James Clemens - Book 4 of the Banned and the Banished saga - Witch Gate

 
FOREWORD TO WITCH GATE
Proctor Serwa Deia, Chairman and President of University Press
Treach.er.y, trech 3.re, n. (i) breach of allegiance, faith, or confidence (2) 
an act against the Commonwealth (3) disparagement of the Law by word or print 
(synonyms: betrayal, knavery, double-cross, villainy, treason, Scroll-kissed)
Encyclopedia of Common Usage, Fifth Edition
Read again the definition above; then look around the class-room, a chamber once 
filled with bright-eyed, eager scholars. How many students still remain after 
the study of the first three Kelvish Scrolls?
See the empty seats.
By this point, statistically, two-thirds of each years students fail to pass 
the rigorous psychological examinations following their study of the Scrolls. As 
you know, those who were found wanting were shipped to the sanitariums of Da 
Borau, where they await the painful surgeries to dull their minds and remove 
their tongues. But I am not here to speak of the fallen ones, those slack-jawed 
unfortunates dubbed the Scroll-kissed. Instead, I write this foreword for 
those of you who have successfully passed these tests and have been deemed of 
sufficient constitution to read and study the fourth of these banned texts.
This warning is for you.
In the past, many students have grown haughty after succeeding this far in their 
course of study, but now is not the time to lift toasts to one anotherfor ahead 
lie pitfalls that may yet capture the unwary. Herein lies the path to treachery.
The forewords to the other texts admonished you about the nefarious nature of 
the Scrolls author, declaring the madman of Kell to be a liar and a deceivera 
snake in the grass, if you will. Now it is my turn to expand upon the dangers 
that yet await you.
In the past years of study, you have experienced the hiss of the snake. You have 
carried the beast in your hands, in your school bags. You have fallen asleep 
with it at your bedside. But do not be lulled by its pleasant caress or its 
pleasing colors. They mask the hidden poison of the beast.
Only now, while you are dulled to the danger, will the snake begin to show its 
true demeanor. In this book, while you look elsewhere, the snake will raise up 
and strike! That is what Ive come to warn you: This book has fangs.
So beware its bite!
Even as I write these words, I can hear the whispered scoffing. Do you doubt me? 
Look around your hall once again. Not at each other, but at the empty seats. 
Already the Scrolls have claimed many of your fellow classmates.
In this fourth volume, the author will continue his assault upon your sanity, to 
try to win you to his will, to spread his poison throughout your body. But I 
hope to give you the antidote to this toxin.
A cure in two simple words: knowledge and guidance.
To attempt to read these cursed scrolls on your own would be like pressing a 
viper to your breast, inviting death. Scholars of the past have devised this 
course of study to keep the poison from your minds, so be mindful of your 
lessons.
It is imperative that you listen to your instructors. Obey their every order, 
complete every assignment, and most important of all, do not read ahead on your 
own. Therein lies your only hope. Even a single page could corrupt the 
ill-prepared. So do not stray from the path of instruction, a track well-worn by 
the heels of previous scholars. Without this guidance, you would surely be lost 
among the weeds and tall grasseswhere the snakes are waiting.
So be forewarned one last time: There is poison in these pages.
Poi.son, poi zon, n. v. (i) a substance that taints, corrupts, or destroys (2) 
the act of administering a toxin, venom, or deadly draught (3) to alter ones 
perception of right and wrong (i.e., to poison anothers mind), (synonyms: 
corruption,perversion, venom, bane, miasma, contagion, disease)
Encyclopedia of Common Usage, Fifth Edition
Assignation of Responsibility for the Fourth Book
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 nonclassmate is strictly forbidden. By signing below and placing 
your fingerprint; you accept aft responsibility and release the university from 
any damage the text may cause you (or t those aroundyou) by its perusal.
Signature
Date
Place inked print of the fourth finger 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
proper authorities for safe retrieval. Failure to do so can lead to
your immediate arrest and incarceration.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
WITCH GATE
Sung in ice but born in thunder, So the Land wad torn asunder.

I FIND MYSELF GROWING RESTLESS AGAIN. LATELY, THE WITcH HAS BEEN
calling to me in my dreams to complete her tale; she whispers in my ear as I 
walk about the city. At times, I swear I feel her breath on my skin, like the 
itch of a rash. Nowadays, as I go about my errands, I hardly see the streets and 
avenues of my home. I picture other places, other sights: the sun-seared ruins 
of Tular, the broken granite shield of the Northwall. I find myself living in 
the shadowy half-world between past and present.
Ive begun to wonder: If I write again, will I be forever lost in the past? Will 
this land constructed of letters and ink become more real than the air I 
breathe? Will I become mired in memories, doomed for eternity to relive old 
terrors and rare triumphs?
Though I know the risk must be taken, I find I cannot write. I know it is the 
only way to lift her curse of immortality. Only by completing her tale will I 
finally be allowed the balm of death. Yet, in the past moons, Ive begun to 
doubt her promise. What if her ancient words were a trick, a final act of malice 
on the part of the witch?
So for too long a time, I have sat frozen, hovering between terror and 
salvation.
That is, until this morningwhen she sent me a sign!
As I woke with the crowing of a cock and splashed cold water on my face, I 
discovered a miracle in the mirror above my washstand. Nestled within my dark 
locks rested a single gray hair. My heart clenched at the sight; tears blurred 
the miracle. As the mornings fog melted in the rays of the rising sun, I 
refused to move. I dared not
Wit ch (jate even finger that single strand, afraid it might be an illusion. I 
could not face such cruelty. Not now, not after so long.
In that moment, I felt something long dead in my heart spring to lifehopel
I fell to the floor, knees too weak to hold me up any longer. I sobbed for what 
seemed like days. It was a sign, a harbinger of old age, a promise of death.
Once I regained control of my limbs, I rose and touched the strand of gray. It 
was real! The witch had not lied.
This realization shattered the impasse. Without eating, I gathered the tools of 
my craftpen and scrolland set to work. I must finish her tale.
Outside, the winter days have grown muted, as if all color has been bled from 
the world. People huddle down drab streets, wrapped from head to toe in the 
browns and grays of heavy woolens. Beyond the city walls, the snowy hills are 
stained with ash and soot from the hundred smoking chimneys of Kell. It is a 
landscape done in shades of gray and black. Even the skies overhead are cloaked 
by flat, featureless cloudsa massive blank slate.
Midwinter.
It is a storytellers season, a bare canvas that awaits the stroke of a pen to 
bring life and substance back into the world. It is a time when folks crowd 
around hearths, awaiting tales full of brightness and sharp colors. It is the 
season when inns fill up, and minstrels sing bawdy stories of other lands, of 
fire and sunlight. In other seasons, stories are bought with coppersbut not in 
winter. In this season of dull skies and somber hearts, even a poor storyteller 
could find his pot blessed with silver and gold. Such is the hunger for tales in 
winter.
But, of course, with this tale, I seek not gold, but something more valuable, 
something all men are granted at birth but that was stolen from me by a witch. 
I seek only death.
So as the world huddles in the quiet of a winters cloak, I once again begin 
Elenas tale. I ask you to close your eyes and listen. Beyond this season of 
whispers, angry voices are raised. Can you hear them? Men using words like 
swords, hacking and parrying one another And there sits one lone woman, caught 
in the midst of their fury.

I
Elena found her throne an uncomfortable seat. It was a chair meant for someone 
harder and more age-worn than she. Its high, straight back was carved in twining 
roses, the thorns of which could be felt through her silk robe and dress. Even 
its seat was flat and unforgiving, polished ironwood with no pillow to soften 
its hard surface. For ages past, it had been the seat of power for Aloa Glen. 
Both kings and praetors had sat here in judgment, sea-hardened men who scowled 
at the comforts of life.
Even its size was intimidating. Elena felt like a child in the wide and tall 
chair. There were not even armrests. Elena did not know what to do with her 
hands, so she ended up simply folding them in her lap.
One step below her, though it might have been a league away for as much as they 
paid her any attention, was a long table crowded with representatives from every 
faction willing to fight the Gul-gotha. Elena knew what the majority here in 
the Great Hall thought of her. All they saw was a slim woman with pale skin and 
fiery hair. None noticed the pain in her eyes, nor the fearful knowledge of her 
own dread power. To them, she was a pretty bird on a perch.
Elena brushed aside a strand of hair from her face.
All along the length, voices cried to be heard in languages both familiar and 
strange. Two men on the far end were close to coming to blows.
Among the throng, there were those Elena knew well, those who
*_ n vj /t had helped wrest the island of Aloa Glen from the evil rooted here. 
The high keel of the Drerendi Fleet, still bearing his bandages from the recent 
war, bellowed his demands. Beside him, the elvin queen, Merics mother, sat 
stiffly, her long silver locks reflecting the torches radiance, a figure of ice 
and fire. At her elbow, Master Edyll, an elder of the sea-dwelling merai, tried 
continually to force peace and decorum amid the frequently raucous discourse.
But for every familiar face, there were scores of others Elena knew only by 
title. She glanced down the long table of strangers countless figureheads and 
foreign representatives, all demanding to be heard, all claiming to know what 
was best for the war to come with the Gulgotha.
Some argued for scorching the island and leaving for the coast; others wanted to 
fortify the island and let the Dark Lord destroy his armies on their walls; and 
still others wanted to take the fight to Blackhall itself, to take advantage of 
the victory here and destroy the Gulgothal stronghold before the enemy could 
regather its scattered forces. The heated arguments and fervid debates had waged 
now for close to a moon.
Elena glanced sidelong to Erril. Her sworn liegeman stood to the right of her 
seat, arms crossed, face a stern, unreadable mask. He was a carved statue of 
Standish iron. His black hair had been oiled and slicked back as was custom 
along the coast. His wintry eyes, the gray of early morning, studied the table. 
None could guess his thoughts. He had not added one word to the countless 
debates.
But Elena noticed the tightness at the corners of his eyes as he stared. He 
could not fool her. He was growing as irritated as she at the bickering around 
the table. In over a fortnight, nothing had been decided. Since the victory of 
Aloa Glen, no consensus had been reached on the next step. While they argued, 
the days disappeared, one after the other. And still Erril waited, a knight at 
her side. With the Blood Diary in her hands, he had no other position. His role 
as leader and guide had ended.
Elena sighed softly and glanced to her gloved hands. The victory celebration a 
moon ago now seemed like another time, another place. Yet as she sat upon her 
thorny throne, she remembered that long dance with Erril atop her tower. She 
remembered his touch, the warmth of his palm through her silk dress, the whisper 
of his breath, the scuff of beard on her cheek. But that had been their only 
dance. From that night onward, though Erril had never been far from her side, 
they had scarcely shared a word. Just endless meetings from sunrise till 
sundown. But no longer!
Slowly, as the others argued, Elena peeled back her lambskin gloves. Fresh and 
untouched, the marks of the Rose were as rich as spilt blood upon her hands: one 
birthed in moonlight, one born in sunlight. Witchfire and coldfireand between 
them lay stormfire. She stared at her hands. Eddies of power swirled in whorls 
of ruby hues across her fingers and palm.
Elena? Erril stirred by her side. He leaned close to her, his eyes on her 
hands. What are you doing?
I tire of these arguments. From a filigreed sheath in the sash of her 
evergreen dress, she slipped free a silver-bladed dagger. The ebony hilt, carved 
in the shape of a rose, fit easily in her palm, as if it had always been meant 
for her. She shoved aside memories of her Uncle Bol, the one who had christened 
the knife in her own blood. She remembered his words. It is now a witchs 
dagger. Elena Errils voice was stern with caution. Ignoring him, she stood. 
Without so much as a word, she drew the sharp tip across her right palm. The 
pain was but the bite of a wasp. A single drop of blood welled from the slice 
and fell upon her silk dress. Still Elena continued only to stare down the long 
table, silent. None of the council members even glanced her way. They were too 
involved voicing their causes, challenging others, and pounding rough fists on 
the iron wood surface of the table.
Elena sighed and reached to her heart, to the font of wild magicks pent up 
inside. Cautiously, she unfurled slim threads of power, fiery wisps of blood 
magicks that sang through her veins, reaching her bloody palm. A small glow 
arose around her hand as the power filled it. Elena clenched her fist, and the 
glow deepened, a ruby lantern now. She raised her fist high.
The first to spot her display was the aged elder of the merai. Master Edyll 
must have caught the glows reflection off his silver goblet. As the elder 
turned, the wine spilled like blood from his cup. He dropped the goblet with a 
clatter to the tabletop.
Drawn by the noise, others glanced to the spreading stain of wine. Gaze after 
gaze swung to the head of the table. A wave of stunned silence spread across 
those gathered around the table.
Elena met their eyes unflinching. So many had died to bring her here to this 
island: Uncle Bol, her parents, Flint, Moris
And she would speak with their voices this day. She would not let their 
sacrifices be dwindled away by this endless sniping. If Alasea was to have a 
future, if the Gulgothal rule was to be challenged, it was time to move 
forward, and there was only one way to do this. Someone had to draw a line in 
the sand.
I have heard enough, Elena said softly into the stretch of quiet. From her 
glowing fists, fiery filaments crawled down her arm, living threads of reddish 
gold. I thank you for your kind counsel these past days. This night I will 
ponder your words, and in the morning I will give you my answer on the course we 
will pursue.
Down the table, the representative from the coastal township of Penryn stood up. 
Symon Feraoud, a portly fellow with a black mustache that draped below his chin, 
spoke loudly. Lass, I mean no insult, but the matter here does not await your 
answer.
Several heads nodded at his words.
Elena let the man speak, standing silent as fine threads of witch fire traced 
fiery trails down her arm, splitting into smaller and smaller filaments, 
spreading across her bosom and down to the sash of her dress.
The course ahead of us must be agreed by all, Symon Feraoud continued, 
bolstered by the silent agreement of those around him. Weve only just begun to 
debate the matter at hand. The best means to deal with the Gulgothal threat is 
not a matter to be decided over a single night.
A single night? Elena lowered her arm slightly and descended the single step 
to stand before the head of the table. Thirty nights have passed since the 
revelries of our victory here. And your debates have served no other purpose but 
to fracture us, to spread dissent and disagreement when we must be at our most 
united.
Symon opened his mouth to argue, but Elena stared hard at him, and his mouth 
slowly shut.
This evening the moon will again rise full, Elena continued. The Blood Diary 
will open once more. I will take your counsel here and then consult the book. By 
morning, I will bring a final plan to this table.
Master Edyll cleared his throat. For debate?
Elena shook her head. For all your agreements.
Silence again descended over the assembly. But this was not the stunned quiet of 
before, it was a brewing tempestand Elena would not let that squall strike.
Before even a grumble could arise, Elena raised her glowing fist over the table. 
I will brook no further debate. By dawns light tomorrow, I will make my 
decision. She splayed open her hand; flames flickered from her fingers. 
Lowering her hand, she burned her print into the ironwood table. Smoke curled up 
her wrist. She leaned on her arm as she studied each face. Flames licked between 
her fingers. Tomorrow we forge our future. A future where we burn the Black 
Heart from this land.
Elena lifted her palm from the table. Her handprint was burned deep into the 
ironwood, smoldering and coal red, like her own palm. Elena stepped away. 
Anyone who objects should leave Aloa Glen before the sun rises. For anyone 
left on this island who will not abide by my decision will not see that days 
sun set.
Frowns marred most every face, except for the high keel of the Drerendi, who 
wore a hard, satisfied grin, and Queen Tratal of the elvin, whose face was a 
mask of stoic ice.
It is time we stopped being a hundred causes and become one, Elena declared. 
Tomorrow Alasea will be reborn on this island. It will be one mind, one heart. 
So I ask you all to look to your hearts this night. Make your decisions. Either 
join us or leave. That is all that is left to debate.
Elena scanned their faces, keeping her own as cold and hard as her words. 
Finally, she bowed slightly. We all have much to decide, so I bid you a good 
night to seek counsel where you will.
Turning on a heel, she swung from the table where her print still smoldered, a 
reminder of who she was and the power she held. She prayed the display was 
enough. Stepping around the Rosethorn Throne, her skirts brushed softly on the 
rush-covered flagstone. In the heavy hush, time seemed to slow. The heat of the 
assemblys gazes on her back felt like a roaring hearth. She crossed slowly 
toward Erril, forcing her limbs to move calmly.
The swordsman still stood stiff and stoic by the seat. Only his gray eyes 
followed Elena as she neared him. Though his face was hard, his eyes shone with 
pride. Ignoring the plainsmans reaction, she stalked past him and toward the 
side door nearby.
Erril moved ahead to open the heavy door for her.
Once beyond the threshold, Erril stepped to her side, closing the door behind 
him. Well done, Elena. It was time someone shook them up. I didnt know how 
much longer I could stomach their endless
Free of the hall, Elena stumbled, her legs suddenly going weak.
Erril caught her elbow and kept her upright. Elena?
She leaned heavily on her liegeman. Just hold me, Erril, she said shakily, 
her limbs trembling under her. Keep me from falling.
He tightened his grip and stepped nearer. Always, he whispered.
Elena touched his hand with her bare fingers. Though she appeared a grown woman 
in body, in truth, her bewitched form hid a frightened girl from the Highlands. 
Sweet Mother, what have I done? she moaned softly.
Erril turned her slightly and held her at arms length. He leaned closer, 
catching her gaze with his storm-gray eyes. Youve shown them all what they 
were waiting to see.
She glanced down to her toes. And what is that? A mad witch bent on power.
Erril lifted her chin with a single finger. No, youve shown them the true 
face of Alaseas future.
Elena met Errils gaze for a breath, then sighed. I pray youre right. But how 
many will still be at that table when the sun rises tomorrow?
It doesnt matter the number who stand at the table. What is important is the 
strength and resolve of those hearts.
But
Erril silenced her with a shake of his head. Still holding her arm, he urged 
her down the hall. Weve licked our wounds here long enough after the War of 
the Isles. Your instinct is right. It is time to separate the grain from the 
chaff. Those who remain at the table at sunrise will be those ready to confront 
the Black Heart himself.
Elena leaned into the plainsmans support as she walked. The halls through this 
region of the sprawling castle ran narrow and dark, the torches few and far 
between. I hope youre right, Elena finally said.
Trust me.
They continued in silence. Elena quickly regained her legs, pondering Errils 
words. Alaseas future. But what did it hold? Elena frowned. Who could know for 
sure? But whatever path lay ahead, it would have to be tread.
Suddenly, Elenas arm was jerked backward. She was yanked to a stop as Erril 
stepped in front of her. What are you? she started to blurt.
Hush! Errils sword was already out and pointed toward the shadows ahead.
From out of the darkness, a figure stepped forth.
Stand back, Erril barked. Who goes there?
Ignoring the plainsmans brandished weapon, the figure moved another stride 
forward, into the torchlight. He stood a full head shorter than Erril and was 
waspishly thin. Wearing only a pair of knee-length canvas breeches, his dark 
skin shown like carved ebony in the flames glow. The white scar on his forehead 
blazed, the rune of an opening eye.
Elena pushed Errils sword down and stepped nearer. It was one of the zool, 
the tiny warriors who hailed from the jungles that fringed the Southern Wastes. 
They had fought bravely at her side aboard the Pale Stallion.
The dark man bowed his partially bald head. His single long braid of black hair, 
adorned with bits of conch shells and feathers, lay draped over his shoulder.
What are you doing skulking in these halls? Erril asked brusquely, keeping 
his sword unsheathed.
The man raised his eyes toward Elena. They glowed with pain and anguish.
Elena moved a step forward and was surprised to feel Errils grip tighten in 
warning. Would the plainsmans suspicions never end? She shook free of his hand 
and approached the small shaman. Whats wrong?
As answer, the man lifted his arm and opened his hand. Resting on his palm was a 
tarnished silver coin imprinted with the image of a snow leopard.
I dont understand, Elena said. She knew from talking with her brother Joach 
that this small man was considered to be a shaman of his people, what they 
called a tribal wizen. She had also learned that the man had some ability to use 
talismans to speak across vast distances. He had done so with Joach in the past.
The small man raised his coin higher, as if this was explanation enough.
Misunderstanding, Elena reached for the coin, but the mans fingers closed, 
keeping her from touching it. He dropped his hand. He calls, the shaman said, 
backing up a step. Death draws near to all of them.
Erril moved to Elenas side. Who? Who calls?
The small mans eyes flicked toward the plainsman, then back to Elena. He 
struggled with the common tongue. Master Tyrus, the man who rescued my people 
from the slavers.
Erril glanced to Elena. He must mean Lord Tyrus, captain of Port Rawls 
pirates and heir to the throne of Castle Mryl.
Elena nodded. Tyrus was the man who had lured off Mycelle and a trio of her old 
companions: Krai, Mogweed, and Fardale. For two moons now, Elena had heard no 
word of the party, except that they sought to regain Castle Mryl and the 
Northwall from the Dark Lords forces. What do you know of them?
The shaman bowed his head, struggling again with the common tongue. I hear a 
whisper. Pain. Fear. A call for help.
Elena turned to Erril. Theyre in trouble.
Errils lips tightened to a hard frown. Perhaps, but if so, I dont see what 
we can do. They could be anywhere by now, lost deep among the endless forests of 
the Western Reaches.
But there must be a way, she mumbled. She swung to the zool warrior. Did you 
learn anything else?
The shaman shook his head. I hear only one other word. I no understand. A 
curse, I think.
What was it?
The small mans dark face scrunched with thought. Gr-graff-on.
Elenas brows pinched together. She frowned. What did that mean? It was 
nonsense.
Then Erril jolted beside her. Griffin! He stepped nearer the small man. Did 
you say griffin?
The shaman brightened, nodding vigorously. Yes. Graff-on! Yes, yes! His eyes 
were wide, clearly hoping this was significant.
I still dont understand, Elena said.
Erril stood silent, gaze turned inward, brooding on some past event. His voice 
was soft when he spoke, breathless. A Weirgate.
The single word drew a gasp from Elena. Weirgate. The word froze her heart. She 
remembered the massive statue of a monstrous black bird, a mythical wyvern. But 
it was more than just a loathsome sculpture. Carved of ebonstone, it was a foul 
construct of power, a portal to a well of dark magicks called the Weir. Elena 
recalled her minds brief brush with the evil inside the statue. Her skin 
prickled with just the memory. She had almost lost Erril to that evil.
Erril continued to speak. Back when I freed the book, the dark-mage Greshym 
told me of the other Gates. He said there were four. The wyvern we had already 
encountered, but also three more: a man-ticore, a basilisk, and Errils gaze 
fixed back on Elena. and a griffin.
Elena choked on her own words. But but a Weirgate in the Western Reaches? Why? 
What is it doing out there?
I dont know. Greshym hinted at some plan of the Gulgotha. Something to do 
with positioning Weirgates at key sites around Alasea.
Like at Winters Eyrie, Elena added. She remembered that that had been the 
ultimate destination of the Wyvern Gate before they had stopped it. What could 
the Dark Lord be planning?
Even Greshym didnt know, Erril answered, but he nodded toward the zool 
shaman. But obviously, whatever the Black Hearts plan, it poses a danger to 
the others out there.
Elena studied the small warrior. Can you reach Lord Tyrus? Find out more?
He raised the coin again. I try many times. The coin has gone cold. Empty. A 
very bad omen.
Elena straightened. Then what do we do? We cant just ignore this message.
Erril finally sheathed his sword with a sharp snap. It was their choice to 
venture into the western wilds. We cannot spare any forces on a futile search.
But
You have your own battles to fight, Elena. And a night to consult with the 
Blood Diary and decide on a plan for the war council tomorrow. You have burned 
your commitment into the ironwood of the table. You must honor your word.
But how can I? If Aunt My is in danger
Mycelle is a skilled swordswoman and now a full shape-shifter again, Erril 
interrupted sternly. Like the others, she must face the threat with her own 
strength and skill.
Elenas consternation could not be hidden.
Erril gripped her shoulders. I will check with the Brotherhoods library here. 
See what I can find out about these Weirgates. But you must remain focused. 
Youve a long night ahead of you. I suggest you rest, sleep. Put aside these 
worries for this one night.
How can I? she whispered softly and pulled away. How do you shut out your 
heart?
By knowing there is nothing your worrying will do to help Mycelle and the 
others. If you take on their burden and your own, both will suffer.
Elena nodded, her shoulders slumping. Erril was right. She had made a 
commitment to point the various factions in one unifying direction. She had 
asked the leaders around the long table to look to their own hearts and be ready 
to put aside all distractions. Could I do any less now?
She raised her face to Erril and hardened her countenance. I will do as you 
say.
Erril nodded, satisfied. Then lets get you to your room. I will wake you just 
before moonrise.
She nodded and moved forward, suddenly very tired. She touched the zool 
shamans shoulder as she passed him. He still wore a worried, sick expression. 
Whatever he had felt from Lord Tyrus had shaken the man deeply. We will learn 
what we can this day, she promised him. Fear not. If there is something we can 
do, we will.
The shaman bowed his head, pressing the back of his fist to his scarred brow.
Elena moved on down the hall, her thoughts still on her lost friends. Silently, 
she prayed them safe, but in her heart, dread settled like a thick mist inside 
her chest. And within this fog of worry, another emotion flared brighter: a 
growing sense of urgency.
Something was wrong out there.
She knew it as surely as she knew the moon would rise full tonight. And if she 
was to be honest with herself, this dread was not new to this moment. For the 
past two days, everything had seemed wrong to her: sunlight had seemed sallow, 
voices had become stri-dent, food bland, her skin had even seemed to itch 
constantly. Since this morning, Elena had felt as if the walls of the castle 
were closing around her.
In truth, this cloying sense, more than anything else, had driven her to stand 
before the council and demand an accounting of them. Erril may think her brave 
and bold, but honestly, it was only exasperation and worry. She had acted 
because time was narrowing for herfor them all. She had been unable to sit 
quiet any longer.
Elena glanced behind her, searching for the small figure of the zool wizen. But 
the man was gone, swallowed in shadow.
If only her fears would disappear as easily.
From the heights of the easternmost tower of the keep, Tol~ chuk watched the 
salvage work among the docks and through the maze of half-submerged towers 
below. Crouched amid the tumbled blocks of granite and volcanic stone of the 
ruined tower parapet, he was alone with his thoughts. Ever since the elvin 
warships had destroyed the tower, none dared risk the unstable ruinsexcept 
Tol~ chuk. It was his haven.
As he stared, voices from the docks reached up to him. Men called to one 
anothersome in barked orders, some in comradely song. At the seas edge, nets 
and ropes worked at dredging masts and sections of hull from the tangle of 
debris caught among the avenues and streets of the sunken section of Aloa Glen.
