freeing the tarp from an
oared boat latched to the starboard side of the ship. He began to take a step 
away to retrieve his pack, but Xin touched his arm, stopping him.
Xins green eyes seemed to shine slightly. As a wizen, I sense the fear and 
worry in your heart, Joach, son of Morinstal. Xin raised a finger to touch the 
pale scar of an awakening eye on his dark forehead. The fear arises from 
something your inner eye has seen.
Joachs brow bunched. My dream___?
Ignoring him, Xin reached and touched Joachs forehead. Know this. Just as 
ordinary eyes can be fooled by illusion, so can the spirit eye of the wizen. You 
are young to your powers yet. Do not let them rule you. Xin moved his finger to 
Joachs chest. You must learn to look from here, too.
Confused, Joach did not know how to respond. I I will try. Nodding, Xin 
slipped out an object from within his shirt. It was the dragons tooth pendant 
Joach had gifted to him in exchange for his name. Xin clutched it in his palm. 
We have shared names and hearts. Remember this. If you need me, hold the black 
pearl and I will know.
Joach frowned at his words. His hand drifted to the large smooth pearl in his 
pocket. Was this just native superstition of the zool tribesmen, or was there 
truly power in their exchange of gifts? He touched the pearl and nodded to Xin. 
I will remember.
Satisfied, Xin returned to his ropes.
Joach hurried to obey Flints orders. Soon he had his pack over his shoulder and 
his staff in hand. He stood with the others. All were ready.
The oared boat had been lowered and now rested in the calm waters beside the 
ship. A rope ladder led down to it. Tolchuk was already in the boat, holding 
the ladder stable. Flint helped Mama Freda over the rail.
In short order, the rest of them climbed down the slick rope and took their 
seats. Once all were aboard, Flint waved his arm; the rope ladder was pulled up. 
The three zool and the boy Tok waved them off as Tolchuk manned the oars near 
the stern. The ogres wide back and strong arms soon had the small boat moving 
quickly away from the ship.
There should be a narrow beach to the left of the waterfall, Flint instructed.
Iblchuk grunted his acknowledgment and dug deeper with the oars. The low roar 
of the waterfall grew louder as they approached. vfow even wisps of spray blew 
toward them. Joach glanced back and saw the Pale Stallion far behind. After so 
long aboard the small ship, it almost seemed like home. In his pocket, he 
clutched Xins black pearl; then he turned back to watch as the tiny boat angled 
slightly away from the waterfall.
With only a few more strokes, the rowboat ground into the thin strand of beach. 
The roar of the waterfall was deafening. Communicating with hand signals, 
Tolchuk climbed out into the shallows and pulled the boat higher on the beach. 
Joach blinked at the ogres sheer
strength.
With their craft beached, everyone disembarked. The furious spray from the 
crashing waters soaked them all to the skin.
Flint yelled to be heard. Follow me! Stick close! He led them along the narrow 
beach of coarse sand and rock toward the waterfall. As they neared, Flint 
pointed.
A gap between the cascade and the wet cliff face lay ahead. He led them there. 
Once near, a hollowed-out cave could be seen behind the waterfall. Flint waved 
them all to follow him inside.
They were forced to walk single file as they edged between the crash of waters 
and the rock wall. But once the cave was reached, they could gather again. Joach 
glanced around. The cavern ended only a few spans back. He had expected a secret 
tunnel or something. Where do we go now? he yelled over the falls roar.
Flint removed Errils small iron fist from a sealskin wrap. He raised it for 
all to see. Like the Arch of the Archipelago, this is another site rich in 
elemental power. From here, the ward can open a path to the city.
Joach glanced back to the black rock of the cave. But Flints graveled voice 
drew his gaze back around. He was pointing to the waterfall. We go this way! 
Join hands to form a linked chain!
Leading them, Flint grabbed the iron ward with one hand and reached the other to 
Elena. She began to take his hand, but he shook his head. Skin to skin! Youll 
need to take off your gloves.
She nodded and did so. In the gloom of the cave, Elenas two hands seemed almost 
to glow a soft ruby. She took Flints hand, then reached for Joach.
Encumbered with the staff, he was forced to lodge the length of wood into the 
straps of his pack, then take off his own gloves Once ready, he accepted Elenas 
hand. It was cold to his touch, as if he clutched the moon itself. He squeezed 
her palm in an attempt to reassure her. She offered him a slight smile, but it 
was as cold as her hand.
Turning away, he offered his other palm to Meric. Soon the party was linked, 
with Tolchuk last in line.
Flint studied them, then nodded. Do not break the chain until
we are through! Im not sure where on the island we will end up. It
takes a master mage to wield these wards with precision. So be ready!
Swinging around, he lifted the iron fist and stepped toward the
waterfall. As he neared, the sheet of crashing waters grew glassy.
Stepping forward, Flint drew the others after him. As he reached
out with the ward, the waters became as clear as fine crystal, but the
wide bay and their boat were gone. The view beyond the falls was of
buildings built of white bricks and towers that stretched toward the
clouds.
It was the city of Aloa Glen!
Flint led them through the portal as if walking through an ordinary doorway. 
First the old Brother passed, then Elena. Joach followed next. He felt only a 
slight tingling in his skin as he stepped from the cave behind the waterfall and 
once again set foot onto the island of Aloa Glen.
But as Joach pierced the portal, the silent tableau of the city shattered. His 
ears were immediately assaulted by the screams and clashes of battle. Joach 
cringed from the noise. Smoke stung his nose, and the bellowing roar of dying 
dragons echoed all around him from the sun-scorched stones.
In one step, he had walked into the middle of a maelstrom.
Joach glanced behind him and saw Tolchuk climb through the portal behind Mama 
Freda. The portal winked out behind them.
They now stood in the middle of a nondescript plaza in one of the higher levels 
of the city. Not far above, Joach spotted the battlements and towers of his old 
prison, the sprawling Edifice of Aloa Glen. His heart momentarily quailed at 
the sight. How could they ever hope to pierce the massive keep? As he stared, 
something struck him as wrong. He studied it a moment, then shivered as he 
recognized what was missing.
He raised an arm and pointed. The tree! he shouted. The koakona is gone! 
The dead branches of the mighty symbol of Aloa Glen normally sprouted out from 
the central courtyard to spread like a crown over the Edifice. But now it was 
gone!
Before he could even begin to fathom this portent, a voice arose from around the 
corner of a crumbled building. It was high and sibilant. Weve been waiting a 
long time for you to arrive.
Joach spun around. From every street, skaltum clawed their way into the plaza. 
Even from the countless black windows overhead, pale faces leered down at them, 
razored teeth smiling at them.
Their group had entered a nest of skaltum, an ambush.
A massive demon stepped into the plaza. It was the largest skaltum Joach had 
ever seen. Its wings spread wide, striking an ancient pillar and shattering it. 
It leaned toward them with a hiss.
Your delay hasss made us all very hungry!
Sy-wens arm burned with fire, but she ignored the pain. The in-jury was not her 
own, but the dragons. She glanced to her mounts right wing. They had been 
sailing too near one of the citys towers when it had suddenly exploded in 
flames. The spout of fire and debris had caught Ragnark by surprise. Only a 
sudden dive and twisting turn had kept them from annihilation.
Still, the dragons scales lay blistered and seared in a wide swath along the 
forward edge of his wing. Ragnark sailed in a long curve away from the citys 
edge. They now flew over the waves, aiming back for the beset fleet. Enemy ships 
fired arrows at their passing form, but their height was still beyond bow range. 
But for how long? Ragnark continued to weaken with his injured wing, losing 
altitude rapidly.
Below, the Drerendi fleet lay in chaos. Attacking ships, most smaller than the 
warships of the Bloodriders, plied among the fleet. Arrows flew across the 
waves, some flaming, some poisoned. Almost every dragon-prowed warship was 
harried by the smaller, swifter craft. Like remora on sharks, scaling ladders 
and boarding hooks had latched many of the enemy boats to the bigger ships 
flanks. Battles raged across decks and rigging now.
Screams and shouted orders rang up from below.
But all was not lost. Among the adversaries boats, the seas were
not friendly. The merai and their dragons surged from belowt wreak havoc on 
the ships. Dragon claw and dragon fang ripped inr keels and men alike. Ships 
foundered everywhere. Berserkers vvh were tossed into the water became dragon 
fodder.
Yet even the merai were not safe in their own seas. TentacleH beasts snatched 
unwary dragons or riders. The worst of the undersea battle raged near the citys 
edge. A mountainous leviathan lay within a nest of the monsters. Flailing pale 
tentacles ripped at the giant. It was as if the leviathan drifted in a sea of 
pale, flickering flames. Dragons, mounted and alone, fought to free the 
creature, but even from this height, Sy-wen knew the seabeast would not survive 
its injuries. The waters around the sunken towers now frothed with blood. 
Wrecked boats and corpses clogged the narrow channels of the submerged city.
Wincing away the pain, Sy-wen sent an urgent plea to Ragnark. We must mate it 
back to the Dragonsheart.
Ragnark tilted his head to flash one black crystalline eye at her. / will not 
fail you, my bonded. Hindered by the wounded wing, his body lurched under her as 
he fought for distance from the sea.
She leaned closer to his neck, running a hand along his straining flesh. She 
willed her mount strength. They must reach the high keel. Kast, if you can hear 
me, she whispered, add your heart to Ragnark. I need you both.
In her mind, she knew Kast was unaware of events that occurred after Ragnark 
took flesh. Still, her heart longed for him to hear her. Exhausted from the day 
of flying and fighting, Sy-wen allowed her eyes to close, just for a moment. 
With the wind whistling in her ears, the clash of battle faded to a dim roar. 
Kast, hear me, she urged silently.
From somewhere deep inside, an answer arose. Sy-wen could not say for sure if it 
came from within her or the dragon. They seemed one spirit. I am here, Sy-wen.
Her eyes fluttered open. Kast?  We are both here, my bonded. This was 
Ragnark. How? she sent to them.
/ think, after the lightning strike, the line between the two of us blurred, 
Kast answered. / now see what the dragon sees, but only as if in a dream.
And you can speak to me?
is hard for Ragnark to allow this. It strains his control of his
otim body.
Sy-wen sensed a silent agreement from the dragon, almost a dis-untled 
embarrassment. Ragnark never liked to admit a weakness. Then we must end this 
talk, Sy-wen sent. Ragnart must have his full &#9632;ength. We must reach the 
Dragonsheart and the high keel. t know. I saw. Ragnark onh allowed me a moment 
of shared union to lster your heart. He wanted you to know I was here, too. 
Sensing your in despair, he sought to ease it, even at his own expense. Sy-wen 
reached and rubbed her mounts flank. Warm sensa-ions flowed back to her from 
the dragon. You both truly are my
inded.
/ must go, Kast sent back. Godspeed to you both. Your knowledge
<ust reach the fleet.
Sy-wen sensed Kast slip away. Ragnark seemed to surge slightly in strength, the 
heat off his body intense. He angled across the battle below. Smoke marred their 
views, but the three-masted Dragonsheart could be seen far ahead. It kept mostly 
to the rear of the fighting. The high keel directed the fleet with horn and 
pigeon.
So far the battle was mostly a standstill, each force refusing to give ground. 
But not for long. The dark forces would win unless Sy-wen could reach the ship.
Their reconnaissance of the enemys defenses had revealed two vital details, 
information that needed to reach the Bloodriders. First, they had spotted 
several roosts of skaltum in the deserted city. Shunning the sunlight, the 
beasts had been hard to find. But the dragons keen sense of smell had rooted 
them out. Sy-wen estimated that at least another two legions, maybe three, were 
still kept in reserve upon the island. She gritted her teeth. So many of the 
monsters still lived! She had hoped the battle in the sargassum forest had 
reduced their numbers more drastically.
Glancing back at the embattled city, Sy-wen knew speed was essential. The fleet 
needed to reach and subdue the docks before sunset. If they could at least gain 
a foothold on the island itself, their forces could use the crumpled buildings 
and tilted towers as a means of protection against the skaltum. Upon the open 
seas, their fleet would be too vulnerable to the winged beasts. The tide of 
battle would quickly turn in favor of the enemy.
But word of the skaltum legions was not the worst news she bore.
Sy-wen watched their approach toward the Dragonsheart. They need A to hurry.
Must go lower, Ragnark said. The throb of pain in Sy-wens rmk arm flared 
harsher. The strain of their flight was taking its toll. Just get us there. Even 
swim if you must.
The war loomed greater as they sank toward the embattled seas Soon the tops of 
masts skittered just under the dragons wings. Arrows from enemy ships now 
reached them, peppering Ragnarks underbelly, but so far the dragons thick 
scales protected him from harm.
In a few more swipes of his massive wings, they were beyond the worst of the 
battle and gliding low over the waves toward the rear of the fleet. The 
Dragonsheart lay just ahead.
Ragnark had to fight for additional height just to crest the ships rail. His 
landing atop the deck was more a crumpled crash. Silver talons tore into the 
deck, and his injured right wing collided with a mast. Agony shot down Sy-wens 
arm, but they finally came to a rest. Ragnark sank to the deck.
Sy-wen straightened in her seat. Dragons blood! she called out. Bring us a 
draught now! She dared not reverse the spell and call Kast forth yet, not with 
Ragnark so wounded.
Men who had fled from the crashing dragon now scurried about the deck. The high 
keel leaped from the stern deck and shouted for her to be obeyed. A cask was 
hurriedly rolled toward them.
No longer flying, Sy-wen got a whiff for the first time of the dragons burned 
flesh. She fought her stomach. The smell warned how deep the damage was, more so 
than even the pain. She glanced to the blistered tissue. Black scale, now seared 
a sickly white, oozed a clear, yellowish fluid. Even bone could be seen through 
the rent tissue at the forward edge of the wing. Sweet Mother, she had not 
realized how badly Ragnark had been injured. How had the great beast flown such 
a distance?
She was answered. Your heart, my bonded I would not fail you.
She leaned forward and hugged his great neck, then quickly straightened. Before 
the dragons snout, a cask was rolled into position and tipped upright. The high 
keel himself stepped forward with ax in hand. With a single stroke, he chopped 
open the lid of the barrel.
Drink! he commanded.
Ragnark needed no urging. The scent of blood drew him. In Sy-
en, the hunger of blood lust almost overwhelmed the pain from the , rn. Ragnark 
lowered his snout and drank the stored blood. In nly a few heartbeats, the full 
cask lay empty.
Almost immediately Sy-wen sensed the healing property of the dragon blood. The 
throb of pain in her arm dulled, as with a wash of coOl water. She almost sighed 
aloud in relief. Ragnark nosed the barrel away. Do you need more? Sy-wen 
asked. No. Ragnark^ is strong. Blood from puny dragons was enough. Sy-wen 
sagged in relief. If the dragons haughtiness was returning, she knew he fared 
much better. Then I must seek the counsel of these others, my mighty bonded.
Ragnark sent her a dismissive snort, as if such matters were beneath his 
attention.
Smiling at his growing arrogance, she slid from her seat to the deck, almost 
tumbling, her legs numb and tired from flying all day. Still, she managed to 
keep her feet with the timely aid of the high keels supporting hand. Thank 
you, she whispered to the tall chief. With her palm still on her dragons 
flank, Sy-wen turned to Ragnark. Rest now, my bonded.
Return soon. He swung and touched her gently with the tip of his
snout. / will miss your scent.
And I yours, she said aloud and removed her hand. Sy-wen and the high keel 
retreated a step as the spell reversed itself. Wing and scale exploded out 
wildly, then whirled back down until only a naked man crouched on the deck.
Kast straightened and stumbled a step forward. His right arm was seared a deep 
red from shoulder to wrist. But even as Sy-wen rushed toward him, the injury 
paled to a pink glow. She fell into his arms as the high keel waved a man to 
fetch a set of breeches and a shirt.
Sy-wen felt the heat of his bare skin against her cheek and wished to stay in 
his arms forever, but the urgency of their news required them pulling apart too 
soon.
Kast leaned next to her. I missed your scent, too, he whispered. Sy-wen 
glanced up to him, her cheeks burning now. He kissed her deeply, once. Her knees 
buckled under her, but his strong arms were there to keep her from falling.
Too soon, one of the warriors hurried forward, his arms laden
with clothing.
Kast brushed his fingertips across her cheek and down her neck then quickly 
dressed. He spoke to the high keel while slipping jnt: his breeches. We must 
get word to the other keelchiefs. A change in the battle looms, and we must be 
prepared.
Come, the high keel ordered once Kast was dressed. Well re tire to my cabin. 
Id have Bilatus hear your news, too.
Kast nodded. He embraced Sy-wen under one arm, and together they followed the 
high keel below. Sy-wen noticed that the war seemed to have energized the aging 
chief. He walked with vigor in his steps; even his eyes sparked with the 
excitement of battle.
In the chiefs cabin, they found the portly ships shaman poring over a set of 
tomes and maps. Bilatus raised his balding head, his cheeks rosy from the rooms 
heat. He pushed to his feet with a small groan. Master Kast and Mistress 
Sy-wen, I had not known you had returned.
The high keel stepped forward. Did you not hear the crash atop our decks and 
the commotion? 
Bilatus wore an apologetic expression as he waved an arm in the direction of the 
laden table. My books When Im studying, Im lost to the world.
The high keel clapped the fellow good-naturedly on the shoulder as he crossed to 
perch on a stool. I would have it no other way. That is the role of shaman. You 
stick to your scrolls and maps, and let us warriors handle the swords. The tall 
man waved for Sy-wen and Kast to take the pillowed chairs near the small hearth.
Once they were settled, the high keel shoved off his stool and stalked back and 
forth across the room, his energy too large for the small chamber. Sy-wen sensed 
that the man longed to return to the deck and the smoke of battle. What news do 
you bring?
Kast glanced at Sy-wen, but she nodded for him to tell. Kast quickly related 
their discovery of the skaltum legions still awaiting release in the crumbled 
ruins of the city. Once the sun sets, they will take wing and attack. We must 
take the island before that happens. Well need the cover of the buildings to 
wage a proper defense against the beasts.
Kasts tale slowed the high keels pacing. By the time Kast was finished, the 
chief had stopped, the fire dimming in his eyes.
Dire news, Bilatus said from near the table. So what youre saying is that we 
must direct all our forces in a full affront against the citys docks? If we can 
commandeer the piers, we may survive.
The high keel clenched a fist. We must more than survive. We ust win. The Dark 
Lord will not let us survive a half victory. If wet wrest his forces from this 
island and take it over, there will be o safe seas anywhere for the Drerendi. 
The high keel began pac- g again. You have brought us vital news. I must alert 
the others
and redirect our forces.
He began to march toward the door, but Sy-wen stopped him.
Before you act, we bring other news.
The high keel turned, and in the mans eyes, Sy-wen could see the fire flaring 
within. Here stood a true man of battle. Talk and strategy were not as important 
as sword and pike. What else? he
demanded.
Sy-wen swallowed and spoke rapidly. We risked a flight over the citys castle 
to see what else may lie in wait. In a central court, we saw that the mighty 
tree there had been chopped down and its limbs were being axed to rubbish.
So?
Kast answered. The tree had always been a font of mag-ickal energies. This 
sudden action by the darkmages strikes me as
suspicious.
Sy-wen nodded. Also around the stump of the tree, we spotted a ring of 
black-robed men circling and chanting. Spread-eagled across the top of the 
stump, a young girl lay chained and writhing.
The fire died in the high keels eyes as he understood what they were trying to 
suggest. They strive to call forth some black magick
to thwart us.
Yes, Kast answered. So besides striking for the docks, wed best be prepared 
for other surprises. I suspect the worst is yet to
come.
The high keel nodded more soberly. Now when he crossed toward the door, his 
stride was more urgent than excited. I must
alert the fleet.
As he reached for the latch, a sudden pounding on the door erupted from beyond. 
Sir! You must come atop the decks! Something is amiss.
The high keel glanced back at them. Worry now replaced the fire in his eyes. 
They all rose to follow him. In a rush, they fled from the cabin, almost 
knocking aside the Bloodrider who had brought the warning.
Once atop the deck, Sy-wen knew instantly from which direction the current 
crisis arose. Everyone on deck stared and pointed north toward the island. 
Sy-wen hurried to the rail along with the others. Across the battlefield, a hush 
seemed to have fallen over the seas as if the combatants all held their breath. 
In the distance, the island stood in sharp detail as the sun sank toward the 
west. From the central peak, from the Edifice that crowned its top, a black pall 
rose into the blue sky, a column of darkness that could never be mistaken for 
smoke. It was more like a black beacon, a spire of dark light cast up from the 
depths of some foul netherworld. What is it?  the high keel asked. No one 
answered.
As they watched, the spear of darkness began to tilt like a toppling tower. It 
fell westward.
Sweet Mother, no Sy-wen moaned. She knew the dire beacon arose from the 
magicked stump of the koakona, its last vestiges of white magick corrupted for 
this foul purpose.
The black shaft continued to fall until it pointed toward the setting sun.
They cannot possibly wield such power, Kast mumbled.
As they all watched, the end of the column of darkness bloomed like a foul rose 
and spread farther and farther across the western sky, pumping its blackness 
like spilled ink over the horizon. An eerie twilight descended over the seas as 
the sun was blocked. Sy-wen had only once before experienced such a strange 
quality to the light when she was a child and had witnessed the moon eclipsing 
the sun. Such was the illumination now. Not night, but not day either, a 
shadowless half-light that weighed on ones spirit like the pressure of the deep 
sea.
They steal the sun from us, Bilatus stated. But why? Sy-wen knew. She 
glanced from the western sky back to the island. Thats why, she mumbled and 
pointed.
Kast, Bilatus, and the high keel all turned. Across the seas, a new menace arose 
from the island. In the strange twilight, flocks of winged creatures rose like a 
pale fog from the city, rolling out toward the fleet.
The skaltum take flight, Sy-wen said.
The high keel studied the approaching menace. Then we are too late.

In a lone plaza, deep in the heart of Aloa Glen, Elena stood in the center of a 
maelstrom of energies. Raw magick sang in her blood, but it was an old song. 
Instead, she bent the tendrils of energy to her will, striking out in all 
directions with spates of coldfire. Blue tails of flame lashed out and whirled 
in a tangled net around her. None dared approach too close.
When first confronted by the skaltum ambush, Elena had quickly bloodied her 
hands and brought the attack to the monsters. The others had followed suit, 
moving in stride to bolster her attack. While she lanced forth with coldfire, 
freezing and slowing the beasts, the others had struck.
Joach, with his staff already bled into a blood weapon, skillfully kept step 
with Elenas dance of ice. What Elena froze, Joach shattered with a stroke of 
his stave. Meanwhile, Tolchuk used the rune-carved dwarf hammer as an ordinary 
maid might use a broom. Directed by Flint, the ogre swept a deadly path through 
the beasts.
We must get free of this open space! Flint yelled, striking out with a sword. 
With the sun yet out, the beasts were vulnerable to common weapons. But the 
monsters strength, speed, and poisoned claws were still a serious threat.
Mama Freda also danced in the ogres shadow. Under the power of her herb, she 
was no longer a frail woman, but a whirlwind of death. Using darts dipped in 
venom and the keen eyesight of her pet tamrink, she showered the enemy with a 
rain of burning poison.
As they all fought the beasts in the plaza, Meric stood on the far
side of Elena, matching her gale of energies with one of his own. His winds kept 
the skaltum from attacking from overhead. Blasts of air caught wings and senc 
beasts tumbling into tower walls or crashing to the stone road.
While the others fought, Elena studied her quarry from her web of magick. Her 
teams initial furious attack had caught the skaltum by surprise. Even though 
Elena was sure the creatures had been warned by the darkmages to be wary of 
them, the beasts had never faced any serious challenge in the past. They had 
counted on sheer numbers to intimidate any group.
This day the beasts learned a deadly lesson.
When Elena had first struck out with her magick, the huge leader of this group 
had fled, clearly panicked. Without guidance, the others had fought feebly and 
without coordination. So far, Elenas group had kept them at bay. But Elena 
watched as the massive skaltum, their chief, hissed orders and began to marshal 
its forces. The beasts initial shock had worn off.
Now came the serious threat. Elena surveyed the remaining flock. While she and 
the others left a path of destruction, the plaza was still crowded with beasts. 
From windows and ledges above, more skaltum threatened. The leader moved toward 
her tiny group, rallying the others to its side.
Unless something happened, her group was about to be swamped.
Another of their party must have realized the hopelessness of their situation. 
El, Joach hissed at her. Release the spirit spell. Disappear and run.
Elena knew that if she did that, the beasts would ravage the others. Not yet, 
she answered her brother. She raised her right hand, the one whose Rose had been 
gifted by spirit light. Though she refused to use its glow to fade away from 
sight, Elena had another power still held in reserve: ghostfire. She had yet to 
call forth the spirit magick pent up within the Rose of her right hand. She had
been hesitant on how to put it to best use.
Lifting her gaze, she found her eyes meeting the leering leader of
this flock. It seemed to sense her attention, and its sick grin grew. A
slithering red tongue slipped from between its fangs to curl like a
hungry serpent.
Suddenly, far above the plaza, a spear of darkness sprouted from
the citadel atop the hill. The sudden blaze of magicks was felt by aj[beast and 
men alike. It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck nearby, a prickling of 
power that rose the tiny hairs on the back of
her arms.
Everyones eyes turned to stare at the cascade of black energies, even the 
monstrous chief skaltum. When it turned to face them again, the amused glint 
had returned to its eyes. It stalked forward, claws gouging the ancient stone 
road.
Elena knew this was her only chance. Raising her left hand, she stanched her 
flow of coldfire and stepped free of her cocoon of blue flame. The beast slowed 
its approach, suspicious of Elenas strange
new tack.
Elena took a step nearer the towering leader. The flock at its side shifted 
nervously. She raised her right hand. As she concentrated, silver flames blew 
forth from her sliced palm to dance along
each finger.
The leader seemed little impressed. All the magick in the world cant ssstop us 
all, little child. You will die, and I personally will eat
your heart.
Wrong, demon. I will eat yours, she said coldly. Thrusting out her arm, fire 
shot from her fingers, forming a claw of silver fire. It dashed into the chest 
of the skaltum.
The leader wore a shocked expression, then glanced down to stare at the limb of 
fire thrust into its chest. Its skin did not burn. Raising its head, the huge 
beast cackled. It ssseeems your pretty magick is no danger to me.
Wrong again, Elena said calmly and clenched her outstretched
hand into a hard fist.
The skaltum suddenly spasmed.
Elena yanked her arm back and tugged the beasts spirit from its body. The 
creatures carcass collapsed to the stone pavement in a clatter of bone and 
wing. Left standing was a phantom etched by ghostfire in the shape of the beast. 
The trapped spirit struggled in the silver grip of Elenas flaming magicks.
Neighboring skaltum scattered away. Squeaks of fear and scrabbling claws 
sounded from all around. Overhead, startled skaltum took flight from their 
perches.
In a few short moments, the spirits writhing slowed and stopped.
Her magick had succeeded in branding the ghost to Elenas w n Sssspread my 
touch, Elena hissed, mimicking the skaltum lead She opened her hand.
Wings of ghostfire spread behind the phantom beast. It twist I and leaped at its 
nearest neighbor, diving within and ripping &#9632; brothers spirit loose. Now two 
spirits, burning with her will, Sto0 I upon the stone road. They leaped at 
others.
Before such bewildering magick, the other skaltum panicked leaderless and 
frightened. Some attempted to attack, but were quickly dealt with by Elenas 
companions. Most of the others simply flecj Those that failed became fodder to 
the spread of her ghostfire. As with the ravers before, her magick swept through 
these beasts like fire through dry grass.
Soon the plaza and surrounding streets were littered with the discarded corpses 
of the skaltum. Flashes of ghostfire sparked from farther down the avenues as 
her spirit dogs gave chase to the living.
Satisfied, Elena withdrew her magick from the hunters before they drained too 
much of her power. The handful of silver ghosts still visible vanished like the 
flames of spent candles. With the skaltum weakened and scattered, her ghostfire 
army was no longer needed. With future battles ahead, preserving the last of her 
magick was more important.
Flint crossed to her side. Good work. I had thought us lost for sure.
Elena ignored the compliment. How did the skaltum know we would portal to this 
specific location? I though it was a random jump ere.
Flint frowned and answered, seeming not to hear the suspicion in Elenas voice. 
With Erril captured, the Dark Lord must have learned of his ward and set up a 
magickal net to snare our portal and bring us specifically to this nest of 
monsters.
Elena frowned and glanced to the sky. She hated to think that Erril could have 
betrayed them in even this manner. In her heart, she would rather believe Flint 
had led them into a trap, that he was the traitor.
As she pondered Flints words, a shaft of darkness began to eat the sunlight. A 
sick twilight settled over the city. What of this? she asked.
flint scratched his head. Perhaps some means to help protect the st of the 
skaltum. To keep the sunlight from weakening their dark
protections.
yts if to prove his words, legions of skaltum took flight from o0sts all 
across the city. They rose in massive numbers.
Toach moved beside them. We should get off the streets. I dont care to repeat 
this last battle.
The others mumbled their agreement.
Flint responded. The hidden entrance to the catacombs is still much farther. We 
must reach the top city level, just below the Edifice itself. Id guess almost a 
full league of travel still awaits us, so we
should hurry.
Flint then led them at a hard pace, up stairs and along narrow alleys. They 
passed sights both wondrous and sad. Statues as tall as towers stood everywhere. 
Some seemed to have weathered the centuries without blemish. Others lay toppled 
and broken. In one square, they had to cross under the stone fingers of a 
massive hand that rested from where it had broken off a statue high atop a 
tower.
They also passed areas where the seas seemed to bubble up from below, swamping 
entire sections of the city. As they skirted the edge of one such briny pond, 
something large and armored humped through the algae-slick waters. It reminded 
Elena of the krocan from the swamps. They gave the waters a wide berth.
Mostly as they fled, though, the city was just homes and buildings, long gone 
dark and empty. Winds whistled through the hollow husks of towers like the 
moaning cries of ancient ghosts. Elena found it hard to imagine that such a 
place was ever populated. But the city must have once housed hundreds of 
thousands of inhabitants. Tears suddenly rose in Elenas eyes. It hurt to see 
how much her people
had lost.
Finally, Flint spoke, breaking the spell of timelessness. It it should just be 
up ahead, he gasped, winded from the long race across the city. Just around 
the next bend
As the grizzled Brother led them around the corner of a tulip-shaped building, 
he tripped to a stop. The rest of the team were too close on his heels to halt 
so fast. The group stumbled together in
shock.
Crowding the next avenue, a squad of twenty squat creatures
armored from head to toe stood guard. Though they stood small than Joach, each 
creature massed as much as Tolchuk, all rriu I and bone under the armor.
Elena named the squat soldiers heritage. Dwarves. The soldiers had clearly 
been awaiting them, axes raised, fac plates lowered. None moved, letting the 
enemy draw nearer. Not single one shifted even a finger, as if they were a score 
of brass-and steel sculptures. Elena sensed that these guards would not spook 
like their winged allies. From the cold stares and steady gazes, Elena knew the 
company would fight to the dying breath of the last dwarf. And with two hearts, 
each dwarf would be difficult to kill.
Pushing the others aside, Elena stepped forward, meaning to call forth her 
magick. Flint pulled her back. No, they wear spellcast armor. See how it glows? 

Elena stared closer and saw how an oily sheen roiled slowly across the 
breastplates and greaves of their armor in hues of a rainbow. Now that it had 
been brought to her attention, she could almost smell the magick here. What 
does it do? 
Ive read old tales of dealing with dwarf ax guards. Their armor is forged 
with elemental warding charms. Be cautious what you cast at them, Elena. It can 
dispel magick or reflect it back at its wielder. Beware using spells around such 
armor.
Elena stepped forward, frowning, unsure what to do. Where is the entrance to 
the catacombs? she asked Flint. At the end of this street.
Elenas eyes narrowed. Again she wondered how the darkmages seemed to know their 
every move. Perhaps Greshym remembered more of the Hifai secrets than anyone 
supposed, and like Flint, he knew of this secret entrance and had set these 
guards. Still, Elena scowled at the forces here and at the suspicions that arose 
in her mind. Without turning, Elena knew the team awaited her next move. Her 
group numbered too few to survive a battle of steel and muscle with this force. 
She pondered her choices.
As she studied her opponents, she recalled an old lesson, something she had once 
overheard her father tell Joach: Sometimes a fight was best won with wits rather 
than either sword or fist. With the odds against them here, Elena knew that just 
such a time had arisen. They had only one small hope here. If she could weaken 
the black resolve of these guards, perhaps her group might survive this slaugh-
BL Frm meeting Cassa Dar, Elena knew the dwarves had once  gen a noble 
people. It had only been the corrupting touch of the Qgrk Lord that had poisoned 
their hearts and bent them to his foul hidding- While her ghostfire might be 
unable to free their tainted nirits as it had the skalturn, something else 
might hold such power, something that in a way was its own magick: memory.
Without turning, Elena called back to her group. Tolchuk,
Ivteric, come join me.
The ogre pushed forward with the elvin at his side. Elena touched Tolchuks 
shoulder. Raise the hammer overhead for all
to see. He did so. Next, Elena glanced to Meric. On my signal, can you call 
forth a
bolt of lightning to strike the hammer?
Yes, but without a natural storm brewing, Ill need a few
moments.
Then prepare. Elena stepped nearer the gathered ax guards and raised her voice 
so it rang down the avenue. I command you to set aside your weapons. Do you 
stand in the way of your own
salvation?
As expected, there was no response. Elena waved Tolchuk forward. Do you 
recognize this relic? Have you forgotten your own heritage? Elena raised her 
left arm and illuminated the rune-carved hammer with spurts of coldfire flame. 
The weapon now seemed to glow with its own inner radiance.
A few of the dwarves in front shifted, and one even lowered his ax. Elena knew 
they would not fail to recognize the Trysil, the Thunder Hammer of the 
dwarves, a cherished symbol of their peoples past. But would the mere sight of 
it be enough to weaken the hold of the Dark Lord? Elena recalled how the memory 
of Linora had awoken Rockingham, breaking his black shackles. Could the same 
happen here? Was the Trysil a powerful-enough symbol? And if not, could Elena 
make it so?
One of the ax guards stepped forward from the rest. You seek to fool us with 
magicks of illusion, he declared, his voice harsh. The
Trysil was lost ages ago.
No! On this night, the past lives again! Elena signaled Meric forward with a 
sharp wave of her other hand. The elvin seemed to sense his role here. He 
stepped from around the back of Tolchuk,
his magicks billowing his shirt and loose breeches. Forged by the
elvin, the Trysil was a gift to your people.
The dwarf leader stepped back, his eyes wide inside his helm at
the sight of Meric. A Stormrider!
Yes! So it was before; so it is now! Remember who you once
were! The hammer has the power to break ebonstone, to break the spell of the 
Black Heart! Let it free you of his chains now! Let us pass and open your hearts 
to the possibility of your homelands again ringing with the strike of your 
hammers and the roar of your forges. Remember your past!
Elena nodded to Meric, and a bolt of lightning cracked down from the twilight 
skies to strike the raised iron head of the hammer. Thunder crackled along the 
street. Elena blinked away the blinding flash as the thunder echoed and died. 
Do you still doubt the power of your ancestors relic? 
Several of the dwarves had fallen to their knees, but others still remained 
standing, including their leader. How did you ? How did you come by the 
Trysil? It was lost ages ago.
Elena sensed that if she could sway this one dwarf, the others would follow 
suit. She lowered her voice, striving to pry trust from a hard heart. It was 
not lost, only forgotten. One of your people stood guard over it for centuries, 
waiting for someone to carry it back home. I was chosen! I swore a blood oath to 
return the hammer to your homelands. And so I will!
The prprophecy, the leader mumbled. His ax slipped lower. Remember your 
past, she whispered now. Remember who you once were. She waved to Tolchuk, 
who passed the hammer to her. With the rune-carved haft held in both her open 
palms, Elena stepped before the dwarf leader. She lifted it before him Though 
your hearts were blackened by the Gulgothal lord and your hands stained with 
the blood of the innocent, the Trysil has the power to cleanse you.
The dwarf warrior raised a mailed hand toward the weapon; his fingers trembled, 
and for a moment, he could not touch it. Then, he shook off his chain mail glove 
and, ever so gently, reached a single finger to the hammers iron. Even this 
small connection to his peoples past unmanned him. He fell to his knees with a 
crash of steel on stone. He tore off his helm and raised his wrinkled face to 
the skies.
A cry of pain and sorrow flowed from his lips, as if he were casting out his own 
heart.
Elena stepped back, allowing the dwarf to face the pain of his lost past. She 
knew that no further words or demonstrations were needed. Still, she raised the 
hammer over her own head. There is salvation, she whispered to the others.
Behind their kneeling leader, the others all fell to join him.
Lowering the Trysil, Elena again met the eyes of the guards chief. The well of 
pain behind his gaze was too deep even to fathom. His voice was strained to a 
small plea. Go, he said. Free our people.
Elena nodded. It will be done. She led the others forward, still carrying the 
ax in both her palms. As she slowly passed among the kneeling dwarves, axes 
clattered to the cobbled pavement. Hands reached to touch the last symbol, of 
hope for their people. She allowed each of the guards to connect with their 
ancient past, to remember for this brief moment their forgotten homes far across 
the cold seas.
Then she was past them all, and only an open street lay before her. Flint pushed 
beside her, his eyes full of wonder as he glanced back at the dwarves. Youve 
walked us through fire, he said, with only the strength of your word.
Elena turned away. It was not my word. It was their own past.
Tolchuk accepted the hammer back as the others joined Elena and Flint. Where 
now? Meric whispered.
Flint pointed forward. This way. Its just ahead. The old Brother led them 
down the avenue to a side alley.
As Joach entered the narrow street, he glanced skyward and almost tripped. Elena 
followed his gaze to see what had startled him.
Flanking the alley were two structures. On the right was a tower of reddish 
orange bricks the color of sunset. It rose to a small parapet high above. To the 
left was one of the massive statues that dotted the city. This one was of a 
gowned woman bearing a flowering sprig aloft in one hand. Joachs eyes met hers.
The Spire of the Departed, Joach said with a nod toward the tower, and the 
statue of Lady Sylla.
Elena shrugged, not understanding the significance. This is where my dream took 
place, atop the Spire of the Departed. He shifted his staff in his gloved 
hands. Without the touch
of his skin, the wood had returned to its dark shade, a tool of black magick.
Elena remembered the details of Joachs dream and the role fi staff had played 
in ithow its magick had driven off the black winged monster and how it had 
slain Erril. Are you sure this is the place? she asked.
Joach only nodded, his eyes staring up at the distant parapet. Not hearing their 
quiet words, Flint waved them all to the back of the alley, where a wall of red 
brick blocked their way. He began counting the bricks from the ground and the 
side.
As she waited, Elena shivered with her brothers words. It was as if his dream 
were coming true.
Ahead, Flint finally stopped counting and pushed three specific bricks. Each 
gave way and receded to the depth of a thumb. Upon pressing the third one, a 
sharp crack of an unlocking latch sounded from behind the wall.
Satisfied, Flint stepped back, then leaned both palms on the wall and shoved. A 
triangular section spun on an axis, opening the way into a dark tunnel beyond. 
He grinned at his success and waved them toward the opening. The catacombs 
delve deep into the heart of Mount Orr, the peak upon which the Edifice rests. 
This tunnel is an offshoot from the fourth level of the great spiral. We must 
reach the tenth level to retrieve the book.
Then let us hurry, Elena said.
They all pushed inside, and Flint collected an oiled torch from a sconce. Once 
the torch was set to flame by a strike of flint, the old man shouldered the door 
closed. A staircase descended from the small landing here. Move quietly and 
cautiously, he warned. More traps or enemies might be placed along our path. I 
suggest that we also leave a guard at this door to protect our escape.
No one volunteered. No one wanted to abandon Elena. So Elena made the choice for 
them. She touched Tolchuks shoulder. If the dwarves have another change of 
heart or reinforcements are sent, the Trysil may be needed to sway the enemy. 
The ogre nodded. I will guard your backs. With the matter settled, Flint 
showed Tolchuk how to work the door, and they proceeded down the stair. No one 
spoke for the hundred steps it took to reach the passages below. Flint led them 
quickly down a long winding hall to where it emptied into a wide passage.
Here the rough rock was polished to a sheen and adorned with carv-gs and stone 
grave markers. The fourth level of the catacombs, Flint whispered, raising his
torch.
They continued deeper along this spiraling concourse. Mama preda had her pet 
Tikal scamper ahead into the darkness to spy out any ambushes. But without the 
eyes of her pet, Meric had to help guide the old woman. Their progress was too 
slow for Elenas liking. Even though it was a false twilight above, Elena knew 
that true evening was not far behind.
Mama Freda suddenly hissed and dragged Meric to a stop. What is it? Flint 
asked, pushing near the old healer. A light, she answered. Through Tikals 
eyes, I can see a glow reflecting around the curve of the passage farther 
ahead. Flint frowned. Someone else must be down here.
Can you get Tikal to creep nearer? Elena asked. Ill try, but after the 
battle above, his fear runs high. Mama Freda leaned against the wall. She tired 
rapidly as her herbs began to wear off. I see I see a man! He crouches along 
the side of the passage. The light comes from a small lantern he carries.
Are there any others? Elena asked. No, the passage is empty.
Strange, Flint said. What does he look like?
He wears a ragged white robe and looks disheveled, as if he has not bathed in 
many moons.
Hmm The white robe suggests he may be one of my Brothers. There are many 
hidden passages and holes to hide from the evil here. If hes truly managed to 
avoid the darkmages forces, he might have valuable information. Flint leaned 
closer to Mama Freda. Can you get Tikal to show himself? His response may give 
us some indication of his heart.
Ill try, Mama Freda mumbled. But Tikal is shy of strangers. They all stood 
in silence as Mama Freda used her bond to the tam-rink to guide its actions. 
Elena glanced to her brother, who wore a worried expression. She also eyed Flint 
but could read no deception in him. Still, there had been so many traps. Could 
this be another?
Mama Freda suddenly smiled. The fellow seems normal enough. Tikal startled him 
at first, but after the initial fright, he called my little pet to him. It seems 
that even in such a dire situation Tikal is not
above begging a cookie from a stranger. He is now perched on the mans shoulder 
enjoying a scrap of stale bread crust. Joach and Elena shared a glance.
We should still be wary, Flint cautioned, his face grim. Lets g0 and find 
out more about this odd denizen of the catacombs.
Flint again took the lead. Joach followed with Elena at his side Meric and Mama 
Freda kept up the rear. It did not take long until the glow that Tikal had seen 
became apparent. Flint passed Meric his torch. Let me go on alone. If its a 
trap, let it only catch me. As Flint crept away, Elena nudged Joach. Go with 
him. Joach frowned at Elena, but something he saw in her eyes silenced any 
questions. Elena watched her brother join Flint. If the old Brother was the 
traitor setting these traps, Elena wanted someone else to bear testimony to what 
lay ahead. The pair disappeared around the curve of the corridor.
Elena held her breath. For too long, no sign of what might lie beyond was 
hinted. Elena bit her lip.
Suddenly a spate of mumbled conversation flowed around the corner, too low to 
make out any specific words. Elena glanced at Meric, then back down the passage. 
Suddenly, Joach popped around the corner. He frantically waved them to follow, a 
smile of relief on his face.
Elena and the others hurried after him. Once around the corner, Elena saw Flint 
bent in whispered conversation with a ragged man. His once-white robe was soiled 
a deep gray, and his cheeks bristled with unkempt reddish beard, barely hiding 
the sunken, starved look to the mans face. Contrasting his beard, the pate of 
his head was bald as a newborn.
Who is it? Elena asked.
Brother Ewan, Joach answered in an excited hush, his words rushed with relief. 
Hes a healer. He he was the one who helped treat Conch from his injuries. He 
stayed behind when we left the island before to see if he could be of help in 
defending the island from within. He is a Hifai, too, and knows all the secret 
byways. Hes been hiding out in the maze of the catacombs for the past moon.
Elena felt a burden lifted from her own heart. It was good to know someone could 
survive within the evil here. It stoked a measure of hope in her. Still, she 
remained cautious as she approached this stranger.
Flint waved Elena over. I want you to meet someonea friend ^ho knows several 
other ways in and out of the catacombs.
Brother Ewan straightened from his crouch. He seemed embarrassed by his 
appearance. One hand went to smooth down his rumpled robe; the other tried to 
pull his beard into some semblance of order. Tikal still rode on his shoulder, 
noisily chewing on a crust of bread. So this this is your witch, Brother 
Flint?
Elena nodded her head. Its good to meet you.
Brother Ewan grinned shyly and took a step toward her. His motion slightly 
dislodged the little tamrink. Tikal snatched at the mans ear to keep his perch 
but missed. The Brothers grin grew with the tiny beasts antics. He caught 
Tikal as the tamrink slipped.
Im sorry, Brother Ewan said, holding back a chuckle. But I think this little 
creature has outlasted his welcome. Brother Ewan lifted Tikal and, in one swift 
motion, snapped the tamrinks neck and tossed his limp form away.
Mama Freda gasped and fell back into Merics arms. Tikal!
The mans grin continued to spread into a foul leer. Now let me see this witch 
of yours more closely. Unburdened, he reached for Elena.
Too shocked to respond, Elena almost fell within his grip. Tikals sudden, 
brutal death had frozen her heart and mind. But Flint thrust himself between 
Ewan and Elena. He fumbled for his sheathed sword but was too slow.
Ewan ripped the ragged robe open, baring his chest. Latched to his pale skin 
were hundreds of small purple leeches. He lunged and hugged Flint before the old 
Brother could raise his sword.
Joach grabbed Elena and dragged her back. She was still too stunned to think 
clearly. Hes an illguard, El! We must get away!
Meric hauled Mama Freda, now blind and broken, along with him, while Joach 
pulled Elena. As they stumbled back, Flint fell free of the illguards embrace. 
He turned as he collapsed, his face and neck covered with the sucking leeches. 
In only a single heartbeat, the sick creatures swelled to the size of bruised 
fists, drawing more than just blood from Flint. His very form and substance 
seemed to be sucked into the writhing parasites. Flint crashed to the floor. As 
the creatures rolled off their host, bone shone through the wounds they had 
left. Still, Flint struggled to dislodge the monsters. One hand rose, quivering, 
then collapsed back down as he died.
The last sight Elena saw before she was drawn around the corner was Brother Ewan 
stepping over Flints corpse. His chest, now bare after hugging Flint, sprouted 
a new crop of the purple leeches, ready for the next harvest.
Then Elena was around the corner, and they raced away. As they ran, the horror 
slowly lost its paralyzing hold on Elena. She was able to think again and slowed 
to a stop. Joach tried to tug her onward, but she let out one sob and pushed him 
away. Go! Run!
El?
Elena raised her right hand and unbound the spell that locked away the spirit 
glow. Her hand bloomed a rosy azure. She fed the magick into her hand and willed 
the glow to spread. Elena saw the effect in Joachs eyes as she vanished from 
sight. Take Mama Freda and Meric! she ordered. Join Tolchuk!
You cant face the illguard alone.
Elena frowned and hurriedly shed her clothes. Im not going to confront it. We 
dont have the time. But I must check on Flint and retrieve the ward, while you 
all lead the monster away from me. Can you do that?
Joach nodded. What are you going to do? 
I am going to get that cursed book! She removed the last of her underclothes, 
then retrieved her witchs dagger. She held it before Joach and blew forth her 
magick from her fist. In his eyes, she saw the knife vanish.
After a few moments, Joach glanced up and down the passage. El? he probed 
tentatively.
Elena remained silent. She saw a look of fear and defeat grow on his face. He 
glanced back down the passage, thinking she had already left. Be careful, El. 
But before he turned away, he added in a whisper. I love you.
Elena did not fight the tears that rose in her eyes.
There was no one to see them anyway.
Erril stood between the wall of black ice and the darkmages circle of wax. His 
chains, now bolted in place to iron rings in the floor, only allowed him a 
single step in any direction. He had been stripped of his shirt; black runes of 
power had been carved into his
chest with the tip of Shorkans blade, their fathers hunting knife. Blood 
dribbled in hot trails down his belly, soaking into his belted breeches. Erril 
ignored the pain from the thirteen runes; his greater concern was on the final 
rites being performed within the mage ring. Half naked, his one arm bound to his 
waist, Erril felt a twinge of vulnerability. All his hopes would depend on the 
next few moments.
Denal stood within the ring wrapped in binds of dark energy, all but forgotten. 
Only his eyes shone brightly with terror and anger as, like Erril, he studied 
the final preparations of the other two mages.
Greshym spoke as he and Shorkan painted symbols on the floor along the inside 
edge of the mage ring with his own black blood. I sense the Dire Beacon has 
been lit. The skaltum must already be in flight.
It matters not, Shorkan said. With the number of traps set in and around the 
island, we have no need to fear intruders. By the rising of the moon, the island 
will no longer matter. With the book unbound, this city will be only a place of 
ghosts and lost hopes. We will have been victorious.
Greshym met Errils eye for a breath, then glanced away again. It was the 
signal. Erril cleared his throat. Shorkan, you will fail here, he spat out. 
Brother Kallons spell will defeat you again.
Shorkan continued to work, undaunted and undistracted by his words. It was your 
blood that fed this spell, Erril. And it will be your blood that breaks it.
Are you so sure, Brother? I tell you that a piece of the puzzle yet escapes 
you.
And what might that be?
You were right. The spell did require my blood and part of the magick of 
eternity gifted by the book. It even took a part of the tomes power, too. But 
it took one last item, something you have never suspected. This missing element 
will be your downfall.
And I suppose youre going to tell me?
Errils eyes narrowed. You may have weaseled out my companion here, he said 
with a nod toward the bound Denal. But this last secret I will never tellnot 
even to save the witch.
Shorkan shrugged and went back to his painting. I thought not. Well, Ill take 
my chances, dear brother.
You will die if you try, and there will be no coming back.
Shorkan waved his words away. Enough, Erril. I know you grow desperate. Your 
protests only help support that Im on the right path here.
Erril frowned. He needed to get Shorkan to react, to abandon his painting for a 
moment. Greshym needed a distraction to complete his betrayal. Even now Greshym 
glared at Erril. Time was running out.
Errils mind spun. Think back, Shorkan. From the times youve tried to pierce 
Brother Kallons spell before, you know there is something unusual in the spell. 
Something that confounded you.
Shorkan scowled but finally pushed to his feet. He stepped toward Erril, 
keeping the wax ring between them. Then tell me. What is it that you think my 
spell is missing? 
Even as evil flowed in waves from the darkmage, Erril kept his stance. He had 
to keep the mans eyes on him. Erril dared not even glance to see if Greshym 
was taking action. And what boon will I gain if I tell you?
I can make it so you survive this night, Shorkan growled.
And what of my freedom? Do I live in your dungeons?
That is up to you, Brother. Now tell me what Suddenly, Shorkan spun around on 
a heel.
Erril glanced to Greshym. The old bent-backed mage still knelt at the rings 
edge.
What are you doing? Shorkan screamed. That is not the correct rune!
Greshym did not answer, only stood with the aid of his staff and stepped out of 
the ring. Shorkan leaped at him, but Greshym reached within the wax circle with 
his staff and tapped the last rune he had painted. The symbol, two twining 
snakes, glowed with a reddish fire. The rune of entrapment is the right rune 
for my purposes, Shorkan!
Shorkans dive pulled up short of the rings edge. He stumbled back from it. 
You! He seethed at Greshym, his face as black as thunderclouds. He then 
glanced back to Denal.
Greshym waved a hand at the boy. Yes, Denal was always the loyal one, always 
the little pup.
Shorkan stalked along the ring as if seeking a means of escape.
You know the spell I cast, Greshym explained. You will live as long as you 
dont try to cross the mage circle.
Shorkan crossed back to glare at Greshym across the thin dribble of wax. Why?
Thumping with his cane, Greshym sidled around the ring. I could not let you 
destroy the Blood Diary. It is the only hope of returning vitality to these 
hoary bones of mine.
Vitality? You already live forever! What gift could be greater?
Now it was Greshyms turn to spin on Shorkan. I will tell you what gift is 
greater. You see it in the mirror each morning. Youth! Of what use is 
immortality if one continues to age and rot! Greshym spat at Shorkan, but his 
spittle hit the invisible barrier above the wax and sizzled in midair.
Greshym continued around the circle until he stood beside Erril. Your brother 
and I made a deal.
Youd betray the master for such a small prize?
Master? Greshym let out a rude noise. What do I care of the Black Hearts 
machinations? You were his pet, not me. As for this small prize, it is the least 
I deserve after serving the Black Beast for so long.
You will pay for your blasphemy, Greshym. This I promise.
Greshym ignored Shorkan and turned to Erril. Now to complete our deal, 
plainsman. Resting his staff in the crook of an arm, Greshym reached to the 
shackle imprisoning Errils wrist. With a wave of his fingers, the irons 
opened, and Errils arm was finally free. I dont know where you hid the 
sliver of my staff, Erril. But the magick in it is now active. It will unfetter 
your ankle chains and free you. It will also open any lock that stands between 
you and freedom.
Erril reached for his neck, but Greshym stopped him with a claw on his wrist.
But first, you promised to free the book. You claimed to have the power.
Erril nodded. I do. He did not know if Greshyms promise of freedom was true 
or not, but Erril had plotted his own defense against any betrayal by the 
darkmage. Yet it was a dangerous game each man played.
Turning, Erril stepped toward the wall of black ice. Over its surface, ageless 
energies still coursed. Erril could see a reflection of the room behind him in 
its glassy surface. He saw Greshyms hungry expression. He watched the old 
mages fingers greedily clasp at the
wood of his staff. Erril raised his own hand to the ice barrier, but sudden 
motion in the reflection stopped him.
Turning with a clank of chains, he saw Shorkan shove Denal and topple the boy 
mage backward. His small form sprawled across the wax ring. Instantly, the spell 
of entrapment punished its prisoner. Even through the bindings of dark energies, 
the boys screams sounded. His tiny body writhed on the pyre of the wax ring. 
Smoke and the sizzle of burning flesh swelled in the small room. Denals 
bindings were quickly eaten away, revealing a charred husk underneath. And still 
the boy struggled. A bleating cry flowed from his cracked and blackened lips, 
until eventually even this died away.
Shorkan waited no longer. Using the boys charred corpse like a bridge, he 
leaped across the wax ring. But even through this weakened section of the 
barrier, Shorkan did not escape unscathed. A scream shattered from his throat as 
he landed in a crumpled pile. His white robe, now just ash, clung to his seared 
skin. Yellow blisters and large swaths of burned skin covered his body. Even his 
hair and brows had been burned away, leaving him looking as old as Greshym. But 
Shorkan still lived! The mage rose slowly to his feet, tottering on limbs that 
still smoked. He stumbled a few steps toward where Greshym and Erril stood 
atunned. Shorkans voice croaked at them. I I will stop you. Twin spouts of 
darkfire erupted from Shorkans burned arms.
Greshym stepped forward and raised his staff, blocking the flow of forcebut 
just barely. Erril saw how Greshyms arm shook as he held out his talisman 
against the might of Shorkan. The length of wood steamed and smoked in the old 
mages grip.
Erril scooted away from the combatants to the full length of his chains. His 
bare back now touched the ice wall. He stared in shock at the show of force. For 
Shorkan still to be able to wield such strength after sustaining those burns 
spoke of the depth of his well of power. Errils fingers scrabbled to his neck. 
He fished free the shard of Greshyms staff. If he was to help in this fight, he 
needed to be free.
Erril waved the sliver of wood over the locks that bound his anklesbut nothing 
happened. He even tried using the piece as a lock pick, digging at the keyhole. 
Still the irons remained bound as ever. Scowling, Erril straightened up. There 
was no magick in the shard of staff. It had been a trick. Greshym had played him 
well, giv-
ing him something tangible upon which to pin his hopes. Erril tossed aside the 
useless piece of wood and kicked at his chains.
Nearby, the spout of darkfire from Shorkans arms began to wane and was soon 
sputtering, finally revealing a bottom to his well of black energies. Shorkans 
arms dropped, and the flow ended. Using the last dregs of his power, he opened a 
swirling black portal under his feet and dropped away, but not before gasping 
out one final threat. I I will get my revenge on both of you! Then he was 
gone.
Greshym still held his staff before him in a warding gesture, but with the 
disappearance of Shorkan, the old mage suddenly sagged. His staff fell to ash in 
his grip, crumbling away. Erril realized Shorkan had come to within a breath of 
defeating Greshym. Now nearly spent, the old mage had to support himself against 
the wall of ice and shuffle toward Erril.