It was a daily chore. With each mornings tide, the dregs of the last moons 
slaughter washed ashore. It was as if the Great Deep sought to expel the pain 
and bloodshed from its salty depths. And not only broken ships floated and 
rolled in the stagnant waters, but also the bloated corpses of men, dragons, and 
tentacled monsters. The stench in the morning drew scores of seabirds to the 
feast.
Like marauders in the night, the men and women laboring below wore scraps of 
cloth across their mouths and noses. But the rotting reek did not bother 
Tolchuk. To him, the smell was somehow fitting. Even before the war had 
started, Tolchuk had been unable to cleanse the stench of death from his nose.
Turning his back on the sea, Tolchuk fished out the chunk of crimson heartstone 
from his thigh pouch. Here in the shadows cast by the western section of the 
castle, his stone glowed with its own inner light. Where once it had blazed like 
a ruby sun, it now only shone with a feeble, almost sickly glimmer. Tolchuk 
held the crystal toward the points of the compass: north, east, south, west. 
Nothing. He felt no familiar tug on his heart. The crystal that had once guided 
him did so no longer.
He lifted the crystal toward the evening glow. Deep within the facets, he stared 
at the shadow at its heart: the Bane, the shadow in the stone, a curse laid upon 
his people by the Land itself for an atrocity committed by one of his great 
ancestors, the Oathbreaker. Tolchuk had been assigned to correct his ancestors 
crime by the ancients of his own tribe. He had been gifted with the stone, a 
vessel for his peoples deceased spirits, as a guide. But the Bane had nearly 
completed its curse. It had grown as it fed on his tribes spirits inside the 
crystal. When Tolchuk had begun his quest, the tiny worm had been difficult to 
see through the thousand facets of the crystal, but it was now plainly evident, 
well fed. It was changing, too. Like a caterpillar transforming into a 
butterfly, the Bane had grown into a shadowy creature, curled and lurking inside 
a ruby cocoon. But what was it? What was it becoming?
Tolchuk lowered the large gem.
In truth, what did it matter? The spirits of his ancestors were almost gone, 
eaten away. Tolchuk leaned over the dark stone. Why had the Heart of his tribe 
led him to this witch? Was there a clue hidden in this fact? By helping her, 
would he be helped? He had no way of knowing. But what other course lay open to 
him?
Tolchuk fingered open his pouch as he stared again at the scavengers below. He 
watched the birds wheeling in the sky, crying and cawing over the feast on the 
beach. He saw sharks fighting over a netted corpse. He turned away. Life always 
feeds on death, he thought morosely.
Struggling to force the heartstone back into its pouch, he grumbled and fought 
the straps. Then the stone, as if angry at his tussling, flared bright. Tolchuk 
gasped. The stone rolled from his clawed fingers to rattle across the floor of 
the tower. It settled to a stop beside a toppled pillar. Yet it continued to 
shine like a star.
Tolchuk squinted, eyes tearing from both the pain of the brightness and from 
relief. The Heart had come alive again.
He crawled to his feet, leaning on a knuckled arm. His other hand shaded his 
eyes from the glare. Then a shadow appeared from the very heart of the intense 
ruby sheen. It grew larger with each thunderous heartbeat in Tolchuks ears. 
The darkness swirled up from out of the brightness. Fear froze Tolchuk in 
place. The Bane. It had come to claim him.
Still, Tolchuk did not move. In fact, he straightened from his crouch. If death 
came for him this day, he was ready. The ruby brightness was all but eaten away 
by the swirling blackness. Then the shadows grew denser; the crimson brightness 
an aura around it. Still the brightness stung, like the halo of an eclipsed sun.
The swirling cloud of shadows coalesced on itself, a form taking shape. Even 
with the glare, Tolchuks eyes grew wide at the sight. Soon the image of an 
ogre, sculpted of shadows, grew before him. Hunched, bent-backed, it knuckled 
on an arm the size of a tree trunk, a bristle of spiny fur trailing down its 
bare back. Large eyes, swirls of dark clouds, stared back at Tolchuk. It could 
have been a dark mirror image of himselfand in some ways it was. He stepped 
forward, tears blurring the miracle. Father? The shadowy figure still did not 
move, but a crinkle of amusement seemed to mark its face. Eyes traveled over 
Tolchuks upright form. He-who-walks-like-a-man.
Tolchuk glanced down at his posture, then bent to knuckle on his clawed fist.
No, the figure said, its voice sounding both like a whisper in his ear and a 
call from far away. It spoke in the native ogre tongue. Dont. The Triad named 
you truly.
But, Father?
A shake of shadowy head. I dont have much time. I must speak quickly.
But the Heart? It glows again!
Only for the moment. The dark ogre raised his eyes toward his son. I am the 
last of the spirits in the stone. It is our blood ties that have kept me from 
the Bane for this long. But as the sun sets, I will be gone.
No!
An angry grumble flowed. Stones fall from heights, and water runs downhill. 
Even an ogre cannot fight these things. And you are an ogre, Son. Accept my 
fate as I do.
But?
I come at my end with a single guidance for you. As the Bane nears, I sense the 
path you must take next. But from here you must walk without the spirits. You 
must walk alone.
But why? If the Bane empties the stone, why continue?
All is not lost, my son. There is still a way to destroy the Bane, to revive 
the Heart of our people.
I dont understand.
The details of the figure began to fade, as did the radiant crimson glow. Even 
the voice began to fray. Take the stone to where it was first quarried.
Where?
The answer was a brush of wind in his ear. Tolchuk staggered back. He gasped. 
No. But he knew he had not heard falsely.
The image faded back to shadows. Do as you are bid for your fathers memory.
Tolchuk clenched both fists. What he asked was impossible, but still Tolchuk 
nodded. I will try, Father.
The shadows receded into the brilliance. A last whisper reached him. I see your 
mother in you. The glow faded back into the stone. I go happily, knowing we 
both live on in you, my son.
Then only the dull stone remained on the cold granite.
Tolchuk could not move. There was not even a glimmer left in the crystal. 
Finally, he crossed over and gathered it in his clawed hands and sank to his 
knees, cradling the Heart of his people in his lap.
Tolchuk sat until the sun lowered beyond the western horizon, unmoving, except 
for the roll of an occasional tear down a cheek. Finally, as his tower was 
swallowed by darkness, Tolchuk lifted the stone to his lips and kissed the 
faceted surface. Good-bye, Father.
JoACH HURRIED DOWN THE ABANDONED HALLWAYS, PRAYING TO ESCAPE.
His breath was ragged, and his fine clothes dusty from racing through these 
unused corridors. He paused and listened for a moment. He heard no sounds of 
pursuit. Satisfied, he slowed his pace and removed a handkerchief to wipe his 
brow. That had been too closet
He came upon a small winding stair on his left and took it. The walls brushed 
his shoulders on either side. Clearly here was an old servants stair, too 
narrow for regular traffic. He took the steps two at a time. If he could reach 
the main floor of the Great Edifice, he knew the way by heart to the kitchens. 
His belly growled its complaint at the thought of a loaf of bread and a bowl of 
barley stew. His narrow escape had cost him his dinnerbut it was a small price 
to pay.
Joach clambered down the last of the stairs and pushed through the narrow 
doorway. He was instantly assaulted with the clamor of the kitchens: pots 
banging, fat sizzling, and the roar of the head cook over the organized chaos. 
The double-wide kitchen doors opened to his immediate left. Firelight from the 
row of hearths flickered like sunset on the walls. From this haven, the aromas 
of roasting rabbits struck his nostrils. Bread, fresh from the ovens, flavored 
the air with the resins of rye and onions. Joach was drawn toward the smell, 
enthralled as if still under the darkmages spell. Forgetting his frantic flight 
a moment ago, his limbs moved of their own accord toward the noise and scents.
He entered the kitchens, bumping into a young scullion girl with her hair pulled 
back in a single tawny braid under a stained handkerchief. She kicked at him, 
clearly thinking him one of the other kitchen workers trying to grab more than a 
loaf of bread. Och! Get off me, you oaf! Im no tavern wench.
Joach took an elbow blow to the midriff before he could grab her arm and gain 
her attention. Hold on!
She turned, finally seeing him. Her skin was dark, a deep bronze that matched 
her rich golden hair. Her eyes traveled up from his black boots, over his fine 
gray breeches, to his emerald silk shirt with a gray formal cloak over his right 
shoulder. Her gaze settled on his face.
Panicked, she dropped to her knees. Lord Joach! Her cry drew many other eyes. 
The clamor of the kitchens died around him.
Joachs face reddened to match his fiery hair. He reached and pulled the young 
girl to her feet, but the muscles of her legs seemed to have vanished. She was 
like a limp doll. He had to hold her steady. I am no lord, he said. Ive 
worked in these same kitchens.
Aye, he did! a rough voice called out. A large man pushed through the gawking 
kitchen help. He wore a stained apron over his swollen belly. His cheeks were 
still ruddy from the flames. It was the
Witch Cjatf.
| A M F S I..I.KMENS
head cook. Joach recognized the man from the time when Joach had been enthralled 
to Greshym. The large man swung his wooden ladle toward the head of a thin 
potscrubber. And if you all dont get back to your chores, Ill tan your arses 
but good.
The crowd dispersed around them both, except for the girl. She took a step back 
but no farther. Her eyes were huge.
The cook tapped his large spoon into his other meaty paw. I dont figure youre 
down here to fetch someones supper.
Joach turned his attention to the rotund man. I cant believe youre still 
here. How did you survive the darkmages siege of the island?
Aye, even monsters and darkmages need to eat, He fingered a leather patch over 
his left eye. This feature was new. Joach saw a small purplish scar trailing 
from the mans forehead to disappear under the patch. Of course, youd better 
make sure you dont overcook their meat, if you get what I mean. A glimmer of 
old horror flashed in the mans one good eye, but then vanished to be replaced 
with good humor. Now what can I do for my little lord?
I am no lord, Joach repeated with a tired frown.
Thats not what I hear tell. I heard youre a royal prince of those flying boat 
people.
Joach sighed. So they claim, he muttered. The elvin seemed to think he and 
his sister Elena were the last descendants of their ancient king. All I know 
was that I was born an orchard farmer, and I claim no more.
A tree picker! The cook brayed like an amused mule and clapped him on the 
shoulder, almost throwing Joach to his knees. Now that Id believe. Youre a 
lanky one, all right! The cook guided him, none too gently, toward an oaken 
work table. He kicked a chair forward. So Im guessing from the way you came in 
here with your nose sniffing in the air that youre looking for a bit of 
nibblings.
In truth, I I havent eaten.
The cook placed him in a seat. How come? Ive filled that cursed banquet hall 
to the rafters. They kint have eaten their bellies through all my fare so 
soon.
Joach shifted in his seat. I chose not to eat up there this night.
Och, I dont blame you. All that prattling and yammering. The cook waved to 
his kitchen help, directing them with no more than a point of his ladle and a 
firm frown. Soon the table was filling with loaves of bread, thick slabs of 
cheese, platters of berries. A small lad carried a bowl as big as his head and 
slid it in front of Joach. It contained a stew of rabbit with potatoes and 
carrots.
The cook tossed him a spoon. Eat up, Lord Joach. It may be plain, but youll 
find no better fare even in that banquet hall. Then he was gone to attend his 
hearths.
The scullion maid Joach had bumped earlier swept up to the table with a flagon 
of ale. She filled his mug, splashing more out than in with her nervousness. 
Sorry, sorry, sorry, she intoned like a litany.
Joach reached and steadied her hand. The cup was promptly filled. Thank you, 
he said. He found himself staring at her.
Her eyes, which he had thought from a distance to be a deep brown, maybe even 
black, were actually the color of a twilight sky, an indigo blue. Joach found 
himself caught in their pools for a breath. His hand still held hers, though his 
mug was already full. Th-thank you, he repeated.
She stared back at him, unblinking, then slowly withdrew her fingers from his. 
Her eyes lingered a moment on his gloved hand. He wore a custom-tailored 
lambskin glove to hide the healing scar of his right hand. Two fingers and half 
his palm were missing, eaten away by an illguard demon during the taking of the 
castle. Her eyes returned to his, unfazed by his disfigurement. She gave the 
smallest curtsy and backed away.
Joachs arm was still held out toward her. Whats your name? he asked in a 
hurry, before she could flee.
She curtsied again, a bit deeper this time. She did not meet his gaze, which 
Joach regretted. Marta, my lord.
But Before he could finish denying his heritage or say another word, she was 
already gone in a swirl of rough-spun dress, flying away on swift feet.
Sighing, Joach returned to his meal. He found his gnawing appetite had somehow 
vanished. But he picked up his spoon and sampled the stew. The cook had not 
lied. The broth was rich in spices, and the rabbit meat so tender it melted on 
his tongue. He had not tasted such a stew since back on his familys farm. It 
reminded him of home, of his mothers care at preparing a winters meal. Joach 
found his hunger again. But as wonderful as the meal tasted, Joach could not 
shake from his mind the image of the scullions twilight eyes.
Lost in reverie and the spread of food, Joach was not aware of the newcomer to 
the kitchen until he heard a voice behind him.
There you are!
Joach did not need to turn to know who stood at the door. It was Master Richald, 
the elvin brother to Meric. He groaned inwardly. His escape had not been far 
enough.
It is not fitting that a prince of the Blood break bread with commoners, the 
elvin lord said with clear distaste, striding to the table.
Joach turned, cheeks reddening from both embarrassment at the mans rudeness and 
simple anger. Richald stood stiffly beside the table, eyes above all the clamor, 
refusing even to see the hard work being done here. He had the bearing of all 
the elvin: aloof, cold, dismissive of all those around them. His pale features 
were similar to his brother Meric, but much sharper, as if cut from a finer 
knife. His hair was the same bright silver, except for a streak of copper over 
the left ear.
Pushing off the stool, Joach faced the elvin, though the man stood a hand 
taller than Joach. I will not have you disparage these folks hard work with 
your rudeness, Master Richald.
The mans frosted blue eyes lowered slowly to meet his gaze. There was only ice 
and disinterest in those eyes. My rudeness? My sister had gone through great 
efforts to bring her six cousins to the banquet to meet you. You could show them 
the courtesy of more than just a terse greeting and vanishing.
And I did not ask to be assaulted at dinner by a flock of elvin virgins.
Richalds brows rose slightly, a supremely shocked response for an elvin. 
Watch your tongue. Prince or not, I will not have my family dishonored by a 
half-Blood.
Joach suppressed a satisfied grin. So he had finally managed to crack that stoic 
shellto reveal this mans true disdain for him, of all the elvins disdain: 
half-Blood. Half elvin and half human.
For the past moon, Joach had been flattered by all the attention of the elvin. 
Every silver-haired man or woman with a daughter or niece had vied for his eye. 
He had been introduced to countless c iva c. rv women, some younger than their 
first bleed, some older than his own mother. But after a time, he had begun to 
sense something behind all this attentionan underlying distaste that would only 
show through cracks, in whispered words and hard glances. Though he shared the 
blood of an elvin king, to their eyes, he was still tainted. For all their 
attention and the countless daughters and nieces presented to him, the elvin as 
a whole found Joach distasteful. He was a mere vessel of the ancient kings 
blood, a stallion to impregnate one of their pure stock and return the bloodline 
to their people. Once done, Joach imagined he would be tossed aside, a spent 
coin of no value.
It was this cold ritual that he had sought to escape this night. He was tired of 
this artificial dance. It would end now.
Joach stared up at Richald. How I must gall one of your stature, the son of the 
queen, he whispered up at the taller man. How it must make your blood race 
with fire to see the best of the elvin breeding stock fawning over a half-Blood 
like myself, while youre ignored.
By now, Richalds limbs were trembling with rage. He couldnt speak; his thin 
lips had disappeared to taut lines.
Joach brushed past him, heading toward the door. Tell your aunts, tell all your 
people, that this half-Blood is no longer on parade.
Richald made no move to stop him as he headed toward the kitchen exit. Out of 
the corner of his eye, Joach spotted a pair of scullion girls huddled by the 
door to one of the cupboards. A pair of eyes followed his path across the room. 
Marta. She had removed the handkerchief from her head and loosened the tail of 
her tawny hair, a drape all of bronzes and golds.
Joach tripped over the kitchen doors threshold.
His misstep raised the ghost of a smile on the girls lips. Joach straightened 
his cloak over his shoulder and returned her grin. She bowed her head shyly and 
withdrew into the shadows of the cupboard.
Joach watched her disappear, then crossed out of the kitchens warmth. He was 
finished with the ice of the elvin. It had finally taken the kitchen hearths to 
melt their hold. Joach glanced back at the open doors. In truth, it had not been 
just the heatit had also been a shy girl named Marta.
After a moon of fawning, the simple truth in her eyes had shamed him. Love 
should not be bartered and contracted. It should start with a glance that 
reached the heart, then grow from there.
Joach turned his back on the kitchens, but he promised to return.
Both for the wonderful food and to see what else would grow in the glow of the 
kitchens hearths.
With the sun just set, Meric sat near the prow of the Pale Stal-on, leaning his 
back against the rail, legs extended. He fingered the lute in his lap and 
plucked a few stray notes. The sound carried over the open waters around where 
the Stallion lay anchored. Merics gaze followed the notes across the seas and 
skies.
The moon had yet to rise; the stars were a jeweled blanket overhead. In the 
distance, around the isle of Aloa Glen, the spread of stars ended, blotted out 
by the sleek windships hanging over the castle like gilded clouds. The 
Thunderclouds, the warships of his elvin people. Even from here, their magickal 
iron keels glowed softly in the night, an inner elemental fire holding the ships 
aloft.
Meric frowned at the sight. He knew his mother, Queen Tratal, was up there 
somewhere, probably wondering why her son spent more time aboard the Stallion 
than on her own flagship, the Sun-chaser. Even after a moon among these people, 
she still did not understand his attraction to and affection for those who were 
not of his Blood. She had listened patiently to the stories of his adventures on 
these shores, but her face had never warmed. The elvin, creatures of the wind 
and clouds, had little interest in what went on below the keels of their boats. 
Even with the tales, his mother could not understand her sons feelings for 
these land-bound peoples.
Meric drew a hand across his scalp. What was once burnt stubble after his 
tortures below Shadowbrook was now a rich field of new silver growth. The length 
of his hair tickled his ears and the back of his neck. But this growth could not 
hide all his scars. A long trail of pinched, pale skin marred the smoothness of 
his left cheek.
Play something, a voice said near a barrel tied to the starboard rail. The boy 
Tok sat bundled in a thick woolen blanket, lost within its folds. Only his 
ruffled, sandy-haired head protruded from his cocoon. The nights now grew cold 
much faster as autumn gripped the Archipelago. But the chill was refreshing to 
Meric. It helped clear his mind.
What would you have me play, Tok? The boy always joined Meric when he played 
Neelahns lute. It was a private time the two shared together, and Meric had 
come to enjoy both the boys company and their mutual appreciation of music. 
Some nights even Tok would strum nail on string and practice a song. But it had 
been almost a fortnight since Meric had last played.
Dont much matter, Tok said. Just play.
Meric knew what the boy meant. It didnt matter what song was strummed. It was 
the sound of the lute itself that was most appreciated by both. The wooden lute 
had been carved from the dying heart of a koakona tree, a tree whose spirit had 
been bonded to the nymph Neelahn. Elemental magick still sang in the rich 
vibrations of the whorled-grained wood. It sang of lost homes and hope.
Bending over the instrument like a lover, Meric fingered the neck and stroked 
the strings. A cascade of chords sang from the lute like a long sigh, as if the 
lute had held its breath and could now finally sing again. Meric smiled and 
sighed, too. He had put off playing for too long. He had forgotten how just the 
voice of the lute calmed his heart.
As he reached for the strings once again, a long crash echoed nearby, a hatch 
banging open. Voices interrupted the quiet of the night. How many? a rough 
voice barked.
Two figures appeared from belowdecks and crossed to the rail not far from Meric. 
Holding the neck of the lute, Meric stood, so as not to appear to be 
eavesdropping. Whats the matter? he asked.
The taller of the two glanced his way. It was Kast. The broad-shouldered 
Bloodrider nodded to him. Kasts long, dark hair was a braided mane down his 
back. The tattoo of a winged dragon shadowed his cheek and neck. Weve just 
heard word from the council, Kast said brusquely, barely able to suppress his 
anger. Did you hear?
Meric shook his head.
The slim woman standing beside Kast slipped her small hand into the larger 
mans. Meric noted how Kast squeezed her palm and ran his thumb along the tender 
web between her thumb and finger. A casual gesture. Probably neither was even 
aware of the small signal of affection and support between them.
Sy-wen nodded her chin out to sea. My mother sent an emissary. It seems Elena 
has forced the council to make a stand.
Meric stared over the seas. In the far distance, he could barely make out the 
humped shadow of the Leviathan, one of the living behemoths that housed the 
merai while they traveled under the seas.
She gave them a choice, Sy-wen continued. Agree with her plan or leave this 
night.
Merics brows rose and he was unable to suppress a shocked grin. It seemed Elena 
was growing into her role as leader and witch. In her veins ran the blood of 
ancient elvin kings. It seemed their colors were finally shining forth.
The high keel had already given his support, Kast said. The Drerendi fleet 
will stay.
As will the merai, Sy-wen said. Master Edyll convinced my mother that, with 
the assault on the island, there was no further hiding for the merai.
But what of the others? Meric asked. He wondered what his own mothers 
decision would be. I had better return to the Sun-chaser and ensure the elvin 
fleet will not abandon the cause.
No need, Kast said. I heard from Hunt, the high keels son, that the elvin 
will stay. It seems they mean to keep your ancient kings bloodline safe, 
whatever her decision.
Meric nodded, but a part of him was suspicious of his own mothers quick 
decision. Had his stories reached some part of her heart? Or was there another 
agenda hidden behind Queen Tratals generosity? What of the others?
Kast frowned. May the Mother curse them all for their cowardice, he spat.
Sy-wen touched the large mans shoulder. Before even the sun set, practically 
the entire delegation from the coastal townships left. I imagine most who yet 
remain will wait to hear Elena out in the morning, but who can say for sure? 
She pointed out to a flotilla of sails, lanterns in the rigging. The ships were 
drifting away from the island. Like them, more may flee during the night.
Meric frowned. Bloodriders, merai, elvinall outsiders to the lands of Alasea 
and the only ones willing to fight alongside a witch. No wonder these lands 
were conquered five centuries ago. What now? Meric asked.
Kast shook his head. We wait until dawn. The Bloodriders hard gaze surveyed 
the seas, as if daring anyone else to abandon the island. Sy-wen leaned into the 
mans embrace, tempering his hardness with her softness. Together, they watched 
the seas.
Meric drifted a few steps back to his post by the ships prow. Nearby, Toks 
bright eyes reflected the glow of the moon just now rising. Meric had promised 
the boy a song, and he would not disappoint.
Still standing, leaning against the rail, Meric swung the lute up and settled 
the instrument against his belly. He drew his nails across the strings. The 
music seemed so loud against the quiet backdrop of the softly creaking boat and 
the gentle lap of water against the hull. Meric frowned slightly. Even this 
brief scatter of notes sounded unusually strident, almost scolding.
Tok sat up straighter in his blanket, also noting the change in the lutes 
character. Meric felt the gazes of Sy-wen and Kast swing in his direction.
Meric positioned his fingers and began playing, trying to recapture its usual 
bittersweet song. But all that sang forth were strident chords, discordant and 
frantic. Meric continued, trying to discern an answer to the strange music.
His strumming became more vigorous, not of his own accord, but because the music 
demanded it of him. Behind the hard music, it was almost as if he could hear the 
beat of the drum and the strike of steel on steel. What was this strange song? 
Meric found his skin heating as he played. Sweat beaded his forehead on this 
cool evening.
Meric? Kast mumbled.
Meric barely heard him. His fingers danced along the long neck of the lute; his 
nails thrashed the strings. Then from behind the music a whispery voice arose. 
I have waited for so long
Startled, Meric almost dropped the lute, but it would not let him. He continued 
to play. It was as if he were unconnected to his own body: he could not control 
his fingers or limbs. The lute had somehow cast a spell over him. The voice 
continued, stronger now, familiar, Come to me
Who is that? Kast said, reaching for the lute, seeming to sense Merics 
distress.
No! Meric barked out. Not yet!
The speaker now all but sang through the notes of the lute, a bell
WIT CH UATE
among reeds now, as clear as if the speaker was standing on the planks with 
them. Bring me the lute. All will be lost without it.
Merics eyes grew wide as he recognized the singer behind the notes, but it was 
impossible. He had helped bury her himself. N-Neelahn?
Bring me my lute, elvin. It is the only hope against the Grim.
Where are you? Meric gasped out.
Western Reaches the Stone of Tor. Come quickly The voice began to fade. 
Merics fingers began to slow. He tried to force his fingers to quicken again, 
but Meric could sense the spell weakening.
Neelahn! Meric called out, struggling with his fingers. The chords began 
crashing apart, strident notes becoming chaos.
One last message strangled through the noise. Break the Gates! Or all will be 
lost!
Then Merics fingers spasmed. The lute fell from his fingers. But Tok dove 
forward and caught the instrument in his blanket before it struck the planks. 
Meric sagged to his knees, weak.
Kast and Sy-wen approached him slowly. Sy-wen reached toward him, but didnt 
touch him. Are you all right?
Meric nodded.
Who was that? Kast asked.
Meric ignored the question. He was not ready to answer that yet, not even to 
himself. He turned to stare up at them. Can you get me to the castle? I must 
speak to Elena. Now.
Sy-wen glanced to Kast. The Bloodrider nodded. The two backed to the center of 
the deck. Kast stripped out of his boots, breeches, and shirt. Soon he was 
standing, bare chested, wearing only a loincloth.
As Sy-wen neatly folded the Bloodriders clothes on the planks, Meric drew 
himself up and retrieved the lute from Tok. He watched Sy-wen approach and stand 
before Kast. The Bloodrider leaned down and deeply kissed Sy-wen. It was a kiss 
of good-bye.
After a long moment, they broke apart. Meric saw the glint of tears on Sy-wens 
cheeks. She reached toward Kasts cheek and touched the dragon tattoo on his 
neck. I have need of you, she mumbled softly.
Kast jerked under her touch; then the two of them were lost in a dark explosion 
of black scale, silver claw, and wing. A trumpet of triumph flowed from the 
whirling flesh. Soon a massive black sea-dragon crouched atop the deck, silver 
claws dug deep into the planks.