The book he whispered through cold lips. We must hurry.
Where did Shorkan go?
Greshym shook his head and leaned in exhaustion against the ice wall. I dont 
know. Most likely to his tower. Or maybe hell just flee. He may use the 
Weirgate that delivered you here to escape back to Blackhall.
A Weirgate?
Greshym waved his arm weakly. That ebonstone statue of a wyvern. It is a 
portal to the Weir. But none of that matters. Free the book!
Erril knew now would be the only chance to gain information from this mage. He 
was weak and needed Errils help. What is this Weir? And why were you 
transporting the statue to Winterfell?
Greshyms gaze became more solid. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. It no 
longer matters. Free the book, he commanded.
Not until you answer my questions. As you said, time is running short.
Greshym stared angrily at Erril, then sighed. You ask for a quick answer to a 
long tale.
Just give me what you know.
Greshym sighed, his breath foul on Errils skin. As you probably have learned 
from your dealings with the illguard, small pieces of ebonstone have the power 
to trap and corrupt spirits.
This I know. But what does this have to do with the Weir and Weirgates?
Its complicated. When ebonstone was first mined, four large pieces were 
sculpted by the dwarves into massive beasts: griffin, man-ticore, basilisk, and 
wyvern. These larger pieces of pure ebonstone were found to hold an even 
greater power. They could trap not only spirits, but for those folks rich in 
magick, the ebonstone could also trap the person themselves. This is what 
happened to you. Your wards magick activated the ebonstone, and you were drawn 
inside the dark dimension of the Weir.
I dont remember any of that.
The Weir has that effect unless you are prepared and trained. And even then 
its a danger. You can easily lose yourself in there. Even I wouldnt risk 
entering one of those gates. But once you entered the Weirgate, Shorkan sensed 
you and called the wyvern back here, bringing you to us.
But why were you hauling the statue to Winterfell in the first place?
Greshym frowned. Some new plan of the Dark Lord. He had ordered three of the 
Weirgatesthe basilisk, the griffin, and the wyvernto different regions of 
Alasea. But I was not privy as to why. And no one questions the Black Hearts 
orders. Shorkan suspected it had something to do with strengthening the Weir.
You keep mentioning this Weir. What exactly is it?
Greshym shook his head. I dont even think Shorkan could answer that. All we 
know is that long ago something fell within one of the gates and became trapped, 
but it was too large to be held by any one gate. It spread to all four, linking 
them forever and trapping itself for eternity.
But what does the Weir do?
Greshym glanced to Erril, cunning entering his eyes again. Enough with this 
interrogation. Ill answer this last question only if you swear to free the book 
next.
Erril frowned.
Trust me. You will want the answer. It is one of the most guarded secrets of 
the Dark Lord.
Erril licked his lips. He knew he could not keep the darkmage talking for much 
longer. One more answer would have to suffice. Fine. I swear to free the book. 
So what does this Weir do?
Greshym leaned in close. It is the well of the Dark Lords power, his sole font 
of black magick! The Weir is where he draws his power.
Errils throat clenched. Here was the answer to a mystery that had plagued the 
Brotherhood for centuriesthe source of the Black Hearts strength! If only the 
Brotherhood had managed to obtain this information centuries ago, they could 
have perhaps devised a way to cut the Dark Lord from his magick. Greshym had not 
lied. This information was worth the price of his oath.
Now break the spell and unleash the Blood Diary, Greshym said eagerly, though 
he leaned heavily on the ice wall. The mage tired rapidly.
Erril nodded, still too stunned to speak. He twisted to face the wall of black 
ice and once again ran his hand along it. Finally he sensed the proper spot to 
unlock the barrier. Now to fit the key. Erril turned to lean his amputated 
shoulder against the ice one last time and faced Greshym. I told Shorkan that 
the spell required more than just my blood and magick.
Yes, I remember your ruse.
It was no ruse. The price was high. Erril pressed his shoulder firmly to the 
iced lock in the wall. It also took my flesh.
Searing pain shot into Errils shoulder as bone, muscle, and fiber found their 
old home. All around, the black ice melted from the walls and ceiling, shrinking 
down toward where Erril stood.
As the wall vanished under Greshym, taking away his support, the old mage 
teetered and fell to his knees, his eyes wide at the transformation as the spell 
ended. He stared up at Erril as the last vestiges of the magick melted away. 
You were the key all along!
Erril glanced to his scarred shoulder stump. An arm of muscle and bone now lay 
attached. It was no phantom arm, but his own, a limb he had sacrificed centuries 
ago to fuel the spell here. He bent the arm to his chest. Clutched in his hand 
was a book he had not seen in centuries, a battered black diary with a scrolled 
burgundy rose etched on its cover.
Greshym followed the books path. The Blood Diary! Erril kept it from the 
mages reach.
We had a pact, Greshym snapped. You swore an oath.
I swore to free the book. I have done so. He then stepped with a clink of 
chains and rolled the sliver of staff he had discarded a
moment ago toward Greshym. This is useless. You sought to betray me. Erril 
ground the shard of wood under his heel. So any other promises we once made to 
each other are now void.
Greshym fought to pull to his feet, but without his staff and weak from his 
fight with Shorkan, the mage was slow.
Erril pulled the book farther away from Greshym, resting it upon his own 
rune-carved chest. With its touch, his sliced skin drew together, and the foul 
markings vanished. You forget the book protects meand not just with 
longevity. About Errils ankles, his iron shackles clanked to the stone floor. 
Erril shook free of the chains and stepped back. Free at last.
Greshym raised an arm, ready to lash out with the remains of his black magick, 
but Erril lifted the book between them. I think the magick in the Blood Diary 
will protect me, but if not, before your magick reaches me, it will destroy your 
only hope of ever obtaining your youth.
The old mages arm slowly dropped.
Besides, I would suggest you let us keep the book. Elena and I will need it to 
destroy the Dark Lord. And after your betrayal here, you had best hope we 
succeed, Greshym. I do not believe the Black Heart will look kindly on your 
actions this day.
Greshyms face paled as he realized the truth in Errils words. With a final 
searing scowl, Greshym waved his hand and opened his own portal. As the old mage 
sank away, he spat out a final warning. This is not over yet, Erril.
Before Erril could answer, Greshym was gone. Erril lifted the book before him. 
He didnt know what shocked him more, the reclamation of the book or the return 
of his arm. He ran a finger along the limb. A shiver ran down Errils bare 
back, and gooseflesh pimpled his skin. After so many years, the arm seemed so 
unnatural, but at the same time, it felt like coming home. Odd memories 
returned, as if these recollections had been trapped in the stolen flesh and 
only now returned with his arm: memories of baling hay in the fields, swinging a 
scythe in a two-handed grip, even hugging his father good-bye when he left for 
the last time with his brother, Shorkan. All memories of a simpler time, a more 
generous life.
Erril shook his head. Unlike his missing arm, that past was lost to him 
forever. No magick could bring it back.
His eyes came to rest on the Blood Diary. So many lives destroyed for this old 
battered book. He opened the cover and read the only entry, words that had first 
appeared on that fateful night long ago:
And so the book was forged, soaked in the blood of an innocent at midnight in 
the Valley of the Moon. He who would carry it read the first words and choked in 
tears for his lost brother and his lost innocence. Neither would ever return.
Erril closed the book and thought of his brother and of the path of centuries 
that led to this room. Then too there had been a ring of wax and the corpse of a 
boy. Erril shook his head and crossed from the room, grabbing the torch from 
the wall.
The books words had proven too true.
Elena knelt by Flint. Naked except for her witchs dagger, she felt 
particularly exposed and vulnerable, though none could see her. She kept her 
eyes averted as she reached over Flints body. His face and neck were a cratered 
ruin. She touched his shoulder.
Im sorry, she whispered and reached to a satchel at his waist. She felt like 
a grave robber as she fingered open the ties to his side pouch. From inside, she 
rolled out the small sculpted fist, the ward of Aloa Glen. The red iron glowed 
like fresh blood in the light from the discarded lantern.
Straightening, she weighed the fist in one hand and her witchs dagger in the 
other. She needed to choose which to take; she was skilled enough to hide only 
one object with her magick. According to Flints estimation, she would need the 
wards magick to free the book, but she hated to leave the knife, abandoning her 
only other weapon.
As she pondered her choices, a small noise startled her. She clutched the knife 
in fright, dropping the ward. Rolling around, she raised her knife in menace. 
But nothing was there. Then the noise repeated: a small mewling almost too soft 
to hear. The sound stretched long enough for Elena to Follow it to its source. 
In the shadows near the base of the wall, Tikals crumpled form lay limp.
Elena crouched and slinked to the animals side. The tamrink lay on its back, 
its neck twisted unnaturally. As she watched, Elena saw
its chest softly rise and fall. She reached with a finger and touched the beast. 
A moan answered her probing. Elena winced. The little creature still lived.
Glancing back to the discarded ward, Elena knew she needed to hurry, but Tikals 
small cries stirred an ache in her heart. She paused, unsure what to do. Elena 
clenched her fist around her knife and knew she could end Tikals suffering with 
one thrust. She even lifted the dagger, but then lowered it again. She couldnt 
do it. Though her heart had grown harder on the journey here, it was not that 
hard. She had seen too much death these past days and could not slay this 
injured beast. But neither could she ignore it. Tikal was more than just a pet. 
He was also the eyes of Mama Freda. Biting her lower lip, Elena made her 
decision. She gently lifted the small tamrink, surprised at the softness of his 
fur. The cries worsened as she moved him. Cringing, she straightened his twisted 
neck. Bones grated. Tikals mewling changed in pitch to a sharp whimpering. 
Elena cringed at the noise but did not stop. To survive, pain was sometimes 
necessary. This was one of the harsh lessons she had learned.
Finally, Tikals neck was straight. Cradling the tamrink, Elena bloodied one of 
the beasts tiny fingers; then she did the same with her own. She remembered her 
old lessons. She must let only a small amount of her magick flow into another. 
Taking a calming breath, Elena lowered her bloody finger to Tikals fresh wound. 
She kept her magick bottled inside her. She must let only a drop of her blood 
pass. As her finger touched, Elenas thoughts bridged to the creatures for a 
brief moment. She merged with the beast, felt the raw ache in his neck, and 
sensed the dull awareness of the tamrink buried deep down. Then, for a single 
flash, she was somewhere else. She was stumbling in anothers arm, racing, 
joints protesting, confused and blind. Blinking, Elena pulled back her finger. 
She was back in her own skin. Elena knew that for that moment she had traveled 
along Tikals connection to Mama Freda.
The brief contact reminded Elei^a of her duty. The others fled to lead the 
illguard away, and she was wasting her time reviving an injured animal. Elena 
settled Tikal back to the floor. The tamrink breathed much deeper now, and as 
she watched, Tikals legs began to twitch and a small arm lifted to paw at an 
ear. From here, the tamrink would have to mend on its own.
Elena crossed back to the iron ward and retrieved it from the floor. This time 
she had no problem deciding which object to keep. She placed her knife near 
Flint and settled the ward in her right palm. After sensing the terror in Mama 
Freda, Elena knew she could face her own fears without her dagger. The ward was 
more
important.
Decided, Elena stood straighten As she paused, she heard the scuff of boot on 
rock. Swinging around, she realized it was coming from deeper down the 
catacombs. To confirm her suspicion, she saw light flickering from down the 
corridor. Someone else was coming!
Elena flattened herself against the wall. She pictured all manner of dangers: 
skaltum, dwarves, illguard. What now? As she held her breath, the light grew. 
Shortly the flame of a torch came into sight around the curve of the passage. 
Elena tried to pierce the glare of the torchlight. The figure held the flame 
before him. Its brightness masked any details.
At least it was only one person. Still, she refrained from breathing, fearful of 
alerting the enemy to her presence. So when she finally caught her first glimpse 
of the newcomers face, a trapped gasp escaped her. She could never mistake that 
sweep of black hair, the ruddy planes of his face, and those storm-gray eyes. It 
was Erril!
Elena stepped away from the wall. But, of course, Erril could not see her. 
Instead, his eyes fixed on the collapsed form of Flint in the hall, outlined in 
the lantern light. Erril hurried toward the body.
Raising a hand, Elena thought to call to him. Then Erril lifted his torch 
higher and wiped at his forehead with his other hand. Elena stumbled back, 
almost stepping on Flints body. Erril had two arms now! Nearly blind from 
shock, Elena dodged to the side as Erril rushed forward.
He tossed aside the torch and fell to his knees beside the dead man. His hands 
hovered over the corpse as if disbelieving what he saw. For the first time, 
Elena saw that Erril held something in his other hand: a tattered book. As he 
set the tome down, Elena took a small step forward. She spied the gilt-edged 
rose on its cover and blinked in shock. She covered her mouth to hold in a gasp. 
She recognized the book from Errils description. The Blood Diary.
Flint Errils voice drew Elenas attention. He reached and carefully turned 
Flints head, exposing the silver starred earring.
Erril covered his face with a hand, his fingers dark from the torchs soot. 
Flint, this is all my fault. I I did this to you.
Errils guilt confused Elena. He sounded so genuine and heartfelt, but why? How 
exactly was he to blame for Flints death? And what of those two arms? Joachs 
dream played in her head: Erril, with two arms, hunting her down atop a tower 
with murderous intent. Dare she trust this man? After knowing Erril for so long 
with only the one arm, this man with two seemed a stranger, especially bare 
chested, like now. It changed his whole physique.
Elena remained quiet. She was safe as long as she remained silent and hidden. 
She would heed Joachs warning and be waryfor now. As she watched, Erril 
collected the book and pushed to his feet. While doing so, his toe nudged her 
abandoned witchs dagger. He glanced down and spotted it. Retrieving the knife, 
he turned it over in his hands. Of course he recognized it. Erril glanced up 
and down the corridor as if seeking some answer. Flint, you fool, you brought 
her here.
Erril held up the dagger, then shoved the blade into his belt. Elena, he said 
roughly, his eyes bright, if youre here, Ill find you.
Elena pulled back from the fire in Errils gaze. She had never seen such heat 
in the plainsman before. In the past, he had always been warm, thoughtful, and 
supportive. But what Elena saw now went much deeper, a flame that arose from a 
depth that unnerved her. Like his new arm, Elena had never seen this side of 
Erril.
Where had it come from? Was it natural or unnatural? Was this new intensity 
directed at saving her or killing her?
As Elena weighed his words, Erril collected the illguards lantern. With a 
final glance at Flint, he started a fast pace toward the distant surface.
Elena leaned her head against the cool stone of the catacomb. Then she let out a 
long breath and began dogging the trail of this mysterious two-armed stranger. 
She would not give up the hope that Errils spirit was still pure. She could 
not! Especially since he carried the salvation of Aloa Glenthe Blood Diary.
Pinorr paced the length of the keelchiefs cabin. As the ships shaman, this was 
his post during a battle: to pray to the seven gods of the sea and be ready with 
advice for the keelchief. But for Pinorr, this was an imprisonment, a torture 
beyond a mans ability to survive.
Above his head, the sounds of battle raged on the decks of the Dragonspur. Men 
fought and died while he cowered below. He had been informed of the magickal 
twilight and of the flight of the skal-tum. Even now he could hear the bone 
drums of the beasts and their cackling howls as men fought demons.
Pinorr clenched his fists. During past battles, he had never felt this way. He 
had accepted his position as shaman. But after the night of bloodshed during the 
storm, Pinorr knew his role was a mockery to the gods. He need only look down to 
be reminded of his crime. All the lye soap and scrubbing had failed to totally 
cleanse Ulsters blood from the cabins planks. A brown stain marked the wood 
for all to see.
Pinorr covered his ears with his fists. Bad enough that he must stew while men 
died, but why must he wait here? He should be with Mader Geel and Sheeshon in 
his own cabins. For the thousandth time, Pinorrs eyes were drawn to the wide 
stain under his feet. He deserved whatever punishment the gods thought to 
inflict. He had taken a steel blade in hand, and he had taken a life. In the 
eyes of the seven sea gods, Pinorr was cursed forever.
Raising his eyes to the rafters of the cabin, Pinorr prayed with his arms 
lifted. Do not punish this ship! My hands alone have bloodied
your gifts. Punish me, not those aboard this ship. Spare them of your curse! I 
will accept any punishment, any torture, to cleanse the Dmgonspurl
A sudden pounding on the cabin door startled Pinorr. Dropping his arms, he 
hurried to the barred door and lifted the latch; the door swung open before 
Pinorr could even step back. He had expected to see Hunt, the ships keelchief, 
but instead he found Mader Geel rushing inside.
The old warrior womans words were frantic. I turned my back on her for a 
breath! I swear!
Pinorr clutched Mader Geels shoulders in both his hands. Her eyes were wild. 
What is it? Pinorr asked, dread clutching his heart. ,
Little Sheeshon! I went to peek at the battle through the porthole and when I 
turned back, the cabin door was open and Sheeshon was gone!
Pinorr released the woman. His legs grew numb under him. He glanced back to the 
rafters, trying to see the laughing gods above. No, this price was too high!
Shaman? Mader Geel asked, clearly sensing his inner turmoil.
Pinorr lowered his gaze but lifted his hands and began braiding the locks of his 
white hair. His fingers remembered the old pattern of a warriors tail. I am 
shaman no longer, he said coldly.
What are you saying? What are you doing? Mader Geels eyes went wide with 
fright.
She reached for him, but Pinorr knocked her hand away. Curse the seven gods, 
he spat. I am done playing their whipping boy. If they mean to wreak 
punishment, it will be on my head, not Sheeshons.
Are you mad? Mader Geel backed away.
Pinorr finished the last twist of his warriors braid, then crossed to the wall 
where Hunt had hung an assortment of swords. He reached for the one that best 
suited his old skill, a long blade with a curve to its length.
No! Mader Geel crfed. Dont touch it!
But her call was too late. Pinorr grabbed the swords hilt and swung it from the 
walls hook. Blade raised, he turned to face Mader Geel. Mader Geel fell to her 
knees. You damn us all!
That, Ive already done. Now I must end it! Pinorr swung
around and stalked from the room. In the open hall, the sounds of battle 
worsened. Shouted orders echoed down from above, swirled with screams and wild 
laughter. Boots thundered overhead. Claws scraped wood. Pinorr hurried, half 
running down the passage. He met no others. All hands were on deck.
At last, he shoved through the hatch and into horror. Even fueled by his rage at 
the gods, Pinorrs feet stumbled to a stop. Blood and dead bodies washed the 
deck. The sails overhead were a shredded ruin stained with blood and gore. Torn 
corpses swayed in the rigging. It was all tainted by the eerie netherlight that 
had been described to him. Pinorr glanced to the west and saw the pall of inky 
darkness that masked the setting sun.
He shook his head at the ruin of the world. Everywhere he looked, men and women 
fought the winged demons. But without the sun, the beasts were invulnerable. The 
best the crew could manage was to hold the foul creatures off and use nets to 
tangle and shove them overboard into the seas.
Near the stern, a red seadragon roosted, claws dug deep into rail and decking. A 
small merai woman, her eyes wide with fear, sat mounted on her beast and called 
orders to the Bloodriders around her. She urged the men to drive the skaltum 
toward her, where her dragon would snatch at wings and throw the dark spawn 
overboard. But even from here, Pinorr could see the dragon bore countless 
scratches and deeper gouges from the monsters fangs and claws. A greenish steam 
rose from these wounds, where poison met dragons blood. The great dragon would 
not last much longer, and Pinorr suspected that the fear in the merais eyes 
was for her dragon, not herself.
Suddenly, Hunts deep voice boomed over the chaos. Ragnark comes again! Be 
ready, men!
All across the deck, the crew raised fists in the air, acknowledging their 
chiefs order.
Pinorr pushed farther out so he could see atop the raised foredeck. Near the 
ships prow, Hunt stood with five other Bloodriders, holding off a trio of 
skaltum. Hunt, his face bloodied, a fire in his eyes, refused to give up the 
ship. The high keels son was a true keelchief. For just the briefest flash, 
Pinorr was glad he had slain Ulster. If Ulster had still been keelchief, Pinorr 
suspected the ship would have been sunk by now.
Pinorr saw how Hunts shouted orders seemed to revitalize the crews spirit and 
strength of arm. All around the boat, men and women fought fiercely.
Past the keelchiefs shoulder, Pinorr spotted the black wings of Ragnark. The 
great dragon swung toward their foundering ship, diving fast and lowtoo fast to 
land. What were Sy-wen and Kast doing?
Then almost faster than Pinorr could follow, Ragnark sped over their masts. His 
roar surged across the ship. Pinorr found himself ducking against the noise. It 
seemed to press at him. As he straightened, he watched as all around the boat, 
the crew hacked into the skaltum. For the brief moment that Ragnark had 
roared, the dragons voice had washed away the dark protections of the beasts. 
Axes and swords cleaved into flesh that a moment ago was impervious to blades. 
The screams from the score of wounded monsters followed the flight of the dragon 
across the twilight sky.
Pinorr watched Ragnark turn on a wing and dive toward a neighboring ship, 
spreading his deadly roar.
A small voice snapped his head around. I have need of you! Atop the raised 
foredeck, Pinorr saw his granddaughter crawl from around an overturned barrel 
and push to her feet. She walked toward where Hunt and the others still battled 
the skaltum trio.
The monsters were wounded now after the passage of Ragnark, but they were far 
from dead. With the fading of the dragons roar, their dark protections had 
again returned. But it seemed the blades that had been bloodied during the last 
passage of the dragon could now pierce the dark protections. It was slow going, 
though; for every skaltum slain, two others appeared.
Atop the foredeck, one of the beasts heard Sheeshons voice and swung its fanged 
face around.
Pinorr scrambled up the ladder after his granddaughter, but Hunt also spotted 
the girl and fought his opponent more vigorously. Neither man would make it in 
time. Sheeshon still continued toward the grip of the nearest beast. I have 
need of you, she called again to Hunt.
Sheeshon! Get back!** Hunt called to her. Pinorr saw the pain in the 
keelchiefs eyes, but he was pinned down by his own monster. One of the men at 
his side tried to break free and come to the
childs aid, but he was cut down by one poisoned swipe of a skal-tums claw. 
The man writhed for several breaths, then lay still.
By now, Pinorr had scrambled atop the deck. Sheeshon was only a step away from 
the beast. He would never reach her in time.
Pinorr met Hunts gaze. The keelchief had spotted the shaman, and his eyes flew 
wide at the sight of a sword in his hand. But instead of words of warning like 
Mader Geel, Hunt yelled encouragement. Get Sheeshon back! Kill anything in your 
way!
Having the keelchiefs support instead of admonishment fueled Pinorrs heart, as 
if a great weight had been lifted from his chest. He leaped with a lunge of his 
sword. Old buried instincts again raged forth. His sword struck the outstretched 
claw of the skaltum. It did no damage, bouncing off its protected skin, but it 
knocked the limb away from Sheeshon. Pinorr continued his roll across the deck, 
striking his granddaughter with his shoulder. Sheeshon gasped and bounced to the 
side.
Pinorr jumped to his feet, standing now between the beast and Sheeshon. He 
raised his sword against the monsters leer.
You think to sssteal my treat, little man, it hissed.
You will never touch her, demonspawn!
The skaltum struck, lightning-quick. Pinorr danced back, barely in time, using 
a twist of his sword to parry a swipe of claws. But already the beast lunged 
with its other limb at the shamans chest.
Pinorr was forced back. He now stood over his fallen granddaughter. Sheeshon 
sobbed at his feet. The beast struck again. Pinorr spun a flurry of steel before 
him. Claws bounced back.
The skaltum cocked its head and studied Pinorr for a moment. So the 
white-haired elder thinksss he hass fangs, does he?
Winded now, his hearts fire was unable to maintain its ferocity for long. 
Pinorrs arm trembled.
Sensing the weakening of its prey, the skaltum lunged once more. All claws and 
fangs, it leaped at him. Pinorr tried his best to fend the beast off with 
flashes of blade, but he tired rapidly.
A claw slipped past his defenses and ripped the robe across his chest. Then 
anothers sword was beside his own. Pinorr did not have time even to glance at 
his savior, but he sensed it was Hunt. Back-to-back over the girl, the two men 
fought. It seemed an endless dance.
Then Hunts voice boomed out again. Ragnark comes! Be ready!
In a lower voice, the keelchief added. Fight brave, old man. Just for a moment 
more.
Pinorr tried his best to honor the keelchiefs order. But relief at hearing of 
the dragons return actually doused his hearts fire. He slowed.
Then the roar was upon them. Duck! Hunt hollered in his ear. Pinorr dropped, 
his legs giving out anyway. He watched Hunt swing his sword with both arms. The 
head of the monster cleaved from its shoulder. It arced across the deck and 
rolled into the sea. The malignant body fell away like an axed tree.
With Pinorr down, Sheeshon crawled into the old mans lap. Pinorr dropped his 
sword to wrap the child in his embrace. Papa. Sheeshon leaned her head to his 
chest. Papa, I love you.
With his beast slain and a momentary lull in the battle, Hunt knelt beside them 
both. Pinorr met his gaze and straightened. Im sorry, he mumbled, nodding 
toward the sword.
Hunt shrugged. Its not as if it was the first time you picked up a sword.
Pinorr blinked at these strange words.
Hunts face was bloodied, but the fire of chiefdom still shone brightly through. 
You did the fleet a service by ridding the Dragon-spur of Ulster.
A gasp escaped Pinorr. You knew? 
Do you think me a complete dullard, old man? There were clues enough for those 
who cared to look. But most would rather not see.
Pinorrs voice cracked. But I cursed the boat. I broke my oaths.
Hunt leaned a bit higher to keep an eye on the flow of battle. In these dire 
times, every warrior is needed, shaman or not. He placed a hand on Pinorrs 
chest. I dont believe in the curses of gods, only in the strength of a mans 
heart. That is where the hope of the fleet lies. The world changes today. 
Whether it ends good or bad, nothing will be the same.
Pinorr covered Hunts hand with his own. Thank you.
Hunt nodded and pulled his hand away. He glanced in shock at the blood that now 
covered his palm. Pinorr? Hunt showed his stained palm.
Pinorr glanced to Sheeshon in his lap. A bright bloom of blood oozed through his 
robe over his heart. Take care of her, Hunt. If the ship survives, the next 
days will be hard for her.
Hunt knelt lower, touching Pinorrs shoulder. I know. We already share a bond. 
I think she came up from below because she sensed my own danger. We will watch 
over each other.
Pinorr hugged his granddaughter one last time, squeezing a lifetime of love into 
this one embrace. Then he placed Sheeshons small hand into Hunts. He glanced 
up to the young keelchief. He saw the strength, courage, and heart in the man. 
I made the right choice.
Hunt nodded, his voice formal. You have served the fleet well, Shaman Pinorr. 
Go in peace.
With tears flowing down his cheeks, Pinorr reached to touch Sheeshon one last 
time as battle raged all around. I love you, he whispered as the poisons of 
the skaltum finally reached his heart.
Sy-wen leaned over Ragnarks neck to view the spread of boats under them. Like 
steam rising from boiling water, screams and the clash of steel rose above the 
seas. All around the island, boats foundered and spats of skaltum forces 
wreaked havoc wherever they flew. Sy-wen searched the island itself for any sign 
of the signal fire, some sign that the Blood Diary had been discovered. If the 
others were successful, she and Ragnark could wing to their rescue, scoop them 
off the island, and the battle below could end.
Tears flowed down her cheeks, but the winds quickly dried them. Her fingers were 
numb as they clutched a fold of scale. It seemed as if the war below had been 
raging for several days, not just an eternal afternoon. With the onset of the 
skaltum attack, the tide of battle had turned. Fiery plans of taking the island 
had long gone to ash. Now the merai and Drerendi fought just to survive. Each 
ship below was its own island under assault. Though the merai struggled to 
help, with the strange twilight the skaltum were almost impossible to vanquish. 
It was now a war to stay alive.
Sy-wen and Ragnark gave what little aid they could: diving toward ships when 
most needed and roaring away the dark protections of the beasts. But their main 
duty was still to watch the towers of Aloa Glen, awaiting the signal from the 
witch. Until that time, the two protected the fleet.
Over there! Sy-wen yelled hoarsely. In her minds eye, she sent an image of 
the ship she meant.
Ragnark sent his acknowledgment, and the dragon turned on a
wing and began a long banking dive toward a ships whose sails were ripped to 
rags and whose rigging was festooned with skaltum. Sy-wen leaned against the 
wind. The heat from the dragon kept her warm, but still she shivered. As 
Ragnark swooped, roaring over the masts, Sy-wen closed her eyes. She no longer 
wished to see the carnage atop the decks of the ships; it wore at her heart. At 
least from the height of the clouds, such details were muted.