Its neck was stretched toward the skies, silver fangs glinting as long as a 
mans forearm. Its triumphant roar filled the skies.
Tok gasped beside Meric. The boy had never seen Kast transform into the dragon 
Ragnark before.
Atop the beasts back, Sy-wen sat perched. She held out a hand toward Meric as 
the dragon rolled a single black eye toward him.
Grab Kasts garments, she said. Let us be off.
Erril climbed down the long ladder from the observatory loft to the library 
floor. He bore a satchel of books over one shoulder and a small oil lamp with a 
short taper. He had fled the immense stacks of the library for the solitary 
quiet of the Edifices observatory. Amid the old brass scopes and prismed lenses 
once used to study the stars, Erril had pored through the ancient texts. But 
the reward for his strained eyes was meager. He had found no mention of the 
Weir-gates in any book or scroll. All he could find was an obscure reference to 
the mythic Weir itself.
But what did it mean? He was no scholar. He knew swords, horses, and little 
else. Still, he did not want to fail Elena. He had seen her eyes shine with 
determination when she had heard of the danger faced by her Aunt Mycelle and the 
others. A new Weirgate, somewhere near Castle Mryl in the north. Why up there? 
Erril had hoped for some answer in these dusty shelves, some way to help guide 
Elena on the best course. But he found only more mystery.
The Weir.
The single reference mentioned the elemental energy inherent in the Land. The 
ancient writing theorized this elemental energy could not exist without an 
opposite in nature. All the natural world had two sides. Reflections, one of 
another. Mirror images. The sun had the moon. Fire and ice. Light and dark. Even 
the twin magickal spirits, Chi and Cho, were reflections of each other: male and 
female, a duality that produced a balance in all things. The text imagined an 
opposite to the Lands power. Where elemental magicks encom-
James Ci.emhns passed all facets of nature, this other power would reflect all 
that was natural. The scholar named this mythic power the Weir.
Erril stepped from the ladder to the library floor with a shudder. Personal 
experience had proved the Weir to be anything but myth. He had been drawn into 
the ebonstone statue of the Wyvern Weirgate, into the Weir itself. Though he 
remembered nothing of the experience, he knew the memory was buried there 
somewherebut his mind had walled it away for his own sanity. Erril did not 
fight this. He suspected that if light should ever illuminate that corner of his 
mind, he would be lost forever.
Striding the long length of the narrow library, Erril placed his oil lamp and 
satchel of books beside the white-robed Brother who had helped him research the 
Weir.
With spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, the old scholar looked up. Were 
the volumes of any use?
Im not yet sure, Brother Ryn. I need to dwell on what Ive read.
The shaven-headed man nodded his understanding. Only in that way is wisdom ever 
attained. The elderly Brother returned to the crumbling scroll atop the table. 
The other scholars and I will continue to peruse the shelves and see what else 
we can learn for you.
Thank you, Brother Ryn. Erril bowed and made ready to depart.
But the scholar spoke again, stopping him. These Weirgates You described them 
as lodestones of magick, capable not only of drawing magick into them, but 
persons of magick, too.
So the darkmage Greshym explained them to me.
Hmm the Brother said. And the Weir is also the well from which the Dark Lord 
draws his power.
Erril nodded. It was a secret he had managed to drag out of Greshym when last 
they had met.
And are these Gates the only way to access the Weir?
Greshym seemed to think so. He said the four ebonstone statues were somehow 
linked together, creating a portal to the Weir.
Brother Ryn glanced up at Erril, removing his spectacles. The mans eyes were 
hoary with age, but a sharp intelligence shone through his cloudy orbs. Then it 
would seem prudent to find these four Gates and destroy them before confronting 
the Dark Lord directly.
Erril stared back at the old scholar. What the old man asked
Witch Cjate sounded so simple and plain, but in fact was impossible. He 
pictured the Wyvern Gate flying off from the tower heights. It had been headed 
back to Blackhall with his brother, Shorkan. But what of the other three? No one 
knew where they were hidden, and even if they could be found, how did you 
destroy such monstrous creations?
The scholar returned to his reading. Knowledge is the answer, Erril of 
Standi, he mumbled, as if reading the plainsmans mind.
Erril nodded and turned to leave.
Brother Ryn, though, had one final word. You are simply missing the key.
Erril glanced over his shoulder. Whats that?
For the past fortnight, I have sensed that a piece of this puzzle is still 
missing. Discover that and I suspect a way will open.
What piece? What do you mean?
The unifying element. Some fact to bring the Gates, the Weir, and this font of 
the Dark Lords power into one clear picture. We are looking at individual 
pieces, while the whole portrait still remains blank to us. If you can find this 
last piece, all will come clear.
Thats easier spoken than done, Brother Ryn.
As is the path to all wisdom, the old scholar said and waved him away, as if 
dismissing a student. The moon rises. Go to your witch.
Erril bowed one last time and strode toward the doors to the library. His hand 
came to rest on the hilt of his sword. Hed had enough mysteries for one 
evening. It was time to be a simple liegeman again. Elena had a long night 
ahead, and he would be at her side when she opened the Blood Diary.
Casting aside his worries, Erril strode through the halls and stairs of the 
Edifice to the westernmost tower, the Witchs Dagger. He mounted the stairs two 
at a time and climbed toward the tower chamber where Elena rested.
As he marched, he felt a small twinge build in his right leg, where he had borne 
the thrust of a goblins poisoned blade while protecting Elena. The ache 
remained like a sour memory. Halfway up the tower, Erril was forced to slow his 
pace to single steps as the pain grew.
It was at these times that Erril felt his mortality. With the book bequeathed 
to Elena, its gift of immortality had been transferred to her. With the spell 
gone from his own body, Erril had expected his hair to grow quickly gray and 
his limbs to become ricketed with arthritis. Instead, he aged at a normal pace, 
a pace which no man could see when studied day by day; it could only be 
perceived upon reflection over winters. But here and now, with his leg aching, 
he felt the march of time more sharply. Erril continued on with a sigh. 
Finally, he reached the top of the stairs, his lips in a tight grimace. He could 
hardly hide his limp from the two guards stationed to either side of the 
iron-bound oaken doors.
The guards straightened their stances as he approached.
How fares Elena? he asked.
The guard on the right answered. The old healer has been watching over her. She 
gave the witch a draught of dreamweed to help her rest until moonrise.
Erril nodded and strode toward the door. The guard on the left knocked softly, 
then pushed the door open for the plainsman.
The room beyond was dimly lit. Only a scatter of thick white candles flickered 
on the mantel above a hearth glowing with the coals from a tiny fire. The only 
other illumination came from the row of tower windows. Long and wide, they 
revealed the western night skies and the flow of bright stars. In one window, 
the edge of the moon could be seen cresting from the sea.
In the dimness, the clearing of a throat drew Errils attention to a cushioned 
chair by the hearth. An old woman dressed in a dark shawl and robe rested with a 
book in her lap. Her hair, braided and wound like a nest atop her head, matched 
the gray of her robe. She smiled softly at Erril as he turned. She rests in 
the next room, Mama Freda whispered. I was about to rouse her, as I see the 
moon rises.
It does, but let her sleep a few moments more. The moon has yet to grow full in 
the skies. She has a long night ahead and a hard morning tomorrow.
So Ive heard. The fate of Alasea rests on her decision. This statement 
brought a broader smile to the womans burnished features, as if the idea amused 
her. Such small shoulders to carry the world.
Shell manage, Erril said sternly.
Her smile turned wry. Oh, with you at her side, I dont doubt it.
Erril found himself rankling slightly at the attitude of the healer. Elena is 
strong, he said, as if ending the discussion.
Mama Freda shifted in her chair, settling deeper into the cushions.
WIT CH GATE
The movement triggered a squeak of protest from the animal perched on her 
shoulder. It was Tikal, the golden-maned tamrink from her native jungles. Its 
tail, ringed in black-and-copper fur, was wrapped around the womans neck. Its 
tiny bare face, framed in a fiery mane, was filled by its two large black eyes. 
Elena is strong strong it chittered, mimicking Erril.
The woman calmed the beast with a touch and a scratch behind an ear. The animal 
doubled as both companion and eyes to the old healer. Born without eyes herself, 
she had been bonded to the tamrink long ago and saw only with the beasts 
vision. Right now, Tikals attention remained with Erril. Strong, you say? 
Mama Freda mocked. You did not help the lass to her bed or double the dosage of 
dreamweed just to get her to slumber. She bears a great burden.
Im well aware
Are you now? Then a little more support than just a curt word or nod might ease 
her heart a little.
Erril sagged slightly under the accusation. In truth, ever since the dance atop 
this very tower, he had tried to keep his relationship with Elena at arms 
length. He could not keep his true heart from showing. Elena did not need that 
burden.
Did you know that tomorrow is also Elenas birthingday? Mama Freda asked.
What? Erril could not hide the shock in his voice.
Mama Freda nodded. I heard it from her brother.
But why didnt she?
Because shes trying to be so strong, Mama Freda said, standing up. Witches 
dont celebrate their birthingdays with pastries and well-wishes. The old 
healer brushed past Erril on the way toward a side door. Come. It is time we 
waked her.
Erril had to force his feet to follow. He felt the fool. After five hundred 
winters, would he ever understand the female heart? He sighed as he crossed 
toward the door.
When it came to women, even the impossible riddle of the Weir-gates paled.
Elena woke when she heard voices in the main chamber of her tower rooms. Though 
she could not make out the words, she recog-
JAMES LUMENS
nized Mama Fredas accent and the clipped cadence of Errils native Standish. 
Elena closed her eyes and stretched her limbs. She had been dreaming of home, of 
her mothers singing as she baked in the kitchen, and her fathers laughter as 
he came in after a long day in the orchards. She kept her eyes squeezed shut. 
How she wished to return to that dream, instead of to this world of blood 
magicks and demon armies.
As the voices drew nearer, Elena forced her eyes open. Her bedchamber was 
windowless and dark, giving no sense of how much time had passed. But if Erril 
was here, then the moon must have risen. He must have come to wake her.
She scooted up slightly. The darkness of her chamber was not complete. In a 
corner, upon a pedestal of silvery Tauesian marble, rested a tattered black book 
with a burgundy rose etched in gilt on its cover.
The Blood Diary. Elenas talisman, birthright and burden.
From the cover of the tome, the gilt rose glowed softly now, an azure hue not 
unlike moonlight itself. The moon was calling for the book. Elena knew that as 
the moon ripened and rose to its zenith, the glow would deepen to an inner fire. 
Then the book could be opened, and the path to the stars bridged once again.
A soft knock on her door announced the others. Elena shifted up in the bed. 
Come, she called out.
The door opened. Did you sleep well? Mama Freda asked as she peeped her head 
inside.
Yes, thank you.
Good, good. Mama Freda pushed the door fully open and crossed to the bedside 
table, bearing a long, flaming taper in one hand. The old woman lit the single 
lantern as Erril entered.
Elena eyed the plainsman. She noticed the slight way he favored his right leg 
and how his eyelids narrowed as he bore weight on the limb. Though he hid it 
well, his leg still pained him from the dagger wound. As he approached, she saw 
he had changed from the finery of the Great Hall to his usual Standish riding 
clothes: black boots, worn brown breeches, and a green leather jerkin over a 
rough-spun beige shirt. He had even tied his raven hair back with a strip of red 
leather.
For some reason, the familiar clothes eased Elenas heart. Here was the Erril 
she knew and trusted.
Elena pushed back her sheets. She still wore her bedclothes. As she slid from 
the sheets, the lantern flared brighter. Elena caught a glimpse of herself in 
the mirror above the washbasin. Again she felt that twinge of shock. Who was 
that stranger in the mirror? She touched her face. Her hair spread to her 
shoulders in a fall of gentle, fiery curls. Her eyes, still the green of the 
young girl, were now flecked with gold in the lantern light. A spell cast aboard 
the Seaswift had stolen four winters from her, maturing her prematurely. Her 
hand traced from her face down the curves of her new body. Though she had grown 
accustomed to this physique, moments like now still occasionally surprised her.
The moon is almost risen full, Erril said. Wed best prepare.
She nodded. I thought wed go atop the tower here. She quickly pulled a thick 
woolen robe over her bedclothes, sashing it in place, and pushed her feet into a 
pair of warm slippers.
Once dressed, she crossed to the Blood Diary and reached for it. The glow of the 
rose had grown richer in just the short time. Her fingers hovered a breath 
before touching the tome. From this night forward, nothing would be the same. 
She sensed the shift of worlds under her feet. But there was no turning back. 
Taking a firming breath, she took the book in her two ruby hands. Raising the 
tome, she turned. Im ready.
Then let us go. Erril led the way out of the bedchamber to the main room. He 
crossed to a wall and swept back a tapestry to reveal a hidden door to a short 
staircase that led to the roof. With Erril ahead of her and Mama Freda behind, 
Elena climbed the stairs. The evenings chill reached her, blowing down from the 
open roof. As they stepped free of the staircase, a breeze flapped the edges of 
her robe. She drew the sash tighter around her, then clutched the book to her 
chest.
Behind her, the old healers pet squeaked at the cold and buried itself tighter 
against Mama Freda. Are you warm enough, child? Mama Freda asked Elena, 
holding up the lantern.
Yes, but there is no doubt that winter nears.
We can still return to the rooms below, Erril said. The book can be opened 
anywhere.
Elena shook her head and crossed to the stones of the parapet. The circle of the 
moon had climbed fully from the sea. No. I would like
]a in es Clemens to open it here, in the face of the moon. She lifted the book. 
From its cover, the rose glowed brightly.
Erril and Mama Freda retreated to give her room.
She was reaching for the cover when the roar of a dragon shattered the nights 
quiet. Elena cringed down over the book, protecting it, but she quickly 
recognized the trumpeting voice. It was Ragnark.
Elena straightened, and the trio moved to the parapets edge. Something must be 
wrong, Erril said as he stared out over the city of Aloa Glen.
Suddenly a black shape shot across the silver of the rising moon and dove across 
the towers, aiming for them. Mama Freda raised her lantern high while Tikal 
mumbled, Big bird, big, big, bird.
The dragon glided over the thousand spires of the ancient city, drawn like a 
moth to the light. Once near, it circled on a wingtip overhead. A small voice 
called out from the beasts back, but the riders words were lost in the winds. 
Erril stepped to the side and waved an arm for Ragnark to land.
Roaring, the dragon dove to the far side of the roof, and with a sweep of its 
massive scaled wings, it alighted on the distant parapet. Silver nails dug deep 
into the stone, holding its perch. Black eyes, aglow with starlight and 
moonlight, studied them coldly.
Two figures were saddled on its back. Elena recognized them both: Meric and 
Sy-wen.
The elvin prince slid from his perch and landed on the parapet stones, dancing 
a moment to keep his feet. He seemed oblivious of the long drop behind him. 
Being a creature of the wind and air, heights were not something he noticed. 
Meric hopped from the stones to cross toward the gathered trio. He dropped to a 
knee before Elena, head bowed. Princess of the Blood, he said breathlessly.
Elena found her cheeks growing heated even with the cold. Get up, Meric. Enough 
of this nonsense. What has brought you here so urgently? Elena nodded toward 
the dragon and Sy-wen.
Meric held up a hand, still out of breath from his flight.
Behind Meric, Sy-wen slid down the beasts neck and climbed off her mount. The 
merai woman rubbed the dragons snout and leaned her forehead against his 
scales, clearly sharing some inner thought with the great beast. Elena noted the 
sad smile on Sy-wen as she lifted her hand away.
Scale, bone, and wing whirled in on themselves until a naked man stood on the 
parapet ledge. Kast. Elena glanced away as Sy-wen helped him down and passed a 
bundle of clothes to him.
Meric finally seemed to have caught his breath. Still kneeling, he slipped a bag 
from his shoulder and opened it. He pulled free a lute. The rich umber and gold 
of the polished wood almost glowed in the starlight. Elena knew the instrument. 
A twinge of sorrow lanced her heart.
It was Neelahns lute.
Whats wrong, elvin? Erril said gruffly.
Meric climbed to his feet and only acknowledged Erril with a scowl. I have 
news, he said to Elena. A message from from Oh, Sweet Mother, this is going 
to sound mad.
Elena reached and touched Merics hand. From whom?
Meric met her gaze with his bright blue eyes. From Neelahn.
Elenas hand fell from Merics. She could not suppress a gasp of shock.
Thats impossible, Erril said.
Dont you think I know that? Meric glanced around at the others.
By now, Sy-wen and Kast had joined them. Kasts graveled voice spoke slowly. 
The elvin does not lie. We all heard it: a voice behind the strings of the 
lute.
What are you talking about? Erril asked, frowning deeply.
Meric related what had happened aboard the Pale Stallion. I know it was her 
voice, he finished. She commands me to bring the lute to the Western Reaches. 
Something is threatening the forest.
But shes dead.
Maybe maybe not, Meric said. Neelahn is nyphai. She is a creature of root 
and loam, even less human than I.
Erril opened his mouth to argue, but Elena stopped him with a raised arm. She 
stepped nearer Meric. Alive or not, what threat did Neelahn sense? Elena 
recalled the urgent message from the zool shaman. Danger in the Western 
Reaches. Weirgates.
Meric shook his head, glancing away. Im not sure. A threat to the forest. He 
shrugged. The last of her message did not even make any sense, but she was so 
urgent. Meric raised his eyes.  Break the gates or all will be lost. 
Shocked, Elena turned to Erril. Neither spoke, but each knew the others 
thoughts. Weirgates. A second warning in less than a day. We cannot ignore 
this, Elena whispered to him.
Erril nodded his chin slightly, but he left the decision to her.
Meric spoke up. Id like your permission to take one of the elvin ships and 
search out Neelahn or her spirit. Return the lute to her.
After a moments hesitation, Elena glanced to Erril, but spoke to Meric. This 
is not the first word of warning weve heard coming out from the west. Elena 
touched Erril on the shoulder. Tell Meric about the zool shamans warning.
Nodding, Erril rapidly related the dire message from Lord
Tyrus.
When he was done, Elena continued. Mycelle and her party are bound for Castle 
Mryl. If you should go, I would ask that you take the zool tribesman with you. 
His ability to farspeak may aid your search. I suspect the two warnings are, in 
fact, one. There is a Weir-gate out there, threatening us all. It must be 
destroyed.
Were overlooking something, Erril said.
All eyes turned to him.
What? Elena asked.
Neelahn warned us to break all the Gates, not just the one. All of them: 
Wyvern, Basilisk, Griffin, and Manticore. Earlier today, someone else warned me 
to do the same. The four Weirgates are the portal to the Weir, the font of the 
Black Hearts power. If we destroy the Gates, we destroy his power.
Elena clutched the Blood Diary in her hands. Was that the answer she had been 
seeking? Could that be their next step in their assault upon the Gulgotha? Kast 
stepped forward and asked the question plaguing her. But where do we find these 
others?
I dont know, Erril said. Shorkan took the wyvern back to the Gulgotha at 
Blackhall, but the others could be anywhere.
But why the Western Reaches? Why put a Weirgate way out there? Elena wondered 
aloud. She faced Erril. Did you discover any answer in the castles library?
Erril shook his head with a scowl. Brother Ryn and the other scholars will 
continue to search the librarys books.
Elena crossed to the center of the parapet. She lifted the Blood Diary. Here is 
another book that may hold an answer. She nodded toward the rising moon. By 
now, its silver circle had climbed high in the night sky. It is time we seek 
anothers guidance.
Before anyone could object or her heart could falter, Elena opened the book. A 
wash of scintillation wafted out from the open tome, silvery fireflies on the 
wind. A whisper of crystal chimes followed, blown quickly away by the evenings 
chill breeze.
Elena held her breath and glanced into the book. Instead of white pages of 
parchment, she found a window open on a starry sky, as if she held a mirror in 
her hands, reflecting the heavens above. But it was not the skies of her world 
in the book. Through the portal, vaporous clouds, painted in rainbow hues, 
flowed between densely packed stars. Strange ice-ringed moons circled past the 
window, cold and dispassionate. Elena sensed the Void within the book. She felt 
she could easily fall within these pages and lose herself forever.
But this path was not hers. From the Void, a wispy form of light and crackling 
energy flowed up through the covers of the Diary to swell into the night.
The faces of those gathered on the roof followed the sight, lit from above by 
the glow. Overhead, the apparition spread limbs of woven light, arms and legs of 
carved moonstone. It stretched as if waking from a long slumber. As the figure 
slowly spun, the ghostly form gained substance, taking on a familiar shape. The 
visitor studied the ripe moon in Elenas sky, then settled to the stones of the 
tower roof.
Elena knew the shape of this spirit. It was as warm and familiar to her as her 
own palm: the stern countenance; the thin lips set hard with duty; the small, 
upturned nose; even the braided hair tucked under a bonnet to keep stray strands 
from the flame of the baking hearths. Elena noticed the ghostly figure even wore 
an old, frayed apron.
AuntFUa?
The eyes of the figure turned toward her, and Elena instantly knew this 
resemblance was a ruse. Distant stars shone behind those cold eyes, and ancient 
suns burned to cinder in its gaze. It was as if the Void in the book had been 
given form and substance. The visage was not Aunt Fila, but something foreign 
that wore her shape, something that had never walked under a normal sky.
Cho? Elena whispered, naming the spirit inside, a creature of magick and 
power, light and energy: the being who had granted Elena her gift of blood 
magicks.
The figure ignored Elena and swept its gaze over those gath-ered atop the tower 
roof. No one else spoke, but neither did they retreat.
This show of strength helped Elena find her tongue. The moon is again full. I 
ask that you share your wisdom with us. We seek guidance. .
The cold eyes again settled on Elena. I speaks now. Behind the simple words, 
the Void could be heard in echoes of ice and timeless-ness. The figure lifted 
its arms to study its moonstone limbs, head cocking slightly. I have shared 
with the one named Fila, the one who is the Spirit Bridge to your world. She has 
taught me of your lands.
Elena stood straighten Then you know our need. A great evil has taken hold 
here. We seek a way to stop it, so we might seek Chi without interference.
Chi For a moment, the coldness of the figure seemed to melt slightly. The 
voice grew a trace warmer. Ifeel him all around me.
Elena bowed her head. She did not fully understand the relationship between Chi 
and Cho. They were opposite, yet paired: brother and sister, wife and husband. 
But the bond was not exactly a familial one either. It was broader than that. 
Almost something natural, like the sun and the moon.
Elena raised her face. We still search for clues to the whereabouts of your of 
your Elena could not complete her statement. What was Chi?
The spirit must have read Elenas mind. The warmth still hovered at the edges of 
the Void. Brother Call him my brother. Their gazes met. Elena felt the 
momentary flash of sadness in the others eyes. Though this entity moved between 
stars and lived unlike any creature that walked the lands, this hurt was too 
familiar: mourning and loss. The emotions took Elena back to her own, on the 
streets of Winterfell when her brother Joach had been stolen away. Though Elena 
did not understand this spirit, she knew this pain because it had once been her 
own.
We have many scholars and wise men searching for the whereabouts of your 
brother, Elena consoled. We will find him, but this world is choked by an evil 
that keeps us chained and hiding. Once free of this evil, we will be free to 
search for
No! The ice returned to both form and words. This evil is of no importance! 
You will find Chi.
Were trying, but
No! I can feel my brothers pain. It eats at me, calls to me. A coldness 
spread out from the moonstone figure. The stones of the parapet cracked with 
frost. Chi must be found! Now!
The cracks in the stone spread like spiderwebs from the toes of the spirit. 
Elena sensed Erril draw near to her, ready to whisk her to safety, but she held 
her ground.
I know your pain, Cho, she said calmly. But what you ask is not easy. We have 
no idea where to begin even searching. And if we run blindly, the evil of this 
land will try to thwart our every step. It cannot be ignored. Elena stared into 
the Void that was the spirits eyes. She did not balk from the sight.
The spiderweb of cracks reached toward Elena. We are trying our best, Elena 
continued quietly, unmoving. The frigid magick flowed from the figure and 
reached toward Elenas toes. At her feet, granite stones shattered with ice.
Still, Elena stood, back straight. It is all we can do.
Across the damaged stone roof, the figures shoulders fell. Silence descended 
like a physical weight upon the rooftop. When words were spoken again, they were 
free of frost. But he cries out for me, Cho whispered. From eyes that opened 
upon the Void, tears now flowed, as human as any. His pain is worse than if it 
had been my own.
Elena slowly worked across the terrain of broken stone until she stood beside 
Cho. A pain shared can lighten a heart. Elena lifted a ruby hand and touched 
the edge of the figure. She was surprised to find substance there. She reached 
up and touched the face that was both so familiar yet at the same time so 
foreign. We are here for you. You have given us the power to fight and free our 
lands. We owe you our lives and our freedom. We will not fail you.
Cho leaned into her touch. It was as if Elena cupped a statue of ice, but she 
did not flinch. Instead she willed the magick in her heart to fill her hand. A 
ruby glow slowly grew, swelling out to warm the cold cheek in her hand. / will 
not fail you, Cho. This I swear. We will find your brother.
For the first time, a sad smile formed on the moonstone lips. The one called 
Fila has told me much of you, Elena, Cho said. // seems she was not mistaken. 
The figure straightened and stepped away. Her eyes grew glazed as if staring 
somewhere other than here. She wishes to speat{ to you.
Aunt Fila?
Cho nodded. But I have heard you, Elena. For now, I will give you your lead. 
Fight this evil as you see best, but tate my pain as your own. find Chi. Find 
my brother.
Elena bowed her head. I will.
Though the ghostly figure remained as solid as ever, the voice faded, as if 
drifting down a bottomless well. / will give you power, Elena . &#9632;. and magicf^s 
never seen before 
Elena shivered at these last words. What did Cho mean? In the moonlight, Elena 
glanced to her two hands, bloodred and ripe with power. Magicks never seen 
before. Elenas hands trembled as they held the Blood Diary.
Then a voice drew her back to the rooftop. It was like a warm hug on a cold day. 
Elena, child, it seems youve grown into the woman whose body you now wear.
Elena glanced up. All traces of the Void were gone from the apparition. What was 
once carved moonstone had become a warm memory of home. Elena could not stop the 
tears. Aunt Fila!
Child, dry those tears, her aunt said brusquely, but her warmth and love could 
not be masked. Eyes that once held the Void now only shone with bemusement and 
concern. Have you rested well since last we talked?
Yes, Aunt Fila, Elena said, but from the stern tightening of her aunts lips, 
Elena knew she was not believed. Elena spoke quickly. The lands ready for war. 