As Ragnark finished his run, Sy-wen felt an ache in her throat. The dragons 
roar grew hoarse. This mode of attack would soon fail. From somewhere deep down, 
words whispered up. As long as we breathe, there is always hope. Sy-wen opened 
her eyes and sat up straighten It was Kast. She had not heard from him since 
they had initiated the transformation aboard the Dragonsheart.
Oh, Kast, the deaths the screams the blood Sy-wen sobbed.
Hush. Ragnark was right in allowing me forward. Do not lose heart.
But, Kast, our people are being slaughtered.
/ see the deaths, my love. Sy-wen felt a warmth suddenly fill her that had 
nothing to do with the dragons heated body. It was as if Kasts arms had 
wrapped around her. He meant to comfort her, even as he spoke words that quailed 
her heart. What occurs now is a price that must be paid. Both our people avoided 
this payment for too long. The meraifled to the Deep. My people turned south 
and never looked back- If we are to find our own true spirits again, it will 
take such a cleansing flame. Weve emerged after centuries of hiding. Weve 
declared our loyalty to Alaseas future, and a line must be drawn hereeven if 
it is in blood.
Sy-wen again began to sob. I just want it to end. Either way, I want it to 
end.
Come to me.
What? she whispered.
Close your eyes and reach for me.
I dont understand Just do it. Trust us both.
Sy-wen swallowed and did as asked. She closed her eyes and sent her thoughts 
toward him, sent her love and sorrow. The warmth she had felt a moment ago grew. 
Suddenly the warmth became two arms wrapped around her. She felt Kasts body 
pressed to hers. The
boundaries between the threedragon, man, and womangrew blurred. For just this 
endless moment, three became one. No words were shared. In silence, three 
spirits comforted each other in an embrace of warmth and love.
Kasts voice finally whispered to her. It was as if he spoke at her ear, his 
breath brushing against her neck. This is what we fight for.
As answer, Sy-wen held Kast and Ragnark even tighter. She wanted to stay like 
this forever, but a thoughtfrom Ragnark intruded. Something comes.
Sy-wen opened her eyes, and the moment was gone. She felt those arms of warmth 
dissolve away and knew Kast had retreated deep inside Ragnark again. The dragon 
needed all his faculties to face this
new threat.
Ragnark banked on a spread of black wing. Sy-wen now faced away from the 
island. The wall of inky darkness still marred the western skies, hiding the 
sun. The shaft of black energies continued to feed the foul construct.
At first, Sy-wen failed to see what had alarmed the dragon, but Ragnark had 
keener eyes. As the dragon passed over the rear of the Drerendi fleet, Sy-wen 
finally spotted strange aberrations in the wall of darkness. Her mind could not 
fully grasp what it was witnessing. It was as if huge white clouds billowed 
through the barrier, piercing the magickal wall.
Was this a storm front approaching? Sy-wen sensed that it wasnt.
Ships, Ragnark sent. Many, many ships.
Crinkling her brow at the dragons strange words, Sy-wen could not understand 
the surge of excitement she received from Ragnark.
What ships?
Then the strangest thing happened. Her vision shifted to that of the dragons. 
Suddenly, she felt leagues closer to the coming storm. The wall of darkness 
swelled in her vision. What she had thought were clouds were actually billowing 
sails. She shook her head. How could this be? These ships sailed the air! Still, 
there could be no mistaking the timbered and masted boats under the huge sails. 
Through the dragons vision, she even spotted small figures manning the decks of 
the strange flying ships.
As the vessels passed through the wall, Sy-wen was suddenly blinded. Like scores 
of arrows shot through a black sail, sunlight
pierced the inky darkness, marking where each ship had thrust through the 
barrier. Bright shafts of sunlight outlined each ship. Sy-wen quickly counted. 
The aerial armada numbered twenty or thirty. Sunlight cast the ships in gold and 
set their sails ablaze.
Ragnark swooped and sped toward these strange intruders. Who where they? Friend 
or foe?
The ships flew higher than Ragnark, at least a quarter league above the island 
and seas. As they neared, Sy-wen saw that the keels under these strange boats 
were made of some peculiar metal that glinted under the columns of sunlight, a 
long rib of metal that glowed a bright red. Crackles of silver energy danced 
along the length of the keels.
Then Ragnark was among the wondrous fleet. The dragon swept between two of the 
boats, flying fast in case they proved enemies. But no arrows chased him. Sy-wen 
had caught a glimpse of a tall pale man standing in the prow of each boat, arms 
stretched to the twilight skies. Silver hair, longer than the men were tall, 
flowed behind each of them like a ships banner.
As Ragnark swung in a tight arc for another surveillance run, Sy-wen pictured 
the men and suddenly knew who they were. She could not mistake their slender 
forms, the brilliance of their silver manes, even the spark of their blue eyes 
as they tracked the passing dragon. Though Merics hair was only a sparse 
stubble, the resemblance of these men to the elvin was clear.
Sy-wen remembered some mention of the arrival of a sunhawk and how it supposedly 
heralded the launch of the elvin forces. Ragnark sped back toward the flying 
armada, gliding through lances of sunlight. The brilliance of the setting sun 
cheered her heart and fired her blood. She had not thought the elvin fleet 
would arrive so soon!
She urged Ragnark to slow, tears in her eyes. Here was the salvation that 
Sy-wen had prayed for all day. Already the ships had rent holes in the wall of 
darkness. Sy-wens gaze followed the shafts of sunlight to where they fell among 
the ships of the Bloodnders. She knew any skaltum caught in the blaze of the 
setting sun would be vulnerable to attack.
Ragnark pulled up and maintained a pace to keep even with one of the ships. 
Sy-wen yelled a greeting to the boat, but none of the men or women aboard seemed 
to acknowledge her. They continued their duties atop the deck. She tried 
shouting again, but still they
gave no response. The winds must be tearing away her words. A few of the crew 
glanced her way. She raised a fist in the air. They could at least see her 
signal. But they simply ignored her and went back to
their duties.
Frowning, Sy-wen instructed Ragnark to bank away and try another ship. The 
dragon obeyed, but they had no better luck. Soon the elvin fleet and the dragon 
were sailing over the war below. But the sky ships did not slow. They continued 
in force toward the island.
As they passed over the ships of the Bloodriders, Sy-wen saw faces turn upward 
in awe. Even the skaltum were wary of these new intruders. Their attack paused 
as they pondered, along with everyone else, what these new ships intended. None 
of the beasts dared risk winging up to investigate.
Finally, Sy-wen noticed that one of the sky ships was much larger than the 
otherstwice as large, in fact. It must be their flagship. She needed to get 
their attention, to ask them to aid the beleaguered forces below. Already time 
was running out. The holes in the twilight barrier were closing, healing the 
wounds.
By the time Sy-wen flew abreast of the flagship, the armada had reached the 
island. The fleet spread, encircling the city below. Five ships separated from 
the others and floated forward, over the city itself, to hover in a ring around 
the central castle. What were they doing? Sy-wen had a momentary gnaw of worry 
that perhaps she had judged them wrong. Maybe these were a new enemy.
She urged Ragnark to follow the flagship as it rose higher than the rest of the 
armada. Ragnark had to arc away then back to gain a matching height. The 
flagship now drifted above the center of the ring of five ships, taking up a 
post directly above the towered citadel. In this thin air, Ragnark fought to 
maintain a matching position. At the prow of the flagship stood not a man, but a 
woman. She wore a long, flowing gown, its fabric so thin that Sy-wen could see 
her lithe form as easily as if she were naked. Her silver hair shone with a 
brilliance that had nothing to do with any ray of sunlight. The woman turned to 
her. As her gaze met Sy-wens across the wide distance, Sy-wen sensed the energy 
that flowed from this woman: She was lightning given form.
The womans lips moved, and Sy-wen heard the words as clearly as if the woman 
had been sitting beside her. Go. This is no longer your battle. Then the 
elvin woman turned away.
Wait! Sy-wen called, but the woman ignored her except to raise an arm in the 
dragons direction.
Suddenly the skies were a whirlwind around them. Her mount fought to remain 
beside the ship, but his wings seemed incapable of catching wind. They fell in a 
spiraling plummet away from the flagship.
Sy-wen clung like a starfish as Ragnark tumbled. She was sure they would crash 
into the island. But then the whirlwind was gone, and the dragons great wings 
caught the air. They pulled out of their dive and sailed smoothly again.
Ragnark flew with care now; their fall had put them among the towers of the 
lower city. Banking past the tilted statue of a man with an upraised sword, 
Ragnark took them up and out of the city.
Sy-wen twisted in her seat to monitor the circle of five ships. Ragnark began a 
slow turn around the island to keep the ships in view, but he dared not approach 
closer. And Sy-wen did not urge him, either. She had seen the look in the tall 
womans eyes. It was like staring into a cold void. Sy-wen had sensed no hate or 
enmity in that gaze, only a profound indifference. It was as if Ragnark and 
Sy-wen were too small to warrant a second glance. They had been swatted away 
like a pestering gnat.
As Sy-wen continued her sweeping survey, she saw the crackles of silvery energy 
grow more violent along the keels of the five ships. Something was about to 
happen. The metal of the keels grew from a deep bloodred to a fiery pale rose, 
almost as if the ore were heating up. The crackling grew more intense, sparking 
now with small bolts of lightning, feathering out from the keels like jagged 
spears.
Ragnark flew too near one of the ships; Sy-wens hair rose around her head, 
sparking with traces of power. The dragon swept away, sensing the danger looming 
here.
As her mount sailed over the city, Sy-wen watched the rage of energies now 
racing back and forth along each of the five keels. It was almost blinding. 
Sy-wen sensed that here was the power that propelled these great ships through 
the air, only now it was directed toward another purpose.
Even from this distance, Sy-wen could taste the energy in the air. The keels 
blazed with crackling power. Spates of lightning stabbed down at the castle but 
never quite reached. Suddenly it was as if the
Vj L R Mt
air around the castle were sucked away. Sy-wen gasped, clutching her throat.
Along the five keels, lightning bolts raced from stern to prow, jettisoning 
skyward in fonts of energy that struck the thicker keel of the flagship above. 
For a moment, a five-spoked star with the flagship at its center blazed in the 
twilight sky.
Then in a blink, the star vanished, and Sy-wen could breathe again. The five 
ships fell away from the citadel, drifting down and back, like spent lovers. 
Their keels were again a deep dull red. No energies crackled along their 
underbellies.
The same, however, was not true of the mighty flagship. It still hovered above 
the castle, ablaze with fire and energy.
Sy-wens heart clenched with terror. What are they? Then all the power 
trapped in the flagships keel released. A bolt of lightning as thick as one of 
the castle towers struck straight down. It blew Sy-wen and Ragnark backward. 
Then the explosive boom followed, deafening, blinding them.
Even dazed, Ragnark helped keep Sy-wen in her seat, squeezing the ankle holds 
tighter as he tumbled away. Finally, their roll ended and Ragnark righted 
himself. They were over the seas again. Ragnark sent his concern to her. Do you 
fare well, my bonded? Im fine, she answered, though in truth she was still 
dazzled by the bolt of energy. She could not blink the glare from her eyes. Then 
suddenly she sat up straighten No, it wasnt the burn of lightning that still 
plagued her eyes! Sy-wen craned her neck all around her. It was the sun!
Sy-wen stared as the last of the inky darkness sank to the horizon, exposing the 
setting sun. She swung around. The spear of black energy was gone! In its stead, 
a pall of smoke rose from the castles center. Its towers all stood, but Sy-wen 
knew that its central court must be a blasted ruin.
They destroyed the source of the black barrier! she said with a cheer in her 
voice. It was echoed from the seas around her. With the sun up, even a setting 
sun, the skaltum were now vulnerable. Cheers and roars of blood lust rose from 
the boats and from the throats of dragons. The tide of battle had shitted! 
Victory could again be imagined!
Sy-wen, a weary smile on her face, turned to view the island and
the armada overhead. She meant to wish them a silent thanks, but what she saw 
dimmed her smile.
Five new ships broke from the armada to rise toward the island, beginning to 
form a new ring under their flagship.
Sweet Mother, the elvin were continuing their attack on the island!
Sy-wen feared for her companions. They must surely be down there already, 
somewhere in the castle or city. If these sky ships persisted, the island would 
soon be a smoking ruin.
Glancing over the hundreds of spires, Sy-wen prayed to spot the blaze of their 
signal fire. But there was nothing, only smoke and cold stone. Her friends could 
be anywhere. Maybe they were dead already. Sy-wen dismissed this last thought. 
She would not give up hope.
She glanced to the flagship far above and the cold woman who stood at its prow. 
Ragnark, we must stop them! she called out.
JOACH PICKED HIMSELF OFF THE STONE FLOOR AS DUST CONTINUED TO
settle. He shook his head to clear the roaring inside his skull. Gods above, 
what had happened? He had been sure when the blast struck that the island itself 
was being torn apart. He had never expected to live.
Nearby, Meric rose to his feet with a groan. He bore a large bloody scrape on 
his forehead. He fingered the injury, then ignored it and helped Mama Freda up.
Without any eyes, the old womans expression was difficult to read. But Joach 
guessed how she felt. Her hands grasped at Merics arms like a drowning woman. 
Joach saw her lips move, but he heard nothing except the roar in his own ears. 
He gave his head another shake, and his hearing suddenly snapped back with a 
painful whine.
happened? Mama Freda finished.
Meric glanced up and down the corridor. I dont know. But I expect its some 
type of black magick.
Maybe it was a quake, Mama Freda offered. She clung to Merics arm. The 
volcanic islands around here are always giving us a good shake.
Meric merely shrugged, but Joach was glad to hear some conversation from the old 
woman. These were the first words the old
healer had spoken since their group had left Elena. At least the explosion had 
shaken her from the paralyzing shock of losing both her pet and her sight.
Joach moved closer to them as Meric retrieved the torch he had dropped. Luckily 
it had not sputtered out. I wouldnt count on it being a volcano, Joach said. 
Some evil is at work here. He glanced toward the lower passage. There was no 
sign of the illguard who pursued them. But how far back was he? Joachs 
thoughts went out to his sister. Could the explosion have been due to some 
effort of hers to free the book? If so, had Elena survived? With this worry 
nagging him, Joach nodded them all forward. We must keep going!
Ahead was the side passage that left the main concourse of the catacombs and led 
toward the staircase where Tolchuk was posted. Meric collected Mama Freda under 
an arm and led them into it. Here again the walls to either side grew cruder and 
rougher. They kept their pace quick but noisy. They wanted to stay clear of the 
ill* guards grip but not so far as to lose him. Before long the stair appeared 
on the left.
Pausing to let Mama Freda catch a breath, Meric studied the steep stair. Once 
we reach Tolchuk, well need to either make a stand or lead the illguard into 
the streets above.
Joach shook his head. We make a stand. I wont leave with Elena still down 
here.
Mama Freda spoke from beside Meric. Its too late. Hes already here.
Meric and Joach both swung back toward the corridor. Joach raised his staff, and 
Meric slipped a long dagger from a wrist sheath. But the corridors behind them 
were still dark.
I see no sign of torch or lantern, Meric whispered.
He hides in the dark, Mama Freda answered.
Joach fought a shiver down his back. Beyond the reach of their feeble 
torchlight, the passage was a wall of blackness. Joach had heard of how the 
blind were often gifted with heightened senses. Are you sure?
The old healer simply nodded, showing no fear at her revelation. Instead, her 
lips were grim with anger. He listens to us even now.
Joach waved to Meric. Take Mama Freda from here. Ill hold the monster off 
while you fetch Tolchuk and his hammer.
You cant hold an illguard off by yourselfnot for that long.
Hes right, Joach, Mama Freda said, shoving free of Merics grip. Ill stay 
and fight alongside you.
Joach bit back a retort. How did this old blind woman expect to help? In any 
fight to come, she would prove more a burden than an asset.
Meric seemed to agree. He glanced doubtfully from over the old womans shoulder. 
Then he leaned his torch against the wall and turned to Mama Freda. If you mean 
to stay with us, youll need a weapon. He handed her his knife. Its long blade 
glittered in the torchlight. Its an ice dagger forged by my ancestors. If 
necessary, strike sure and deep. It will slice through bone as easily as air.
Mama Freda awkwardly handled the knife. Her lack of sight hindered her. She 
almost cut her thumb on its blade. Thank you, she said to Meric. This will do 
nicely. She turned to face the black passage below them.
Joach followed her gaze. Why doesnt he come? 
Mama Freda slowly shook her head. He listens, hoping we will give him some clue 
to Elenas whereabouts.
Seeming to hear her words and knowing his ruse was over, Brother Ewan pushed 
into their circle of torchlight. Right you are, my fine old woman. And before I 
slay you all, I will have my answer. Now where have you hidden the girl?
Joach stepped forward to meet the illguard monster. He positioned his staff in 
front of him. His lips moved silently, and the length of wood blew to flame with 
spurts of darkfire. Stand back! Joach ordered.
Brother Ewan had stripped his robe to his waist. His arms, chest, and neck were 
draped with thousands of tiny purplish worms, each the color of a deep bruise. 
They seemed to reach for the darkfire of Joachs staff, their slender bodies 
stretching toward the flames. Young man, I see youve been touched by the black 
arts, too. So why do you fight when you should be joining me? 
Joach waved the staff before him in a warding motion. The leeches followed its 
motion, swaying in sync with his staff. Magick is only a weapon, Joach said 
coldly. I wield it; it does not control me.
Brother Ewan waved a hand dismissively, and a few leeches flew from his fingers 
to strike the stone wall. You argue semantics. Touch darkness, and darkness 
touches you. Flint should have taught you that by now.
Joach could not argue too fiercely against this ones words. In fact, Flint had 
warned him about the risk his spirit faced from wielding the staffs magick. An 
inkling of worry touched him, but he shoved it away. He would not be corrupted. 
Joach scowled at his enemy. Only the weak allow the darkness in them to eclipse 
the bright as you have.
Brother Ewans wan face grew heated. The master has not beaten me down. He has 
granted me a gift. The illguard raised his two arms, displaying the spread of 
worms. Leeches were always a tool of a healer. But no healer has been blessed 
with such a splendid crop as mine.
Mama Freda slipped forward to Joachs right side, one hand on the wall to guide 
her. She could not directly find Ewans face as she spoke. Im the only healer 
here, Brother Ewan. Youre a disease. She threw Merics knife at him. But 
without eyes, she did not even attempt to skewer him. She merely tossed the 
blade at the mans feet. Prove yourself still a healer. Cut the corruption from 
yourself!
Her display brought a smile to Brother Ewans lips. He nudged her knife aside 
and waggled a finger at her. Tsk, tsk. For such an experienced healer, youve 
made a terrible misdiagnosis. It is you who are the diseaseand I am the cure!
Joach inwardly groaned as he backed away. Why had the old woman wasted her only 
weapon? It was her last defense in case Joach and Meric failed to defeat the 
fiend. He moved Mama Freda roughly behind him in his anger. The old woman did 
not resist.
Brother Ewan stepped toward them.
Meric slipped forward in front of Joach, moving almost too fast for the eye to 
follow. Already the elvins shirt billowed with his magick. Meric raised a 
hand, and a gust of wind blew forth from his fingertips. The whirling gale swept 
down the passage toward the illguard.
The man continued to smile. As the blast struck Brother Ewan, he remained 
standing. The tails of his robe snapped in the wind. His smile grew as the winds 
whipped at him. The leeches upon his body flailed in the gusts, but instead of 
being ripped from the fiends skin, they stretched and grew. Soon the mans pale 
skin was draped with leeches longer than a mans forearm.
Brother Ewans laughter echoed out from the center of the mag-ickal gale. Send 
me more power, elvin!
Mama Freda pulled at Merics sleeve from behind. Stop! I know about these 
illguard. Elemental magick feeds their darkness. You only strengthen him with 
your own magick. You must stop! Meric stumbled backward as he withdrew his 
magick. Joach took his place. Where elemental magick failed, black magick might 
prevail. Joach raised his staff.
Brother Ewan grinned and suddenly lunged out with an arm. Joach blocked with his 
burning staff but realized too late that his move was just what the illguard 
wanted. Ewan grabbed the end of his staff. Leeches flowed onto the wood.
Joach yanked his staff away in disgust, managing to free it of the fiends grip, 
but not the leeches. The purplish worms clung to the wood, bathing in the 
darkfire, writhing in what could only be described as pleasure. Joach stumbled 
away. He watched in horror as the leeches on his staff swelled further in size. 
In only a single breath, they stretched and grew to the size of huge jungle 
snakes.
Shake them off! Now! Mama Freda yelled. They feed on your magick, too!
Joach obeyed and struck the butt of his staff against the wall, hard enough to 
sting his hand. The giant leeches fell in a tangle to the cold stoneall except 
one tenacious beast that lunged at Joachs hand. Fire flamed up his arm, and 
Joach fell to his knees.
Suddenly Mama Freda and Meric were there, tugging Joach back by his shirt. Their 
quick movement saved his life. He was dragged backward just as more of the 
monstrous leeches lashed out at him, quick as mountain adders. Still, the beast 
attached to his hand burned and swelled.
Joachs vision began to blacken.
Meric used his boot to kick the staff from Joachs grip, knocking away the leech 
attached to it. Immediately, the fire in his hand ended. Joach glanced down to 
see his two smallest fingers and part of his palm gone. Blood spurted and 
flowed.
Move! Meric yelled. If you wish to live, boy, then help us!
Joach raised his eyes in time to see more of the leeches already at his heels. 
Ignoring the pain in his wounded hand, Joach scrambled away on hands and feet. 
In a tangle of limbs, the trio retreated.
All the while, Brother Ewan pursued, step for step, following with his writhing 
pack of monster leeches. Why run? Tell me
where the witch hides, and I will let you live! Or stay silent, and take your 
medicine.
Joachs face paled. How could they fend off such a monster when their magicks 
had failed them? What hope did they have to survive?
Suddenly, Mama Freda stopped her own flight. She stepped between Joach and the 
fiend. She spat at Brother Ewan. Her aim was deadly accurate. Her spittle hit 
the fiend square in the face.
Joach rolled to his feet, cradling his wounded hand.
Brother Ewan wiped his face, leaving a few leeches clinging to his cheek. His 
laughter died with the strike of spittle. You will pay for that, he said 
coldly. His giant leeches writhed around his ankles.
Mama Freda faced Brother Ewan squarely. Im not finished.
Joach glanced askance to Meric. Something slowly dawned on Joach. Mama Freda had 
warned them about the magickal growth of the worms; she had even pulled him away 
from the striking leeches and spat in the illguards face. Mama Freda ?
She ignored Joach. I have one more gift for you, Brother Ewan! She pointed a 
finger at the fiend. Death!
Brother Ewans lips spread into a grin. Laughter bubbled up. Then suddenly Ewan 
tensed in midstep. His smile faded into confusion, and his cackle strangled in 
his throat. Blood dribbled from the mans lips.
Brother Ewan toppled forward, crashing to his face on the stone floor. He 
spasmed a moment, then lay still. Dead. Impaled in the center of his back was 
the hilt of Merics ice dagger. Small crackles of silver energy danced out from 
the blade and skittered across the fiends skin. As they looked on, the leeches 
dissolved into clots of blood, steaming slightly on the cool floor.
How ? Joachs mind was too full of questions. Then he saw the answer. A small 
furred creature scrambled from around the mans legs and scampered toward Mama 
Freda.
Good boy, Tikal, Mama Freda said warmly. She bent and hauled the creature into 
her arms and up to her shoulder.
Tikal wrapped his tail around Mama Fredas neck and gently licked her cheek. 
Cookie? Tikal asked in a frail voice.
She patted him and scratched behind his ear. Youll get all the cookies in Port 
Rawl after this.
Tikal closed his eyes and leaned into the womans neck, clinging tight.
But but your pet was killed, Joach said, pointing uselessly at Tikal. Blood 
flowed from his wounded hand. Reminded of his injury, Joach swooned to the 
floor.
Mama Freda rushed forward, kneeling before the boy and pulling bandages and a 
vial of elixir from various pockets. She explained as she cradled Joachs hand 
in her lap and worked on him. I, too, thought Tikal had been killed. When I 
first began to receive visions from him again, I thought I had become deluded, 
wishing so strongly for him that my mind made it so. Mama Freda reached and 
touched Tikal once more with clear love. I can sense the mag-ick in him. 
Someone healed him.
Elena? Joach asked weakly.
Who else? she said as she applied a cooling balm that washed away Joachs pain 
with a single swipe. Tikal has her scent about him. Elena must have found him 
on her way back down the catacombs. Her magick strengthened him enough to 
survive and follow. But, like you, he will need more healing.
Meric spoke up from where he stood over the corpse of the illguard. Why didnt 
you tell someone?
Mama Fredas expression grew embarrassed. I wasnt sure the visions were real. 
It was only after Tikal came upon the illguard on our back trail that I knew it 
was true. By that time, the illguard was already listening to us, so I kept 
silent. I hoped Tikals stealth would prove useful. Mama Freda nodded toward 
the knifes hilt. And so it has.
Joach stared at the old woman, eyes wide. He had secretly considered Mama Freda 
a burden to this venture. But now he knew better than to judge by appearances. 
The old woman had just saved his life.
Mama Freda finished wrapping his hand in a snug bandage. Dragons blood mixed 
with root of elm should save the rest of your hand.
Joach raised his arm, almost afraid to look. He cringed at the sight of his half 
hand, but he flexed his remaining fingers and felt no pain. The wrap was even 
clean of blood. It was as if the injury were months old, rather than mere 
moments. Joach swallowed and glanced to the old healer. Thank you, Mama Freda. 
Im in your debt. If you had not
An explosion suddenly ripped through their world. Joach and Mama Freda again 
found themselves tossed roughly to the floor.
(AMKS V, L h M K N S
Dust billowed, and stones groaned. Joachs skull rang with the force of the 
concussion. He pushed to his feet even before the ground had finished rumbling. 
He helped Mama Freda up. Tikal still clung to her neck.
Down the passage, Meric shoved himself off the illguards body, his face a mask 
of disgust. Suddenly, through the wafting dust, a monstrous figure rose behind 
the elvin.
Joach opened his mouth to warn Meric, but a familiar graveled voice spoke. What 
happened? Tolchuk asked. The ogre waved through the dust cloud and crossed 
toward them, eying the fallen illguard.
Joach crawled to his feet, then helped Mama Freda stand. What are you doing 
down here? Youre supposed to be guarding the door.
The ogre surveyed the scene one more time, then spoke. He pointed absently 
above his head. The island be under attack from ships that fly the clouds. I 
came to fetch you away from these crypts before the castle lands on all your 
heads. Tolchuk glanced around. Where be Elena?
Gone for the book, Joach answered as he retrieved his staff from the floor. He 
examined the length of wood for damage but found none. What is this about 
flying ships?
Meric interrupted, his face pale. Did they have keels that glowed ?
Tolchuk nodded his head. And lightning bolts danced below them.
Meric groaned. The Thunderclouds, the warships of my people Theyre already 
here. If theyre attacking, they probably saw the sea battle and assumed their 
windships had arrived in time. They wont know were here.
Whatre they trying to do? Joach asked.
Meric covered his forehead with his palm. They mean to tear down the island. 
And if we dont stop them, theyll take us down with it.
Joach shook his head. They had survived skaltum, dwarves, and illguard, only 
to be threatened now by one of their own allies. Meric, you must find some way 
to stop them. Take Tolchuk and Mama Freda with you. Get your people to call off 
their attacks.
Meric nodded. What are you going to do?
Joach nudged his staff toward the deeper catacombs. With the
illguard out of the way, Im going to search for Elena. If you fail to
stop the warships, then book or not, I must get her out of here. Meric reached 
and clapped Joach on the shoulder, holding his grip
tight. Be careful. And be quick.
Joach returned the clasp. And you do the same.
Tolchuk moved forward with Mama Freda at his side. Meric
does not need us. But more eyes in these dark passages will find your
sister quicker.
Joach touched the ogres elbow. Do not fear, Tolchuk. I will find her. But it 
will do me little good if the catacombs collapse atop us. Go with Meric. Guard 
him from the dangers that must be raging up there by now. He must stop those 
warships. He then turned to Mama Freda. And you must use your wiles and your 
pets eyes to find them both a safe path.