With the taking of the island, all look here for what we do next.
And what is that?
Elena glanced over to Erril. The plainsman moved to her side. So far, mostly 
arguing, Erril answered sourly.
Just like men, Fila muttered. Their tongues are always bolder than their 
arms.
Erril ignored this rebuke. But Elena has called them to task. She is to bring 
a plan to the war council tomorrowa plan all will obey.
Elena quickly added, I sought your counsel here before making any decision. I 
know Cho wishes us to cease our fight against the Gulgotha while we search for 
her brother Chi, but all will be lost if we ignore the Dark Lord.
I agree, Aunt Fila said. But sometimes two causes can become one.
Elena nodded. She had said about the same thing to Meric just a moment ago. But 
weve learned nothing of Chi. All our research suggests the spirit vanished from 
this world five centuries ago, when Alasea fell.
He did not vanish, Aunt Fila said firmly. My spirit mingles with Chos now. I 
sense what she senses, and Ive felt the whispers of her twin brother. I have 
heard his cries echoing through the Void. He is here.
But where? Erril said. How do we even begin to look?
Aunt Filas features grew thoughtful. I have tried to trace Chis cries, but to 
no avail. All I perceive is pained emanations and an occasional snatch of 
tattered dreamsnightmares really. Strange beasts attacking and tearing at Chi. 
Creatures of twisted form and shape. A lions head on an eagles body. An ogre 
with a scorpions tail. Aunt Fila shook her head. Just nonsense. Nightmares.
Erril moved forward, almost faltering a step. A lion on an eagles body? A 
winged lion. Erril glanced back at Elena. A griffin!
Elena gasped, eyes wide.
Erril turned to the apparition of moonstone. Do you recall among these 
nightmares a large black bird, a winged lizard with a hooked beak?
Aunt Filas brows drew together. Y-yes. It was one of the strange beasts 
holding and ravaging Chi in his dreams.
Mother above, it was no dream. Erril covered his face with his hands. The 
answers been in front of me all the time.
What? both Elena and Fila asked together.
Erril lowered his palms and faced them both. The words of the darkmage 
Greshym, when he told me of the nature of the ebonstone Gates.
What are these Gates you speak of? Fila asked.
Weirgates, Elena said. Portals of power. She waved for Erril to elaborate.
He nodded. The Dark Lord, with the aid of dwarves, sculpted four monstrous 
talismans. They were anointed in blood and had the power to draw magick inside 
them, willing or not. They could even draw in a person if his spirit held enough 
magick. One day, according to Greshym, something strange fell into one of the 
gates, but it was too large to be held by a single statue. So it spread to all 
four, both trapping itself and fusing the Gates together. Thus the Weir was 
created, the well of the Dark Lords power. Erril squeezed his eyes closed, 
his face lined in agony. It all makes sense now. The loss of Chi here in 
Alasea, and the rise in power of the Gulgotha. We have been so blind.
What are you saying, Erril? Elena asked.
Erril opened his eyes and stared in horror at her. The Weir is Chi. They are 
one in the same. He fell in the Gates and was trapped. Now the Dark Lord draws 
upon Chis power like some foul leech.
Elena felt the bones of her legs grow soft. The Dark Lords black magick has 
been Chi all along?
Yes. Erril could not keep the despair from his voice.
Too shocked to speak any further, Elena took a step away. The Blood Diary was 
still clutched in her fingers. She stared into the endless Void inside the pages 
of the tome. She could almost sense the tides of fate shifting under her. Then 
it is clear what we must do, she mumbled.
Erril moved to her side. She met his gaze and felt the eyes of the others upon 
her. But it was nothing compared to the tides of fate flowing around the book in 
her hand.
It seems the two paths have truly become one, she said. To defeat the Dark 
Lord, Chi must be rescued.
But how do we accomplish this, Elena? Erril asked.
By doing what Neelahn asked, she answered, turning to face the moon. We find 
and break the cursed Gates. She glanced over her shoulder at Erril. All of 
them.
The cloaked figure crouched motionless in the murk of the keeps courtyard. Her 
slender form was but another shadow amid the piled rubble of stone and twisted 
iron. She had been waiting, motionless, since midnight, spying on the play of 
lights atop the witchs tower. She had watched the dragon alight on the stones 
of the parapet and vanish. Still she had not moved. Even when the glow of 
moonlight had faded from the tower heights, she remained frozen in her hiding 
place. Patience had been taught to her by her master. Those trained in the 
deadly arts knew that victory lay in the silence between battles. So she had 
remained throughout the night.
By now, drops of morning dew collected in the folds of her midnight green cloak. 
A cricket crawled across the back of her hand as her palm rested in the dirt. 
While she watched the castle battlements, she felt the small insect scratch its 
hind legs together, heard a whisper of cricket song. The promise of dawn. Now 
was the time. She moved smoothly to her feet as if she had only paused to pick a 
flower from the newly planted garden. Her motion was so swift and smooth that 
the cricket remained on the back of her steady hand, still playing his last song 
of the night.
She raised the hand to her lips and blew the surprised insect from its perch. If 
only her current prey were so unsuspecting.
Without pausing, she moved from her cubby of fallen stones and fled swiftly 
across the courtyard. None would know she had passed. She had been trained to 
run the desert sands without disturbing a single grain. The main doors to the 
central castle were guarded. She could see the backs of the guards through the 
stained glass windows. But doors were for the invited.
As she ran, she flicked her wrist, and a thin rope shot out from her fingers and 
flew toward the barred windows of the third landing. The trio of hooked trisling 
teeth, fastened to the end of her rope, wrapped around the bars. Without 
stopping, she tugged on the rope and tightened her grappling. The rope was 
strong, woven of braided spiders silk. It would hold her. She flew to the wall 
and up it. No one watching would have even suspected she was using her rope. The 
ancient stone was full of pocks and old battle scars; climbing was as easy for 
her as scaling a steep stair.
Without even raising a sweat on her brow, she reached the barred window of the 
third floor. From a pocket appeared a vial of black-fire. She smeared the oil on 
three bars, top and bottom. The stench of scorched iron wafted briefly, but no 
glow marked the work of the blackfire oil. Nothing must draw the eye: one of the 
first lessons taught apprentices.
She ticked off the time. At the count often, she grabbed the bars and yanked 
them free. The blackfire oil had eaten fully through. Carefully, she rested the 
freed iron rods on the windows granite sill. She couldnt risk someone hearing 
the clatter of iron on stone if she merely dropped them.
Reaching through the opening, she flicked her wrist, and a thin steel blade 
appeared in her fingers. She passed it through the windows casement and slipped 
the latch. She tested the old window
w ires. An immediate rasp told her this particular window had not , opened in 
ages. Frowning at even this tiny noise, she reached into a pocket and oiled each 
hinge.
Satisfied, she pushed the window a finger-breadth wide and used the polished 
surface of her steel blade to study the reflection of the hall Empty. Without 
waiting, she squeezed through the narrow opening and rolled into the hall. She 
was on her feet and in the shadows within a single heartbeat.
Still she did not pause. She raced down the passage and slid down two 
staircases, never even leaving a footprint in the dust. Within a short time, she 
had reached her goalthe doors to the Grand Court. She crouched. A dance of 
tools and the lock was open. She cracked the door just enough to squeeze her 
lithe form past the threshold. At least these hinges were already well oiled.
Once inside, she hurried to the long ironwood table. At its head was a tall 
chair on a raised step. Its high back was carved with twining roses. As she 
approached, a trace of misgiving threaded through her veins. Here was where the 
witch sat. Her feet slowed as she worked down the long length of the table and 
neared the seat of power. She could almost sense the eyes of the witch upon 
her. She knew such thoughts were nonsense, but still she shivered.
Cringing slightly, she sidled around the tables edge and stood at its head. 
With her back to the tall chair, she reached inside her cloak and withdrew her 
weapon. In the dimness of the hall, the long black blade almost glowed. Her hand 
trembled slightly as she held it. Dont make me do this, she whispered to the 
empty hall.
But there was no retreat now. She had come too far, given up too much. If there 
was to be any chance, this cowardly deed must be done.
Raising the long black dagger high in both fists, she prayed for forgiveness and 
drove the dagger down into the table. Its sharp point pierced smoothly through 
the ironwood, as if it were only warmed butter. Still a shock spiked up her arms 
as the hilt hit the table. Gasping loudly, she pulled her hands free and ground 
her palms on her cloak, trying to escape the feeling.
She stared at the impaled blade. Its hilt protruded from the center f the 
handprint burned into the tablethe handprint of a witch.
As she watched, crimson blood welled up from the wood, spreading along the 
tables surface. The pool ran over the tables edge and flowed in rivulets to 
the stone floor. But that was not the worst. As she stood frozen, a distant cry 
of pain and shock rose from the spreading pool.
Raising a fist to her throat, the cloaked figure backed away. What have I done?
Turning on a heel, she fled out the door and into the maze of halls. But even 
the shadows could not hide her from the echoing cry of a wounded witch. Gods 
above, forgive me!
Writhing in a tangle of bedsheets, Elena clutched her hand to her chest. Her 
palm felt as if it were on fire. Through the red haze of agony, she barely 
registered the loud pounding on her chamber door.
Elena! It was Erril.
His yell gave her an anchor to focus upon. She freed her hand from her sheets, 
expecting to see it wounded and raw. But in the rooms predawn gloom, her hand 
appeared unharmed. As the pain slowly waned, Elena rolled from her bed and 
staggered toward the door.
The pounding continued. A board in the door cracked as Erril increased his 
assault. Elena! Answer me!
Trembling, Elena unhooked the doors latch and swung open the door. She found 
Erril disheveled and red faced. Over his shoulder, she spotted his blanket 
tossed and rumpled in the chair by the hearth. Last night, the plainsman had 
fallen asleep by the fire as the discussions of Weirgates and Chi had dragged 
well past midnight. Mama Freda had encouraged Elena to let Erril sleep where he 
sat. Are you hurt? he asked desperately, sword in hand.
With the pain now no more than a dull ache, Elena could finally think again. 
Im all right, she said, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
What happened? Erril asked, his eyes wandering from her toes to her head.
Elena remembered she was only dressed in a long linen shift. Suddenly aware, she 
backed from the door to her wardrobe and slipped into her robe. I dont know, 
she said. I awoke with my hand burning in pain. She shoved her arm through the 
robes sleeve to show Erril.
As her hand popped from the cuff, Elena gasped at the sight. With the light from 
the main rooms torches now illuminating her bedchamber, Elena saw her hand was 
not as unaffected as she had first thought.
Erril moved nearer, taking her hand in his. He inspected her palm and fingers. 
I see no wound. He met her eyes. But what happened to your Rose?
Elena shook her head. She had no answer. Freeing her hand from Errils grip, 
she lifted it higher in the flames light. It was as pale and white as the rest 
of her arm. The ruby hue had vanished. Her hand no longer bore the mark of the 
Rose.
Erril stepped more fully into her room, glancing all around. I dont 
understand, Elena said. I cast no spells. Especially nothing so strong as to 
drain my magicks. With her eyes, she urged him to trust her.
I believe you. Youd have had to torch the entire tower heights to expel that 
much witchfire. He stared up at the glow of dawn through the chambers high 
windows. But when the sun rises fully, youd best renew quickly.
Elena nodded, confused and worried. She wandered from her room toward the red 
coals of the main rooms hearth, drawn by the warmth. She held her palms toward 
the soothing heat. Her left hand was still the crimson red of the Rose, but her 
right was milky white. What had happened? Have you heard of anything like this, 
Erril? she asked. Of a mages power just vanishing?
Sheathing his sword, he approached the fireplace and picked up his woolen 
blanket from the floor. No. Even when Chi disappeared, a mage only lost his 
power as his stored magick was spent. He folded the blanket. Ive never seen 
this happen before.
She turned from the coals, unable to hide the fear in her eyes. Could it be a 
trick of the Dark Lord? Has he found a way to steal the magick from me?
Errils face grew clouded. I dont know. But whatever happened this morning 
was not natural. I suspect deceit.
Before either could speak further, a knocking on the door intruded. Erril 
glanced to Elena and slid his sword out once again. Stay behind me, the 
plainsman whispered.
He crossed to the door. Who is it? he yelled through the barred door.
Its Joach! Ive been sent by the castles chamberlain. Theres something Elena 
must see.
Frowning, Erril shoved his sword away and hauled the length of fire-hardened 
oak from the brackets. He yanked open the door.
Elena stood at Errils shoulder. Her brother wore his usual finery, but he must 
have dressed in a hurry. His shirt was untucked, and he had missed buttoning his 
breeches properly. What is it? Elena asked.
Joach glanced between Erril and Elena, his eyebrows rising slightly in surprise 
at the sight of the two of them together so early. Elena glanced to her own bed 
robe and bare feet. She blushed slightly at what her brother must be imagining.
After clearing his throat, Joach said, I I think you should see this for 
yourselves. Others have already congregated at the Great Hall, and the lower 
halls are all abuzz with rumor. I had the chamberlain chase everyone out of the 
main hall and post guards at the door.
Why? What is going on?
Joach shook his head. El, youd better get dressed. If nothing else, you need 
to make an appearance down there. All sorts of rumors are starting to grow.
What happened? she asked.
Waving away her question, Joach pushed into the room. Probably nothing. Just 
some drunken rouser making a bold statement about your diplomacy.
Speak clearly, Joach, Erril growled, drawing the young mans eyes. The 
plainsman moved to Elenas side and lifted the cuff of her robe. He exposed her 
white hand. Elenas magick was stolen from her. Something foul is afoot, and I 
tire of your little game of mysteries.
Joach stared in shock at Elenas white hand. Sweet Mother Then it wasnt just 
a prank, he mumbled.
 What? she asked irritably, pulling her arm from Erril.
Somebodynobody saw whojabbed a long knife in the palm print you burned in the 
Great Halls table. Joach could not take his eyes off her hand. Id figured it 
was simply a gesture meant to insult.
Elena rubbed her palm with the fingers of her other hand. She glanced to Erril.
Joach was right earlier, the plainsman said angrily. Wed best see this for 
ourselves.
What do you make of all this? Joach asked.
Errils gruff voice filled with anger. It means weve been too lax, too 
trusting in our supposed allies. Theres a traitor amongst us someone whos 
been plying the dark arts in our very midst. Erril stalked toward the door. 
Let us go.
Elena remained standing. Wait. She turned toward her bedroom door. I have 
something I must do first.
Erril shoved brusquely through the crowd gathered outside the doors to the 
Great Hall. Elena strode in his wake, flanked by guards and dressed in a plain 
but efficient riding outfit of brown calfskin boots, black pants, and matching 
jacket. Her hair had been tied back in a severe braid that made the gold flecks 
in her green eyes stand out. To hide the change in her hands, she also wore a 
pair of brown calfskin riding gloves.
Reaching the doors, Erril glanced approvingly at Elena. Back at the tower, she 
had been wise to ask for a moment to change. She had insisted that she present a 
commanding image, rather than her usual delicate wear. If there is a traitor 
here, she had explained, I want them to wonder if his deceit worked. And even 
if the renegade has fled, it would be best to present a hard front to those who 
remain.
Erril held the door, then followed her into the nearly empty hall. The only 
occupants were the most trusted leaders of her allies: Kast stood with the high 
keel of the Bloodriders; Sy-wen stood beside her merai elder, Master Edyll; and 
Meric stood with his mother, Queen Tratal of the elvin. Elena strode to the 
head of the table, Erril in step beside her.
The gathered folk remained silent, wearing worried expressions.
Elena glanced to Erril, then bent to study the knife.
The long hilt of the knife thrust up from the table. Elena leaned closer, 
studying the sculpted hilt. Erril knelt down and peered under the table. The 
blade of the knife jutted from the underside. It was the same material as the 
hilt. Erril straightened. This dagger is carved from a single black stone, he 
mumbled.
Elena reached tentatively toward it, but Erril stopped her with a uch to her 
elbow. For now, wed best leave it be until we know more about it.
Is it ebonstone? Meric asked, approaching the table.
Elena shook her head. No. The stone here is translucent, almost like a black 
crystal.
Erril moved around Elena to get his own view of the carving. Perched atop the 
hilt was a wingless dragon or lizard, its long tail wrapped along the length of 
the hilt, holding it in place. A fanged mouth was open in a hiss. Erril leaned 
closer. He could just make out the tiny collar of feathers around its neck. 
Sweet Mother Erril groaned.
Eyes swung toward him until the high keel strode forward and spoke. I know this 
crystal, he said gruffly.
Erril straightened and faced the broad-shouldered man. What is it?
The fleets of the Drerendi have traded in treasures from all the lands of 
Alasea. It is nightglass. Very prized. Shards of it trade for a mighty price. 
Something of this size and sculpted with such artistry could be bartered for a 
small ship.
But where does it come from?
The large man scratched his head. If I remember right, it comes from the desert 
of the Southern Wastes. Mined from the Scoured Sands around the Ruins of Tular.
Tular? Elena asked.
Erril answered, unable to keep the strain from his voice. An ancient keep, 
abandoned for ages, so old no one knew its history even in my time. Its crumbled 
rooms and halls hide in the shadow of the Southwall itself.
Elenas eyes grew wide at the mention of the Southwall.
Erril could read the suspicion in her gaze. First a danger arising near the 
Northwall, and now omens from the Southwall. Thats not all, Erril mumbled to 
her.
What?
He nodded toward the lizard carved on the hilt. There lies the ancient crest of 
Tular. Id forgotten until now.
What is it?
Erril stared at her, unflinching. A basilisk.
Elena gasped, stumbling back from the table.
By now, the other leaders had gathered closer. What is the meaning of this? 
Queen Tratal asked, storm winds sounding behind her stern words.
Erril turned to Elena.
She nodded. Tell them. I was going to make the announcement soon anyway.
Bowing his acknowledgment, Erril explained the portents from the night, of the 
Weirgates and their significance.
Queen Tratal turned to Meric. So, my son, you intend to take a ship and search 
for this Weirgate in the north.
He nodded. Yes. With your approval, I would like to leave before the sun sets 
this evening.
Queen Tratal turned to Elena and Erril. I will allow it. But what of this? 
She waved long fingers toward the imbedded dagger.
Elena took a deep breath, composing herself. I think the signs are too clear to 
ignore. If the Dark Lord positioned a Weirgate near the Northwall, there is a 
certain symmetry that hed position another at the Southwall. She indicated the 
daggers hilt. We cannot dismiss this omena basilisk like one of the four 
Gates. It must be investigated.
I can spare one other ship to aid you in your quests, the elvin queen stated 
coldly. No more.
But the Southern Wastes are vast and endless, Erril argued. With more ships 
involved in the search
No, Queen Tratal said, her silver hair crackling with elemental energy. I 
cannot weaken our fleet.
Erril frowned, but from the ice in the womans gaze, he knew she would not 
budge.
Then I would go with them, Kast said, lifting his head from where he had been 
whispering with Sy-wen. He drew the others attentions. The dragon Ragnark can 
add his keen eyes to this search. Kast put his arm around Sy-wen. We will 
accompany the elvin ship.
Erril nodded, satisfied.
The high keel wore a broad grin, puffing with pride. If Kast goes, I would like 
my son, Hunt, to accompany them. The Drerendi will help in this search.
Thank you, Elena said. Thank you all.
Master Edyll spoke for the first time. If the griffin is hidden some-vvhere in 
the north, the basilisk perhaps in the south, and the wyvern has been taken to 
the volcanic lair of the Dark Lord by the darkmage Shorkan Edyll eyed them all 
with his wise gaze. then where is this fourth gate? This Manticore Gate.
No one answered.
What do we know of it? Edyll asked. The elderly merai leaned on his cane, but 
mostly for effect. He had been free of the sea for almost a full moon and hardly 
needed the cane to walk on hard land.
Erril shook his head. The spirit of the book mentioned it. An ogre with a 
scorpions tail.
Nothing else? No other clue?
Elena began to admit their ignorance when the creak of hinges from a side door 
interrupted. Their faces all turned. A guard, spear in hand, stepped forth 
cautiously. With clear nervousness, his eyes took in the assembled crowd.
What is it? Erril asked.
The mans eyes drifted to the plainsman. I I came to announce He waved his 
free hand toward the opening.
A large shape climbed awkwardly through the narrow doorway. Hunched, the massive 
ogre pulled himself up to face the others. His large amber eyes, slitted like a 
cats, studied them.
Tolchuk? Erril said, brows pinched. Lately, the ogre had made himself 
scarce, retreating to deserted sections of the castle. From his expression now, 
clearly something was troubling him. His craggy features were a carving of 
hopelessness and despair.
Whats the matter? Elena said, stepping beside Erril. Whats wrong?
As answer, the ogre moved near them and raised a clawed fist. In his grip was 
the chunk of precious heartstone, the Heart of his Tribe. The torchlight glinted 
off its facets, but its usual glow was absent. They be gone, Tolchuk 
grumbled, struggling with the common tongue of Alasea. A large tear rolled down 
one cheek. All my peoples spirits. The Bane has consumed them. The Heart be 
dead.
Elena crossed toward the large creature. She reached and touched his hand with 
her gloved fingers. Oh, Tolchuk, Im so sorry.
Erril also moved forward to console him, but Tolchuk pulled free of Elena and 
turned slightly away, hunching his back toward t; H Vj ATE
them. I dont deserve your words of peace. I have failed my people. He seemed 
to hunch even farther in on himself. And now I must fail you all, too, my 
friends and brothers.
What is this nonsense? Erril asked, not unkindly. He reached and gripped the 
thick shoulder of the ogre.
Tolchuk flinched at his touch. I must leave you.
What? Elena gasped. What do you mean?
Erril understood the girls shock. The ogre had been their companion since the 
very beginning.
The shade of my father appeared to me, Tolchuk mumbled gruffly. He has given 
me one last taska way to revive the Heart.
How? Erril asked softly.
Tolchuk would still not turn. I must return the heartstone to where it be 
first mined.
Back to the mountains of the Teeth? Erril asked.
No. Tolchuk turned and faced him, his face a mask of pain. To Gulgotha.
Elena backed a step away. The others were too stunned to speak.
Tolchuks shoulders hunched farther. I cannot refuse my father.
Erril glanced around. First Meric called by Neelahn, and now Tolchuk sent a 
message by the shade of his father. Both companions called away by the words of 
the dead. Erril frowned at the coincidence.
Master Edyll noted another coincidence. The ogre is summoned to another shore. 
Does anyone else find this significant?
What do you mean? Elena asked.
We seek the hiding place of the fourth Gatea gate sculpted like an ogre with 
a scorpions tail. And now comes an ogre with a calling to cross the Great 
Ocean to the lands of Gulgotha. Could this be the sign we were looking for?
I do not understand what you speak, Tolchuk answered. I go at the bidding of 
my father, to find a way to free my peoples spirits from the Bane.
And what is this Bane? Master Edyll said. He held up his hand when Tolchuk 
began to answer. I have heard your tale, Master Tolchuk. What I mean is what 
exactly is this creature in the heartstone? Tolchuk held the stone up toward 
the light. I dont know. It has changed, grown as its fed on the last 
spirits.
May I see it? Master Edyll said.
Tolchuk glanced to Erril and Elena. Elena nodded, her face curious.
Tentatively, the ogre relinquished the chunk of heartstone to Master Edyll. The 
elder had to hold the large stone in both hands. He moved to one of the torches 
in a wall sconce. Straining slightly with the weight of the stone, Edyll held 
the crystal up to the flame, peering inside. The Heart glowed brightly with the 
firelight. The old merai leaned closer, grimacing slightly. Hmm
What? Erril asked.
Just as I thought. Master Edyll stepped to the side, still holding the crystal 
near the torch. He nodded to the far wall.
Erril and the others all turned. The refracted firelight spread to the distant 
wall, bathing it with a ruby glow. But at the center was a darkness. It was the 
shadow of the Bane cast on the wall for all to see.
Gasps spread all around. Erril took a step nearer.
As they watched, the shadow shifted, uncurling, as if it sensed their gazes. 
Black claws spread out, scrabbling on the wall. A spiked tail rose from the 
heart of the shadow, poised in threat.
A black scorpion, Elena said, a clenched fist at her throat. She turned to 
Tolchuk. The Bane is a scorpion.
Joach wound his way down to the lowest level of the castle. His stomach growled 
in complaint at his missed morning meal. Elena had rescheduled the war council 
meeting for midday. After the revelation of the scorpion, she had said she 
needed to ponder all she had learned. Before she left, Joach had watched Elena 
bow her head with Errils, whispering something to him. The plainsmans 
expression had darkened at her words; then the two had whisked out together, 
wearing almost matching stern expressions. Neither had bothered to include him 
in their plans.
With the remaining folk in the Hall talking within their own groups, Joach had 
found himself ignored. With no one to talk to, he had quickly become aware of 
his empty stomach. Seeking food, Joach had left the Hall and now worked his way 
down the last staircase toward the castles kitchen.
In truth, it was not just his stomach that urged him toward the kitchens. In his 
mind, he pictured a serving girl with eyes the color
WIT C H bAIE
of twilight and hair the color of spun gold. His lips breathlessly formed her 
name: Marta.
Joachs feet sped faster down the steps. Again, as he entered the lower level, 
he was instantly assaulted with the rich odors and cheery sounds of the 
kitchens. Joach glanced down at himself and straightened the lay of his jacket 
and shirt, then marched with forced casual-ness into the kitchen heat. He would 
not let his feet betray his heart. As soon as he entered, his eyes quickly 
scanned the bustling servants and kitchen help. So intent was he on peering 
through the crowd that he failed to see the discarded ladle on the floor. His 
heel struck it with a loud clang, and his leg went out from under him. Eyes 
turned his way.
Flailing, Joach fell forward. Grabbing for a tables edge to keep from falling, 
he missed, and his palm struck the edge of a large bowl of corn porridge. He 
twisted just before hitting the floor, taking the brunt of the impact on his 
shoulder. With the breath knocked from his lungs, he gasped and rolled to his 
backjust in time to see the . large bowl of porridge topple over the tables 
edge and dump its contents over his head.
The warm corn porridge splattered him from crown to shoulder, blinding him, 
filling his open mouth. Thank the Mother, it was just the remains from the 
morning meal, left cooling on the table. If it had been steaming hot, he could 
have suffered a severe burn. Even so, his cheeks were aflame with embarrassment. 
Sputtering and pushing to his elbows, Joach spat out a mouthful of porridge, 
choking. Watch it, you fool! a voice scolded.