Tolchuk grumbled, clearly not entirely convinced, but he bowed his head. I 
will not let the elvin fail.
The ogre turned away, and Joach found Mama Freda facing him still. She raised 
her chin as if examining Joach down her long nose. You send us all away for 
another reason. Something is hidden in your heart.
Joach sighed. He could not lie to her. My destiny lies here, he said quietly. 
This next path I must walk alone.
She nodded, seemingly satisfied with the truth of his heart, and turned to join 
the others.
In short order, Joach found himself alone in the catacombs. Even the tread of 
his companions boots faded behind him as he marched with staff in hand into the 
bowels of this subterranean crypt. As he walked, his blood stirred with the gift 
of weaving. His words to Mama Freda had not been a lie. He sensed the 
culmination of forces and circumstance pulling him toward one destination, one 
fate.
What came next was between Joach, Elena, and a plainsman from Standi. Joach 
pictured the sunset tower, the Spire of the Departed, and gripped his staff in 
an iron grip.
In this last battle, he would not fail his sister.
Elena continued to follow Erril and his lantern. She willed him to a faster 
pace, but after the second blast from above, he had grown even more cautious. 
Contrary to the plainsmans wariness, the explosions made Elena want to race 
blindly ahead. Worry for Joach and the others inflamed her fears. Had these 
blasts something to do with the illguard? She forced her feet to keep pace with 
Erril. She could not flee his side, not as long as he still clutched the Blood 
Diary.
As she matched his pace, mindful of the floor under her, she became fixed upon 
the play of light and shadow across the muscles of his back. She had seen Erril 
bare chested before, but never with two arms. At first, she had trouble 
reconciling this new physique with the old one in her mind. There was a symmetry 
of form now that had been missing before. She found her gaze riding over his 
shoulder to his new arm. No scar separated the two, yet a clear delineation 
could be seen. His shoulder and back were deeply tanned from the summers sun, 
and though his new arm was also a coppery hue, it did not share as deep a 
bronzing. Where the old Erril and the new met could be distinctly noted.
Elena licked her lips as she followed, her mouth dry. How she wanted to run a 
finger along that fine line between copper and bronzed skin, to find out for 
sure if this was the same Erril who had been snatched from her. If only he 
would offer her some clear clue, something that would let her run into his 
embrace once again. She shivered in the cool air of the catacombs. It had been 
too long since
she had felt the heat of his skin on her cheek. Please, she begged him silently, 
give me some clue to your true heart.
Elena clutched the iron ward to her chest. Its cold touch reminded her to be 
wary. Now was not the time to let her guard down. But even the scent of his 
sweat trailed behind him, reminding her of times when he had held her close. 
Elena held the ward in a white-knuckled grip. She was no longer a little girl to 
moon over a knight; the fate of Alasea depended on her caution and control. She 
must hold steadfast.
Suddenly Erril stopped in front of her.
Lost in her own heart, Elena almost collided into his backside. She pulled up 
short, so near she felt the heat off his body, her naked skin so close to his 
bare back. A flush traveled from her legs to her face. His scent filled her 
senses. She tensed, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, lest he hear her.
Slowly Erril crouched and moved away, taking his heat with him. Elena sighed 
silently, both relieved and disappointed. Though no one could see her, Elena 
crouched also, instinct still making her follow Ernls lead.
She spotted the source of Errils sudden caution. A flickering light played out 
from a side passage ahead. As she crouched with Erril, Elena suddenly realized 
it was the same passage that led to Flints secret staircase. She had not 
thought they had traveled so far. Her worries and concerns had befuddled her 
sense of distance.
Erril dimmed his lanterns flame to a trickle. He placed the lantern on the 
floor and drifted across the hall to crouch in the shadows near the curve of the 
wall. As he bent down, he reached behind him and slipped the Blood Diary under 
the belt of his pants at the base of his back, keeping it hidden. He then 
removed Elenas witchs dagger and held it before him.
Elena found herself momentarily transfixed by the gilt rose on the books cover 
as it poked from under Errils belt. The rose seemed almost to glow in the 
feeble lantern light nearby. She had only to reach out and grab the book. Her 
fingers stretched for it, but she clenched a fist. It could be a trap. She 
pulled back her arm and crouched alongside Erril. She would wait to see who 
else shared these halls ahead.
Taking the lesson from Erril, Elena knew the only certain safety lay in staying 
unseen.
(AMES
As she waited, Elena listened to the plainsmans breathing, a wolf on the scent 
of a deer. Soon the tread of boots grew louder from the side passage, and a 
figure appeared outlined by torchlight. Elena was sure it was the illguard 
returning to his roost. But as the figure stepped nearer, Elena saw that it was 
not the illguard who approached, but her own brother.
She came close to calling out Joachs name in relief, but after staying cautious 
for so long, she controlled this sudden urge. Maybe here, hidden and listening, 
Elena could discover some answer to Errils loyalty.
Joach approached, staff in one hand, oblivious to the wolf in the shadows. 
Erril could easily slay her brother, but instead he straightened and stepped 
clear of the shadows. Her brother startled backward. Erril!
Elena spotted the bandage around her brothers right hand. What had happened to 
him? And where were the others?
Joach, what are you doing down here alone? Its not safe. Erril returned the 
dagger to his belt.
But Joachs eyes seemed blind to Errils moves. The plainsman could have 
stabbed Joach, and her brother would not have seen it. His gaze flickered 
between Errils two hands. Your your arm, he finally mumbled. Joach broke 
from his stunned stupor and raised his staff against Erril. Flames of darkfire 
bloomed along its length.
Erril refused to back from Joachs display. He raised his new arm. Do not 
fear. It was the key to unlocking the Blood Diary from the spell that protected 
the book. My arm was fuel for the spell, and with the release of the magick, it 
was returned. Now where is Elena?
Joach shook his head and took a step back into the side passage. His face was a 
mask of disbelief, his eyes glazed. Elena knew her brothers sight was obscured 
by his recurring dream. Ill never tell you! First the illguard tried to find 
out and failed. And now you appear. Ill not let you near Elena!
What what illguard? Erril snapped angrily. What are you rambling about, 
Joach?
Joach raised his staff higher.
Eying her brothers response, Erril choked back his anger. He took a deep 
breath and started again. He lifted both his arms. I know how this must appear. 
It was the reason that I encouraged you to come along with us. Flint and Moris 
thought your dream was
a false weaving, believing it an impossibility for my arm ever to returnbut I 
knew better. Still, to keep the book safe, I had to remain silent. Errils 
voice grew firm and sure. Look at me, Joach. I am not corrupted. I dont know 
what will happen next. But understand and believe me, Joach, I mean your sister 
no harm. I I care deeply for her.
Elenas breath caught in her throat. She swallowed back a sob. She longed to 
step forward and reveal herself, to end this charade, but what might happen next 
could reveal the truth of Errils words.
Joach lowered his staff slightly. Errils words had removed the glaze from her 
brothers eyes. How can I trust you, Erril? You know how my dream ends.
Dreams, even weavings, can fool. But I know that that is no answer that will 
convince you. Erril reached behind him. Maybe this will.
Joach backed a step warily.
Erril slipped the book from his belt and held it toward Joach. Here is the 
Blood Diary.
Joachs eyes grew wide.
It has been my responsibility for five hundred winters, he said. But I want 
you to take it now. I sense that my role in guarding the Blood Diary is ending. 
If you will not let me near your sister, then you must get the book to her. 
Erril stepped forward and placed the tattered tome at the entrance to the side 
passage. He then moved back. Take this burden from me.
Elena stood stunned by his act. Surely this was a clear sign of Errils 
loyalty. A creature of the Black Heart would never relinquish the book.
The same thought appeared to course through Joachs mind. But where Errils 
offering made Elena hope, it only made Joach more suspicious. Her brothers eyes 
narrowed as he set down his torch and slipped closer. He hovered over the book 
with his staff raised, eying Erril with clear distrust. Joach slowly bent, then 
snatched the book from the floor and darted backward, away from Erril.
But the plainsman made no move against Joach.
Elenas eyes remained on Erril. Joachs continued suspicion held her back from 
revealing herself. Though the release of the book seemed contradictory to 
anything a dark minion might do, Elena knew her only safety lay in the spirit 
spell that hid her.
(AMES LLEMENS
Take the book to her, Joach. The duty I swore so long ago is over. From here, 
Elena has no need of me.
Elena carefully circled in front of Erril, studying him as he spoke these last 
words. Sorrow and relief were mixed in his eyes. But what did these emotions 
mean? She stood there, only an arms length away, searching for an answer in his 
face. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Her fingers rose to wipe it away. In 
her heart, she suddenly knew the truth. Erril was not corrupted.
Then Joach spoke behind her. These pages are all blank.
Elena lowered her hand and glanced over her shoulder at Joach. Her brother held 
the book in one hand and rifled through its pages. Even from here, Elena could 
see the clean white pages.
This is not the Blood Diary, Joach spat out. Its a trick.
Elena turned to see Errils eyes flash with anger. This sudden change was like 
a flare of wildfire, burning away the sorrow from a moment ago.
Elena stumbled away. She cursed herself for being so blind. Why had she not even 
considered that the book might be a fake?
Errils voice was rough. It is no trick, boy.
Joach still held the book up by its cover. And I am to take your word on this? 
You who step from my dreams with two arms?
Erril shook his head, the fire dying to ash in his eyes. Believe what you 
want, Joach. There is nothing I can do to prove my heart more than giving you 
the book itself. Erril stepped away and returned to his lantern. Take the 
book to Elena. That is all I ask. He lifted the lantern and turned toward the 
ascending spiral of the catacombs. My brother is somewhere up there, weak now. 
I will take my war to him since my usefulness to Elena is at an end.
Joach danced back as Erril moved past the entrance to the side passage. Once 
Erril was marching away, Joach slipped the book inside his shirt, grabbed his 
torch, and darted down the throat of the side passage, escaping from whatever 
threat he imagined in Erril.
Elena, though, waited at the crossroads. She watched Joachs torchlight fade 
down the side passage while Errils lantern glow disappeared around the curve 
of the catacombs hall. She stood fixed in place, unable to move. Which path 
should she take? She clutched the ward to her belly, begging it to reveal some 
sign.
More than ever, she wished Aunt My were here. Right now, Elena could use the 
swordswomans wise and practical counsel.
Finally, Elena took a step toward the side passage. Surely here was the wisest 
path. Even if the book was a trick, it was best to rejoin Joach and the others. 
Even Aunt My would approve such a pragmatic decision.
Or would she?
Elenas feet froze at the threshold. Long ago, back in Shadow-brook, Aunt My had 
warned her that there must be a reason that a woman, rather than a man, had been 
destined to carry the banner of freedom. Aunt My had explained her own personal 
belief: that ultimately the fate of Alasea would depend not on the capacity 
ofmagic^ in a woman, but on the strength of her heart.
As Elena pondered her aunts words, the two sources of light faded completely. 
Gloom descended on her. In the darkness, she pictured the single tear on 
Errils cheek, shining like silver in the torchlight.
Elena stepped away from the side passage and turned to the dark catacombs. Her 
mind attempted to justify her decision. Surely she should pursue Erril in order 
to discover the truth of his allegiance. But Elena needed none of these 
justifications for her decision. Her feet were already treading up the spiraling 
concourse, moving faster and faster. She had been won over already. Her heart 
would not let her leave Errils side.
And for now, that was enough.
Through the streets of Aloa Glen, Meric rushed ahead of Tolchuk and Mama 
Freda. Around them the city lay in chaos. Trails of smoke scarred the horizons. 
Cries and screeches echoed off the stone walls. The citadel atop Mount Orr still 
rumbled as bricks and sections of wall tumbled from the heights to crash and 
rattle into the lower streets. Overhead, the bloated bellies of warships hung in 
the skies, slowly circling like so many vultures. Under the pall of smoke, the 
sharp tang of lightning flavored the air, radiating from the ships above and 
from the recent pair of assaults.
They mean to strike again! Tolchuk called to Meric. One more blow and the 
castle be rubble.
Meric pulled to a stop and glanced overhead just as a score of frantic wings 
swept past. More panicked skaltum. Since fleeing the catacombs, Merics group 
had spotted many such fragments of the
skaltum army. Torn into frightened scraps, the beasts sought to escape the 
arrival of the elvin warships. So far none of the beasts had attempted to 
assault the trio. Meric suspected the monsters eyes were fixed on the skies 
above.
Once the skaltum had flown past, Meric saw that Tolchuks assessment proved 
accurate. Another five Thunderclouds were beginning to ring the top of the hill. 
The Sunchaser, his mothers flagship, still hovered over the smoking castle 
heights. He cringed at the sight. This was all his fault. We must move faster! 
Meric cried out above the din of battle.
Tolchuk crossed next to him. The ogres face was purplish with exertion. He 
had carried Mama Freda most of the way. He pulled forth the Trysil, the dwarf 
hammer, from its sheath on his back. We be close enough. Lets find an open 
plaza and try it.
Meric shook his head. Theyll never see. Not unless we are right under their 
noses.
Tolchuk pointed to the ships moving into position. We either try now, or we 
lose everything.
Meric sighed loudly. He knew the effort would prove futile, but the ogre was 
right. They at least needed to make the attempt. He could not let the lands 
hopes be dashed without first trying to signal the fleet, to warn the ships 
away. Meric studied the skies for some clue, some way to redeem his mistake. His 
heart ached with the pain of his betrayal.
Mama Freda spoke from near Tolchuks elbow. Tikal has found a long plaza up 
and to the left. We could be there in moments.
Lets go, Meric said and ran ahead.
Tolchuk slung Mama Freda under one of his large arms and loped after him. The 
old healer called out directions, and soon the trio reached the open court. They 
were almost under the very cliffs upon which the citadel perched. The square was 
in full shadow from the setting sun. Tolchuk set Mama Freda down so she could 
grab her pet tamrink and retreat to the side of the plaza.
Tolchuk followed Meric to the center of the square. Hurry, elvin.
I know, ogre, Meric snapped back; but then his eyes apologized for his 
harshness. Tolchuk was only expressing all their concerns. Raise the hammer 
high. I will do my best to create a good show.
Tolchuk grunted and lifted his arms toward the skies, bearing the hammer aloft.
Meric touched his magick and gathered winds to his frame. Once insulated, he 
mixed dry and moist winds, creating a crackle of energy from their frictions. He 
gathered more power from the air. With the warships overhead, the winds were 
rich with energies. Soon his clothes snapped and danced with scintillating 
sparks. Be ready! Meric called out. Hold the hammer steady!
Hands raised high, Meric gathered energy to his fingertips. It built into a 
sphere of lightning that slowly spun and shone in the shadowed plaza. But Meric 
knew such a feeble glow would attract few eyes. He needed more of a show. He fed 
more and more power until his whole frame tremored with the power overhead. All 
the hairs on his body stood on end, quivering. A sheen of sweat glistened his 
face and arms. His fingertips began to burn from their proximity to the sphere 
of lightning. He had meant to shout one final warning to the ogre, but it was 
too late.
He shifted his eyes to stare at Tolchuk. The ogre met his gaze.
In a final wrench of shoulders and power, Meric threw his lightning at the 
hammer. Its ball of energy smashed into the iron. The Trysil had been forged by 
lightning. It could withstand the force. It remembered its origin and shouted it 
skyward.
From the head of the hammer, a brilliant silver-blue bolt shot toward the ships 
above. Thunder cracked across the plaza. Tolchuk was thrown backward, his arms 
scorched to the elbows.
Meric, protected by his winds, was buffeted backward also, but he kept his feet. 
He watched the bolt shoot between two of the warships overhead. See it, Meric 
prayed. Look down.
Tolchuk scrabbled off the cobbles with a groan, but Mama Freda was already at 
his side, smearing a balm over the ogres singed and smoking skin. Tolchuk 
seemed more annoyed than comforted by the old healers attention. Did it work?
Meric tried to watch the ships above him. He saw no sign that the vessels had 
recognized the bolt as a signal. With the dance of lightning among the many 
keels, the crews must have thought little of Merics display. No, he said 
sourly. My people are too much creatures of air and cloud. It takes more than 
my little spark to get them to look down.
Tolchuk rolled to his feet. Let us try again.
Meric shook his head. I used almost everything in me. I would need to rest at 
least a quarter moon to repeat even the same show.
Then it be hopeless. Tolchuks tired eyes swung to the five Thunderclouds as 
they gathered around the crown of the peak.
We should return to the catacombs, Meric said. Try at least to get the others 
away.
Wed never make it
A sudden rumbling roar shattered across the plaza from behind them. The trio 
spun around in time to see a massive black-winged shape skirt around a towers 
top and dive toward them. It roared again, silver claws wide as it lunged toward 
the square. Meric and the others ran out of its way. With a snap of its scaled 
wings, it slowed its descent to land with a screech of nails on stone.
Meric spotted the tiny rider atop the beasts back. Sy-wen! The tiny merai 
woman seemed haggard and exhausted. It was almost as if she had lost substance 
during the days horrors. Thank the Sweet Mother! I saw your flash and could 
only hope it was you! Then she glanced around the square. Where are the witch 
and the others?
Meric rushed forward, ignoring the swing of the dragons head in his direction. 
The beasts large black eyes seemed to drink him in. We have no time to 
explain! Can you get me to that large ship above the castle?
Sy-wen frowned. Ive been trying to reach it since the fleet arrived, trying to 
get them to stop their assault. But between the lightning and that cursed 
womans winds, Ive made no headway.
Meric finally glanced to the dragon. If your mount will allow it, I can get us 
there.
Sy-wen turned to her dragon. A silent exchange passed between them. Ragnark 
will allow it. But we must hurry. Sy-wen nodded above.
Meric turned. Already the five Thunderclouds were gathering energy to their 
keels. He swung back around to see the merai offering her hand from the neck of 
the dragon. Climb behind me.
With a brief nod of thanks at the dragon, who still stared at Meric with clear 
disdain, Meric crossed and took Sy-wens hand. In the moments it took to settle 
and wrap his arms around Sy-wens waist, the dragon spread its wings, pushing up 
on its stout legs. Hang tight! Sy-wen called.
Then the world swept out from under them. Ragnark leaped upward, wings 
snapping, pulling them from the square.
Tolchuks voice bellowed from below, wishing luck and speed, but most of the 
words were lost as the dragons wings fought to drag them into the sky. Ragnark 
climbed above the highest towers, then banked to the west, circling around the 
cliffs atop Mount Orr. The bellies of the warships were just overhead. Meric 
smelled the lightning wafting from them.
Ragnark swung farther out, fighting to gain more height. Slowly, too slowly, he 
scaled higher and higher into the sky. Glancing behind, Meric saw that the keels 
of the five Thunderclouds now raged with energy. Hurry, Meric moaned, both to 
himself and to the dragon.
Ragnark must have heard. The dragon suddenly wheeled back, tilting 
frighteningly on one wing tip. Meric saw the spread of city and ocean far below. 
As Ragnark swooped around, the dragons wings caught a sharp updraft and shot 
skyward. Soon they sailed above all the armada except the Sunchaser, the 
flagship. It hovered directly ahead. Ragnark banked and aimed for it.
Sy-wen bent low over the dragons neck, forcing Meric to crouch, too. Ragnark 
sped faster. Just get above the ship! Meric yelled into Sy-wens ear.
The dragon was now near enough to the ship that Meric could spy the members of 
its crew. At the stern wheel, he spotted one crew member with a characteristic 
streak of copper in his silver hair. It was his older brother, Richald. As they 
neared, Meric saw the tall woman manning the prow of the ship. Her silver hair 
already glowed with power.
Mother, he whispered.
She seemed to have heard him. She glanced toward the dragon, but the expression 
she wore was not one of welcome. Fire blazed in her eyes even from here. She 
snapped a hand at them in clear irritation. Winds suddenly assaulted them.
She does this whenever we draw near! Sy-wen yelled into the winds as Ragnark 
fought fiercely to hold his position.
Meric slipped one hand from around the merai girls waist and lifted his palm 
against the winds. He cast out his magick, weakening rapidly, and thrust against 
his mothers assault. The winds abated, but only slightly. From the back of the 
dragon, Meric saw his mothers expression of surprise.
Go! Meric urged Sy-wen, pulling back his magick.
Ragnark used the break in the gale to sweep at the ship, driving just over 
their masts. Once above the vessel, Meric released his other arm from around 
Sy-wen and rolled off the rear of the dragon. He tumbled toward the ship below 
as Sy-wen yelled in surprise.
Under him, the five Thunderclouds suddenly blasted forth with flows of power, a 
brilliant star dawning below. Meric fell toward the center of this fiery 
display.
Stretching out his arms, Meric shoved down with his magick to slow and guide his 
fall. His body straightened its rolling pitch. Meric swung his legs under him 
and slipped past rigging and sail. He landed hard on the decks of the Sunchaser, 
pain lancing up his right leg. The limb crumpled under him. He crashed to his 
knees, broken bone slicing through his thigh. He bit back any complaint; he had 
been lucky to live.
Meric raised his face, lines of agony marring his features. He was already 
surrounded. One man shoved through the others. The man bore a long thin sword 
but lowered it when Meric met his gaze. Brother, the man said with calm 
surprise.
Richald. Meric nodded as if this were an ordinary meeting of brothers on a 
sunny day.
Richald glanced up and down his brothers body, his nose slightly curling at 
what he saw. Burned, scarred, and now broken limbed, Meric knew he hardly 
resembled one of the royal blood of their house.
Meric spoke into his brothers appraisal. You must stop Mother. She must not 
strike again!
Around them, the star of power winked out. Meric could sense the energy now 
stored under the keel of the Sunchaser. It trembled the deck beneath his knees.
The crowd of elvin opened before Meric, and a woman shining with power stepped 
toward him from the prow. Her skin glowed, and her eyes shimmered too bright. 
His mother had linked to the storehouse of energy below. Her voice quavered with 
the suppressed might. Why should I stop, my son? Is this not what you asked?
Meric attempted to stare up at his mother, but the blaze in her gaze stung. I 
was wrong, Mother. The fate of these people depends on what happens next on the 
island below. We must not interfere.
I care not about the fate of these people. Meric cleared his throat, his voice 
sharp. But I do.
His mother waved a hand as if to whisk away his statement, crackles of energy 
playing across her fingers. You have been walking in the dirt for too long, my 
son.
Yes, I have. So I am the best judge to decide if these people are worth 
saving.
His mother lowered her hand, pondering his words. Meric pressed on. And what of 
our own bloodlines?  His mother cocked her head slightly. What are you saying, 
Meric?
If you care so little for these people, then consider our own. The last of our 
lost kings heirs struggles below. Destroy this island and you destroy half the 
heritage of the elvin.
These words finally reached her, but she showed little emotion. She simply 
turned on a heel and nodded to Richald. Pull back the Sunchaser. We will 
discharge our load into the sea.
No! Wait! Meric called to her. I know where this energy can be best spent.
His mother glanced back, eyes blazing. Where? Meric did not answer. He waved 
for Richald to assist him to the rail. Meric stifled a cry as he was pulled to 
his feet. In the distance, he saw the black-winged form of Ragnark swing around 
and sail back toward the ship. Once close enough, Meric waved an arm to Sy-wen. 
He wind-spoke to her so she could hear him.
Lead us to the battle in the sea! Scout for the worst skirmishes that still 
rage! Its time to end this! We will use the might of the Sun-chaser to smite 
the last of the attackers!
Once he received acknowledgment from Sy-wen, Meric sagged against the rail. The 
pain of his broken leg and his weakened state finally overwhelmed him.
His mother slid beside him, still cool and passionless. You care this much for 
these people of the land?
Meric turned to her, this time not even flinching from the blaze in her eyes. 
Yes, Mother, I do. I would give my life for them.
Reaching to her son, Queen Tratal rested a palm over his hand. She gave him a 
quick squeeze of affection, then raised her other arm. On her signal, the 
Sunchaser heeled around and followed the dragon. Then as you said, lets end 
this.
Somewhere among the rubbled streets of Aloa Glen, Greshym leaned against the 
wall of an ancient distillery. His breath rasped and wheezed from between lips 
clenched with pain. The creation of the portal so soon after battling Shorkan 
had taken its toll on the ancient mage. As a creature sustained by black magick, 
to empty his well of power so thoroughly wasted him physically as well. At the 
moment, he felt every one of his over five hundred winters. Even the air itself 
felt too thick to breathe.
In the shadows of the crumbling old building, Greshym leaned his head against 
the cool brick. He had only been able to leap as far as the city. At full 
strength, he could have created a portal strong enough to transport him all the 
way to Blackhall, not that he would have dared. Errils last words to him were 
true. Once Shorkan passed word of his betrayal to the Dark Lord, he was a marked 
man. Every demon hound and netherworld beast would be hunting him.
Greshym eyed the Edifice far above. The second strike by the flying ships had 
taken out the easternmost tower. The spire had been aptly named the Broken Spear 
due to its cracked parapet. Now it was just a smoldering pile of blasted stones. 
Itll have to be renamed the Smoking Heap, he thought sourly.
A shame it wasnt Shorkans tower, he groused aloud. If the ships had struck 
the Praetors Spear, most of Greshyms problems would have been solved. With 
Shorkan dead, Greshyms traitorous actions in the catacombs could have remained 
a secret. But today the gods had not smiled on him. All his careful plans had 
not only failed to bring the book into his grasp but had doomed him as well.
Greshym pushed off the wall and moved down the avenue. He needed to get free of 
this island, but first he needed an infusion of magick. But from where? He 
crouched for a moment where the street of ancient ale houses ended in a wide 
square. He watched for any skaltum. All that remained of their immense legions 
were ragged bands of panicked beasts. In his weakened state, without even a 
staff, he would be easy prey for the monsters. Since he was one of the darkmages 
who had sent them to this slaughter, they would not treat him kindly.
Greshym sidled around the corner, sticking to the deepest shadows cast by the 
setting sun. As he hurried, he caught a whiff that stirred his withered heart. 
He stumbled as the scent struck him to the core. He leaned his stumped wrist 
against the wall, panting.
Dare he hope? Had it been his imagination? Once he collected his breath and 
calmed the clamor in his heart, Greshym lifted his nose like a hound on a scent. 
His eyes closed with the pleasure of the tang in the air.
If he had not been so starved, he might have easily missed it. He sniffed again. 
He knew what he smelled. Black magick! Somewhere nearby someone or something 
reeked of power, raw and untapped. Greshym thought of Shorkan, but quickly 
dismissed it. Not only would the Praetor avoid the streets, but after crossing 
the mage ring and enduring their short battle, Shorkan did not have the amount 
of magick he sniffed now.
But where was it coming from?
Revitalized by the scent, Greshym shoved from the wall and began to hunt the 
trail. Pausing at every corner to sniff the breeze, the old mage tracked the 
whiff of magick. His legs began to hurry along the dusty streets as the scent 
grew richer and more potent. Famished, his weak sight blurred further, but he 
continued on, drawn by the smell. His nose became his eyes, leading him onward 
to the source.
Finally, he scurried along a narrow street on the highest level of the city. 
Though the air was still fouled by smoke from the castle above, the tang of 
magick could not be obscured. Its source was just around the next corner. 
Caution slowed his feet. With the power he sensed, he could escape this tortured 
island.
Greshym dragged himself along the square base of a tall statue, creeping 
carefully. Once at the corner, he closed his eyes and focused himself with a 
rattling breath.
First, he needed to discover what lay ahead. Leaning forward, straining his old 
back, Greshym peeked around the corner. What he saw in the alley beyond almost 
tumbled him out of hiding. But he managed to pull back, one hand rising to 
throttle a shout of surprise and delight.
It was the boy! His boy! The witchs brother! How could he be so lucky? Maybe 
the gods were smiling on him after all!
The view around the corner still burned in his mind. The lad stood in the center 
of the alley, staring up at the neighboring tower, lost in thought. But that was 
not all Greshym had spied. In the boys grip was a staff. And Greshym would 
recognize that length of poi-wood anywhere. It was his own staff! He had 
thought it lost forever. The boy must have retrieved it.
Greshym closed his eyes and drank in the scent of ripe magick in the staff. He 
licked his lips. He would have it again. He would have them all again!his 
staff, the boy, and his magick! But first he
needed a plan.
Greshyms mind spun with various scenarios. He could not just snatch the staff 
from the lad. It was clearly bound to him. Greshym had seen the spurts of 
darkfire skittering its surface. He clenched a fist in frustration. He had 
forsaken the staff, and to retrieve it now, the staff must be handed back to him 
freely. But how? How could he get the boy to relinquish the staff?