Joach felt a cool, wet rag begin to wipe his face, first his lips and nose so he 
could breathe. Embarrassment made his voice meek. Im sorry I didnt see I 
tripped
The cool rag moved to wipe the porridge from his eyes. Joach, humiliated enough, 
sat straighter and took the rag in his own hand. I can manage, he muttered, 
heat entering his words.
He wiped brusquely at his eyes and face. Finally, he could see again. He glanced 
up to thank his benefactor and found himself staring into midnight blue eyes. 
Framed in golden hair, her bronze skin shone in the heat of the kitchens 
hearths. Marta, he gasped.
With his face now almost cleaned, Joach saw Martas eyes grow equally as wide as 
his. She bowed her head quickly. Prince Joach, she mumbled.
[ames Clemens
Joach had noticed the trace of panic and fear in her eyes just before she had 
turned away. Its all right, Marta. It was my fault. I wasnt watching where I 
was stepping. He did not want her sharing any guilt fr n*s own clumsiness.
Ill get you more rags, she muttered. Youd best give me your jacket. Ill 
soak it in cold water before any stain sets in the wool.
Joach wiped the rest of his face clean. No need. I can manage on mv own. But 
thank you all the same.
He stood and finally noticed the entire kitchen crew gaping at them. Joachs 
cheeks grew hot. He raised a hand and found his hair coated thickly with 
porridge. Frowning, he stepped to a washbasin and shrugged off his jacket. 
Before cleaning his clothes, Joach dunked his entire head into the deep 
washbasin. For a moment, he thought of drowning himself to escape his 
embarrassment. But he could not stop a small smile from forming on his lips as 
he worked the porridge from his hair. So much for his casual entrance.
Pushing up from the basin, he shook his hair free of the water. He found Marta 
at his side, a clean towel in hand. Joach accepted it with a shy grin. He was 
surprised to see a matching expression on the young womans face. I came down 
here for a quick breakfast, he said as he toweled his head. But I didnt 
expect it that quick.
Marta smiled at his attempt at a joke. Ill get you a proper meal. She nodded 
him to a table and waved another servant to take his jacket. Take a seat, 
Prince Joach. The head cook is at the Great Hall arranging for the midday 
repast, but Ill fincj something for you to eat.
Just not porridge, he said as she stepped away.
She glanced over his shoulder. Dont worry. Ill make you something special.
He watched her move confidently through the kitchen, ordering the younger help 
around. One of the other servant girjs whispered something in Martas ear, then 
darted away when Marta snapped a rag at her. The girl ran giggling away, but not 
before giving Joach a knowing wink.
Joach shook his head and hid his grin as he used the damp towel to wipe his 
shirt down and clean behind his ears. Before he had even finished, Marta 
returned with a stoneware plate and a fork. The plate steamed with a mix of 
braised meat over a bed of shredded potatoes. As she set the plate down, Joach 
smelled rich spices
<. r-i via unlike any he had ever smelled before. The odor slightly burned his 
nostrils:
Its a morning dish of my people, she said. It is made to wake the tongue to 
the mornings sun.
Joach forked a piece and brought it to his lips as she spoke. As he tasted it, 
his brows rose in appreciation. A full and rich spice accented the meat 
perfectly. What is this? he asked, lifting a second chunk of meat.
Sand shark, she said meekly, A delicacy from the Southern Wastesmy 
homeland. She poured him a mug of cold ale. Youll need this.
It was just then that the spices took full hold of his mouth. They bloomed with 
a fiery heat on his tongue. Sweet Mother! he choked out. His fingers scrabbled 
for his mug. He doused the fire with a generous wash of ale. The burn quickly 
faded. Joach sighed. That is the way your people greet the morning sun?
It is, when you live in the desert, she said with a small smile. Burning 
tongue for the burning sun.
I see, he said. He forked up another piece of meat. Regardless of the spicy 
burn, it had tasted wonderfulbut more importantly, he did not want to appear a 
milk-fed calf in front of Marta. Why dont you join me? he added, nodding 
toward another seat.
She bowed her head. Thank you for the consideration, Prince Joach, but Ive 
work to do here in the kitchen. She raised her head, a sly grin on her face. 
Besides, this dish is meant only for men of my tribe.
As she turned away, Joach studied her, drinking in her beauty as much as he had 
the ale a moment ago. But this draught did not soothe the burn in his spirit. He 
reached out and touched her elbow.
Thank you, he said.
She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at him. Smiling, she drew back a fall 
of her hair to see him better. It is an honor to serve a prince of the Blood.
Joach suddenly could not breathe. With the firelight playing across her cheek, 
Martas beauty held him enthralled as surely as any dark spell. Then her silken 
hair fell back over her face, breaking the spell as she moved away and returned 
to her duties.
Im no prince, he muttered as she disappeared inside a pantry.
I a in f.s Clemens
Elena followed Erril down the dark, narrow stairs. Farther ahead, a 
thick-bellied guard led the way with a torch held high. As Elena continued, the 
brush of a spiderweb whispered across a cheek. Scowling, she wiped the sticky 
strands away with a gloved hand. This section of the Great Edifice had seen 
little improvement since their victory here.
I still dont see why we need to consult them, Erril argued again.
Elena answered in a tired voice. If Tolchuk means to journey to Gulgotha, 
then I mean to give him as much guidance as possible. You saw the scorpion in 
the stone. It has to be a sign that the Manti-core Gate lies at the end of 
Tolchuks path.
But what do you hope to gain here in the dungeons?
Elena sighed. Hopefully an ally.
The guard stopped ahead at a thick iron-bound door. He pounded a thick fist on 
the oaken frame. Open up, Gost!
The only reply was a coarse grunt, but the grate of old latches sounded. The 
door creaked open with a cry of pained hinges. A half-naked man stood at the 
threshold with a lantern raised. In his other hand was a thick ironwood club. It 
was the dungeon keep. His one good eye grew wide at ths sight of Elena and 
Erril. The other half of his face was a frozen storm of scars.
Their guide nodded to the dungeon keep. This is Gost. Hell take you from here. 
But dont expect no cheery banter from the poor grunt. Their guide snickered. 
He had his tongue cut out when he himself was a guest here of the Dark Lord.
Gost clearly heard the guards words. After bowing toward them, he turned his 
face from the torchs flame. The movement reminded Elena of Jaston, the scarred 
swamp man, hiding his scars from the brightness and light of the sun. Elenas 
heart went out to the broken man. So much goodness had been butchered by the 
Gulgothal tyrants.
Their guide stepped aside to let Erril pass. Elena followed more slowly.
Beyond the door, the passage ahead narrowed even farther. They were forced to 
continue in single file. The only illumination came n vt A I f.
from Gosts lantern. As they walked in silence, Elena sensed they were slowly 
winding deeper under the castle. The air smelled more damp, with a hint of 
brine. To either side, the walls of the hallway changed from quarried stone 
blocks to passages carved in raw rock.
At last, a dim glow appeared ahead: the guardroom to the dungeons. Gost led them 
into the chamber and crossed to a ring of iron keys hanging on a hook. Elena 
glanced around the room. A small hearth glowed in one wall, the rock edges 
around it stained black from the smoke of countless centuries of fires. Four 
beds rested at the corners of the rooms, but three had their thin mattresses 
rolled up atop them, unused and dusty.
Gost must man these dungeons by himself, Elena realized.
While waiting for the guard to find the right key, she noticed the touches of a 
man who had made his home here under the castle. Small personal objects hung on 
the wall above the single dressed bed. An oil painting, no bigger than her palm, 
depicted a smiling woman astride a handsome chestnut stallion. Draped around the 
picture was a fine set of bridles and reins. The leathers shone in the feeble 
light, clearly well maintained. The metal of the bridle sparked brilliantly. 
Silver, Elena imagined. She studied these pieces. Here was a reflection of a 
different life, a life before the coming of the Gulgotha, before the time of 
scars and mutilations. For the thousandth time, Elena promised herself she would 
end such pain. Alasea had suffered enough.
Finally, a grunt drew her attention back to Gost. The scarred man held up a long 
key. With a satisfied nod, the guard led them to a door on the far side of the 
room. He opened the waylantern in one hand, ring of keys in the other.
Beyond the door was a hallway with a long row of short doors. Errils face 
darkened at the sight. He even stumbled a step. Elena remembered that Erril 
himself had recently been imprisoned in these very cells. Most of the doors now 
lay open. The dungeons had been emptied after their victory. Sadly, many of the 
victims of the Dark Lords attentions here had had to be destroyed. Strange, 
twisted creatures had been discovered howling, cowering in their own filth. Once 
men, but no longer, their minds had been ground away by dark magicks.
Thankfully, Gost led them past these cells to a branching hallway. Here there 
were larger cells, meant to hold multiple captives, with doors composed of iron 
bars as thick as a mans wrist.
J a in i.s Clemens
Gost led them to the centermost cell, the largest, as big as a small ballroom. 
The prisoners here, the only occupants in all the dungeon, had insisted on being 
housed together. Elena had agreed to their request. How could she refuse? She 
had not even wanted them imprisoned. After the war, they had sworn allegiance 
and fealty to her. But her allies, including Erril, were still mistrustful of 
these former enemies and had insisted they be incarcerated in the dungeons.
Elena stepped to the doorway. She was glad to find the area clean. Even iron 
braziers had been moved into the cell to warm the damp from the air and offer a 
bit of light and cheer. Clearly, Gost proved a fair innkeeper.
Amid the braziers, thick-bodied forms huddled, some wrapped in blankets and 
snoring, some whispering among themselves. They stood no taller than Elenas 
shoulder but weighed threefold, all muscle and bone. Faces turned in Elenas 
direction as her footsteps stopped at the cells door. Under heavy brows, 
narrowed eyes stared at her.
Oath or not, Erril muttered, I do not trust any dwarf.
Elena stepped nearer the door. When do you trust anyone? she answered glibly.
The leader of the dwarves, an ancient with an old scar running from crown to 
jaw, came forward to the bars, then quickly dropped to one knee. He was bald but 
bore a long gray mustache that drooped below his chin. Mistress Elena, he 
said, bowing his head farther, how may I serve you?
Elenas cheeks grew hot with shame at their imprisonment. His position reminded 
her of a similar display when she had first encountered the warriors. Wennars 
battalion, bearing heavy axes and protected by impenetrable spellcast armor, had 
fallen to its knees not for her, but for the sacred talisman she bore. The 
Trysil, the rune-carved Hammer of Thunder. The sight of the magickal talisman 
had succeeded in breaking the Dark Lords hold on these fierce warriors.
She waved to Gost. Could you open the gate please?
Gost was quick to obey. His keys rattled in the barred doors lock.
Is this wise? Erril said, and moved to Elenas shoulder, hand resting on the 
hilt of his sword.
As answer, she glared at the plainsman.
Once the gate swung open, she moved closer to the kneeling dwarf. Please rise, 
Wennar, she said, using the leaders name. I come to ask your aid.
The dwarf was slow to climb to his feet. He kept his eyes downcast. You have 
but to ask. We are yours to command.
By now, all the dwarves were intent on their conversation. Even those 
slumbering had been shaken awake.
Elena inclined her head in acknowledgment to Wennars statement. Thank you. I 
have a request of all of you.
Wennar nodded, waiting, eyes downcast.
You know Tolchuk, I believe.
The dwarf leader nodded again. The ogre.
He prepares to embark on a dangerous quest.
Wennar glanced slightly up, his gaze narrowed in confusion.
To Gulgotha, Elena finished.
The dwarfs eyes grew large. Murmuring arose from those gathered behind Wennar. 
He must not go there, their leader mumbled. The very ground is poisoned by 
the Nameless One. Only death lies there for the untainted.
He must go. Both at the behest of his fathers spirit and in the hope of aiding 
our battle against the Gulgotha.
Wennar turned his back slightly. No good will be found on those shores.
Elena glanced at Erril. The plainsman acted as if he expected no other 
response.
What would you have of us? Wennar asked, his gaze focused on a glowing brazier 
nearby.
I would have you go with Tolchuk. Those are your lands. You know them and can 
help.
Wennars shoulders trembled with her words. We swore an oath to you, but what 
you ask is not possible.
Why?
Centuries of winters have passed since any dwarf has set toe on Gulgothal 
soil. Our homeland is dead to us. We would know it no better than the ogre.
But surely youve seen old maps, know something of
Wennar swung back toward Elena, moving more swiftly than she imagined he could 
move. Erril yanked his sword from his sheath at the sudden movement, but no 
harm was intended by the dwarf leader. Our homeland is dead to us! Wennar 
wailed. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes. Anguish was etched in stone on 
his old face. Itis forbidden.
Erril spoke for the first time. I told you coming here would prove a waste.
Wennar slunk back around. Im sorry, Mistress Elena.
Elena was not ready to admit defeat. And what if you bore the Trysil on this 
journey?
Wennar tensed.
I promised Cassa Dar, Elena continued, that Id one day return your sacred 
talisman to its homelands, to the mines of Gulgotha, and fulfill the ancient 
prophecy.
The Hammer of Thunder, he mumbled.
It is foretold that the return of the hammer would herald the rebirth of your 
homeland.
Wennar still would not turn. He drew even tighter inward. It is not a dwarf 
hand that must carry the Trysil.
Then Tolchuk will, Elena said.
No. Wennar slowly turned. Did the dwarf mistress of the swamps not explain 
this to you? The legend is exact. Only the one who freed the Hammer can bring 
the Trysil home. Wennar raised his eyes and met hers squarely for the first 
time. Only you can free our lands.
Erril slammed his sword back to its sheath. Elena cannot go to Gulgotha. She 
is needed here.
Elenas immediate reaction was the same as the plainsmans. They had fought so 
hard and lost so many lives to bring the witch to Aloa Glen. How could she 
think of venturing on this side journey when the larger war loomed? But once she 
heard the plainsman speak it, Elena considered this thought more deeply. She 
remembered sitting on the Rosethorn Throne, all but forgotten by the others. Was 
it truly so vital she be here? The war was not fought to bring the witch to the 
island, but Elena to the book. And with that accomplished, was she needed here? 
Did she plan to hide in safety while her friends scattered throughout the lands 
in search of the cursed Weirgates? Should she not bear her magick and power in 
pursuit of the Gates destruction? Elena clenched her fist. Still, dare she 
consider leaving the safety of this fortified island? She had no answer but one 
last question had to be asked aloud.
If I go, she said, will you come as guides?
Elena! Erril blurted. You cant think to
Elena held up a hand to silence him. She kept her eyes on Wennars.
Slowly he fell to his knees and bowed his head to the floor. The other dwarves 
did the same. We would be yours to command, Wennar said, his voice swelling 
with hope. We would die to keep you safe.
Elena nodded. Very well. I will consider this.
You will notl Erril said in rattled shock.
Elena did not even glance his way, but turned on a heel and led the way back out 
of the dungeons.
Erril chased after her as Gost locked up the cell behind them. Elena, you 
cant truly be thinking of going to Gulgotha. You cant risk yourself this way. 
Youre safe here. You have armies from many lands protecting you.
Elena did not stop her march back toward the castle proper. Safe? she asked. 
She slipped the glove from her left hand, exposing her pale flesh. There are 
assassins within these very walls. The Dark Lord knows that I hide here and will 
try again and again to destroy me. I am a sitting target, just awaiting his next 
arrow.
But?
They had reached the dungeon keeps domicile. The light here was much brighter. 
Elena turned to Erril. I have made no final decision, Erril. I only said I 
would consider it.
Then I would ask you to consider this, Elena. By going, perhaps you would be 
playing into the Dark Lords hands. Maybe the assassin was not meant to kill 
you, but to scare you, to chase you from the island, so he might snare you when 
you are less protected.
Elena sighed and stopped. Her eyes settled on Gosts portrait of a smiling woman 
on a handsome horse. No one can know what game the Dark Lord is playing. To 
guess his next move is the path to fear and indecision. Ive heard enough of 
that in the Great Hall over the past moon. All I can do is follow what my heart 
tells me. Elena turned and met Errils eyes. Can you trust that? Can you 
trust my decision?
Erril closed his eyes and slowly nodded. His words were a bare whisper. 
Always. I am your liegeman.
K.AST STOOD AT THE PROW OF THE DOUBLE-MASTED ELvlN WINDSHIP, the Eagles Fury, 
and glanced below to the dock. Men bustled with crates and supplies among the 
thick ropes tethering ship to land. Winches creaked and draft horses whinnied as 
they fought the pul-leved ropes to haul gear to the elvin warship floating two 
stories above their heads. Open hatches on the underbelly of the ship awaited 
their cargo.
Scowling, Kast turned his back on the sight. Outfitting the ship for the journey 
to the Southern Wastes would have gone much faster if the ship had docked like 
any normal seagoing vessel. But the captain of the Eagles FuryMerics brother, 
Richaldhad refused to let his ship settle into the sea for loading. No 
Thundercloud has ever touched the worlds surface, Richald had stated coldly. 
It would taint the Eagles Fury, and auger ill for our journey.
Kast had not argued. It was not his ship. On this expedition, he was a mere 
passenger. He stared up at the masts with their furled sails and at the thin, 
waspish fellows climbing lithely among the ropes and rigging. As much as he 
found this mode of travel distasteful, Kast could not fault the skill of 
Richalds crew. They walked the ropes as well as any man walked the planks of a 
normal vessel.
Sighing, he glanced away. On the far side of the dock, the twin to this boat 
floated two stories above the water. It was Merics own ship, the Stormwing. Its 
magic-wrought iron keel glowed like warm coal, its elemental power keeping the 
ship afloat in the air. Men bustled under its hull, too, as it was being 
outfitted and readied for its flight to the northern stretches of Alasea. From 
here, Kast spotted the elvin lord among his own crew atop the deck, including 
the trio of dark-skinned zool tribesman who would accompany Meric on the search 
for Elenas companions.
There was a certain symmetry here. Two brothers, two ships, two tasks. One 
headed to the north, one to the south. But how would each fare? Twin victories 
or twin defeats?
The scrape of bare heel on wood drew his attention from his reverie of the 
future. Dressed in mottled sharkskin, Sy-wen might as well have been naked. From 
the swell of her breasts to the curves of her thighs, nothing was hidden by the 
thin material. She smiled as their eyes met, oblivious to the immodesty of her 
dress.
But others were not so blind. At her side strode the captain of the ship, 
Richald. Kast noticed how the elvin kept trying to avert his eyes from Sy-wens 
form, but failed. A slight blush glowed on the captains pale cheeks as his eyes 
flickered toward her periodically. It seemed the blood of elvin princes did not 
entirely flow with ice.
Sy-wen slipped easily under Kasts arm as she neared him, giving him a quick 
brush of her lips on his cheek. Kast firmed his grip around her waist, making it 
clear who lay claim to her heart.
Richald cleared his throat and glanced off to the empty skies. We are on 
schedule. Well be off with the first light.
Kast nodded. It seems Meric fares just as well.
This triggered a hardening of Richalds countenance. His eyes narrowed as he 
glanced toward the Stormwing. Luckily my brothers crew has been trained well. 
It seemed Richald was not about to give Meric any credit for leadership in this 
matter.
Ah, but a crew is only as good as their captain, Kast mumbled.
Richalds fist clenched. That is yet to be seen. My brother has been too long 
on solid ground. Let us see how he fares in the wilds of the empty skies.
Im sure your brother will do well, Sy-wen said, pulling slightly away. She 
squeezed Kasts arm, scolding him silently for goading Richald. But I must be 
off. Mother is expecting me.
Youre going now? Kast said, surprised. What about Elenas council meeting?
I am not needed. Master Edyll represents our people. She nodded toward the two 
masts of the Eagles Fury. Besides, it is clear where we are headed next. And 
if we are to leave at dawn, I have little time to say good-bye to Mother. She 
stepped toward the railing. I will return by nightfall.
Kast refused to let her leave so easily. Catching her wrist, he pulled her back, 
drawing her to his chest and staring down into her eyes. I expect you back 
before the suns last light, he whispered, then leaned near her ear so his 
words were private. We have a new bed to bless this night.
His words brought a blush to her cheeks. He leaned for a kiss and found her lips 
as warm as her cheeks. With lips still touching, she breathed a promise. Fear 
not. Ill be here, my dragon. A finger traced his chin as she pulled away, 
outlining the edge of his tattoo. Her touch was like fire on his flesh.
Then she stepped away again.
the distance, the blare of trumpets sounded from the castle e The council was 
being summoned. I must be off, she said. Kast had no words left in him. He only 
raised a hand in farewell. S -wen crossed to the ships leeward side, climbed 
over the rail- e and without a glance back, dove smoothly over the side.
Kast strode to the rail and leaned out. Far below, the barest trickle of bubbles 
marked where she had entered the water. The sea had welcomed back its own.
As THE ASSEMBLY GATHERED, ErrIL STOOD AT ElENas SIDE BESIDE THE
Rosethorn Throne. Erril noted how half the council seats remained empty. During 
the night, the faint-hearted and the profiteers had clearly packed and fled, 
wanting no part of any real action against the Gulgotha.
Erril turned. Elena wore a deep frown as she also stared around the assembly. 
Few members spoke as they settled into their places, eyes flicking toward the 
empty chairs.
From beyond the chamber, a trumpet blew a final note, announcing the start of 
the war council.
At this signal, Elena stood. She still wore her leather riding outfit but had 
abandoned the pair of matching lambskin gloves. The Rose was bright again on 
both hands. Earlier the assassins dagger had been carefully extracted from the 
table and given to the scholars in the library for study. With her handprint 
free of the magickal talisman, Elena had found she could easily renew in the 
light of the sun, returning the gift of witch fire to her right fist. She kept 
her hands bared now to dismiss any rumor of weakness.
Though Erril was relieved no permanent harm had resulted from the mysterious 
attack, he felt a twinge of misgiving. He stared at the wounded handprint, as 
did others around the table. What did this assault mean? Why go through so much 
trouble for so little result?
As he stood guard, hand on sword hilt, Elena lifted her right fist for all to 
see. In the torchlight, the crimson hues whorled over her flesh. To the less 
observant, it seemed a twin to her left, but Erril osnized the slight fade to 
the Rose of her raised fist, a sign of gick spent. But the drain was no trick 
from the magickal dagger. After Elena had renewed, Erril had insisted she 
practice manipulat- a her magick to test whether her gift had somehow been 
tainted. Flena had lit a series of candles from ten paces away, her control so 
recise that not even a single drop of wax had melted. It seemed the attack had 
had no lasting damage.
And this fact bothered him more than anything.
He studied the tabletop. Just what had been the purpose of this assault? Why so 
much stealth and secrecy? The lack of any reasonable answer kept Erril on edge. 
He kept a wary eye on the faces along the table. Was the traitor still here, or 
had he fled with the night?
As if feeling his hard gaze, the crowd finally settled to full silence.
Elena took a step forward and clenched her raised fist tighter. A glow blew 
forth from her hand. But when she spoke, her voice was quiet. This past night, 
we have seen the result of a wavering heart. While weve sat and argued, dark 
forces have grown in our midst, like poison in stagnant waters. Well, no longer. 
From this moment onward, we will be a rushing river, a torrent of determined 
force that no petty thief in the night can taint. As she spoke, fire grew in 
her voice, and the glow of her Rose flared brighter.
Erril had a difficult time keeping a watch upon the table and surroundings, his 
gaze drawn to her like a moth to flame. Slowly, Elena lowered her fist.
I thank you all for showing your true hearts here this day, she continued. 
Though our numbers are fewer, we are stronger, steel forged from iron. And 
before another winter passes, I promise we will bring this new blade to the 
throat of the Black Heart himself.
A fist pounded rhythmically on the table. It was the high keel. His eyes were 
bright with the promise of war. Let the oceans run red until our lands are 
free! the high keel growled. Others murmured, and more fists added their 
support along the ironwood table.
Elena lifted a palm to silence the rising response. War will come. There is no 
way to avoid it. But before we cast our bodies upon the shoals of Blackhall, we 
must be ready.
We are ready! the high keel declared boldly, ignoring the bandages still 
peeking from under his clothes.
Elena smiled. Im sure you are. The Drerendi are not ones to hun a battle, 
even when the numbers are against them.
The high keel nodded, chest swelling. But for now, another path lies ahead of 
us.
And what might that be? These words were from a familiar dissenter, Symon 
Feraoud, the portly representative from Penryn. He blew out his black mustaches 
as he huffed his skepticism. Erril had been surprised to see the man take a 
seat at the meeting. He would have laid odds on Feraoud being the first to ship 
back to his coastal home last night.
Elena nodded to the question raised by the thick-bellied fellow. As you all 
know, I have taken the night to consult the spirits of the Blood Diary and have 
studied the words coming from far places. We now know the source of the Dark 
Lords magicks. It is a set of four ebonstone gates that contain the font of 
his black powers. Before we take our war to the shores of Blackhall, we must 
first discover these Gates and destroy them, stripping the Dark Lord of his 
magick. Therein lies our only chance at victory.
Erril noticed Elena was careful not to mention what she had truly discerned 
from the Blood Diarythat the imprisoned spirit of Chi was the true well of 
power. Such news would not have been well received.
And how will you attempt the destruction of these Gates? Symon asked.
We will not just attempt this, Elena said coldly. We will do it. Already 
elvin ships are being readied to search them out.
A new murmuring grew around the table.
Master Edyll of the merai spoke up. Tell us your full plan.
Elena bowed her head to the elder, then answered. We know of four Gates: the 
Wyvern, the Basilisk, the Griffin, and the Manticore. One we cannot reach. The 
wyvern statue has been taken by Shorkan to Blackhall. We will leave that Gate 
until we are ready to take the battle to Blackhall itself. But words and signs 
point to where the other three might lie.
Elena continued to explain about the twin journeys: one to the north led by 
Meric, one to the south led by Prince Richald and accompanied by Sy-wen and 
Kast.
And the Manticore Gate? Master Edyll asked.
Elena grew silent for a few moments, then finally spoke. The ogre, Tolchuk, 
will search to the east, across the seas to Gulgotha.
This announcement stunned most of the members, except the
, nc[ful who had been in the hall earlier.
That is a most dangerous journey, Edyll countered. None who
, attempted to seek out that distant shore have ever returned. Elena nodded. 
That is why I have enlisted the aid of guides. Her answer lifted the brows of 
the merai elder. Guides?
The dwarf captives in the dungeons below. It is their ancient homeland.
At the mention of the dwarves, faces grew stern and angry.
Even if such guides should prove faithful, Master Edyll said, his voice thick 
with doubt, this journey still is the most dangerous of all and the most likely 
to fail.