The darkmage sent his thoughts probing around the corner and grinned when he 
discovered that the old strings of his woven spell remained in the boys mind, 
frayed but still there. The boy had never had them removed, but then again how 
could he? There were no mages left with the skill to do so. It would be a simple 
thing to retie those old knots and trap the boy again in his mind, making the 
lad a slave once more. But even that would not help much. To take the staff in 
this manner would be the same as snatching it from him. To keep the magick 
potent in the staff, it must be given freely from the heart. Otherwise, it was 
just an ordinary stick.
Greshym coiled his thoughts around the puzzle. He needed to hurry lest more of 
the witchs companions should appear. But how to get the boy to trust him? 
Then, like a light dawning after the blackest night, the answer appeared in his 
mind. He could not coerce the boy by enslaving him, but he could still use the 
fragments of magick imbedded in the lads mind.
Greshym knew what he needed to do. It would take only the slightest touch of 
magick to reach to those familiar strands and tug on them. Maybe he couldnt get 
the boy to dance for him like a marionette, but he could tug hard enough to move 
the boys heart.
Knowing what he must do, Greshym reached out with the last dregs of his power. 
In his weakened state, even this small bit of magick weakened him as if he had 
cast a major spell. Greshym stumbled around the corner. He did not need to fake 
the groan as he fell to the
cobbles in the alley.
Joach swung around at the sound, eyes wide with threat. The staff burst with 
darkfire. To Greshym, the magick wafting from the staff was like heat from a 
hearth in the middle of a winter storm.
Then as quick as the flames had appeared in the staff, they died
away. Joach ran at Greshym. He fell to his knees beside the old mage. The boys 
eyes were bright with concern and worry as he reached to help him.
Elena! the boy called out. What happened to you? How did you get out here?
Greshym smiled as he pulled and tweaked the various strands of magick to 
maintain the illusion in the boys eyes. I dont know, he said feebly, not 
needing to feign weakness or confusion. Greshym knew that his voice sounded like 
the boys beloved sisters in Joachs ears.
We must get off these streets, Joach said, reaching under his shoulders to 
help him up.
Yes. Yes, we must hide. With the boys aid, Greshym allowed himself to be led, 
half carried in his depleted state. His fingers secretly brushed the poiwood of 
the staff affectionately. Soon, he thought silently.
Joach spoke, words tumbling from his mouth. It seems Meric was successful in 
getting the elvin fleet to pull back. We need to get atop a tower and signal 
them.
To escape?
Joach nodded, gathering Greshym tighter to his side. Save your strength, El. 
As they limped across the alley and headed toward the door of the neighboring 
tower, Joachs eyes met his own, a tired grin on his lips. It seems we cannot 
avoid our fate, he said, then nodded to the doorway ahead. We must go up.
Not understanding the boys cryptic words, Greshym craned his neck to stare at 
the parapet of the tower. He wrinkled his brow. Why did the boy think they 
needed to climb the Spire of the Departed?
His heart heavy with despair, Erril shouldered aside the warped iron gate to 
the catacombs. He stared at the destruction in the central courtyard. Rubble and 
smoke filled the square. Fires still burned, mostly from the smoldering ruins of 
the ancient koakona tree, now a cratered ruin. Erril winced at the destruction 
of the mighty tree.
But like himself, the tree had lived long past its usefulness. Both of them were 
just hoary and ancient remnants of Alaseas past glory. With the Blood Diary 
free, his duty to the centuries was finally completed. From here the fate of 
these lands would now rest on shoulders younger than his. It would be up to them 
to wrest the Dark
Lord from his seat of power. And if prophecy held true, the witch and the book 
were the lands only hope. He would offer what strength of arms he could, but in 
the greater schemes of prophecy and destiny, the witch must walk alone from 
here.
At this thought, a sharp pang clutched his chest. He ground a fist against his 
ribs. He blamed the pain on the searing heat and smoke-filled lungs, but he 
could not entirely fool himself. He had come to define himself as Elenas 
knight, and some of this ache was from knowing that he would never share the 
same closeness with her again. He sensed that the book would replace his role. 
From this day forward, he would be as useful to Elena as the smoldering limbs of 
the dead koakona.
He stared at his new arm for a moment and swore a silent curse. He had gained so 
little and lost so much.
Sighing and girding himself to continue onward, Erril studied the open court 
for any dangers or foes. Overhead, he spied a huge flying ship retreating from 
the citadel. Lightning danced along its iron keel. Erril guessed this was the 
source of the destruction here. Silently, he thanked the unknown allies. Their 
aid had broken the mages control of the island. Ahead, the castle itself now 
seemed dead and deserted. Erril only hoped that Shorkan had not been driven 
away just yet.
He eyed the towers as he stepped from the cool stone of the catacombs. The heat 
of the court instantly smote his bare skin, raising a sheen of sweat. From here, 
Erril surveyed the full destruction of the eastern tower. Through part of the 
shattered wing of the castle, he looked upon the city and ocean beyond. Even 
from here, Erril could see the ships embattled below. The war still raged in 
the seas surrounding the island.
Only able to wish them luck from here, Erril turned away. His own goal was 
closer at hand. He faced the westernmost tower, Shorkans lair. Atop its crown, 
in the last rays of the setting sun, Erril spotted a black figure perched among 
the towers parapets. At first he thought it a living creature, but then he 
recognized it. It was the ebonstone statue of the wyvern. And if Greshym was to 
be believed, it was also one of the four Weirgates that opened to the source of 
the Dark Lords power.
Stopping to collect a long sword from the blistered corpse of one of the 
catacombs guards, Erril entered the courtyard. If he could
not find Shorkan, he could at least topple that statue off its perch. Maybe a 
fall from such a height would crack the cursed sculpture.
Passing the edges of the crater in the center of the courtyard, Erril avoided 
several dark-robed corpses that lay blackened on the blasted stone. He scowled 
at them. Disciples of the darkmages.
As he moved on, he thought he heard a stifled gasp and the sound of something 
striking the stones a few paces back. He swung around, crouching, eying the nest 
of corpses. But nothing stirred. Erril straightened. The winds and the 
crumbling castle must be playing tricks on his ears.
Studying the bodies for one more breath, Erril swung away. He hurried across 
the remainder of the open courtyard, fearful of any eyes in the hundreds of dark 
windows. But no arrows were shot at him, nor were any shouts raised against his 
intrusion. Soon he pushed through the charred and shattered grand doors to enter 
the castle proper.
As Elena watched Erril disappear into the dark castle, she rolled to her feet, 
rubbing the knee she had twisted after tripping over a loose stone. A moment 
ago, Erril had come so close to catching her. When the plainsman had swung 
around, Elena had panicked and frozen like a startled rabbit, her face just a 
handspan above one of the blackened corpses. Even now the stench of charred 
flesh clung to her nose.
Straightening, Elena took a step toward the castle. Her knee protested strongly, 
shooting lances of pain up her thigh. She could walk, but only slowly. Elena 
studied the looming mass of the Edifice, the ancient citadel of Aloa Glen. Its 
black windows stared back at her nakedness. Though none could see her, she felt 
exposed. Sighing, she knew there was no way she could follow the plainsman, not 
as fast as he was moving now. Already he must be lost deep within the castle. 
She would never find him. If only she had paid more attention to her own feet a 
moment ago
Biting her lip against the pain of her injured limb, Elena hopped back. She 
craned her neck. Where was Erril heading? He said he sought his brother. But 
was this true? She swung her gaze to the tower that had captured Errils 
attention when he had first entered
the court. The setting suns last rays painted the western towers parapets in 
gold.
Far above the blasted court, she spotted what had drawn Errils attention. Atop 
the spire stood the familiar black-winged figure of the wyvern, the ebonstone 
statue of the darkmages.
As she stared, a stray breeze shivered her bare skin. Elena wrapped her arms 
around her chest, trying to hug away the dread that had settled under her ribs. 
Though not certain of his true heart, Elena still feared for the plainsman.
Tears suddenly rose in her eyes, blurring her vision. After almost losing Erril 
once already to the black magic of the statue, Elena could not face such a loss 
again. The wounds were still too raw. She watched the tower for some sign of the 
plainsman, some clue to guide her.
Be careful, Erril, she whispered as winds sighed through the blasted 
courtyard. Come back to me.
In the empty halls of the Edifice, Erril increased his pace. Well familiar with 
the Edifice, he knew the shortest path to the Praetors Spear. His feet led him 
quickly toward his goal while he stoked the fires in his heart. In a battle with 
his brother, he must not let despair slow or weaken him. With Shorkans black 
magick currently at an ebb, here might be his last chance to rid the lands of 
his evil.
Erril leaped up steps three at a time and raced along dark halls. In short 
order, he found himself mounting the winding tower stair. He slowed his pace 
just enough to snatch glimpses from the slitted windows along the steep stair. 
He surveyed the battle around the island. By now, the sun had sunk into the 
western horizon, blazing the skies with fire. Below, the war in the seas 
continued.
As Erril passed another window higher in the tower, a flash of brilliance 
caught his eye and stopped his feet. What was this? Twilight had begun to settle 
over the seas. In the growing gloom, Erril watched as bolts of lightning struck 
out from one of the large flying ships. Lances and spears of radiance blasted 
amidst the warring boats and dragons, taking out ships and flocks of skaltum. 
The ship glided languidly through the air, reaping a harvest of destruction
from the enemy under its keel as it crisscrossed the battlefield. The rumble of 
thunder trailed its path.
Thanking these unknown allies once again, Erril allowed himself to imagine 
victory. The despair in his heart lifted slightly. He mounted the steps with 
renewed vigor and soon reached the top of the staircase. The doors to the 
Praetors tower chambers lay open. Erril slowed and clenched his sword tighter 
in his fist. He did not trust such an open invitation.
Cautiously, he slipped past the threshold into Shorkans study. It was empty, 
its hearth cold. Holding the blade before him, Erril crept through the 
neighboring rooms. The small bedroom was also empty, as was the bathing chamber. 
He sensed that neither had been used in a long time. Maybe Shorkan had not come 
here after all. Ending back in the central chamber, Erril studied the room. He 
paused in the middle of the bright rug and strained to listen for any sign of 
the darkmage.
He both saw and heard it at the same time. Along the floor, a section of the 
walls tapestry fluttered slightly with a whisper of birds wings. Erril 
crossed toward it, careful to keep his tread silent. He used the tip of his 
sword to shift the length of silk to the side.
Behind the fold of tapestry stood a small oaken door, partially cracked ajar. 
Through the narrow opening, Erril smelled the ocean and smoke. Pushing the door 
wider, Erril discovered a secret stair leading up toward a trapdoor overhead. 
Light trailed down. Erril knew where it led, and his heart thudded louder in 
his ears.
Not risking the creaky old hinges, Erril slid through the gap and mounted the 
stairs. He climbed one stair at a time, careful where he placed each foot. 
Overhead, a trapdoor lay flung open to the sky. Erril crept up to it and held 
his breath for a moment. Rolling the hilt of his sword in his right palm, Erril 
also loosened the dagger at his belt.
Once both fists were armed, Erril leaped through the trapdoor and rolled across 
the stone roof of the tower. He shouldered himself upright and jumped to his 
feet, quickly taking in the scene.
His brother, burned and blistered, stood on the far side of the tower. This high 
above the sea, the suns light still bathed the spires top. The stones of the 
parapet glowed golden, starkly outlining the ebonstone statue from its perch 
behind Shorkan. Above his brothers head, the ruby eyes of the statue glowed in 
the suns fire. Wings of
ebonstone rose to either side of Shorkans shoulders, as if the wyvern were 
about to take flight.
When his brother spoke, no fear etched his calm words. Erril, it
seems we meet one last time.
Erril raised both sword and dagger. It will be our last! Shorkan eyed his 
weapons with disinterest but cocked his head and glanced back and forth between 
Errils two limbs. So that was the secret of the books protection spell. 
Flesh. Shorkan shook his head. I had never imagined old Brother Kallon could 
stomach such a sacrifice from you, Erril. No wonder it has confounded me for so
long.
Erril shrugged, circling around the trapdoor toward his brother. He eyed the 
wyvern statue warily. What are you planning to do with the Weirgate, Shorkan? 
What is the Dark Lord plotting with
the other statues?
Shorkans brows rose as Erril approached. It seems a little bird has been 
singing in your ear, my brother. You seek answers to questions that are beyond 
your ability to understand.
According to Greshym, the same could be said of you.
Ire flashed in Shorkans eyes. Since you are my brother, I will give you one 
answersomething to keep you up at night. Shorkan waved his hand toward the 
wyvern statue. The Weirgates pose more of a danger to Alasea than does the 
Black Heart. You fight the wrong enemy, Erril. You have all along.
You lie. Greshym already told me how the Weir is the Black Hearts source of 
black magick.
Shorkan shook his head. You understand so little. It truly saddens me. Was this 
the paltry information for which you traded the Blood Diary? If so, Greshym 
bought the book cheap. But he will pay
for his treachery.
Greshym doesnt have the book, Erril said, raising his sword higher. It is 
on its way to the witch as we speak.
These words twitched the blackened skin around his brothers right eye. Then 
where is Greshym?
Hes fled.
Shorkan eyed Errils sword as it flashed in the last rays of the sun. By now, 
Erril was only a few paces away. Then so must I, my brother. Before Erril 
could move, Shorkan reached behind him and touched the wyvern statue. A spatter 
of darkfire played about
Shorkans fingers, and then the statue became a carving not of stone, but of 
shadows. Sunlight disappeared into its depths. Shorkan stepped backward between 
its wings and into its dark well. Goodbye, Brother.
Erril lunged after him, but he was blasted backward by a force that deafened 
him. Only the stones of the parapet kept him from a long fall to his death. His 
head cracked the stones with a resounding blow. Ignoring the pain and dazzle 
from his bruised skull, Erril rolled to his feet. He searched the tower roof. 
It was empty. The statue and his brother had vanished.
Standing, Erril crossed to the edge of the tower and searched the skies. 
Sunlight basked the towers of the citadel and a few of the tallest spires of the 
city. Where had Shorkan gone?
Then, in a blink, an inky stain appeared just an arrows shot off the western 
edge of the tower. It was the shadowy wyvern, alive and gliding toward the 
golden spires of the city below. Erril now understood how he himself had been 
transported here. Just the thought that he had once been swallowed and 
transported within that darkness shuddered his spirit.
Curse you, Shorkan! Erril called out to the retreating form. Suddenly, as if 
his brother had heard his cry, the wy vern seemed to twitch in the air and bank 
sharply around. It dove back toward the castle, sailing closer to one of the 
sun-touched spires of the city.
Erril squinted to see what had so attracted Shorkan from his flight. Then he 
spied it, too: two small figures atop a spire nearby. Across the distance, 
Erril recognized the staff and the red-haired boy who bore it. Joach.
As he recognized Elenas brother, Errils vision suddenly twisted queerly; a 
strange sharpness tweaked his sight. This was Joachs dream. He had thought that 
by leaving Joachs side he could turn fates path. But even now, it was coming 
true.
Erril leaned both fists on the stone parapet. He studied the other figure atop 
the spire. From Joachs description of his dream, it had to be Elena. But as 
Erril studied Joachs companion, his heart climbed into his throat. It was no 
woman that stood beside Joach. He saw the way the mans back was bent. Sunlight 
shone on his bald and leathered pate. But mostly Erril recognized the dark robe 
the man wore. Greshym!
Errils legs suddenly weakened under him as he remembered that he had left the 
Blood Diary with the boy! What was Joach now doing with Greshym? Had the boy 
been a traitor all along?
Erril stumbled away from the towers edge. Twisting around, he dove for the 
trapdoor. Something was direly wrong.
He had to stop them!
Erril tore through Shorkans study and flew down the tower stair. As he ran, he 
knew the fate of Aloa Glen depended on his speed, but he also recalled Joachs 
other revelation from his dream weaving: Upon the tower, Erril was doomed to 
die in a blaze of darkfire.
Despite knowing his fate, Erril raced on.
It seemed destiny was not done with him yet.
In the courtyard of the castle, Elena clutched a hand to her throat. A moment 
ago, a whooshing blast had drawn her eyes upward, and she had seen the wyvern 
statue vanish from its tower perch. Now it had reappeared, gliding and circling 
just past the walls of a castle.
What had Erril done? Was this his doing?
As her heart pounded in her throat, Elena could not help but remember Joachs 
dream. Her brother had insisted his nightmare was a prophetic weaving, and from 
Joachs description, the first part of his vision was of an assault by a black 
shadowbeast. Elena stared as the wyvern banked away.
The dream was coming true.
Somehow Erril had unleashed the beast. Whether he had triggered it with malice 
or by accident, Elena did not know. All she knew for sure was that Joachs 
nightmare was beginning. She backed across the courtyard toward the entrance to 
the catacombs. She could wait no longer. She knew where she had to be. Fate 
called for her to fulfil her role atop the Spire of the Departed. She must be at 
Joachs side.
Overhead, the wyvern beast opened its black beak in a silent scream and dove 
beyond the castle wall, disappearing out of sight.
It had begun.
Elena turned and ran as fast as her injured knee would allow. Though Erril was 
somewhere in the castle behind her, Elena knew she was not abandoning him. In a 
way, she was running toward him.
They were fated to meet atop the neighboring tower, and she would not miss this 
rendezvous!
Joachs dream played over and over in her head. She knew how it was destined to 
end: with the murder of Erril. Elena clenched her fist around the iron ward and 
ran harder. If their fates were set in granite, Elena meant to shatter that 
stone with her own magick. She would not let Erril be slain if he was still 
true of heart. This she swore.
As determined as she was, a part of her still quaked with fear. How would she 
know for sure? How did one judge anothers heart with certainty? Elena cast 
aside her doubts.
She must find a way.
Joach stood amidst the sunsets blaze. To the west, the skies were still awash 
in a final fiery display as the sun dipped below the horizon. As Joach watched 
from the parapet, the sights below the tower trapped his breath in his chest. 
The oceans beyond the city lay cast in deep shadow, a promise of the night to 
come. All around the island, elvin warships glided above the seas. Occasional 
spears of lightning shattered the gloom, reflecting off the waves, highlighting 
the sails and rails of their many ships.
Meric had succeeded. He had turned aside his peoples attack on the island and 
directed their might to the war below. Upon the seas, victory was near. But what 
of the island itself?
This sobering thought drew his eyes back from the views. He found Elena staring 
at him. She eyed his staff. He knew what she must be thinking. According to 
Joachs weaving of this day, his staff would protect her atop the tower. It was 
up to him to make sure Elena remained safe.
Even with her hands ripe with ruby magick, Elena was clearly too weak to defend 
herself. The climb up the tower stair had wasted her. He had never seen her so 
weak.
On the way here, he had been unable to get Elena to talk much. She refused to 
speak of what had happened to her after they had separated. It must have been 
horrible, and she was too raw to discuss it yet. Still, he had to ask one more 
thing of her.
We need a signal, Elena, he said as he crossed closer to her. Do you think 
you have enough magick to blaze a sign for Ragnark?
His mention of the dragon jolted her from whatever reverie she had fallen into. 
No, not now. She waved a hand limply at him. Maybe your staff
I dare not waste its magick, he said. You know of my dream.
His words only seemed to raise a look of confusion on her features. She reached 
weakly toward his staff. Let me try.
Joach pulled away the length of poiwood. You are stubborn, El. You know this 
burden is mine. He shook his head at his sisters bravery and her willingness 
to sacrifice herself. This was her fourth attempt to take this responsibility 
from him. But he would not let her. It was his destiny.
Holding the staff in his bandaged hand, he ran his glove along its length and 
drew the magick to the woods surface with his touch. Trickles of darkfire ran 
in small rivulets along the staff. He must be ready. Again he scanned the skies. 
Still no sign of the shadowy beast.
From the corner of his eye, Joach saw Elena watch him manipulate the staff. 
Longing and anger were bright in her eyes. After wielding so much power, Elena 
clearly still refused to yield to the inevitability of fate.
Joach spoke in an attempt to distract her. I know what distresses you, El. He 
glanced at her, then away again. Its Erril. I know how much you wish him to 
be pure. But I met him.
Elena startled beside him.
Im sorry, but I didnt want to tell you. You were so exhausted, and I had 
hoped to keep this from you. But maybe its better you know. Erril has been 
turned. He now serves the darkmages. He swung to face her. So when I kill him, 
do not grieve. The Erril you knew would rather die than harm you. It must be 
done.
Erril? Youve met Erril?
Yes. Joach hated to hear so much hope in her voice. He lowered his voice as he 
revealed his last. And he has two arms. He even tried to trick me with a fake 
copy of the Blood Diary. He foolishly thought such a prize would blind me to his 
treachery.
Elena stumbled toward Joach. The book ?
Joach patted his shirt where the tattered old diary still rested.
Elenas hand rose to snatch at him, but a keening cry split the skies. Joach 
swung around, shoving Elena behind him. She landed hard on her backside with a 
curse on her lips. He did not have time to apologize.
From behind the neighboring citadel, a monstrous black shadow swept toward him. 
He stared into the ruby eyes of his enemy. Now it begins and ends, he said 
and stepped away from where Elena crawled toward him. This was not her battle. 
Joach lifted the staff over his head and called the magick in the wood to a full 
blaze. Come to your death! he screamed in defiance. I will not let you near 
Elena!
As the beast dove toward them, Joach saw the shape was indeed a wyvern. The 
black hooked beak, the glowing crimson eyes, wings of razor-sharp pinions. But 
he did not quail from the sight. He swung his staff and pointed its end at the 
streaking shadow. He recited the dream-cast words.
His lips grew cold with each utterance. As he spoke the incantation, traceries 
of frost skittered outward through his heated blood to reach for the wood in his 
gloved hand. As the last word fell from his lips, a shaft of darkness jetted out 
from the end of his staff. Balefire! Crackles of energy danced along this spear 
of darkness.
Joach grinned at the power. He would let no one harm his sister. He had given 
his promise to his father. He would not fail!
The lance of balefire struck the beast full in the chest, halting its dive, 
holding it in the sky above the tower. Its sharp cry changed to an almost human 
wail of agony. It writhed, impaled on Joachs spear. The shadowy beast began to 
lose form; its edges blurred as the dark-fire tore into it.
A harsh laugh exploded from Joachs chest. He sensed when his magick was about 
to vanquish the beast, like a storm about to burst. Joachs lips ached as they 
stretched into a wide grin. He had never felt such power.
Then something broke in the beast overhead. Joach sensed it. In a blink, the 
shadowy wyvern became stone again, a statue once more. And like any stone, it 
plummeted toward the streets far below. Joach dashed to the parapet to witness 
the end result of his handiwork. The statue tumbled toward the ground. Die, 
demon! he screamed after it.
But the monster held one more trick. Just before it struck the cobbles, a brief 
flash flared in the shadows at the foot of the tower, and the statue vanished. 
The streets below remained empty.
Pulling back, Joach raised his staff and searched the skies around the parapets, 
but nothing tried to attack again. In truth, he knew he
would not be assaulted by the beast again. Joach sensed that the wyvern had 
jumped far from here. But more significantly, in his dream, the beast had only 
struck the one time and was driven away.
Joach? Elena still crouched in the shadows of the parapet.
He recognized the relief in her voice, but he held up a hand to hush her. It was 
not over. There was one more participant yet to appear. Joach swung to face the 
tower door. He spun the staff between his fingers. With a smile of triumph and a 
heart iced by his taste of magick, he waited.
Come to me, Erril.
Atop the long stair inside the Spire of the Departed, Elena stood with her hand 
hovering over the latch to the tower door. She braced herself.
Earlier, while racing up the stairs, the screeches and the sounds of battle had 
echoed down to her from above, firing her urge for speed. She had been 
determined to burst through the doorway and face whatever was attacking the 
tower and her brother. But as she had climbed the last few landings, the sounds 
had suddenly stopped. Beyond the door, she heard nothing. Caution again gripped 
her heart.
According to Joachs dream, she herself was fated to be beside her brother, not 
climbing these endless steps. So what had changed? Her hand touched the iron 
latch. There was only one way to find out.
Just before she shoved into the door, a hurried stamp of boots echoed up from 
below. She snatched back her hand and stared down into the towers gloom. She 
carried no torch or lantern. Only the occasional window along the staircase had 
lighted her way.
Sliding away from the door and down a few steps, Elena tried to pierce the 
shadows. But in her heart, she knew who came. She pressed herself against the 
far wall of the stairway and waited for Erril, holding her breath and clutching 
the ward between her breasts.
Up from the darkness below, like a rolling storm, he came. Erril clutched a 
long sword in his right fist. His breath gasped between clenched teeth. His eyes 
shone with anger; the muscles on his arms and chest bunched with suppressed 
might. He almost glowed with an inner rage.
Elena hugged herself tight to the wall, but Erril was blind to all
but the door above. Even without the spell, she imagined he would not have seen 
her, such was his haste.
He swept past Elena, so swift that the heat off his body was like a slap in her 
face. But he paused at the top of the stairs. Elena moved one step closer. He 
raised his swords hilt to his brow, using its steel to cool his forehead. Elena 
moved closer still. She saw the pain behind his anger. He lowered his sword and 
took a deep breath. His eyes told her all she needed to know. Erril knew his 
death lay beyond the door but that he still must go.
He grabbed the doors latch, his fist tightening on his sword. Damn you, Joach. 
Ill kill you for betraying your sister! Elena froze, shocked by his words. He 
meant to kill Joach! Somehow Erril must have sensed her presence. He glanced 
behind him, his expression suddenly confused. Then, with a shake of his head, he 
tore at the latch and shoved the door open.
After the gloom of the long stair, the brilliance of the sunset sky blinded her. 
It must have done the same to Erril. He raised his free arm to shade his eyes 
and stepped out onto the towers roof.
Elena followed, slipping around his back and moving to his side. A voice cracked 
out from beyond the doorway. Ive been waiting for you, Erril!
Elenas eyes blinked away the glare. She saw her brother standing just a few 
paces back. He bore his staff in his half hand. But this was not the sight that 
startled a gasp from her throat. She spotted the crouched and robed figure of 
the darkmage Greshym behind Joach. Errils angered words as he locked the tower 
door covered her own startled gasp. Joach, you traitor! You would forsake your 
sister for mere power!
These words had little effect on Joach.
Her brother was preternaturally calm, especially with a darkmage at his back. 
Joach warded the mage away with his other palm. Stay back, El. This must 
happen!
Joach twisted his staff, and Elena felt the surge of power. Elenas eyes 
twitched to the darkmage, then flew wide. She suddenly understood the illusion 
behind Joachs dream. She leaped between her brother and Erril just as both men 
struck at each other.
She felt Errils sword pierce her back at the same time as Joachs spear of 
darkfire struck her between the breasts. She cried out at the agony as the blade 
scraped against her ribs. Bones broke. But even
this was but a pinch compared to the flaying burn of the black mag-icks touch. 
Her skin burned; her breasts were charred to cinder.
The touch of black magick blasted away the spirit spell. She saw the horror in 
Joachs eyes as she appeared. The font of black energies died instantly, and he 
flew toward her.
But her brother was too late. Elena fell back into Errils arms. The plainsman 
crashed to his knees under hernot from the heaviness of her body, but from the 
weight of his horror. He cradled her in his lap. Oh, Elena, no His voice was 
like nothing she had ever heard. He sounded like such a lost boy. What have I 
done?
Elena stared up into his eyes. It it was my choice, Erril. Let me have this 
blame, not you. She reached toward him, though the pain almost blinded her. She 
wiped away a tear that was not on his cheek. The horror of the moment and the 
shock had not allowed the plainsman any tears yet. But she remembered the 
glistening single tear on his cheek at the crossroads of the catacombs. She had 
known even then that it was for her. She wished to erase it.
Erril leaned into her touch. I cant live with this, he sobbed, tears finally 
breaking forth. Not after so many winters. Not after after
Joach interrupted them. Elena?
She lifted her face toward her brother. He stood a step away, his eyes stricken. 
She knew that expression. His mind was in shock. He glanced from her, then back 
to the darkmage behind him.
Its a trick, the darkmage hissed. They only seek to deceive you, Joach. You 
know Im your real sister! They only strive to steal the book.
Joach stepped away from both of them. His gaze still shifted between them, 
almost panicked by his confusion. The Blood Diary?
Yes, Greshym spat. Bring it to me! I will use it to destroy their illusions.
Elena coughed at the darkmages deceitful words. J-Joach But she had not the 
energy to argue.
Erril did. He shifted under her. Dont listen to him. Its Greshym that lurks 
at your back, Joach. He is the one masked in illusions of your sister. It is he 
who seeks the book.
Joach continued to back away from both sides. I dont know who to believe. He 
held his staff before him, threatening both.
Elena added her voice. She knew how to convince her brother.
She lifted an arm toward Joach. Remember remember, Joach the staff. She 
reached farther toward him, but this was too much.
Darkness rose from the edges of her vision and swamped over her. She fell limp 
in Errils arms and heard his cry of anguish. Elena struggled toward Erril 
against the rising tides of darkness, but she lost her battle. The currents here 
were too strong.
She was carried away.
Joach stared as Elenas singed and naked body sagged in the plainsmans arms. 
Surely this was not his sister. He could not have just slain Elena. Joach stared 
at the other twin. This one was clothed in the same light shift and leggings 
that his sister had worn to the island. This had to be his true sister. Did it 
not?
Still, the earnestness of this other Elena seemed so real. She had begged him 
with her eyes. In the past, he had seen that same expression in his sisters 
face. Remember, she had insisted. But remember what? Something from his past? 
Some detail only brother and sister would share? Joach crinkled his brow as 
Erril grieved over the fallen girl. Joach saw that her chest rose and fell, but 
her breathing was ragged and faded fast.
Joach turned to the other. If you are truly my sister, tell me why I was 
punished to shovel our familys barn every morning for a full moon.
Elena smiled sadly. Must you test me? But considering the nefarious scheme 
being played here, I guess I can understand. The answer to your question was 
that you were punished for feeding a berry pie to Tracker.
Joachs tense shoulders relaxed with relief. He smiled at Elena. He had been 
right all along. Here was his true sister. He glanced at the wounded woman, glad 
to know she was not truly Elena. He did not know if he could have survived the 
guilt of slaying his own sister.
Erril, though, interrupted his relief. Answer the boy, darkmage!
Joach turned to Erril, lifting his staff. Stop this charade, plainsman. Elena 
just gave me the correct answer.
Erril scowled. He plays your mind like a fine instrument. No words were just 
spoken. He plied you with a trick to make you think you heard the right answer. 
The plainsman nodded toward the fallen twin of Elena. Here is your sister, 
Joach. Not that monster.
Even now she dies. If you love her, bring the book to me. It may yet hold a 
chance to save her.
Dont, Joach! Elena insisted. He struggles to trick you.
By now, Joachs mind spun in dizzying circles. Whom to believe? Jf Erril meant 
to harm him, why did he still cradle the girl? None of it made sense. He 
clutched his staff in both hands. How was he to discover the truth?
Erril looked up at him, not in anger but with eyes that beseeched him. Her 
death nears, Joach. You must decide.
But my dream he mumbled.
Dreams are difficult to judge, Joach, and weavings are even more so. In your 
vision, you saw yourself defending Elena, but in truth, it was this sorcerer 
disguised as your sister. Dreams are fraught with illusions.
He pondered Errils words. The plainsmans argument sounded familiar and struck 
Joach to the core. Had not someone just given him similar advice? But who? Then 
Joach remembered. He dropped his injured hand from his staff and fished in the 
pocket of his pants. It was still there.
He palmed the object and drew it forth. Opening his fingers, he stared at the 
large black pearl, the one Xin had given him. The zool wizen had promised its 
power could connect them when the need was great. Joach closed his fist over the 
treasure and spoke his friends name. Xin!
Nothing happened.
Joach opened his fist and stared at the pearl. He was a fool.
Then words rose from the jewels blackness. Joach, son of Mor-instal, I sense a 
storm in your heart.
Words tumbled from his lips in a rush. Xin, my dream I cant tell what is real 
and what is false. Can you help me?
Elena interrupted. Joach, what are you doing?
Joach ignored her and listened. I cannot help you from here, Xin answered. 
But, Joach, your own heart can.
How?
Ignore what your skull tells you. Listen with your heart. There is where all 
truths lie.
Joach had no words to answer Xin. He returned the pearl to his pocket. How could 
he follow advice he did not even understand? He glanced to the clothed Elena. 
Her face, her voice, her manner-
isms all spoke true. She reminded him of home and farm, all he had loved dear. 
Here was the sister from his past. He felt nothing wrong
about her.
He then turned to the dying girl. What did he feel about her? He looked past her 
battered body. In her face and words, she had demonstrated bravery, 
selflessness, and a love that could even forgive her own murder. This was a 
woman Joach hardly knew. She was not
from his past.
The truth of the situation then dawned in him, almost blinding
him with its clarity. Xin had been right.
In Errils arms was not the sister of his past, but of thtpresent. The other 
Elena was a figment of old memoriesfamiliar and comfortable memoriespicked 
from his mind. But that was not who Elena was anymore. Joach hardly knew the 
woman whom Elena had become on her journey here. In his minds eye, he still 
considered Elena just his younger sister, someone he had to protect. But that 
was true no longer. Elena was no longer just a girl of the orchards. The strange 
woman in Errils arms was his true sister. Still, Joach needed to be sure.
He glanced down to his staff and remembered Elenas last words to him: Remember 
the staff. Even in this matter, his sister had surpassed him. Though in agony 
and near death, Elena had given him the key to the truth: the staff.
Joach raised his eyes toward the false Elena. If Erril and Elena spoke 
truthfully, there stood Greshym, the man who had tormented him for almost six 
moons, enslaved him, debased him. Joach was tempted to use the staff one more 
time and slay the monster, but after harming Elena, Joach could not bring 
himself to touch black magick again. He just wanted to be rid of the foul 
talisman. But before he did that, the staff had one more duty. Turning, Joach 
tossed the staff toward the one who claimed to be Elena. One of her arms 
snatched the staff greedily from the air. She brought it down to her side. Even 
disguised as Elena, Joach could see how well the poiwood staff fit this figure. 
It was as if it were another limb.
Good, Joach, the false Elena encouraged. I knew you wouldnt fall for 
Errils tricks. Now bring me the Blood Diary. Joach slipped the book free of 
his shirt. Erril
The plainsman raised hopeless eyes toward Joach. Erril did not say a word, 
clearly thinking himself defeated.
Joach tossed the book to Erril. Save my sister if you can. Erril deftly 
caught it, eyes wide with surprise. Cursing, Greshym shook free of his 
illusions. Elenas features fell away, and Joach found himself staring at the 
wrinkled, bent-backed fiend. The darkmage glanced between the two men as Joach 
stepped closer. How?
Elena could not handle the staff. It seems the two magicks black and 
bloodrepel one another.
Greshym sneered and raised his staff. He pointed it at Joachs chest. Darkfire 
bloomed along its length. Your cleverness will cost you your life.
Instead of ducking away, Joach stepped even closer. When he was within an arms 
length of the dire weapon, he shook off his deerskin glove and grabbed the end 
of the staff with his bare hand.
Greshym laughed. Youve grown bold, boy. You think to challenge me in the black 
arts?
As Joach grasped his end of the staff, his blood entered the wood. The staff 
grew pale around his hand and spread down the length of the wood, dousing the 
spats of darkfire as it flowed. I dont challenge your skill at the black arts, 
mage, Joach said with ice in his voice. I will fight you with my own blood.
Greshym stared as his staff paled. Joach saw the darkmage tighten his hoary grip 
upon his end of the poiwood. The flames of black magick grew taller and 
thicker, washing against the paleness like an angry black surf.
Joach lost some ground, but not much. His blood continued to feed the hungry 
wood. White and black staff fought in its center. To continue to hold back the 
wall of darkfire, more and more of Joachs blood was needed. The usual small red 
rivulets in the pale wood grew in number and size. Now thick torrents of crimson 
pumped through the staff. Joachs heart beat like thunder in his ears. His 
vision focused down to a point. His entire world became just the staff. It was 
both his body and his spirit.
Across the length of wood, Greshym fared no better. Sweat ran down the mages 
face, and his breath grew ragged.
Joach knew something must give soon. Either he would faint from lack of blood, 
or Greshym would collapse in exhaustion. What
actually happened startled both combatants. The staff exploded between them in a 
spray of stabbing shards.
Joach fell backward, as did the darkmage.
Both men eyed each other, bloodied by stabbing splinters. The staff was gone. 
Its entire length was just so much kindling scattered on the stones.
Eying the scraps, Greshym pushed off the wall. The flare of black magick from 
the destruction of the staff had revitalized him, but he still wobbled a bit on 
his feet. Their battle had taken its toll. Greshym spat in Joachs direction. 
You will pay for this, boy. We will meet again. With those last words, Greshym 
waved a hand, and a portal appeared behind him. The darkmage stepped back into 
it, falling away and vanishing in a blink.
Joach suddenly sagged, wasted and suffering from loss of blood.
Suddenly Erril was at his shoulders.
Joach could not even look up. He just glanced to where Elena lay sprawled on the 
stone. Im sorry.
Errils voice was gruff, but not unkind. Her blood is on both our hands, 
Joach. We were equally deluded by fears of treachery. Erril gathered Joach 
under his arm and pulled him toward Elena. Its time we put aside the past. If 
we are to have any chance of saving your sister, we must act quickly. Erril 
then gripped Joachs arm, hard. And we must work together.
Joach raised his eyes and met Errils gaze without flinching. What must I do?
With Joachs help, Erril spread Elena across a thin blanket from the boys 
pack. Though the sun had set and the full moon had begun to rise, the stones 
remembered the days heat and kept her warm. Her flesh, naked and bared to the 
stars, seemed carved of ivory. She was so pale. The seared circle in the center 
of her chest was like one of the darkmages black portals.
Erril touched her cheek. She was so cold. Her breathing was so shallow that 
Erril found himself holding his own breath between each rise and fall of her 
chest. She should be dead already, but her magick sustained her. Erril glanced 
to her hands. Only the softest pink hue remained of the deep ruby Rose; only a 
dribble of magick remained. When that ran out, Elena would die.
What now? Joach asked.
Erril glanced to the boys handiwork. As instructed, Joach had finished 
applying a bandage made from the boys shredded shirt over the sword wound. Its 
rough cloth should help clot the flowing blood. Erril stared at the bandage, 
suddenly reminded that it was his sword that had stabbed into her. He could not 
look away.
Erril? Joach touched his elbow.
Leaning back, Erril shook his head. He had no time to dwell on his own guilt. 
It would do Elena no good. Were ready, he barked hoarsely. Grab the ward.
Erril knelt nearer and placed the Blood Diary atop the blasted circle upon her 
chest. The gilt rose shone in the growing moonlight.
Joach fetched the small iron fist from the stone floor and handed it to Erril.
Erril shook his head. I must not touch book or ward from here.
What are we trying to do? Joach finally asked, but his question ended in a 
sob. His resolve was deteriorating. Erril could not blame Joach. After 
bandaging the deep wound, the boys hands were fouled with his own sisters 
blood, and the air reeked of her charred flesh: harsh reminders of what he and 
Erril had done to her.
Ill try to explain. Erril waved for the boy to kneel on Elenas other side. 
When the book was first forged, the spell was incomplete. The boy mage, Denal, 
never infused his spirit into the book. Still, the presence of Shorkan and 
Greshym were enough to ignite the magick and bind me to it. To this day, the 
Blood Diary heals me and sustains me. If we can add Denals spirit to the book, 
then the spell will start again. When it ends this time, Elena must be the one 
bound. The books magick will then be available to heal her and protect her.
Joach nodded, but his eyes had filled with doubt and fear. He lifted the ward. 
And the boy Denals spirit is trapped in this iron fist?
Not trapped. Stored. Denal gave his spirit freely.
Joach studied the ward. What do I do with it? 
Just place the iron fist on the book. If the spell ignites, there will be a 
flare of white light, and the book will be flung open. We must each then take 
one of Elenas arms and guide her hands to close the book and complete the 
spell. Neither of us must touch it.
With shivering hands, Joach reached across his sisters prone form
and bobbled the tiny iron fist atop the books cover. It kept rolling off until 
Joach found the right balance. Once done, Joach leaned back. Now what?
We wait.
And so they did. The passing of time grew agonizing. All they could do was watch 
Elenas breathing grow more and more shallow. Erril noticed Joach eye his 
sisters hands. Both were as pale as her arms now. Neither man spoke of it.
As they waited, the moon continued to rise, full and bright. Once the moon 
crested the parapets and the light shone fully on the book, the fist began 
slowly to open, like a midnight rose basking in the moons glow.
Joach glanced to Erril and held his breath. Erril found himself doing the 
same, afraid to disturb what was happening.
Soon the fist had opened fully and rested palm down on the gilt rose. Erril 
remembered how, long ago, the three mages had placed their palms upon the book, 
just as this iron hand did now. Erril could almost hear a whisper of chanting 
from far away. It was not just one voice but three.
Winds kicked up around the tower. The book trembled slightly. As Erril watched, 
eyes unblinking, the small fist began dissolving away, sinking into the book. As 
it did so, the winds picked up, and the books trembling worsened. The chanting 
grew louder. Erril met Joachs gaze over Elenas body. He willed the boy to be 
ready. Joach seemed to sense his thoughts and nodded his head once, very 
slightly. Both feared to move.
Soon the ward was but a vague outline, a ghost hand; then it disappeared 
completely. No sign of the iron fist remained. Denal had
joined the book.
With the act complete, the book settled on Elenas chest, and the winds died. 
Errils brow crinkled. Was that it? He continued to wait, but nothing happened.
Joach finally released his trapped breath in a moan of sorrow.
Then, as if this were some mysterious signal, the book suddenly jumped from 
Elenas chest to float a handspan above her blackened skin.
Joach tumbled back upon his rear. Sweet Mother, he swore.
Its covers split open, revealing the empty pages within. From the white 
parchment, a blaze of brilliance shot high into the night sky.
Erril glanced away from its blinding radiance. He was sure it lanced high 
enough to strike the moon. Under his knees, the tower shook.
Erril? The boys voice was edged with fear.
Nows the time, Joach! Erril commanded sternly. Grab your sisters wrist and 
bring her hand to the book! Erril demonstrated with Elenas right limb, while 
Joach matched the movements with her left.
The two brought her arms under the book, palms toward the covers.
On my count, we use her hands to close the book. Then make sure you get clear. 
Erril recalled the last time he had performed this act. It had thrown him 
across the inns room.
Erril counted, and on three, they slapped the book shut with Elenas palms. 
Both men quickly rolled away. They were lucky they did. The blast that followed 
split the night. Erril was thrown into the tower door, while Joach was tossed 
to the stones of the parapet. The boy ended down on his belly, his arms over his 
head.
Erril did not hide his face. Rolling to one elbow, he saw Elena lifted from the 
stones of the tower. Still limp and unmoving, she hung in the air, bathed in a 
light that stung the eyes. It came from the book still caught between her two 
palms, a star fallen from the night sky. Elena blazed in its glory. From such a 
height, the sight would be visible all the way to the coast.
Joach! See this!
Slowly Joach lifted first his head, then his body. He sat up to bask in the 
glow.
Elenas form slowly twirled in the brilliance. As Erril watched, he saw her 
stir. One hand moved from the book to rub at her face, as if she were simply 
awakening from a nap. Slowly the glow receded into the book. Elenas legs 
drifted lower until her toes touched the towers roof. She settled to her heels, 
pulling the book to her chest in wonder. Her eyes were wide and reflected the 
remaining glow of the book. They were so alive! Even her hair was a drape of 
fire down her back.
Erril had never seen her so beautiful.
Elena turned to him, her lips curving in a gentle smile of relief and welcome. 
She lifted the book in both hands. The gilt rose on its cover still blazed 
sharply, but even this was fading. The Blood Diary.
f &#9632;
Erril bowed his head slightly, crossing his arms on his chest in the ancient 
honor of a liegeman for a mage. The witch and the book are united at last. 
For all his postured reverence, he could not hold
back a grin.
To his delight, Elena matched his expression.
As she lowered the book to her side, Errils smile faltered. The blackened 
circle of charred skin remained on her chest. His gaze drew Elenas eyes. 
Frowning slightly, she fingered the damage. It came apart under her fingers, 
flaking away to expose soft and perfect skin.
Im healed, Elena said in amazement.
The book will protect you from here, Erril said softly, not able to 
completely hide his regret. Mixed emotions stirred his heart. Though he would 
not change anything, Erril knew that from here Elena would no longer need him. 
Errils honor to her a moment ago was also his good-bye. From this day onward, 
Elena would not age, while he would. The passing of the book marked the end of 
Errils
immortal life.
As Joach moved forward to greet his sister and offer her a thin blanket, Erril 
raised his hands before him. He stared at the bones and veins of his hand. 
Already he could almost feel the weight of time descending on him.
As brother and sister reunited, he hardly heard their whispered apologies and 
absolutions. Tears glistened on both their cheeks. Joach hugged his sister 
tight, needing to heal as badly as Elenaand Erril knew the boy would heal with 
time.
Erril lowered his hand. Time. From here on out, his own was no longer 
limitless. He would age like any other man. After five hundred winters, he had 
no right to complain of times inevitable march. Still, as Erril stared at 
Elena, she met his gaze and smiled at him in
the moonlight.
And for once, Erril prayed that time would stop.
Elena pulled free of Joachs grip and handed him the book. With her arms free, 
she took the thin blanket from her shoulders and wrapped it around her torso, 
tucking and cinching it in place. Elena felt foolish with this bit of modesty 
after running throughout Aloa Glen as naked as the day she was born. But as the 
fire of their trials
died down, she sensed both Joachs and Errils discomfort at the sight of her 
bare skin.
Once she was done, Joach offered her back the Diary, but she shook her head. 
Could you hold it a moment more?
Are you sure? Joach asked doubtfully, holding the tome out as if it were a 
poisonous snake.
I trust you, Joach, she said with a slight laugh.
He returned her smile, then studied the Diarys cover. The golden rose still 
glowed softly in the night. When do you think we should open it?
Later. Another day. Elena had had enough magick and surprises for two 
lifetimes. We should wait until everyone is gathered. Its something they all 
deserve to share.
Joach nodded and carefully tucked the book under his arm. He crossed to the 
parapet to watch the end of the war below. Elena stared out at the seas for a 
moment, too. With the darkmages gone, the islands defenders fled from all 
fronts. The remainder of the fighting was more housekeeping than battle. By 
sunrise, the War of the Isles would be over.
Turning her back on the sight, Elena found Erril studying the moonlit skies and 
city, wary of any new threats. Always the guardian. In the moonlight, shirtless 
still, he seemed a bronze sculpture.
She crossed and stood beside him, silent for a breath. Erril, she said 
softly.
Hmm He did not turn, keeping up his vigil.
Elena reached and touched his bare right shoulder. She did what she had wanted 
to do in the catacombs while following him. She traced the tanned line where his 
restored arm met his shoulder, where the new Erril merged with the old. She 
knew that from here, nothing would be the same between them. He had completed 
his task, and she sensed that in the future the books power would grow between 
them. Her heart ached at such a thought. Was there not some way to keep the new 
Erril and still not lose the old?
The plainsman shuddered under her touch.
Elena lowered her hand to grasp his wrist. Gently she turned him from the 
parapet.
Elena?
Shush, she scolded him. Taking his left wrist in her other hand, she lifted 
his palms toward her. She studied them for a moment, like
an oracle in a village fair seeking some vision. Here were the new and the old. 
But they both looked the same. Who was he really?
Erril turned his wrists in her grip and held her hands now, gently, 
tentatively. I I thought I had lost you.
And I feared the same for you. She leaned toward him, tears in her eyes.
Always her protector, Erril slid his hands up her bare arms and wrapped her 
into his warm embrace, two arms circling her, holding her against the horrors of 
the day. She leaned against his broad chest. As her cheek touched him, Erril 
tensed for a moment, still a sculpture in bronze; then she felt him relax 
against her, melting into just a man. They held each other silently, both 
knowing that their embrace meant more than mere consolation but neither speaking 
of it, fearful of ruining the moment.
Elena sank into his warmth, wrapped in both his arms, and she knew here was her 
answer. Two arms circled her completely. She could not say where one started and 
another ended. In his embrace, there was no new or old Erril. There was only 
one man. And she would not lose himnot even for the books promise of 
immortality. Erril held her tighter.
Thoughts of war and witchcraft seemed far off as she listened to the beat of 
his heart. Time slowed to a stop at that moment. The stars halted their endless 
dance; the moon froze in the night sky. For now, there was just the two of them. 
And for the first time since leaving her familys orchard, Elena knew she was 
home.
Suddenly, from behind them, a roar shattered the peace of the moment. Elena and 
Erril twisted around, still in each others arms. A black winged shape skated 
from below to rush overhead.
Across the roof, Joach swung to face them, his eyes bright with excitement. 
Its Sy-wen and Ragnark! The blaze of the book must have summoned them!
Elena and Erril slowly pulled from each others embrace. The world beyond 
called for them, trumpeted from the throat of a dragon. But before Erril turned 
away, Elena touched his chin, stopping him. She leaned and softly kissed his 
cheek, where once a single tear had glistened.
She raised her face to his. Thank you.
They turned together and watched the dragon circle above. With the war ending 
here, Elenas thoughts turned to those friends unable
to share this victory: Mycelle, Krai, Mogweed, Fardale. How did they fare this 
night?
Elena stared at the stars, praying they were safe.
As THE SUNS LAST GLOW FADED TO THE WEST, MYCELLE LED HER GELD-
ing down the final switchback of the mountain pass. The others in her party were 
draped along the trail behind her, moving slowly along the slick rocks. The Pass 
of Tears had been named for the glistening droplets sprayed on the boulders 
alongside the path from the nearby cataracts of the Mirror River. The rumble of 
the river had been a constant song for three days and nights. By now, the noise 
had set Mycelles teeth to aching. Even the tiny jungle snake around her wrist 
seemed agitated, writhing in slow circles around her wrist as if it sought some 
escape from the rumble.
She soothed the pakagolo with a finger as her gelding, Grisson, cautiously 
traversed the rocky terrain. Ahead, the forests of the Western Reaches spread 
across the landscape, stretching from horizon to horizon, an endless sea of 
green. As foreboding as the dark wood appeared, it was still a welcome sight. 
Not only did Mycelle look forward to leaving behind the roar of the mountain 
pass for the quiet of the forest, but those woods had also once been her home. 
Lost under the green bower were many strange creatures and odd folk, including 
her own people, the silura.
Mycelle held up a hand and willed her flesh to flow. Her fingers responded, 
spreading and twisting in the moonlight like the tendrils of some nocturnal 
vine. With her shape-shifting abilities returned, she felt a renewed kinship to 
her own people, and it soothed her heart to know that she was about to reenter 
her forest home. But a homecoming with her tribal clans would have to wait. 
First, she must honor her oath and join Tyrus in his fight against the Grim. 
Only after Castle Mryl was recovered would Mycelles oath and debt be paid. 
Willing her hand back to its previous shape, Mycelle lowered her arm.
Once they reached flat ground, Mycelle kicked her mount to a faster clip toward 
the woods. Though night had descended, Mycelle refused to set up another camp 
within earshot of these roaring cascades.
She scouted ahead of the others. Fardale kept her company, loping
through the brush and scrabble like a dark shadow. Behind her, Mogweed rode 
alongside Prince Tyrus. Krai and the trio of Dro women guarded their rear 
flanks. Their party had spoken little since passing the wellspring of the Mirror 
River. After the many days of hard travel, everyone was saddle sore and 
exhausted; tempers were short and attitudes sour. Except for Prince Tyrus.
The former pirate seemed little fazed by the long trek. Even now, Mycelle could 
hear his laughter echoing down the trail. While the others were worn down, the 
man seemed to thrive on the hardship of this march. His spirits seemed to grow 
with each league that brought him closer to his ancestral home, Castle Mryl, 
overlooking the Northwall.
Scowling at his bright merriment, Mycelle snapped her reins to move Grisson 
faster. The mount rounded a section of cliff face, and it was as if she had 
entered another worlda world of whispers and hushed noises. Blocked by the 
cliff, Tyrus laugh and the falls roar were instantly muffled. Mycelle sagged 
in relief. She let Grisson slow to a leisurely walk. Fardale wandered closer to 
the edge of the forest, leaving Mycelle a moment of rare solitude.
As she enjoyed the peace, Mycelle drifted away from the wolf. She encouraged 
Grisson to follow the woods edge. Oaks and alders predominated here, a mixture 
of mountain and valley trees. A few maples were even scattered among them. 
Mycelle drew in a long breath, taking in the scent of the forest: loam and leaf, 
bark and moss.
Her eyelids slipped closed as she inhaled. Lost childhood memories returned, 
buoyed by these smells of the forest. As Grisson walked, tears flowed down 
Mycelles cheeks. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, surprised by the depth of 
her reaction.
Then, from somewhere ahead, a whisper of music arose. It took a moment for the 
sound to reach her consciousness. It seemed to sing more to her heart than to 
her mind, wrapping its notes and chords around the ache in her spirit, drawn to 
the pain of her lost childhood and home. Mycelle cocked her head, unsure for a 
moment if the soft sounds were real or merely old memories. As she listened, 
straining for the melody, Mycelle seemed to recognize this mournful tune. But 
where had she heard it?
Grisson continued along the forests edge. Around a corner of the forest, 
Mycelle found her answer. Standing in a small glade, outlined
in moonlight, was the singer. Cloaked and hooded in a patchwork of hues, the 
figure stood as still as the trees. Only the sweet voice rising in song from 
inside the shadows of the hood suggested life.
Mycelle knew this figure. She had encountered the singer once before, in the 
coastal wood on her way to Port Rawl. Mycelle knew that it was no man or woman 
who sang from within that motley cloak, but some shade or ghost.
Slowly, Mycelle slipped from her saddle and waved for Grisson to remain. She 
feared startling this apparition away. She wanted to discover why this ghost 
haunted her. As she slipped into the moonlit glade, the figure finally shifted 
in her direction with a rustle of leaves. As it kept its head bowed in shadows, 
a single arm lifted toward Mycelle, beckoning her.
Near enough, Mycelle saw that the cloak was actually an intricate patchwork of 
green and autumn leaves. Even the shades hand was gloved in foliage. Not a 
speck of skin showed. But Mycelle knew no skin could show. Under the leaves was 
nothing but a hollow shell.
Suddenly, from behind Mycelle, a low whine arose. She glanced over to find 
Fardale standing at the glades edge. His amber eyes were huge and aglow with an 
inner light. The melody of the song ended.
Mycelle swung around, fearful that the wolfs appearance had chased the 
apparition away. But she found the singer still standing in the glades center, 
silent now, but with an arm still stretched toward Mycelle, palm up as if 
begging for a copper.
Unsure what to do, Mycelle turned to instruct Fardale to fetch the others. But 
instead she found Fardale wagging his tail with a strange whine flowing from his 
throat. Mycelle stared into the wolfs amber eyes and opened her mind to him. 
She begged Fardale to tell her what his wolfish senses perceived. He might have 
some clue as to why this ghost persisted in haunting her trails.
She only received one mental picture from the wolf: a blact acorn. She blinked 
at this response, remembering the sprouting oak seed she had found in the 
discarded piles of leaves after she had first met the singer. Was the wolf 
trying to tell her that the apparition wanted it back? Frowning, she turned to 
find the singer still frozen with an arm outstretched.
Fardale whined again, deep in his throat.
Mycelle backed to her horse, refusing to look away. Fetch the others, she 
ordered the wolf.
Fardale hesitated, then spun away.
Mycelle searched her pack. How did Fardale or this apparition know she had not 
discarded the acorn? Mycelle had thought of doing just that many times, but the 
tiny green shoot peeking from under the acorns cap had always stopped her. It 
was a living thing, and Mycelle could not simply cast it to the stone or into 
the trash.
But where was the cursed seed now?
As Mycelle searched, she kept glancing back at the leaf-shrouded figure. The 
mysterious singer had not moved.
Fishing through a side pocket of a pack, her fingers found the familiar shape of 
the smooth and oddly warm seed. Mycelle slipped it free just as the others of 
her party came thundering around the forests edge. She held a palm out to slow 
them, then waved them off their horses.
Once they dismounted, she led the others toward the glade.
Krais gruff voice was ill suited to whispering. Who is that?
Mycelle shook her head and stepped forward. Once near enough, Mycelle reached 
out and placed her acorn in the foliage-wrapped palm. It shone brightly, limned 
in moonlight for all to see.
Mogweed spoke from behind her, shock in his voice. Thats the acorn I gave to 
Elena! From the sp-spider forest!