Not if I go with them, Elena said simply.
Her answer had the entire assembly on its feet. Even Erril took a step toward 
Elena, but he restrained himself. He had sworn an oath to her. He would abide by 
her decision.
But that did not mean the others would.
The high keels face was as red as a bloodied bandage. You cannot mean to 
travel to that cursed land! It is certain death.
Erril could not stop his own head from nodding when others shouted their 
dissent. It was absolute folly.
Elena bore the brunt of their outburst, a rock beaten by waves.
Queen Tratal spoke for the first time. Her face, usually unreadable, was a mask 
of rage. I will not allow this!
Elena turned slowly to the elvin queen. I am going.
The two women stared at one another. Tiny spats of lightning sparked among the 
silver strands of Queen Tratals hair, raising a slight nimbus around her head 
like a silver crown. Still Elena met the womans ice with her own. The hall 
quieted as the two faced each other down. The scent of the room grew to that of 
a brewing storm, and time seemed to slow to an excruciating length.
Finally, Queen Tratal clenched her fists once and settled back. So it seems the 
blood of kings does run in your veins. Lightning died around herbut her eyes 
remained narrowed, cold and brittle as shards of winters ice. But if you mean 
to cross the Great Ocean, it will be aboard my ship.
Elena bowed her head in acquiescence, clearly growing into a diplomat as much as 
a witch. I would be honored.
The high keel, however, was not so easily swayed. If Elena goes, then we go, 
too. The Drerendi have sworn blood oaths to protect you.
Elena turned to the leader of the Bloodriders with a warm smile. I appreciate 
your loyalty, High Keel of the Drerendi. I am doubly honored, but Aloa Glen 
must also be protected. I would ask the Drerendi and the merai to keep the 
island safe while we are gone on our journeys. If we succeed, there must be a 
rallying point to which we can return. And I would prefer not to wage another 
War of the Isles to regain it.
The high keel grumbled, but the winds seemed to die in his sails.
And more importantly, Elena continued forcefully, this small island is the 
seed from which a new Alasea, a free Alasea, must grow. I will not have it fall 
again under the shadow of the Dark Lord.
The high keel bowed deeply, fist raised to throat. On the blood of every 
Drerendi, such a curse will never happen.
Elena crossed her arms across her chest in the typical Drerendi fashion. An 
oath accepted. She then lowered her arms and faced the assembled council. Are 
we agreed? she asked simply.
The question need not have been asked.
Erril turned from the council as they pounded their assent upon the iron wood. 
He stared at Elena as she stood at the end of the table. The words of Queen 
Tratal echoed in his head: the blood of lyings runs in your veins.
There was no doubt.
In an abandoned section of the castle, a cloaked figure huddled in the deeper 
shadows of a shallow alcove. She waited for the signal with only spiders and 
dust beetles for company. Then she heard it, echoing down through the halls of 
the Great Edifice: a trumpets blast. The council meeting had begun. The witch 
and her companions would be occupied for a stretch of time. Straightening her 
lithe form, she slid smoothly from her alcove, not even disturbing the drape of 
spiderwebs overhead. She stepped through the parade of dust beetles without 
squashing a single insect. Her master had taught her not to leave behind even a 
single clue of her presence. Around her, the halls were empty, as she imagined 
even the more wlated sections of the castle were at this time. The entire castle
, ij jts breath at the outcome of the meeting in the Great Hall. But ch matters 
of politics and intrigue were not her concern. She had complished half of her 
task. All that remained was a final act and her escape.
Running silently on feet padded in the thinnest leather, she left no footprint 
upon the floors thick dust. She ran the halls, winding her way toward the upper 
floors of the castle. Dashing down a last passage, she quickly came upon the 
door she sought. She tested its latch. It did not budge. She silently sighed in 
relief. It was locked, suggesting no one was inside. Allowing herself a tight 
grin, she sank to one knee. Tools slipped easily into hand. Deft fingers played 
the slim lengths of steel into the doors lock and searched for the releases.
The tumble of the locks mechanism rewarded her efforts. She stood and tested 
the latch once again. It gave way easily.
Not pausing to appreciate her handiwork, she pushed the door open only wide 
enough for her slim form to slip past the threshold. She leaned on the door and 
let it snap closed behind her, thumbing the lock back in place.
The room was dim; only a single small lantern glowed atop a table in the far 
corner, its wick trimmed to the smallest flame. She frowned at the sight. Why 
was a lamp left burning, even as low as it was? Had one of the scholars been 
forgetful? She hurried deeper into the room. She could not trust such a thought. 
None of the scholars would risk an untended flame, especially here.
To either side, shelf after shelf of books and scrolls stood guard over the 
room. The rows towered three times her height with a scattering of ladders 
between them to aid the librarys staff in finding the proper text among the 
highest shelves. She crossed to the far side of the room, where desks, chairs, 
and tables were spread before a tall hearth. She glanced quickly around, 
ensuring herself that no one skulked in some shadowed corner. She neared the 
hearth and raised a palm toward a mantel stone. Still warm. The hearth had only 
recently died.
Biting a lip with worry, she hurried about her task. She had listened to the 
rumors among the castle help and knew where she needed to search. She crossed to 
the largest of the many desks. It was a huge oaken monstrosity with scrolled 
edges and so thickly cluttered that not a single space was bare atop it. Stacks 
of books were stationed at every corner, and parchment lay scattered amid a 
handful of open texts and inkwells. There was even a trio of scrolls splayed 
wide atop the desk, held open with small lead weights in the shapes of woodland 
animals.
She ignored all the determined research and went to the center-most drawer of 
the thick desk. She tested the drawer and was surprised to find it unlocked. 
Could she be mistaken? Fearing the worst, she yanked the drawer open with a loud 
squeak of wood.
She closed her eyes briefly with relief. It was still here! Opening her eyes, 
she reached into the drawer. Her fingers hesitated only a breath before touching 
the crystal daggers sculpted hilt. The carving of the basilisk, the ancient 
symbol of the ghouls of Tular, sickened her. Still, she lifted the blade from 
the drawer and examined the long shard of razor-sharp nightglass. Holding it up 
to the light, she saw the length of the blades core now glowed with a fiery 
brightness that had nothing to do with the lamps tiny flame. Her master had not 
been mistaken!
She was so stunned that it took her half a moment to recognize the telltale 
sound of a key in a lock. She froze as voices rose from behind the door. Someone 
was coming!
Sliding the dagger into the sheath sewn into her cloak, she sped to the nearest 
row of bookshelves and flew up them without the use of any of the librarys 
ladders. She pulled herself atop the bookshelf and stood on the narrow strip of 
wood, balancing, praying it would hold her weight and not topple.
Across the room, the door swung open and a pair of robed scholars entered the 
room, one young, one old. They bore platters of bread and cheeses as they 
talked.
Not waiting, she ran for deeper shadows, where the row met the library wall. 
None noticed her motions or the dance of her shadow on the ceiling overhead. Her 
master had taught her the value of heights as a means of flight. Most men looked 
forward and down, but seldom up. This proved true now.
Carefully, as the scholars continued toward their desks, the cloaked figure 
jumped from row to row, retreating back toward the doors.
Below, as they passed, the older scholar urged the younger one. Im sorry to 
disturb your meal, Brother Ungher. But my eyes are not as keen as they once 
were. I would have you see this for yourself.
It is never a bother to help you, Brother Ryn. I know your study f the dagger 
is of the utmost importance.
I iust need you to study this blade with your younger eyes. There is an odd 
glow. I cant discern if its just a reflection or something born inside the 
nightglass.
The scholars exchange almost made the escaping thief miss a step. She came near 
to slipping from atop the last stack. Waving an arm for balance, she steadied 
herself and crouched to calm her heart. They meant to examine the dagger. Any 
hope of escaping the castle before the theft was noted was disappearing rapidly. 
Silently, she crept down the shelf back to the stone floor.
The murmur of voices had dropped below her ability to pick out words. She peeked 
around the edge of the bookshelf. The two scholars had paused to rest their 
trays atop one of the smaller tables.
The younger ones voice rang clearer as he straightened. Would you like me to 
relight the hearth, Brother Ryn?
No, no, this wont take long. Come see the dagger.
The two robed figures disappeared out of view.
With her heart in her throat, she slipped to the door, undid the latch, and 
prayed the hinges remained silent as she pulled the door open just enough for 
her to pass.
She backed into the hall just as she heard a startled outburst from inside. Her 
theft had been discovered! She pulled the door quickly shut and imagined ways to 
jam the lock to trap the two scholars. In this lonely section of the castle, it 
might be a long time until someone heard their yells for help. With a sudden 
idea, she backed a step and ran into a person standing silently behind her.
Before she could react, strong hands grabbed her elbows and yanked her arms 
painfully behind her. She gasped at the sudden attack and attempted to writhe 
out her assailants grip. She stamped a heel on the attackers toes.
Now it was his turn to gasp and jump, but his grip and twist on her arms did not 
let up.
She was shoved hard into the library door, smashing her forehead hard enough to 
see lights dance before her eyes.
What are you doing skulking about here? the attacker yelled, shoving her again 
and pinning her against the door. Answer me! he hissed in her ear.
She tasted blood from a split lip. She had no words in her. So close, she moaned 
only to herself. So close.
Suddenly the door at her face opened. The two tumbled past the threshold to land 
in a tangle of limbs at the foot of the younger scholar. She struggled to take 
advantage of the surprise and loose herself. But her attacker was no fool. As 
she fought and kicked, he took the assault with grunts and spats of swearing but 
kept his grip. Twisting savagely, she attempted to tear free but only succeeded 
in ripping her cloak. The dagger fell free and skittered across the stone floor. 
She shot a hand out toward it, but the scholar reached it first, retrieving the 
weapon.
We have our thief! the young Brother called out, triumphant.
With the dagger lost from her possession, she found her strength vanish with it. 
She was again pinned under the attackers weight and groaned in despair. So 
close
She did not resist when she was wrenched from her belly to her back, still held 
tight by her attacker. Through a blur of tears, she saw who had captured her: 
his fiery red hair, his angry green eyes. The brother of the witch. Lord 
Joach, she moaned.
Joach reached and pulled at the cloaks hood. She tried feebly to stop him. No, 
not this, too.
Stronger, his fingers ripped back her hood, exposing her face for all to see. 
She stared back at him, tears on her cheeks. She saw his eyes grow wide as he 
recognized her. The anger in his face drained to pain. She closed her eyes 
against his hurt.
But she could not shut out the heartbreak in his voice. Marta?
As THE MEETING DISPERSED, ElENA LEFT THE GREAT HaLL, FOLLOWED
closely by her eternal shadow, Erril. She felt the storm cloud brewing over her 
shoulder as he kept pace. She knew the plainsman wanted to vent his rage at her 
decision to go Gulgotha, yet he remained silent, keeping his word to support 
her. But in some ways, this was even worse. His silence was brooding. The 
stiffness of his back and the white-knuckled grip on his sword hilt announced 
his dissent as loudly as words.
Once free of the crowds, she slowed so Erril could walk abreast of her. This 
matter had best be settled before the journey began. Erril, she said, I must 
go to Gulgotha.
I am your liegeman, he answered dutifully. You are free to pur-the path you 
believe best. I will follow you anywhere. So Ive svvorn.
Elena sighed. I do not make this decision rashly, Erril. If
Tolchuk is to succeed in his journey, if the Manticore Gate is to be 
discovered, he will need my power.
I understand your desire to help, to not sit idle. Even I
Its not just that. Elena struggled to find the words to explain herself 
better. Portents and signs all point to the east, to Gulgotha: the scorpion in 
the stone, the spirit message from Tolchuks father, the dwarf legend of the 
Trysils return. I sense I sense I must voyage there. For too long, the lands 
of Gulgotha have been tainted by the Dark Lord. If we ever hope to free our 
land, theirs must be freed, too. She stopped Erril with a touch and turned to 
him. Can you understand this? Support this? Not just from youroath bond as 
liegeman, but as a friend.
The plainsmans hard stance slowly melted. He lowered his head with a sigh. 
After we talked with the dwarves, I knew youd make this decision. But I hoped 
otherwise.
Im sorry
No, I spent the time before the meeting pondering what the dwarves said what 
you said. Perhaps a journey to Gulgotha is not such folly. It is from those 
distant lands that the Black Heart himself arose. Perhaps once there, we can 
learn more of the Gul-gothal lord. Even after five centuries, we know so little 
about the tyrants true nature. And where but his own birthplace could we 
perhaps discover more, maybe even discern a weakness in his armor?
Elena felt her heart lighten with his words. His support of her decision lifted 
the burden from her lone shoulders. So you agree with my going?
He lifted his face; his eyes were full of agony. I wish I could lock you away 
and keep you from pursuing such a dangerous path. He turned away. But in my 
heart, I know there is no safe place anywhere any longer. Not Gulgotha, not 
here.
Elena stared at the plainsman, hesitant, then reached and took his hand. Yes, 
there is, Erril. There is one place where I am forever safe.
He glanced to her hand and did not pull away. Where is that? His voice was 
hushed, almost choked. Tell me and Ill take you there.
No need. She gently squeezed his hand and leaned in closer to him. Im 
already there.
He tensed with her words. Had she spoken too boldly, shown her heart too 
clearly? He would not meet her eyesbut neither did he free his hand. Elena 
he whispered. I I
A commotion ahead drew their attention forward. Elena felt Errils fingers slip 
from hers as Joach and a robed scholar stalked around the next corner. They were 
followed by two guards hauling a trussed-up girl.
Joachs eyes widened as he spotted them, and he hurried forward. Weve found 
your attacker, he said, breathless. He nodded toward the guards.
What? Erril asked, shocked, moving forward to protect Elena.
Joach lifted his hands, revealing the long, black dagger. She tried to steal it 
and was caught. He stepped aside so Elena could see her attacker.
The girl was thrust roughly forward, falling to her knees. She made no sound as 
she struck the hard stone. She just hung her head, hair draping her face. Her 
clothes, a cloak over loose shirt and leggings, were torn to rags. Clearly she 
had been roughly searched by the guards, her pockets ripped and rifled through.
She had posed as a scullion, Joach explained, voice tight.
And that is not all, the scholar, an old man in a rough-spun umber robe, said. 
Elena recognized him as Brother Ryn, caretaker of the castles library. He moved 
toward the girl and reached to her nape. Most interesting most interesting I 
thought them disbanded long ago and vanished.
Brother Ryn, what is it? Erril asked.
Something we found when we searched her. The elderly Brother reached and 
gently brushed the girls tawny hair back from behind an ear. Do you know this 
symbol, Erril?
Erril moved nearer, and Elena followed. He bent closer as Elena peered over his 
shoulder. Behind the girls ear was a tiny tattoo: a small dagger entwined by a 
snake. A guild mark The Assassins Guild, Erril said, straightening with a 
frown.
Like Cassa Dar? Elena asked, remembering a similar tattoo hidden behind the 
ear of the swamp witch. But I thought she said her guild ended with the fall 
of Castle Drakk, their stronghold.
It seems some of the seeds cast after the fall found fertile soil to 2fOw 
again, Erril said sourly. But why attack you?
Elena knelt before the girl and reached a hand to her attackers hin. She lifted 
the girls face. Elena was immediately struck by two things: the deep indigo hue 
to her eyes and the hopelessness found therein. Who sent you? Elena asked 
softly.
The woman stared back, silent.
She refuses to speak, Joach said. Weve asked the same of her already.
From the bruise on the girls cheek and her split lip, the first interrogation 
had been none too gentle. Elena frowned. She sensed no enmity from the girl, 
only a profound despair. Narrowing her eyes, Elena continued quietly. What is 
your name? Surely that is not forbidden for you to disclose.
Confusion crept into the others face.
Joach interrupted. Her name is Marta.
Elena glanced up to her brother, but a meek voice drew her back to the roped 
girl. No, my true name is Kesla.
Kesla? Elena asked.
The girl nodded and spoke rapidly, pleading. I beg that you let me go. Return 
my dagger, and I will vanish from these shores forever.
Erril snorted harshly. Not likely, assassin. Its into our dungeons youll be 
vanishing.
Kesla ignored the plainsman, keeping her eyes on Elena. I meant you no harm at 
least, no lasting harm. My war is not with you.
Then who is it with?
The girl studied the stones at her knees and mumbled. The master of the guild 
has sworn my tongue against speaking of such matters.
Elena sighed and stood. My tower is near. Perhaps we should continue this 
discussion in my chambers.
I see no reason to continue it at all, Erril countered. Leave her to the 
dungeons. Weve much planning ahead this day if we are to be ready in time.
Elena saw Joach help the prisoner to her feet. Kesla glanced up at Joach and 
quickly away. Joach swallowed hard and left her to the guards. Elena sensed more 
to the story between them than had been spoken aloud. I would still like to 
question her further, Elena said to Erril, stepping around him to lead the way 
back to her tower.
Erril grumbled something under his breath but followed. The others shadowed 
after them. Once the tower was reached, Brother Ryn excused himself to return to 
his library, and the remaining group continued the long climb in silence.
Elena rubbed her right hand with her left as she led the way. She remembered the 
intense pain as the magick was wrenched from her flesh. What manner of assault 
had that been? She pondered the mystery. Another member of the Assassins Guild, 
Cassa Dar, had once strangled her power with a spellcast swamp weed, luring 
Elena into the bogs and swamps of the Drowned Lands for a cure. But what did the 
guild want with her now? Before she left this coast, she needed an answer.
At last, they reached the top of the long stairs. A pair of posted guards 
snapped to stiff attention, spears in hand at her appearance. She nodded to 
them; one of the pair stepped aside and opened the thick iron-and-oak door.
Elena entered first and waved for Erril to light the lamps, while Joach started 
a fire in the hearth. At the doorway, Elena took the prisoner by the elbow. I 
will take her from here, she said to the guards. You may return to your 
duties.
After a moments hesitation, the leader bowed his head and backed away. Elena 
closed the door, then led Kesla to a chair by the fire that Joach had quickly 
stoked.
Once all were settled, Erril stood to the left of the girls chair, hand on his 
sword hilt, wearing a deep frown. Nearby, Joach leaned on the mantel, a hearth 
iron in hand. He stared into the fire.
Elena knelt by Keslas chair. Tell us about yourself. Where do you come from?
The girl glanced down and away.
She comes from a village in the Southern Wastes, Joach answered, then added 
more bitterly, unless that was a lie, too.
It was no lie, Kesla said, her voice heated.
Elena, her brows pinched together, glanced up to Erril. The Southern Wastes? 
Could this be another sign pointing toward one of the gates in the far south ?
Erril guessed the questions in her eyes and shrugged.
The girl spoke again, her words almost a moan of despair. I must have the 
nightglass dagger.
Elena turned. Why? If you meant us no harm, then why cant Vou tell us your 
need for it?
My oath It is forbidden
Elena sighed and leaned back on her heels as she knelt. She thought in silence 
for a few moments.
If you want any answers from her, Erril said, there are many tools of 
torture in the dungeons, left over from the time of the Dark Lords armies.
Shocked, Elena glanced up at Erril. But from behind the girls shoulder, he 
gave his head a slight shake. He had no intention of ever using such devices, 
but the prisoner did not know this.
Elena calmed her reaction and spoke more slowly, taking the more passive role. 
Im sure that wont be necessary, Erril at least not yet.
Kesla stiffened in her seat at their words.
Now, Kesla, Elena began, though we mean you no true harm, we cant ignore 
this attack upon us. You must understand this.
The girls lips drew taut.
Lets start again. If you cant tell us the reason for this assault, then tell 
us about yourself. How did you come to be in the Assassins Guild? Where were 
you trained?
Kesla lowered her head. I dont know how I came to Alcazar, the sandstone 
citadel of the guild. I was told the master found me ten winters ago, just a 
small child lost in the deserts of the Wastes, but I dont know if this was the 
truth or not.
Erril spoke up, his voice brittle with feigned anger. And what of your 
designation? Your tattoo? The assassins dagger wrapped by a snake.
Elena recalled Cassa Dars tattoo: a dagger wrapped in nightshade vine. It had 
marked her as an assassin who specialized in poisons.
Kesla spoke meekly. I was trained in the arts of hidden moves: to enter unseen, 
to leave undetected. The snake is an assassins symbol of stealth.
Just a thief, in other words. Erril snorted derisively.
Kesla jerked in her bonds, twisting to stare at Erril. I am no common thief! I 
trained for ten winters in the assassins methods.

But have you ever killed? Erril asked with clear scorn. Kesla sank back 
around. A bloody hand does not make an assassin.
Erril glanced over the top of Keslas head at Elena. He nodded for her to 
continue again.
Elena took a more conciliatory tone. So you came all the way from Alcazar in 
the Southern Wastes, disguised yourself as a scullion maid, and slipped your way 
past the many armies guarding this island. Impressive. You must have been 
trained well.
I was, she said proudly. Master Belgan is one of the finest guild members.
And so, like a snake, you slipped into our midst undetected, waiting for the 
proper moment.
Kesla nodded with Elenas words.
Erril spoke again, almost yelling. And then when the moment was ripe, you took 
your dagger and brutally stabbed it into Elenas mark, ripping away her power, 
torturing her!
Kesla shied from his words. I I did not think I didnt mean Tears welled in 
her eyes.
Dont mind Erril, Elena said, and placed a hand on Keslas knee. You had 
some dire need. That is clear. If you would explain this need, maybe we could 
help.
Sniffing back tears, Kesla glanced to Elenas hand. I I cannot.
Elena whispered now. Is your need so much less than your oath? If you broke 
your word but gained your desire, would this price be too steep?
Keslas eyes rose to meet Elenas. Hesitation and desire were mixed in the 
girls expression. If if I told you, would you let me have the dagger and 
leave this island?
If your goal is pure, I would consider it.
Kesla slumped in her seat. When she spoke next, her words were a pained whisper. 
I need the dagger to slay a monster.
Elena frowned and glanced to Erril. With a nod, he encouraged Elena to continue 
on her own. What monster? she asked.
Kesla sank deeper into her chair, drawing inward. A foul beast that has taken 
roost in the ancient Ruins of Tular.
Elena clenched her fist at the mention of the Southwalls an-fortress. Tular? 
she encouraged. At the northern edge of the
Wastes?
Yes From the decaying ruins, a corruption spread into our
Hs poisoning water and livestock. Hundreds began to die of sickness and famine.
And you believe this pestilence came from this beast?
Kesla nodded. A winged demon of pale flesh came to a village one night. He 
demanded a tithing from the many desert tribes. Either the payment must be made, 
or he promised the corruption from the beast would continue to spread until the 
entire Wastes were consumed. Kesla glanced up at Elena, then away again. Her 
voice cracked. Th-the people had no choice. At each full moon, the tithe had to 
be sent to the Ruins of Tular, to slake the beasts lust, or certain doom would 
befall all of them.
What was this price? Elena asked.
Kesla shook her head; a sob choked from her throat.
Tell us so we might understand.
It was a tithe a tithe of children.
What? Elena could not stop her gasped outburst.
Kesla rocked slightly in her seat. Thirty children with each moon, one for each 
day of the passing cycle.
Sweet Mother, Joach mumbled by the hearth. He finally tore his gaze from the 
fire.
One day, Kesla said, a group of village elders came to Alcazar, loaded with 
gold and jewels, begging for the help of the guild to slay the beast. Of course, 
once Master Belgan heard the story, he refused them.
Erril snorted again. Just like a true assassin. That bunch are cowards at 
heart, slinking in the dark.
Kesla frowned angrily. No, you dont understand. He refused their gold, but 
accepted their challenge. He took only one item from those who came.
And what was that? Joach asked.
Kesla turned to Elenas brother. She nodded to his belt where the nightglass 
dagger hung. It is a treasure equal to all the other wealth offered. But Master 
Belgan did not accept the dagger for its worth. One of the village elders was a 
shaman. He said, according to his scrying bones, only this dagger could slay the 
beast.
Whys that? Joach asked, touching the dagger.
The weapon had been used beforeto slay the monstrous beast that had once 
protected the tyrants of Tular. It had freed our people then. The shaman 
believed it could again.
I dont understand, Elena said. Why carry it all the way here?
The shaman and Master Belgan spent an entire half moon talking, reading old 
scrolls, throwing scrying bones. They learned that the original beast of Tular 
had been protected by a fierce armor and even the dagger alone could not 
penetrate its skin not without Kesla turned to Elena. Not without first 
wetting the blade in the blood of a witch, drawing her magick into the crystal. 
In the most ancient past, it had been the magick of Sisakofa.
Erril hissed. The Witch of Spirit and Stone.
My ancestor, Elena added.
The girl nodded. Word had spread of your victoryof a new witch born into our 
lands. I was sent here by swift horses through the Crumbling Mounds to the sea, 
and from the coast by boat. Master Belgan told me what to watch for: a blood 
mark of the witch. If impaled and left for one night, the dagger would draw her 
magick inside it. Only then could there be any hope of defeating the beast of 
Tular.
Elena rubbed her palm on a knee, remembering the burning drain of her magick. 
The dagger had absorbed her witch fire. Tell us of this beast.
Kesla shuddered. Only one person has seen the monster: the man who leads the 
children to their doom. He told all who would hear about the horrible beast 
hidden in the ancient fortress. Keslas voice cracked with fear. It was the 
Ghoul of Tular reborn after ageless centuries, come to life once again to 
destroy our lands.
The Ghoul of Tular? 
Kesla turned once again to Joach. The beast who once guarded Tular. Its image 
entwines the daggers hilt.
Joach slipped the weapon free and held the dagger up. A feathered serpent lay 
curled around the hilt, its beaked mouth open in a silent, fanged hiss. The 
basilisk, the ancient totem of Tular.
Elena stood abruptly and crossed to Erril. It must be the Weirgate.
He nodded.
(AMES LLEMENS
And the children Ebonstone always craves blood. Elena aled with the thought. 
All those sacrifices.
Kesla spoke up. That is all I know. I have a boat waiting to rake me back to 
Alcazar. The dagger must be returned to Master
Belgan.
And it will be, Elena said, turning back to her.
Kesla sat up straighten Youll let me free?
Yes, but Ill send you back to Alcazar more swiftly than any boat or horse can 
carry you. Tomorrow morning, one of the elvin wind-ships is set to fly to the 
Southern Wastes, to seek out and destroy the very beast that plagues your 
people.
Keslas eyes grew wide.
For your freedom, I ask that you swear a new oath to me: to lead this ship to 
Alcazar and let us aid your guild in ridding your people of this curse. Can you 
promise me this?