The shades fingers closed over the seed. The apparition raised its fist to its 
chest, head bowed over it. Again the song beganbut its mournful overtures now 
ran with traces of hope.
No one moved.
As they watched, a soft glow arose from the figure as the song continued. 
Mycelle stared and knew it was not the outer cloak that shone, but something 
inside. Its internal glow shone out from between the patchwork of leaves, like a 
distant hearth seen through trees.
Whats happening? Tyrus asked brusquely.
Mycelle hushed him.
The song grew stronger and richer, less ethereal. The glow also grew sharper, 
almost blinding. Mycelle lifted a hand to shield her eyes. Then, in a single 
heartbeat, the song ended; the brilliance winked out.
It took a moment for the dazzle to fade from Mycelles eyes. She saw that the 
figure still remained in the glade, a sculpture in leaves.
Suddenly, a sharp gust blew into the glade. The figure shuddered as if it found 
the breeze chilling. With this small movement, the apparitions cloak fell to 
the forest floor, scattering into leaves that whirled a bit in the wind. This 
time the singer did not vanish with the breeze.
Among the discarded foliage stood a woman of simple beauty. In the moonlight, 
her skin was the color of cream. Her bowed face and upper body were draped 
modestly in long tresses the hue of warm honey.
Posing in the moonlight, the womans fist still lay clutched to her throat. 
Slowly she lowered her arm, opening her hand. The acorn was a hollow shell, 
split into halves. The singer dropped it to the leaf-strewn floor, then raised 
her face toward them all. In the starlight, her eyes were the deepest violet.
Mogweed coughed and stumbled away. Neelahn!

TWO NIGHTS LATER, ELENA STOOD BEFORE A FULL-LENGTH LOOKING
glass and frowned. For the victory celebration, she had been primped and dressed 
like some porcelain doll. Her hair had been woven and pinned atop her head, with 
just the barest trickle of curl allowed to dangle alongside the small diamonds 
that now studded her earlobes. She was bound in a gown of soft green velvet with 
a deeper green sash and matching gloves. Her hem draped full to the woven rug 
and completely hid her silver slippers, which were each adorned with a single 
silk rose.
Behind her, two wasp-thin women appraised her with pursed lips. Their silvery 
hair had long gone gray. According to Meric, these were his two aunts. The pair 
were also the ones to blame for Elenas current predicament.
This will have to do, Ashmin said with clear dissatisfaction.
Carolin smiled slightly at the other. You judge too harshly. You just need to 
see it move. The older woman waggled her fingers at Elena, and a small breeze 
blew into the castle chamber and billowed the gown around her. See? The dress 
is meant to move.
Ashmin sighed loudly. If we were back in Stormhaven
Of course, Sister, then I would hide my head in shame to present even a servant 
girl in such attire.
Tapping a finger against her chin, Ashmin tilted her head. Maybe we should try 
the pale rose gown again.
Before Elena could scream, a knock at the door interrupted the
aunts. Elena! a voice called out. It was Joach. Everyones been gathered in 
the hall now for almost a fortnight. Ive been sent to escort you.
Elena thanked the Sweet Mother for her salvation. Im coming now! She glared 
to her two torturers, daring them to object. Ashmin threw her hands in the air. 
It will just have to do. Carolin grasped her sisters hand. She looks lovely. 
You have worked wonders.
Elena rolled her eyes and proceeded to the door. She wanted to run, but the gown 
and slippers forced her to a shuffling walk. She reached for the latch, but 
Ashmin was already there. Elena frowned at the magickal quickness of the womans 
elvin feet.
Ashmin lifted the latch and pulled the door wide. It was not done in courtesy or 
in respect for Elenas lineage to their ancient king, but for a more practical 
reason. You mustnt soil those gloves. Keep your hands folded under your bosom 
as we showed you. You are an elvin princess, child.
Elena frowned but obeyed. The old womans tone was too motherly to ignore.
Beyond the doorway, Joach stepped forward from the hall. So far, he had remained 
speechless. His mouth hung open as his eyes traveled from her slippered toes to 
her pinned hair. Youre beautiful! His words would have been complimentary if 
they had not been spoken with such sheer disbelief.
Still, Elena smiled. She was a princess after all. And I see they scrubbed you 
enough to find a man under all the usual filth.
Joach straightened his shoulders proudly, posing slightly to showcase his 
attire. His hair had been oiled and combed out of its normal tangle. The small 
reddish brown beard he had started to grow had been clipped and contoured. If 
Elena had not known better, Joach could have passed as some rich lordling. His 
pants were a hue of green so deep they appeared almost as black as the boots he 
wore. Tucked into a thick black belt was a shirt of spun silver overlaid with a 
sleeveless green jerkin.
Elena shook her head slightly. Joachs outer garment was the same hue as her 
gown. Clearly the two aunts had had some hand in his attire. If Joach was to be 
her escort, then of course the two must complement one another.
Ashmin bowed, stiff from the waist. My prince, she said, formal
and warm. You are looking most handsome. My niece will be well pleased.
Joach returned her bow, then slipped an arm under Elenas elbow. Thank you, 
ladies. But our guests await. Joach guided her away.
At a safe distance, Elena leaned to Joachs ear. What did you do to win a civil 
tongue from Lady Ashmin? What was that about her niece ?
Joach smiled, though his lips had a twist of exasperation. Since these elvin 
learned that, as your brother, I also share the blood of their lost king, every 
elvin mother with a daughter has found her way to my door.
Elena squeezed his arm in sympathy. Im sorry, Joach. But at least Im no 
longer the sole heir to half the elvin heritage. She grinned at her brother. 
Believe me, Im glad to have you share this with me.
Thanks, El, Joach said sourly.
Too soon, they reached the double doors that led into one of the many halls of 
the Edifice. This room had been chosen for the ceremony due to its lack of 
damage from smoke and bloodshed. But the rest of the castle had not fared as 
well. It would take many moons to repair a tenth of the damage.
Elena sighed at how much work still lay ahead. But once done, it would be well 
worth it. The island would become a foothold against the Gulgotha. For the 
first time in five centuries, Aloa Glen would once again be a bastion of hope. 
And they meant to keep it that way!
Around the island, three forces kept constant guard. The seas themselves were 
watched from below by merai outriders who searched and questioned any ship that 
neared. Closer to the island, the remaining fleets of the Drerendi rode the 
waves in armed patrols, daring anyone who challenged their dragon-prowed might. 
Above the city itself were the ever-present warships of the elvin, plying the 
clouds and watching the skies for threats from above. For now, the island 
remained
secure.
Meanwhile, word of their victory had already spread. Boats from many lands were 
beginning to investigate. Elena had heard that a trading ship from the distant 
jungles of Yrendl, the old homeland of Mama Freda, had even docked at the island 
to share information. The captain had heard tales of the return of Aloa Glen 
and had come to see for himself.
At the castle itself, men and women had labored for the past two days and nights 
to prepare for the coming celebration.
A feast had been planned for this night, to raise mugs and voices to their 
victory. And to mark the beginning of the festivities, Elena had a role to play. 
With the rising of the moon, she was to open the Blood Diary for the first time 
and read the prophetic words written therein. Supposedly her magick had the 
power to bring the blank book to life. But that was yet to be proven. So much 
was based on the words of long-dead prophets. Who knew for sure if it would even 
work?
As the doors to the great hall were swung open before her, dread at what might 
be revealed by the book suddenly constricted her chest. Elena found it difficult 
to breathe as the music in the cavernous hall washed over her. Distantly, Elena 
heard someone announce their arrival.
Gentle clapping greeted their appearance.
Joach led her inside. She was overwhelmed by the press of people. Walking arm in 
arm, the two passed down a narrow aisle between tables laden with wines and 
ales, cheeses and herbed breads. And a more sumptuous feast was still to come.
At long last, the aisle emptied into a central court. Elena glanced around. 
Framing the four sides of the open space were long dining tables of polished 
mahogany. Seated at each table were the representatives of the various parties 
who had come to her aid.
On her right, Elena nodded to Meric, who sat beside his mother, the elvin 
queen. Merics older brother, the regal Richald, sat stiffly on the queens 
other side. Elena met Queen Tratals eyes for a moment. The silver-haired woman 
bowed her head slightly, not with any warmth, just as one woman of the royal 
blood acknowledging another. Elena smiled more warmly at Meric, quietly thanking 
him for saving the island by bringing the warships to their aid.
Elena turned next to the more boisterous table on her left. Kast sat with Sy-wen 
among a party of Bloodriders who were well into their cups of ale. Elena 
recognized one member, a striking man named Hunt. He had come to the castle to 
represent the Drerendi fleet. The mans father, the high keel, had been gravely 
wounded in the battle and still rested in Mama Fredas ward. From this table, 
Sy-wen smiled at Elena, as did Kast. But Elena noticed how the two
held each others hands. She sensed the pairs pleasure lay more in the company 
of each other than in this feast.
As Joach led Elena to the center of the open court, she noted that the table 
across from her was only sparsely occupied. It seemed that even a feast could 
not lure many of the merai from the sea. Among the few here, Elena recognized 
only one. She nodded to Linora, surprised to see the elder present for the 
feast. Elena had heard that Linora still sorely grieved the loss of her bonded 
dragon and the passing of her husband. But from the way her gaze kept flickering 
to her daughter, Elena could guess the womans reason for coming. Through the 
cloud of sorrow behind Linoras eyes, a glimmer of joy shone as she watched her 
daughter discover love. Elena left the merai woman to her tiny island of 
happiness.
As Elena drew near the last table, a full smile bloomed to her lips, and tears 
rose to her eyes as she greeted her friends. Tolchuk sat in the center, hulking 
and towering over the others. Someone had managed to outfit the ogre in finery 
that ill fitted him. He seemed ready to tear the linens from his body at any 
moment, but so far had refrained. As their gazes met, Tolchuk rolled his eyes 
but grinned, exposing his fangs. Elena waved a hand across her own elaborate 
finery, indicating her understanding of his discomfort. They shared an amused 
smile.
Beside the ogre sat Mama Freda; her pet tamrink sat crouched atop a wheel of 
cheese on the table, nibbling at his perch. The three zool sailors sat on 
Tolchuks opposite side with the boy Tok among them. The small lads eyes were 
wide at the pageantry of the night. Elena thanked them all with a nod. The zool 
and Tok had sailed the Pale Stallion to the island after the war, delivering her 
mare, Mist, to a makeshift stable beside the docks. Elena visited the horse each 
morning with a bit of dried apple. The mare seemed happy to discover solid 
ground under her hooves again.
Elena moved farther down the table. As she spotted the empty seats and settings, 
her smile faded and tears flowed anew. Places had been prepared for Flint and 
Moris as a remembrance to the two Brothers sacrifice. This castle had once been 
their home. They had given their lives to turn it over to her and the others. 
Swallowing back a sob, Elena had to turn away from the empty chairs.
As she swung around and wiped at her tears, she saw one last
figure step forward from the opposite aisle of the court. Erril carried the 
Blood Diary in his hands. But his hands might as well have been empty; Elena was 
blind to anything but the man himself. His hair, combed and curried like a 
stallions after a run, shone with the rich hues of a ravens wing. His skin was 
ruddy from the heat of the hall, almost aglow with the hues of the setting sun. 
Under a midnight-black jerkin, he wore a silvery gray shirt that matched his 
eyes. As he moved toward her, Elena watched how the silk slid over the firm 
muscles of his shoulders and arms. Not even this handsome attire could hide the 
mans power; he was something raw and wild.
Erril crossed to stand before her. He suddenly knelt and offered her the book. 
The rose on its cover glimmered in the hall. Accept your birthright, Elena.
She took the book, then his hand. She pulled Erril to his feet. Only if you 
swear to stand beside me, Erril, for all times. In the past, a mage needed a 
liegeman at his side, to keep him honest, to keep him humble. She stared into 
his eyes. Be my liegeman.
Shock froze his face, as if her words had stung him. His own words were 
strained. Y-you do not know what you ask. She touched his hand. I think I 
do, she whispered. He looked into her eyes, silent, as if about to say 
something. Elena suddenly knew he would refuse. He had already sacrificed five 
hard centuries of his life. He had earned his freedom. What right did she have 
to beg him to stay? She opened her mouth to rescind her offer, but then Erril 
knelt again on one knee.
He reached to her hand and held it between his two palms. My heart made its 
oath to you long ago. If you will have me, I will always be at your side.
Tears again rose in her eyes. She pulled on his arms. Rise, my liegeman.
Erril stood and moved to his place at her shoulder.
Elena found the others eyes all staring at her expectantly. It was time. She 
lifted the book and took a step forward. She had delayed long enough. If Erril 
was strong enough to oath-bind himself to her once again, she could at least 
face her own responsibility.
The dread she had felt before entering the hall was gone. With Erril at her 
shoulder, she could face anythingeven the Blood Diary. Slowly she peeled off 
the green gloves, revealing her two
hands ripe with the Rose. Her palms seemed almost to glow in the torchlight.
A murmur rose from the crowd at the sight.
Elena ignored the onlookers and glanced to the book. In her bared hands, she 
felt the Diarys power, a warm coal in her fingers. Before she lost the iron in 
her heart, Elena snapped open the rose-engraved cover.
She gasped, stumbling back.
In her grip, the book flared from a warm coal to a fiery agony, as if she 
clutched a flaming brand by its burning end. But she did not let go. She knew 
this pain. It was the same as when she had grabbed Joachs staff. She felt blood 
magick rip from her palms, feeding the book. Still, Elena hung on. She sensed 
that to let go now would spell disaster. Tears ran down her cheeks.
Elena? Erril took a step nearer.
No, she choked out. Stay back!
At her words, a sharp brilliance flared from the open pages, blinding her, 
searing into her mind. Then, as quickly as it came, the light vanished, taking 
the pain with it. Elena blinked away the residual glare. The book became a 
cooling balm in her hands. Relieved, Elena straightened, glancing down into the 
Diary.
What Elena found within the tome so startled her that she almost cast it away. 
Erril steadied her with a touch on her shoulder, then leaned to gaze with her 
into the book. She heard his sharp intake of breath. Elena spoke to the 
plainsman, hoping he had an answer. Erril, where are the pages?
There was no book between the tattered coversthere was another world. The open 
book became a window to a landscape of black voids, dense-packed stars, and 
clouds of gases in a rainbow of sharp hues. Suddenly an insubstantial figure 
composed of foggy light swept up and through the window and into this world.
All around the room, chairs toppled as the celebrants retreated back. Weapons 
were drawn, but none dared approach.
Erril pulled Elena back.
Oblivious of their panic, the foggy form settled calmly to the halls marble 
floor, swirling and spinning with an inner glow that whispered of moons and 
stars. Slowly, the mist drew tighter, fog becoming substance. Arms and legs 
stretched out, ablaze with the same fire
that had marked the rose on the books cover. The misty light grew
even denser until actual features could be seen.
Before the transformation was complete, Elena recognized the
stern expression of the apparition. Soon what was once a glowing
mist of scintillating light became a sculpture carved of moonstone.
The apparition from the book faced Elena and the others.
Elenas heart eased. She knew this woman: the thin, unforgiving
lips; the small nose that tilted slightly up at its tip; the hair bound in a 
severe braid, woven out of harms way while its owner labored at baking. Elena 
named their visitor. Aunt Fila? After so much strangeness, this familiar face 
was most welcome.
Then the shade spoke, and all sense of family and old homes shattered. The voice 
was cold, echoing up from some distant plane. Behind the words, stars died, and 
worlds were burned to ash. As Greshym had hidden behind the face of Elena a few 
days back, now something larger and even stranger hid behind Aunt Filas face.
Weare Cho, the figure said, cocking its head and studying them as some bird 
might examine a spider for a meal. The void has been opened, she stated with a 
nod toward the book in Elenas hand, and the bridge has been sacrificed. Her 
other hand indicated the form she wore.
Elena raised a fist to her throat. Who are you? What have you done to Aunt 
Fila? 
The apparition bent its head. We are Cho. We are Fila. The words were spoken 
with finality, as if this should be clear enough. Then the woman cocked her head 
as if she was listening to something from far off. We understand.
Somehow Elena knew this last statement was not meant for her. As she watched 
with Erril at her shoulder, the carving of glowing moonstone seemed to relax, 
almost as if something warmer had entered the sculpture.
When the apparition next spoke, Elena knew it was her dead aunt. Even Filas 
familiar tired smile appeared. The eyes wandered up and down her nieces form. 
Elena, honey, youve grown since last we talked, but youll have to explain how 
that happened later. Right now, I must be quick. Healing you earlier took most 
of this moons power.
Elena shook her head, trying to shake one of the thousand questions loose from 
her skull. What ? Who was that other?
As usual, Aunt Fila sensed her confusion. She raised a hand. Calm yourself. Not 
even I can explain everything yet. But I can answer your question. Cho is the 
being who has granted you your power. She is a creature of neither form nor 
substance. She is light and energy, magick and power. As we live on this world, 
she lives in the void between stars and travels among them. Elenas eyes grew 
wide.
I will give you more details later, my dear. For now, I must be brief. The book 
is your only link to communicate and understand Cho. And my spirit is the bridge 
between the Blood Diary and this being. She shares my spirit and uses it to 
travel from the stars to the book. But there are limits to even this, rules you 
must follow.
Like what?
First, you ignited the book under a full moon, so the path can only be opened 
during one of the three nights when the moon is most ripe. Otherwise, during the 
day or any other night, it is only a font of power. It will help protect and 
heal you, but only to a point. It is not limitless. Even on the night of a full 
moon, it takes power to maintain this connection. For this cycle, we used much 
of it to heal you, so now we must be brief until the next cycle of the moon. In 
the coming moons, Cho and I will use these nights to teach and train you for 
what must come next.
And what is that?
For now, just rest. You have done much. Use the autumn and winter moons to firm 
this foothold in the Black Hearts domain. It will be needed.
But what is to- come after that? When do we take the fight to Blackhall and the 
Gulgotha?
Aunt Fila glanced around the room at the gathered forces. Elena sensed that she 
was leaving much unsaid, especially in front of so many eyes.
What is it, Aunt Fila? What are you holding back? 
There is much I still dont understand. Cho has just joined me, but she is so 
foreign that not all is clear. When she thinks about Chi, there is much I dont 
understand.
Erril stepped forward, his voice bitter. What of Chi? What have you learned?
Aunt Fila squinted and scratched behind one ear thoughtfully. Its confusing. 
Cho and Chi are somehow partnered. They are
familial, like brother and sister or husband and wife but then again not. They 
are also opposites. Man and woman, white and black, positive and negative. Its 
all very strange. Fila glanced to Erril. All I know for certain is that Cho 
returned to this world to find Chi. It took her five hundred of our winters to 
return here after first sensing Chis disappearance.
Erril scowled. Then she came a long way for nothing, he commented sourly. 
Chi is gone.
No, Erril. One thing is clear from Cho: Chi never left. He is still here 
somewhere. That is why Cho has returned and why she has granted Elena her power. 
The witch was forged to be Chos warrior upon this world, while the Blood Diary 
is Chos eyes and ears. Aunt Filas shade blew forth with a fiercer light. 
This is Elenas true purpose! Not to fight the Dark Lord, but to find Chi!
Elena shook her head, confused. I dont understand. How? Before Elena could 
question the woman further, Aunt Filas form began to dissipate into a fog.
I can speak no longer. The connection wears thin for this cycle. Aunt Fila 
reached to Elena. You have done well, child. Rest now until the next moon. We 
will talk more then.
The shade of Aunt Fila became mist and seeped back into the book. The glow 
spread over the Blood Diary, obscuring the view into the starry landscape. As 
the light faded, Elena found herself staring at blank pages in a tattered book. 
She closed the tome, flipping the cover up. Even the rose on its cover was dull, 
no longer shining with any inner fire. It was just plain gilt, flaking at its 
edges.
Elena turned to Erril. The plainsmans face had grown pale. How are we 
supposed to find Chi? she whispered.
He shook his head. Well ponder such mysteries later, Elena. He waved to the 
crowd. For now, a party awaits. The banquet minstrels began tentatively to 
strike up their instruments.
Elena frowned. Right now she wished nothing more than to be left alone. Too much 
had happened, too much to digest. Still, she took Errils arm. Duty called to 
her even this night.
As MIDNIGHT PASSED, ErrIL STALKED DOWN THE CROWDED PASSAGEWAY
outside the great hall, searching for Elena. She had slipped away
from him and vanished while he was momentarily distracted by a toast. But Erril 
could guess where she had gone. After the endless stream of courses during the 
feast, the hall had grown stifling. He had noticed how flushed and melancholy 
Elena had grown by the time dessert was served. Maybe she had sought fresh air.
Finally reaching the renovated doors to the central courtyard, Erril pushed 
through. It was a warm evening, but after the press of bodies, the open air 
still felt refreshingly cool. Erril searched the court. Though the worst of the 
debris had been cleared from the yard, it would be a long time before even a 
glimmer of its former beauty could be restored. In a corner lit by torches, a 
foursome of minstrels played quietly. Since the residual reek of smoke in the 
yard was too potent a reminder of the war, the musicians had only one listener 
in attendance.
Erril approached the single spectator. His large bulk appeared like a boulder 
fallen from the castle heights. The ogre did not turn as Erril approached, but 
he did speak. If you be looking for Elena He pointed an arm toward the 
westernmost tower. In his raised claw was his tribes heartstone talisman. It 
shone like a faded rose in moonlight.
Tolchuk lowered his arm, cradling the stone again in his lap. From the ogres 
slumped shoulders, Erril sensed his melancholy. He knew the source of the 
ogres distress. All the past days victories winning the war, recovering the 
book, retaking the islandhad failed to help the ogre in his one goal: to free 
the Heart of his people from the Bane. His peoples spirits continued to fade in 
the stone.
Tolchuk:..?
The ogre turned more of his back toward Erril. I be fine, but she needs you, 
Erril. Go to her.
Erril glanced to the towers parapets. Far above, moonlight outlined a small 
figure leaning on the stones tower. She shouldnt be up there alone.
Tolchuk grunted, half in amusement. You dont need an excuse, r ril.
He blinked. Wh-what do you mean?
Tolchuk just shook his head, exasperated. Humans. Tolchuk waved an arm. 
Go!
Errils feet were already moving. He needed to make sure she was
safe. He reentered the castle and wound his way toward the western tower.
As he climbed the long stair, he thought back to the last time the two had been 
atop a tower together. He recalled the long embrace they had shared and cursed 
himself. He shouldnt have let his emotions rule him then. Erril touched the 
hilt of the silver sword in its new filigreed sheath. This is all he should be 
to herher liegeman and nothing more. It was time to dig out these other 
feelings that had taken root in his heart. They were weeds that would weaken 
him, choke his ability to protect her.
He must be her sword, nothing more.
With this new determination in his heart, he followed his way to the towers 
roof. The trapdoor was open. He paused before stepping out. A sharp breeze 
flowed down the throat of the staircase. Erril took a moment to appreciate the 
fresh air. From the towers height, the winds carried no smoke or banner of war. 
Erril closed his eyes and allowed the winds to rush over him, cleansing him.
Once ready to face Elena, Erril climbed the last steps to the roof. Elena did 
not hear him. She just stared out to the skies beyond the parapet. Moonlight 
bathed her in silver, while starlight danced along her gown.
Erril suddenly could not breathe.
Sadness and loneliness shone from her as bright as the moon.
His heart ached. At that moment, he knew he could never be content with being 
just her sword. He wanted to be her moon and stars, her sun and sea. He wanted 
to be everything to her.
Erril gazed at her in wonder, and he knew he must lock away these desires 
forever. Elena had the weight of worlds on her small shoulders. He could burden 
her no further. But from here, he could no longer deny his own heart either. He 
loved her. It was that simple.
Though he would never speak of his deeper feelings, he would strive to be more 
than just her sword, her liegeman. He would do his best to protect hereven from 
the despair he saw in her now.
Still dressed in her finery, Elena stood atop the tower once called the 
Praetors Spear. Already it had been renamed the Witchs Sword after the sole 
occupant of its highest chamber. Overhead, elvin ships glided silently by, 
blocking the stars, then moving on.
She stared at the sky. The moon was on its descent. Midnight was well past.
Still, the sounds of revelry echoed up to her from the streets and castle below. 
The whole city was in celebration and would be until dawn. She eavesdropped on 
the merrymakers: the strike of drum, the strum of lyre, the bawdy songs of men 
glad to be alive. But under it all, there remained a vein of sorrow. The 
laughter from below had a strained edge to it. Even the calls of the celebrants 
were often tearful.
Done with her duties, Elena had retreated to her rooms as soon as possible, 
taking the Blood Diary with her. She needed a moment of quiet to contemplate 
Aunt Filas story of the twin spirits, Chi and Cho, whose destinies intersected 
with her own. She shook her head. It was too much to ponder for one night. She 
would simply take Aunt Filas advice to rest and wait for the next full moon. 
Hopefully then she would learn more.
Glancing to the Blood Diary in her hands, she traced a finger along the twisting 
stem of the rose to the warm blossom in the center. So many lives had been lost 
for this. A voice spoke behind her. Elena?
She turned to find Erril standing behind her. How long had he been there? He 
still wore the earlier fineries of the evening, but his eyes shone with a new 
light, something she could not name. The breezes atop the tower had loosened his 
hair, fluttering it over his face. Im sorry to disturb you, he said, his 
voice quiet. But Tolchuk noted you from the courtyard below. Its not safe to 
expose yourself alone to the night like this. He moved near her. As your 
liegeman, I should always be at your side when you venture out.
Sighing, Elena turned away. She glanced to the stars. Cant we ever have a 
normal moment, Erril? she asked sourly. Listen. Music is playing, and the 
night is bright. Must we always act as if we are about to be attacked? Cant I 
just have a moment to pretend Im not a witch? Pretend that the fate of Alasea 
does not depend on where I take my next step?
She turned to find him staring sternly at her, all iron and solidity. Under his 
gaze, she instantly felt like a churlish child. What right did she have to 
complain when so many others had lost so much more? She lowered her eyes. Im 
sorry
He simply stepped toward her and held out one arm.
She was unsure what he was offering. May I have this dance? he whispered 
softly to her. Elena failed to hide the surprise on her face. Only then did she 
hear a familiar Highland tune rising on the winds from street minstrels below. 
It was a common dance from her own lands.
A smile haunted Errils lips as he suddenly recognized the tune, too. It seems 
Tolchuk sensed the heaviness of your heart, too.
Elenas cheeks flushed as the plainsman stepped nearer. Erril stood over her, 
arms out. The nights breeze carried his scent to her, warm and familiar. Before 
she could balk, Erril took her hand in his. He guided her gently into his arms. 
Tentatively, they began to move to the music. The first few steps were awkward 
as they danced cautiously across the stones.
Soon, though, they found their rhythms and began to move in step, quicker and 
more joyous now. Elena allowed herself to be led, circling and turning in unison 
with the larger man. Errils palm blazed like a flame at the base of her back 
as he guided her, teasing her to keep up.
As he pulled her into a tight spin, a small laugh escaped her lips. The sound 
surprised her.
For a witch with the fate of Alasea riding on your next step, youre awfully 
light on your feet, he said with a sly grin.
Soon Elena could not stop laughing in his arms. They spun and spun with the 
stars whirling overhead. The world beyond the parapets faded away. There were 
just the two of them, the music, and the moon.
Then, after a final giddy twirl, with both dancers breathless, the musics 
cadence slowed to something more languid but no less passionate. Elenas 
laughter quickly died.
Erril still held her, but again the awkwardness rose between them.
He began to step back, but Elena tightened her grip on him. She did not want him 
to step away, not this night. He relented and moved nearer.
As/the music grew, Elena reached and pulled the pins from her hair,/ She shook 
out her fiery curls. For this one night, she no longer wanted to be a witch or 
a savior. She let all this drop away with the pins to the floor. She would just 
be a woman.
Erril pulled her near, and they slowly swayed to the music from below. Elena 
did not know when she began crying, but Erril offered
no words. None would have helped. He just held her close to his heart as the 
music played long into the night.
And so as Erril and Elena slowly dance toward dawn, I must end this section of 
her story. With the War of the Isles won, it is time for the land to heal and 
prepare for the coming days of darknessand, trust me, those days will come.
So allow our friends a moment of well-earned peace. Pick a partner. Stroll the 
streets. Raise a mug of ale to their victory, and join the celebration. For it 
wont last long. Soon the dogs of the Black Heart will be loosed from their 
ebonstone shackles to ravage the land.
And the gods themselves will learn to scream.