Kesla bowed her head. I can only promise to lead the way to Alcazar. I cannot 
speak for Master Belgan. He must decide for the guild.
Fair enough. Elena nodded to Joach. Free her and take her to the Eagles 
Fury. Introduce her to Prince Richald and let him know my wishes. Erril and I 
will join him later to go over the plans in detail.
Joach hurriedly untied Keslas bonds. She stood, rubbing her wrists. But when 
Kesla reached for the dagger at his belt, Joach twisted away. I think Ill keep 
this for now, he said. For safekeeping. It seems there are many thieves in 
this castle. He stared hard into Keslas eyes.
The girls cheeks reddened at his accusation. Im sorry for lying to you, Lord 
Joach.
I am not a lord, he said in a tired voice. I wish youd quit calling me 
that.
Then quit calling me a thief Kesla countered, swinging away.
Fine, youre an assassin. Thats so much better. Joach rolled his eyes and 
crossed to Elena, pulling her aside. El, I have a request of you.
What is it?
He clutched the daggers hilt. Id like to go with the Eagles Fury on this 
journey.
What? Why?
Joach glanced a moment back at Kesla. Since I rescued the knife, I think I 
should still watch over it.
Why?
Now it was Joachs turn to redden. Its just that Well, I mean I dont think 
its just coincidence that the dagger should fall into my hands. Joach sighed in 
exasperation. Its hard to explain. I just think I need to go.
Elena remembered making the same vague argument with Erril just a few moments 
before. It seemed the fates were aligning to draw them all apart, to scatter 
them across the face of the world. You are old enough to make your own 
decisions, Joach. If you feel this is a path you must follow, I will not stop 
you.
A grin appeared on his face, and he stepped over and hugged her. Thanks, El. I 
knew youd understand.
Actually, I dont understand, she said in his ear. I would rather you stay 
here. In her heart, she did not want Joach to go, but how could she refuse him 
when she herself was planning to leave soon? She returned Joachs embrace, 
wrapping her arms tightly around him as if she could hold him forever safe. But 
she knew that was impossible. Just make sure you come back.
Joach broke their embrace. Dont worry. I will.
He turned away, but Erril grabbed him by the shoulder. Joach, I would have a 
word before you leave.
Joachs brow crinkled. What is it?
Erril nodded toward Kesla, who waited near the doorway. Watch her.
What?
I saw the way you looked at her, the relief in your eyes when she told her 
tale. Do not let your heart cloud your judgment.
I dont
Erril squeezed his shoulder tighter. Once you thought me a creature of the 
Dark Lord. Now you accept this story from a confessed assassin without a second 
thought. Here could be another trap.
Joachs face crumbled into confusion.
Elena leaned forward, intending to argue against Errils suspicions. She sensed 
no menace in this girl, only honest fear for her people. But Elena held her 
tongue, withdrawing slightly. Perhaps simple caution was warranted.
. ME1N
loach glanced toward Elena and saw the agreement in her eyes. u sighed, and his 
face hardened. I will be waryboth in heart i action. With those words, he 
backed away, gave a final nod irard Erril and Elena, then crossed to Kesla and 
departed. Elena watched them leave, her chest already aching for her brother.
Only Erril remained in the room. He stepped beside her, reading her heart. It 
is not easy seeing someone you love walking willingly into danger, is it? he 
said quietly.
She leaned into Erril, too tired and pained for words.
Leagues away, in a cave hidden deep within the Stone Forest of the northern 
coast, a lone figure crouched over a shallow hole dug into the granite floor. 
Intoning words of power, he slowly poured quicksilver from a bowl into the hole, 
filling the cavity to its rim. In the meager light cast by the clouded skies 
outside the cave, the surface of the quicksilver pool shone like a mirror, 
reflecting the hooded figures face.
Scowling and squinting with milky eyes, the figure bent closer and studied his 
own reflection. A crooked finger rose to trace the ancient ruin of a face. He 
pulled back his hood to reveal a scalp bare of all but a few gray hairs. Soon 
he mumbled.
A scrape at the caves threshold drew his attention. Silhouetted against the 
light stood the thick form of his servant. The creature stood no higher than his 
waist but was all gnarled bone and muscle. It was a stump gnome, one of the few 
creatures that could live for long in the poisoned forest outside. A simple 
twining spell had tied its will to his.
Come closer, Rukh, he ordered sharply.
It grunted. Gnomes had little more intelligence than a trained hog, but they 
were strong and single-minded. It shambled into the cave. Closer now, its face 
was also similar to a pigs. It was as if someone had smashed its muzzle with a 
club. Under eyes the size of polished black pebbles, its face was all flattened 
nose. Two peaked ears sprouted like afterthoughts on either side of its leathery 
skull. Do you have what I asked?
Rukh forced his thick tongue to form words, fangs glinting yellow and rotted. 
Yes, M-master Gr-greshym.
The stink of the beast reached the darkmage in the close quarters. t a barn of 
wet goats, Greshym thought, wrinkling his nose at the stench. Then leave it and 
be gone! he snapped.
With the heave of a thick shoulder, Rukh tossed his dead quarry at his masters 
feet. The does neck lay twisted the wrong way, recently strangled by the hard 
hands of the stump gnome. Greshym nodded his approval. His servant must have 
traveled far to find such an untainted animal.
Rukh backed from the cave, slather drooling from his jowls at the scent of the 
abandoned meat. Greshym could only imagine the torture it must have been for the 
stupid creature to resist tearing into the doe. Slipping free a long dagger with 
a rose-carved hilt, Greshym set about the task of removing the does heart. By 
the time he was done, his robed arms were drenched in blood. He heaved the warm 
organ from the defiled chest and waved the stump of his other hand for Rukh to 
clear away the rest. Greshym had what he needed.
The gnome dashed into the cave; his claws quickly sank into the flesh. Rukh 
dragged his prize away. G-good meat, he rumbled.
Greshym ignored the sounds of snapping bones and feasting from outside the 
cavern. He turned back to the pool of quicksilver.
Raising the does heart, he carefully drizzled the blood across the quicksilver 
pool. The blood spread, blurring the silvery reflection. Once done, he touched 
the pool with a finger and spoke a single word, a name. Shorkan.
The blur upon the pool swirled, and an image formed, a window on another place. 
He watched the silent tableau. Within the pool, the view of a white-robed man 
appeared. He stood on the shore of a black sand beach and stared to the south. 
Shorkans lips moved, but no sound was heard. In the background rose the 
volcanic cone of Blackhall, cored and hollowed into a thousand-room warren. 
Beneath it, Greshym knew, lay the dungeons and creche of the Dark Lord himself, 
while above, a black smudge rose from the cone to stain the sky with a perpetual 
plume. It was not just volcanic forces that created the stream of smoke and ash, 
but also the poisonous forges at the heart of the mountain, furnaces of dark 
magick.
Shifting, Greshym glanced back out of the cave. Even from here, though leagues 
from the sea, he spotted the black plume on the horizon. Winds from the south 
continually blew the smoke and ash over this forest, making it all but unlivable 
except for the poisoned crea-
who had migrated here to skulk in its shadows, like his servant kh But this land 
had not always been like this. Long ago, before
, volcanic cone had first erupted, this had been a living forest. But
&#9632; torturous, fiery birth of Blackhall had blasted the landscape with
, t anc} ash, petrifying the entire woodlands in a single night and killing all 
within it.
Greshym had chosen this place to hide because of the residual magick that fell 
with the ash from Blackhalls plume. It had helped resuscitate the darkmage 
after his battles a moon ago. Weak and drained, he had limped and crawled into 
this toxic bower. For days, he had wandered through the forest, near blind, near 
dead, absorbing the trace magicks cast off from Blackhall, regaining his 
strength.
Finally, he was ready to leave this exileand exact his revenge.
In the quicksilver pool, the image of his fellow darkmage suddenly turned from 
his study of the coastline to peer directly back at Greshym. Cringing, Greshym 
waved a hand and wiped away the image. That had been too close. Shorkan must 
have sensed his spying and had almost caught him. But at least Greshym knew 
where one of his enemies layat Blackhall.
So, Shorkan, youre still licking your wounds, Greshym whispered with grim 
satisfaction. Greshym had noted the black burns and pale healing flesh that 
marked the once handsome face of Shorkan. It seemed even the Dark Lords pet had 
not escaped unscathed from the battles of Aloa Glen.
Good Greshym allowed a smile to form on his lips. For too long, Shorkan had 
mocked him with his handsome, youthful face. Though both had been granted 
eternal life by an ancient spell, something had gone wrong for Greshym. While 
Shorkan never aged, Greshyms flesh had continued to wrinkle and decay like any 
mans; only death was kept from him. He smiled wider, a dry cackle flowing from 
his thin throat. Now Shorkan knows what its like to be disfigured!
Retrieving the does heart, Greshym again cast his spell. This time he dipped 
his finger into the quicksilver and spoke another name. Elena.
The blood blurred again, and a new image formed. Greshym crinkled his brows, 
momentarily confused by the view. The fiery-haired witch stood at the rails of 
a mighty ship; three masts towered behind her. But the seas were nowhere to be 
found. Then Greshym realized she must be aboard one of the elvin windships. He 
noted the position of the sun. The ship was heading away from the setting sun. 
East? Away from Alasea? A single tear rolled down the womans cheek as she stood 
at the stern of the boat. He smiled again. Was she trying to flee? Leaving 
Alasea?
He adjusted the mirrors view. Far away, past the peaks and spires of the island 
city, two other windships sailed for the far horizons one north, one south. 
Greshym noted how the witch seemed to be staring at the ship fleeing southward. 
He watched as her lips moved. Though no sound came, he knew whose name she 
formed: Joachl
Greshyms fist clenched. The brother of the witch! The cursed boy who had 
thwarted Greshym twice, even destroying his staff in their last confrontation. 
So brother and sister are separating, he thought as he studied the mirror 
closer. Trying to escape the backlash of the Gulgotha.
Leaning over his pool of quicksilver, Greshym stared at the tiny windship 
retreating south. He followed its path as the magick faded, and the image 
dissolved back into a blur of blood. After several breaths, Greshym leaned back. 
He could try the spell a third time and find out more of Joachs exact 
destination, but he dared not risk draining more of his energy in such spying. 
Not when he had yet another complex spell to cast.
Standing with a creak and crack of old bones, Greshym reached to the wall of the 
cave and retrieved his new staff. He lifted the weapon. Mined from the heart of 
one of the poisoned stone trees of the forest here, it was grained like an ash 
tree, but it was no longer wood. He ran his hands over its stone surface, 
impregnated from centuries of toxic ash and magickal waste. His fingers tingled 
with the touch. Bound with spells, the stone of the staff was as light as oak. 
In many ways, this new staff was superior to his ancient poiwood one. Perhaps 
he should thank Joach for ridding him of the original.
He crossed to the threshold of the cave and into the hazy light. To my side, 
Rukh.
The stump gnome pulled his bloody mouth from the deer carcass. He wiped his lips 
with the back of one wrist and glanced longingly at the half-eaten remains. 
Hunger marked his posture and expression, but he knew better than to disobey his 
master. Rukh shambled over.
With his staff, Greshym dragged a circle around the both of them.
(AMES ULIMIKS
One more spell to cast. He let his lids droop lower and spoke the portal spell. 
Under both their feet, the ground turned as black as oil. Greshym ignored the 
gnomes terror and glanced to the south. He squinted as if peering far away. 
Then, satisfied, he nodded and lifted his staff. He tapped it once. A black 
portal opened at their feet, and both gnome and mage fell away.
As Greshym vanished, only one desire burned in his mind:
vengeance.

In the murk of predawn, Mycelle knelt by the river, bloody and sore. Her 
gelding, Grisson, kept to her side, his flanks heaving, sweat thick on his 
golden coat from their long, hurried flight. He bent to drink from the river, 
but Mycelle yanked at his lead. She did not want her tired horse to stove up 
from drinking the streams cold water when he was so overheated. With the camp 
still leagues away, she could not risk compromising her mount.
Cocking her head, she listened for sounds of pursuit. Somewhere deeper in the 
dark wood, a horn sounded. She sighed in relief. It was far off to the north 
still. As she stood, the snap of a twig on her left twirled her around, her twin 
swords unsheathed in silent pulls. With her steel glinting in the reflected 
moonlight from the river, she stood steady.
Then from beyond a fringe of an elderberry bush, a pair of amber eyes glowed 
back at her. Images flashed across her minds eye: Two tired wolves greeting one 
another on a trail, noses touching, a lict on an ear.
Thank the Sweet Mother, she said, sheathing her swords. She recognized this 
familiar touch on her mind and returned the welcome in the silent tongue of the 
silura. Greetings, Fardale.
As answer, a sleek figure flowed through the bushes, so silent that not even a 
leaf whispered. The snap of a twig a moment ago had been done on purpose, to 
alert her of the newcomers presence.
The huge treewolf, though free of the bushes now, still remained indistinct in 
the gloom of the forests eaves. His dark pelt, speckled in golds and coppers, 
blended with the dappled shadows, seeming more spirit than substance. But his 
bright eyes were as hard as granite. She and Fardale had been lucky to survive 
this night.
I had thought you lost for sure when we were attacked, My-celle said.
Fardale glanced at her and gave her a wolfish shrug, retreating to the rivers 
edge to lap gently at the water. But he no more than wet his tongueeven he knew 
better than to drink after a long run. The wolf settled to his haunches, ears 
pricked for sounds echoing over the water.
Theyre far off, Mycelle said. I think we lost them. Fardale glanced her 
way, making eye contact so he could speak. Images formed:/! brutish, 
bruised-stinned beast snuffling along a woodland trail. Fardale was right. The 
hunt for them would continue. Their best chance was to reach their camp below 
the Stone of Tor and seek another path to Castle Mryl. The woods ahead were too 
dangerous.
Three nights ago, she and Fardale had left the others to scout the territory 
north of the Ice River, but they had run afoul of a troop of dwarf raiders. The 
two had barely escaped with their lives. It was only luck that the raiders had 
borne none of the Grim among their party. If the twisted creatures of the Dire 
Fell had been among them, neither wolf nor rider would have escaped.
For the past moon, Lord Tyrus had set them a hard pace north through the forests 
of the Western Reaches, camping at last by the Stone of Tor, a pinnacle marking 
where the Ice River joined the Willowrush. According to reports from the 
trappers and hunters, the forests north of the Ice River were no longer safe for 
man or beast. Tales were whispered around campfires, of strange lights that 
baffled and led the unwary to their deaths, of keening wails that drove strong 
men to their knees with fear, of trees found twisted and gnarled, as if tortured 
to death.
Mycelle and Tyrus both knew what these portents suggested. The Grim wraiths from 
the northern forest of the Dire Fell had truly spread into the Western Reaches. 
If left unchecked, the entire length and breadth of the mighty forest would be 
corrupted by their touch. Even now, Mycelle tightened a fist. She would not let 
that happen. But their only hope lay in reaching Castle Mryl and repairing the 
damaged Northwall, restoring the barrier between the diseased Dire pell and the 
expanse of virgin woodlands. Mycelle stared back over the flow of the Ice River, 
toward the dark forest beyond. Another path must be found to the castle.
Suddenly Fardale was at her side, appearing as if from mist. A low growl rumbled 
at the back of his throata warning.
Mycelle did not wait. She swung out her swords from the crossed scabbards on her 
back. What is it, Fardale? she hissed. The wolfs senses were keener than 
hers.
At her forearm, she felt a stirring and the slide of scale on flesh. She risked 
a glance. A tiny rainbow-colored snake lay wrapped around her arm. It squirmed 
in a slow dance around its perch. Even the pakagolo, the healing snake of Mama 
Freda, sensed something was amiss.
Mycelle concentrated on the forest. Fardale stood tensed at her side, hackles 
raised and wary.
They did not wait long. A rising wind soughed through the forests eaves. Leaves 
shook overhead, and a flurry of dry pine needles skittered in small whirlwinds. 
But it was another sound, a hollow moaning, that ate through flesh and bone. 
Mycelles swords shook in her grip. It was no natural wind that moved through 
the forest toward them.
Flee! Mycelle yelled, giving up any pretense of hiding. Make for camp
!
Fardale hesitated, but Mycelle swung up onto Grisson. Flight is our only hope!
Already the moaning rose in pitch to a piercing cry.
A Grim wraith! Mycelle screamed above the growing wail. Flee! They cannot be 
fought! Mycelle tugged Grisson around. The horses eyes rolled white with 
fright. Froth spattered from around his bit. Mycelle dug her heels into him, but 
the gelding only trembled, too terrified to move. She struck Grissons rump with 
the flat of her hand; still the horse only cowered.
Fardale, who had sped several paces away, turned back toward where Mycelle 
struggled with Grisson. Images flickered rapidly be-rore her minds eye: A deer 
freezing at the appearance of a wolf. A human falling to all fours and changing 
into a snowy-maned wolf and racing away.
Mycelle groaned and kicked at her mount again, but the horse only tossed its 
head and whinnied its terror. Fardale was right. Gris-son was already lost to 
the cry of the wraith. She slid from the saddle. Her only hope was flight. But 
how could she?
She turned to touch Grissons nose, to will her mount back to calmness, but 
teeth snapped at her fingers. Her horse was too mad with fear to know better. 
There was no hope. Mycelle reached toward her saddlebags, but a low growl from 
Fardale warned her away.
She pulled her hand back. What was she thinking? She had taken human form for 
too long, become too grounded into their way of thinking. From here, she could 
carry neither bag nor sword. She swung back to the treewolf. Run, she said and 
willed the change.
Beneath her leathers and undergarments, flesh melted and flowed, bones twisted 
and bowed. Shrugging and writhing out of her human clothes, she fell to her 
hands and knees. With a final prickling tremor, snowy fur burst forth from her 
skin, claws sprouted, and a long narrow snout stretched to sample the air. New 
eyes opened on a world much brighter. She sniffed the air and discovered paths 
unseen, marked in spoor and musk.
Tufted ears pricked at the wail of the Grim wraith. It was almost upon them. 
Mycelle glanced one last time at Grisson, then at the pile of shed clothes with 
the crossed scabbards resting atop it. She felt a deep sense of loss, as if she 
was abandoning a part of herself, but now was not the time to mourn. All she 
could carry was the small snake nestled in the fur of her forelimb. The 
pakagolo was one item she must never lose. It had helped resurrect her in Port 
Rawl, and now its magickal bite was still necessary to sustain her.
Turning on a paw, she flashed past Fardale and dashed away. He joined her, two 
shadows fleeing, now just two wolves of the wood.
Behind them, a sudden scream of terror rose from Grisson, the cry unlike any 
Mycelle had heard from a horse before. She glanced back in time to see a dark 
shape sweep over her loyal mount. It was as if a shredded piece of shadow had 
torn loose from the world and attacked Grisson.
Mycelles keen nose caught the coppery scent of the horses panic. She slowed 
her pace, turning slightly. Flee, she willed Grisson.
Whether hearing her or merely finally sensing the true peril, Grisson broke for 
the cover of the wood. But as the horse brushed under the limbs of a black pine, 
the shadowy wraith flew through the same trees branches, and a tangle of roots 
suddenly shot up and snagged the horses limbs. Grisson squealed again, a cry of 
death and defeat.
The wraith descended on its trapped prey. As it draped over its meal, the nearby 
trunk of the black pine twisted; overhead, its branches scrabbled and writhed 
into torturous tangles. It was as much a prey as the horse. As the Grim wraith 
fed, life drained from both wood and flesh. Green pine needles yellowed and 
showered down; the flesh of her mount sank to bone. It was as if their very 
essences were being sucked away. Soon all that would be left was a pile of bones 
under a twisted grave marker. That was all the Grim ever left behind.
Mycelle swung around as her horses cries grew strangled. She could delay no 
further. They had best be far away before the forest wraith finished its meal 
and sought more nourishment. No one knew how to defeat a wraith. It was rumored 
they could be held off with silver, but such claims were just myth. At Castle 
Mryl, she had been taught that the only guard against the Grim was continual 
vigilance. Their deathly moans always preceded an attack. A keen ear and a swift 
retreat were the best defense.
Acknowledging this adage, she raced after Fardale, following his scent as surely 
as a well-marked trail. For the better part of the long night, the two wolves 
fled through the forest, splashing along brooks and streams to confound any 
trackers, constantly alert for the telltale wail of a Grim wraith. But the night 
remained quiet, almost hushed.
They stopped only to feed briefly on the steaming remains of a small hare caught 
by Fardale. To her wolfish tongue, the blood and raw meat tasted like the finest 
wine and roasted loin. Despite the terror and hardship of the long night, 
Mycelle could not suppress a tremble of exhilaration. It had been so long since 
she had run free and sampled life in a new form.
Fardale must have sensed her elation. His eyes shone at her over the bloody 
remains. An image formed:^ lone wolf, tired and pad-sore, rejoining its pact 
after a long nights hunt.
She growled her assent. It was like coming home again.
With the small bones eaten and the pelt buried in a hole to hide the scent of 
their meal, the pair took off once again, ready for the last leg of their 
journey back to camp. The leagues seemed to disappear under her paws. She and 
Fardale settled into a pace both swift and steady. Mycelle thought she could run 
like this forever.
WIT C H UATE
Still, as the sun finally rose over the distant mountains to the east, the glow 
of dawn found Mycelle beginning to stumble and trip. Her inexhaustible energy 
seemed finally to be waning. Even Fardale moved with a slight limp, his tongue 
lolling as he panted away the heat of their night-long run.
At last, ahead, a pinnacle of granite rose from the wood, piercing the canopy of 
trees to thrust up at the sky. Morning sunlight had already reached its highest 
ramparts to glow brightly and announce the approaching day. It was the Stone of 
Tor.
Delighted at the sight of their destination, both wolves found renewed strength 
to race the last distance to the camp. So excited were they to return to the 
others that neither noticed the acrid reek to the air until they were only a few 
paces from the clearing.
Fardale pulled to a stop. Mycelle crept beside him. Her ears were pricked for 
any noise from the camp ahead. She heard nothing. Even if the camp was still 
asleep, she should hear some sign of life. She slinked forward, Fardale beside 
her. What was that smell in the air? She cautiously pushed her face through the 
last of the underbrush to view the camp and tensed at the sight that awaited 
them.
Ahead, the camp lay in ruins, tents and bedding shredded, horses dead in fetid 
pools of blood. A flock of carrion birds raised bloody beaks at her approach. A 
few angry squawks tried to drive her away, but Mycelle ignored them. She worked 
her way forward.
With the Stone of Tor looming to the east, the camp remained in shadow. Amid the 
gloom, Mycelle and Fardale searched for signs of the living. Had anyone escaped 
this attack? She came upon an ax with a short handle. It was slick with blood. 
She nosed it. The scent of dwarf still lay heavy upon it.
Straightening, she willed her body to change. If she was to investigate further, 
she would need hands. Though it was a strain to shift twice in one day, she 
forced her flesh to melt and the snowy fur to retreat away. She rose from a 
crouch and stretched back into her familiar form. Naked of both fur and 
clothing, she noticed the morning chill to the air. She wrapped her arms around 
herself for warmth. Search for any signs of the others, she ordered Fardale. 
With a whip of his tail, the wolf sped off. Mycelle watched him a moment, with a 
twinge of worry. His sendings had grown coarser
A less frequent. Fardale grew close to losing himself to the wolf, as already 
beginning to settle into this form. If the curse wasnt if d soon, the wolf 
would claim him forever.
As she continued into the camp, these worries were overwhelmed
, ne horror at hand. Past the remains of a dappled mare, she found
h body of one of the Dro warriors who had guarded Lord Tyrus.
The womans blond braids were fouled with blood and mud. She lay her side, her 
bowels draped across the ground from a savage rip in her belly- Mycelle stepped 
farther into camp and discovered the other two Dro warriors, sisters to the 
first. Each had died horribly.
As she searched, she discovered no sign of any of the others: Lord Tyrus, Krai, 
Mogweed, Neelahn. Frowning, Mycelle returned to one of the Dro women.
Praying for all their spirits, Mycelle stripped one and donned her leathers, 
fixing a new set of crossed scabbards to her back. Though exhausted, she did 
manage to adjust her form enough to fit the new garments. I will avenge you, 
she promised as she slid the two swords into place.
Fardale had wandered farther to the west. A growling drew My-celles attention. 
She crossed to the wolfs side.
Even without the keener wolfs senses, she noticed the acrid reek grew stronger 
as she approached Fardale. Before the wolf, an area of the clearings floor had 
been blackened and burned in a perfect circle. She knelt and fingered the 
region. Even the dirt had been blasted to form a glassy crust.
With a heavy heart, she stood and surveyed the ruins of the camp. Where were the 
others? What had happened here? As she stood, the sun finally broke around the 
looming pinnacle of rock. The ravaged camp became bathed in the new dawns 
light. Mycelle began to turn away, but her gaze was caught by a sharp glint in 
the blasted circle. Frowning, she stepped cautiously into the ring. The forest 
floor was deeply burned; it was like walking on granite. She crossed to the 
source of the reflection and knelt on one knee.
Leaning closer, she discovered a silver coin. She tried to pick it up, but it 
was imbedded in the blasted surface. She had to tug hard to yank it free.
Standing, she studied the coin, flipping it back and forth in her fingers. On 
one side was stamped a familiar face, old King Ry, father vv 1 I <; H HATE
to Prince Tyrus. And on the other was the sigil of their familya snow leopard, 
crouched to strike. Clutching the silver piece, she studied the burned circle. 
Lord Tyrus could not have survived.
Fardale sank to his haunches beside her. Images-flashed at her. He had 
discovered no sign of the others in the camp.
She shoved the coin into a pocket. Then we will find them.
Bound tight, Mogweed lay slumped on his side in the wagon, feigning sleep. Each 
bump of the wagons wheels as they passed along the old rutted forest track 
jarred his spine. He had to bite back a gasp as the wagon popped over an 
exceptionally large root. Mogweed flew several handspans above the buckboard and 
landed with a thud. He heard a groan to his left and carefully moved his neck to 
view the large form of the mountain man, Krai, who lay behind him.
In the dawns light piercing through the tiny barred window of the enclosed 
wagon, Mogweed could just make out Krais thick black beard, still damp with 
blood. He prayed the larger man remained unconscious, fearing further abuse from 
the dwarf guards if Krai should try to free himself. Mogweed glanced 
surreptitiously around the cramped space. Only the four of them remained. They 
were too few to fight the score of armored dwarves that still marched outside 
the enclosed wagon.
If only I had remained awate at my post Mogweed thought with a twinge of 
guilt. Then he bit his lip in anger. No! He would not accept blame for this. 
Even if he had been awake and could have alerted the camp in time, they all 
would surely have been caught anyway. There was no safe path through the forests 
north of the Stone. He had begged them all repeatedly to abandon this journey to 
Castle Mryl, but none had listened. It was their own fault they had been 
captured.
I should have left when I had the chance, he thought sourly. But in his heart, 
he knew such an option was not a real one. He tugged his arms and tested the 
ropes for the thousandth time. His efforts only succeeded in tightening the 
knots further. In truth, he was bound to these others as surely as these ropes 
bound him nowbound by a whisper of hope.
Lord Tyrus, former pirate and prince of Mryl, had lured him and j-,is brother 
with words of prophecy, a chance to finally free themselves of the curse that 
trapped the two shape-shifting twins into their current forms, man and wolf. The 
princes words echoed to hirn now: Two will come frozen; one will leave whole.
Now even this thin hope was vanquished. With Fardale lost in the deep wood 
somewhere, how could their curse ever be lifted?
Mogweed rolled over as the wagon hit another stubborn root. He lay on his other 
side now, staring at the prone form of Lord Tyrus. The man showed no signs of 
life. He lay as limp as a dead eel, head lolling with the wagons motion, blood 
dribbling from both nose and mouth. From here, Mogweed could not tell if the man 
still breathed. But what did it matter? For all their fighting and swordplay, 
what had it won them? The three Dro women slain and the others beaten to within 
a lifes breath. Foolish men. During the melee, Mogweed had remained hidden. 
Once the fighting had passed him, he had crawled to one of the womens corpses 
and smeared his brow with her cooling blood, then lay sprawled at her side, 
pretending to be knocked out.
As Mogweed recalled his subterfuge, he became lost in the memory of screaming 
horses and the grunting barks of the dwarf raiders. While feigning injury, 
Mogweed had watched between narrowed eyelids as Lord Tyrus, shielded by the last 
of his Dro bodyguards, had defended himself with a flashing blur of his ancient 
family sword. It was a dance of death that none who neared had survived.
Farther back in the camp, the mountain man had attacked the dwarves with ax and 
teeth. Even now, a chill ran down Mogweeds back at this memory. It was as if 
Krai had become more beast than warrior. But no one could question his results. 
Dwarves had died all around the large man.
For that single moment, Mogweed had entertained thoughts of their victorybut 
even the strongest bear is eventually brought down by enough wolves.
Krai fell first, swamped by six massive dwarves. On the other side, Lord Tyrus 
continued his bloody dance. He seemed to grow more invincible with the loss of 
Krai, sustaining not even a scratch as his bodyguards died around him. Hope of 
victory still burned in the strength of the princes steel.
Then a thunderous crack split the night, and a monstrous shadow appeared behind 
Tyrus. Though the clearing was lit only by a single campfire, Mogweed had no 
trouble making out the shape of the new attacker.
Darker than oiled pitch, it stood out starkly in the gloom. Towering on clawed 
hind limbs, its shape was that of a thick-maned cat. But the spread of wings to 
either side of its muscled shoulders belied this image.
Tyrus named it at that moment. The griffin! he yelled. In horror, Mogweed 
buried his face in the mud. During their trek north to the Stone, refugees 
fleeing to the south had told rumors of such a monster: a beast so repellent 
that the mere sight of it could kill a man. Taking no chances, Mogweed squeezed 
his eyes tightly closed. His last view was of Lord Tyrus backing away, a silver 
coin falling from the princes fingers.
Then a roar shattered through the clearing, so loud it seemed to suck at 
Mogweeds mind, trying to draw his will away. For a brief moment, Mogweed passed 
out in truth, overwhelmed by the griffins scream. When next he became aware, 
the camp was as silent as a tomb. A peek revealed the griffin gone and Lord 
Tyrus sprawled and bloodied in a circle of burned soil.
Around the camp, the remaining dwarves had slowly stirred and began to collect 
the survivors. Mogweed had had no trouble feigning unconsciousness, his limbs 
already weak and boneless from fear. Tossed into the enclosed wagon like a sack 
of oats, Mogweed had kept his wits about him. Through slats in the wagons 
walls, he had watched which way they were being taken: north, the very direction 
they had sought themselves.
Even now, the flash of bright leaves through the slats was beginning to change 
to the darker needles of black pines as they entered the northernmost fringes of 
the Western Reaches. Mogweed estimated them only a days journey from the 
Northwall itself.
Suddenly the wagon struck another rut in the road, jarring Mogweed back around. 
From out of the wagons gloom, he found a pair of eyes staring back, studying 
him. They seemed almost to glow in the meager light cast through the small 
opening.
It was the fourth and last member of the camp to survive the attack. Like 
Mogweed, she had neither fought nor offered resistance. In the filtered 
sunlight, the honey-colored hair of the slender figure shone brightly. Mogweed 
whispered her name. Neelahn?
He expected no answer. Since they had discovered the nyphai woman almost a moon 
ago at the edge of the Western Reaches, she had not spoken a single word. 
Questions were ignored, conversations shunned. She hovered at the periphery of 
the camp, often wandering the forest paths alone, eyes dreamy and lost. The 
other members of the party tolerated her, but her behavior was much debatedas 
was her purpose in joining them.
Mogweed, Fardale, and Krai had all witnessed her death in the foothills of the 
Teeth, victim to an illguard monster. In private, they wondered if this silent 
figure was their dead companion reborn or simply some trick of forest magick. 
How could it truly be Neelahn? It was impossible.
Fear not, Mogweed. It is I.
The words were spoken plainly, but Mogweed gasped in shock. After so long, the 
ghost in their midst had finally spoken. He shoved away from her. H-how could 
I saw you The spider creature killed you!
Neelahn interrupted his babble. Do not be deceived, Mogweed. I am not human, 
any more than you are. I am nyphai, a creature of root and loam. This body is 
mere dust and water given life by my bonded koakona spirit. Though the shoot 
might be trampled, as long as the root lives, I cannot die.
Mogweed struggled for sense. B-but then why wait so long to be reborn?
It is not an easy transition. I needed the strength of this mighty forest. The 
treesong of the Western Reaches was necessary to revive me. After my old body 
was destroyed, Elena blessed my grave with an old oaks seed.
Mogweed nodded, remembering the black acorn he had given Elena.
I sent my spirit into this tiny seed, hiding inside it until I could grow 
strong enough to move. In spirit form, I brought the seed to your brother, 
hoping youd eventually return to your homeland, to these great woodlands. Only 
here was the elemental magick of root and loam strong enough to pull me from the 
seed and give me substance and form again.
Why have you not explained this earlier? Why have you remained so silent?
It has taken me until now to draw my spirit fully into this new form. After an 
entire winter in spirit only, I found it difficult to separate from the treesong 
all around me. It took all my concentration to withdraw myself from the endless 
music of the forest. But when the monster appeared and attacked this man She 
pointed to Lord Tyrus. it ripped the treesong for leagues around. It jolted my 
spirit fully back into this body, finally making me whole again. Mogweed 
slumped against the wagons wall. A small blessing there. Youre whole again, 
just in time to be tortured and killed by our captors.
Perhaps. But I have sent out a calla plea for help. I saw a glimmer of another 
place: sails and sea. And the elvin Meric He still retains my lute, protecting 
the heart of my spirit tree. As long as the lute remains, there is hope.
For you, maybe. If I die, I dont come back. Neelahn didnt seem to hear his 
words. She continued, eyes adrift, The trees of the forest whisper of the 
winged black beast that attacked the camp. It lives in a stone gateway somewhere 
near the Northwall. I even hear whispers of a twin evil far to the south, 
another black beast near the Southwall. The trees scream from its mere 
presence. Neelahns eyes focused on Mogweed. These Gates must be destroyed.
Why? Mogweed asked tiredly.
Neelahn glanced away. I-Im not sure. But they threaten the very Land itself. 
They have the power to choke the world.
Mogweed shivered at her words. What can we hope to do?
Neelahn seemed to withdraw into herself again. There is only one hope.
What is that?
The Grim of Dire Fell.
Mogweed sat up straighten The blood wraiths? The shadow spirits of that black, 
twisted forest? Are you mad? How can those savage creatures be of help?
I must convince them.
Why? How? They serve the Dark Lord.
Neelahn shook her head. No. They are wild creatures whose lusts merely aid the 
Black Hearts needs. No one controls the Grim wraiths.
Then what hope do you have of enlisting them?
JAMES l,LEMF.N S
grew quiet for a long stretch. They will listen to me. she finally said, pain 
clear in her words.
Mogweed was not satisfied with this answer. Why?
Because the Land is a cruel mistress was all she whispered back.
ltTeelahn turned her back on him, ending their discourse, as silent again as 
when they had first found her.
Near midday, Mycelle stood beside the three mounds of freshly turned soil. She 
leaned on the spade with which she had dug the trio of craves. The ruined camp 
was not a safe place to tarryalready vultures circled overhead, calling all to 
the feast that lay below. Other predators would soon gather. Mycelle could not 
leave her three sword-sisters to the ravages of fang and claw. She shared an 
oath with them.
Mycelle stared as the sun began its decline toward the western horizon. She 
still had time to be well away from here before night set in. Tossing the shovel 
away, she sank to one knee before the graves. The odor of fresh loam almost 
masked the reek of offal and blood from the slaughtered horses around her. She 
bowed her head. Im sorry, Sisters. Be at peace. Go and seek out your lord, 
King Ry. Tell him I will avenge the death of his son.
Tears welled in her eyes. She had failed her oaths a second time. First, in not 
hearing the call when Castle Mryl had been under attack, and now in leading the 
last prince of the Wall to his death.
She reached into a pocket of her borrowed leathers and slipped free the silver 
coin. The image of the snow leopard seemed to glare out at her. She clenched the 
coin firmly. I will hunt down your killers and burn their corpses so the scent 
of my revenge will reach you all. This I swear.
Then a tingle at the back of her mind alerted her to anothers presence. She 
turned to discover Fardale standing at the forests edge. She had sent him to 
search for signs of the attackers while she had dug the graves. His eyes glowed 
like molten amber. An image appeared of a forest track only a quarter league 
away, and a pair of rresh wagon ruts driving northward. Fardales imagery 
focused on the deepness of the wheels imprints in the damp soil. The wagon was 
heavily ladenwith prisoners, perhaps.
Had any of the others survived? She allowed herself a glimmer of hope.
A new image ended Fardales sending: Two wolvesone snowy, one dark-following 
the trail.
Mycelle nodded and stood. The attackers had a half days lead on them, but the 
wolves could move more swiftly through the forest than a troop of dwarves. But 
to travel as a wolf would leave her naked and weaponless. She fingered one of 
the sword hilts at her shoulder. Without blades, how could she hope to free the 
others? Still she would not forsake them. If there is any chance
We must hurry. She eyed the coin in her hand and vowed not to fail again. She 
lifted the silver piece to her lips and kissed the cold surface, planning to 
leave the Mryhan coin as a grave marker, a token of a promise sworn. But as her 
lips touched the surface of the coin, the silver grew warm in her hand. The skin 
of her arm prickled as if from a sudden chill.
The pakagolo stirred from its perch on her forearm, clearly sensing something 
odd. The tiny snake lifted its head and hissed with a flicker of red tongue.
Mycelle lowered the bit of silver and studied it closer. What was this 
strangeness?
As if in answer to her thoughts, words formed in her head, not unlike a sending 
from one shape-shifter to another. But here the words were a whisper in the 
wind. / hear you. The sorrow in your heart calls to me through the coin.
She glanced around the clearing, then down at the coin. W-who are you?
I give you my name freely. I am Xin, of the zool. Friend to Tyrus. Share your 
name so I might forge this link more strongly.
Mycelle did not understand any of this. She remembered the prince mentioning the 
black-skinned tribesmen, ex-slaves he had freed. He had hinted at some magick in 
their leader. In fact, a few days past, after their groups first skirmish with 
a dwarf scouting party, Lord Tyrus had sat by the campfire, clutching this same 
coin. He had claimed he could send word out to the east, to warn of the danger 
and to spread the rumors of the griffin beast. But afterward, he had pocketed 
the silver with a frown, unsure if anyone had heard him. Too far, he had 
mumbled, and would speak no more of it.
But apparently someone had heard him. She clenched the coin and spoke her name. 
I am Mycelle.
/ accept your name, Mycelle of the Dro, the voice responded olemnly. / know 
you well from the words of others. We come even now to seek you out- $Peak where 
we might find you. Your link s strong, so you must not be far.
She frowned. How was that possible? The last time she had seen the zool 
tribesmen they were leaving with Tolchuk and Meric to find Elenaout in the 
distant Archipelago, thousands of leagues from here. No, I am too far, she 
answered. I am lost deep in the Western Reaches.
This we know. We already fly over the great green sea. Tell us where.
Mycelle stared up at the sun, her mind awhirl with confusion. H-how?
Meric of the elvin. We fly his ship of the wind.
She gasped. Meric? A sudden memory of the wounded elvin, scarred from battle 
with a minion of the Dark Lord, flashed across her vision.
He is here, the voice continued. Tell us how we might find you. I tire 
quickly and cannot maintain this link mucn longer.
These last words were clearly the truth. The whisper from the coin faded 
rapidly. Mycelle had to lean closer and clutch the silver more tightly. She 
glanced to the east, to the wall of stone that thrust up into the days sky. 
The Stone of Tor! she yelled, fearing she would not be heard as the coin grew 
colder in her palm. I will meet you atop the Stone of Tor!
She waited for a response, some acknowledgment. But the coin remained silent, 
cold again in her palm, just plain silver. She clamped her fingers around it, 
trying to will back the magick.
Fardale nosed her fist, startling her. She glanced down to the wolf, and in the 
silent tongue of the silura, she explained the strange contact.
The wolfs response was skeptical: A mother wolf nosing a dead pup, trying to 
wish it backt0 ^fe-
You may be right, she answered aloud. I dont know.
She turned to study the straight peak of granite jutting up past the tallest 
trees. Its distant heights glowed in clear sunlight. Across the spread of 
forest, the protruding stone would be a clear mooring spot. None could miss it. 
Still, her face remained grim. Had she been heard? And what was coming? What had 
she called forth from the coin?
She lifted her fist to her chest. There was only one way to find out. From the 
camp, a thin trail could be seen winding from the base of the steep peak to its 
summit, a darker trail against the black stone. Lets go, she said, leading 
the way. Let us discover if a dead mans coin holds any true magick.
As THE SUN NEARED THE WESTERN HORIZON, MeRIC STOOD AT THE PROW
of the Stormwing. Dressed in a loose linen shirt and billowed leggings, he 
sensed every current in the air. Normally his silver hair was kept long and 
loose, free to the winds, connecting the elvin even more intimately to his 
skies. But no longer. Meric passed his palm over his ravaged scalp. Though his 
silver hair had grown long enough to comb, his locks were not long enough to 
appreciate the breezes, to extend his connection to the winds.
He lowered his hand. He should not complain. His intimate connection with the 
ship more than compensated for this loss. Though Meric had been gone from her 
planks for over two winters, the Stormwing already felt like an extension of his 
own body again. Only an elemental of sufficient strength had the power to fuel 
these ships of the clouds and keep them aloft. And it was through this elemental 
contact that ship and captain became one. As he stood at the prow, Meric sensed 
every screw and nail in the ship, felt the snap of sailcloth as if it were his 
own shirt. Each creak of the hull reverberated like the aching joints of his own 
limbs.
Aboard the Stormwing, it was as if he were whole again. The tortures and 
brutalities in the cellars of Shadowbrook dimmed to a distant memory. He could 
almost imagine such horrors had happened to someone else. Here, flying among the 
clouds, Meric felt immune from the evil in this land.
But in his heart, he knew such security was as insubstantial as the thin clouds 
they scudded through. Not even the skies were safe from the corrupting touch of 
the Dark Lord. During his journeys, Meric had learned firsthand how the land, 
the sea, and the sky were all interconnected. The elemental energies of the 
world were an infinite web, overlapping, woven, twisted and tied together. One 
element could not be tainted without affecting another.
(AMES bLEMENS

He had tried to explain this to his mother, Queen Tratal, but he feared such 
ideas had fallen on infertile soil. Such were the ways of the elvin. For too 
long, they had been absent from the lands, thinking themselves free of such 
bonds. Meric knew better. To defeat this evil would require the unification of 
all elementals. If left divided, all would fall.
He would not let that happen.
Gripping the rail firmly, Meric scanned the sea of foliage skimming a quarter 
league below his hull. Earlier the zool shaman, Xin, had brought him word of 
his link to Mycelle. Though he didnt understand it fully, clearly a message had 
been shared. The swords-woman had indicated a location at which to rendezvous: 
the Stone of Tor. Meric and Xin had pored over maps of the Western Reaches and 
discovered such a place, a peak at the confluence of two rivers.
Even now they followed a silver thread through the dense greenery. It was a 
narrow river, named the Willowrush, that delved through the heart of the forest. 
The place where this flow met the Ice River of the north was their destination.
Menc lifted his gaze to the horizon, instinctively making slight corrections to 
follow the rivers course. Near the horizon, a shadow appeared, a single black 
thunder cloud rising above the forests edge.
Is that the place? a voice said at his shoulder. It was Tok, his eternal 
shadow. He had forgotten about the lad sitting on a cask of oil nearby.
I believe so, Meric said, his tongue thick as he was pulled back from the 
skies to the planks of the ship. He lifted a hand and signaled the men in the 
rigging. Sails were adjusted. We should be there at dusk.
Should I tell Master Xin? Tok hopped from his perch with a scuff of heel on 
plank.
Meric felt the movement like an itch on his own skin. Yes, he rests in his 
cabin with his two tribesmen. The brief discourse with Mycelle had drained 
Xins energies. When he had brought Meric word, the man had been weaving on his 
feet, eyes bloodshot and hooded. If he is able, the shaman must try to reach 
the others again.
Tok gave a nod and trotted away. Alone, Meric watched the shadow on the horizon 
slowly grow substantial. Limned by the setting sun, the pinnacle of rock was an 
upthrust finger, its cliffs sheer and straight. Withdrawing his magick slightly 
from the spellcast iron keel, he let the ship sink toward the trees as they 
approached the distant peak.
Meric concentrated on the delicate dance of magick and wind. As he did so, he 
felt, more than heard, the approach of the three zool and Tok.
They were already on their way here, Tok said as introduction. But I told em 
what you wanted.
Meric turned and nodded his head in greeting. The small black-skinned shaman 
returned the acknowledgment. The pale scar on the mans forehead, a rune of an 
opening eye, almost glowed. His true eyes were as bright. It seemed his energies 
had returned. Were you able to reach Mycelle again?
Xin shook his head and crossed to the rail. The mans expression seemed 
distracted. No. To speak, she must hold the coin and wish it, he said 
dismissively. All remains silent.
Meric felt a twinge of misgiving at his words. He turned back to the study of 
the horizon. The Stone of Tor had grown substantially in just the brief 
distraction. Meric willed further adjustments before returning to the others. 
We will arrive shortly. Wed best be ready.
It will be too late. Xin turned to Meric, his gaze fearful. I have been a 
fool. Too weak to hear until now.
What do you mean? Merics misgivings flared. The shaman touched the scar on 
his forehead. I sense other eyes out there. Angry, wicked, twisted minds whose 
desires shudder the heart.
Meric frowned. Where?
They ignore us. But they too travel toward the tall stone. I sense them 
swirling toward the peak as quickly as we fly.
Meric studied the expressionless expanse of forest. He saw nothing but did not 
doubt the shamans ability to pierce the canopy and sense the feelings of what 
lay below. Xin had proven his abilities in the past. Will we make it in time? 
Meric asked.
Xin turned to Meric, gaze narrowed with concern. We must fly faster.
Meric trusted the zool shaman. I will try.
Turning back to the rail, Meric sent out a whisper of magicknot to the ship, 
but to the skies around them. He strove to draw the winds to his sails. But with 
his attention split between the ship and the skies, it was a strain on even his 
significant skills. He felt the
JAMES LLEMEKS
I I
crackles of blue energies dancing on his skinor was that the ships hull? He 
became lost somewhere between.
He gathered the energy trapped in the clouds and stray winds around him, tying 
them into a tighter weaving. He pulled and drew upon this energy, creating a 
conduit for power.
Come to me, he thought urgently.
Then, like a push at his back, he felt the first tug upon his ship. Overhead, 
the sails slowly stretched, ropes strained. Fresh winds whistled past his ears, 
past the hull. Quicker and quicker, the Storm-wing surged ahead. Meric adjusted 
the magick in the ship itself. Like a striking hawk, the ship dove down and 
across the forest. He used the weight of the ship to add speed to his sails.
Vaguely, Meric was aware of the others around him grabbing for handholds, 
stumbling under the sudden flight. Beads of cold sweat formed on Merics 
forehead as he maintained the winds. Wh-what do you sense? he spat out between 
clenched teeth.
Im sorry. The shadow creatures move too swiftly. Doom trembled in the wizens 
voice. We are too late.
Mycelle climbed the last few steps to the summit of the peak. Exposed atop the 
pinnacle, she shivered as the winds seemed to pick up. Ahead, the trail ended at 
a small, carved altar. Mycelle approached the sacred site. Though none knew who 
originally carved the altar, the site itself was still used for rituals to the 
Mother on solstices and equinoxes.
At her side, Fardale sniffed around the altars edges, nosing the strange beasts 
carved on its stone side. He nosed one particular beast on the north face of the 
altar and growled. Mycelle glanced down at the image. It was a winged lion with 
clawed paws raised. Mycelle frowned. A griffin, just like the rumors they had 
been hearing from the refugees. Was this some clue?
Mycelle circled the altar. On its south face was a monstrous rooster with the 
body of a snake. On the other two sides were a reptilian bird and some bullish 
figure with a scorpions tail. Mycelle turned away. She had heard nothing of 
these other beasts, but worry settled coldly in her chest. What did this mean? 
Was there some connection?
Unable to answer these mysteries, she crossed to the edge of the summit and 
turned her attention to the skies around her.
The blue expanse appeared empty of all but a few low clouds and a rising mist 
from the forest. There was no sign of any ship, flying or otherwise. Standing at 
the cliffs edge, she pulled the silver coin from her pocket. She clutched it. 
Had the journey been for naught? Had they wasted half a day pursuing phantoms? 
Even now she wondered if it all had been a dream. It did not seem real.
Suddenly the coin grew warm in her fist again. An urgent voice entered her head. 
They come! Beware the forest!
She raised the coin, relief mixed with fear. She had not imagined the voice 
after all. Who? Who comes?
Twisted creatures with diseased thoughts. They surround the Stone even now!
Mycelle glanced back at the altar and peered over the edge at the woods below. 
Creatures? She saw nothing amiss. Were already at the summit, she said. I 
dont see anything. They are there. But we come swiftly. She lifted her eyes 
to the heavens. Still she saw nothing. To the east, the voice urged, as if 
sensing her desire to see the ship. Above the Willowrush.
Mycelle swung slightly around. She squinted her eyes. Nothing. Then the barest 
glint of sunlight reflected off something hanging above the trees near the 
horizon. As she watched, it slowly grew in size. She could just make out a 
flurry of sails. She stared in wonder. A flying ship! Could it be?
Fardale whined at her side. He must have spotted the strange vessel, too. She 
glanced briefly down to her fellow siluran, but the wolfs keen eyes were not 
on the skies. Fardale studied the darkening woods below. Though the peaks 
height was aglow as the sun set, the forest below was already lost in dusk and 
mist.
Mycelle followed the path of his gaze. What is it, Fardale? His only answer 
was a low growl.
Tell me what she started to say. Then she heard it, too. It came not from 
coin or wolf, but from the forest itself.
A cry rose with the wind from the woods below. The wind itself? Mycelle knew 
better. She stared harder. Near the base of the peak, trees began to twist and 
curl, tortured by something unseen in the shadows below. Mycelle now knew what 
the speaker from the coin warned against. Twisted creatures. Not the mythical 
beasts from the altar, but something worse.
J A M K S LUMENS
It was the Grim!
Mycelle stepped along the summits edge. All around, trees writhed and limbs 
flailed, leaves grew brown and drifted on the twilight breezes. It was as if the 
cry from below was the scream of the tortured trees themselves. But Mycelle knew 
it came from the wraiths hundreds of them!
From here, she spotted shadows shifting among the misshapen trunks. She did not 
understand this strange gathering. The wraiths were generally solitary 
creatures, seldom found in more than a pair. What had drawn them all here? And 
what stayed their hands now? Below, they simply milled and churned. As swiftly 
as they moved, they could be atop the summit in only a few moments. But they 
tarried in the forest below, contorting the trees in which they roosted. What 
kept them at bay?
Mycelle glanced back to the altar. Was there some ancient magick here? For the 
thousandth time since beginning this journey, she wished she still retained her 
seeking skill, an ability to read the magick around her. She felt as if a vital 
sense had been stolen from her.
She lifted the coin and spoke. I see the creatures, but they hold back for now. 
Hurry, before their numbers give them the courage to assault the peak.
A fading whisper came. We hurry Be ready 
She turned and found Fardales eyes upon hers. Images formed: A snowy feathered 
bird taking wing from the pea/( and flying high into the sky, away from the 
twisted forest.
No, she answered him aloud. I will not abandon you.
Fardale shrugged and turned away, as stoic as a real wolf.
Mycelle returned to studying the forest and sky. The wail of the Grim echoed off 
the cliffs. There were so many. Suddenly the ground shook under her feet. She 
fell to her knees to keep from tumbling over the edge. Crawling closer, she 
peered below.
Around the pinnacle, hundreds of trees had uprooted themselves, many of them 
thousand-year-old giants. In packs, they attacked the Stones base with their 
gigantic roots, digging into cracks in the granite.
Mother above! The forest was attacking the Stone of Tor, trying to tear it down.
In the branches of these twisted trees, Mycelle spotted the reason for the 
assault. The shredded shadows of the Grim perched in those
WIT C H UATE
warped branches. The wraiths rode the attacking trees like riders on horses. The 
ancient trees dug and attacked the rock, yanking chunks with shuddering blows 
from the side of the pinnacle. As she stared, she suddenly understood how the 
Northwall had been sundered. Even that ancient shield wall, also of granite, 
could not have sustained such an attack for long.
Mycelle, on hands and knees, backed away from the edge. She eyed the skies. With 
the sun setting behind her, the expanse was still bright. She could easily spot 
the ships sails now. It lay no more than a league away. In the darkening sky, 
its keel glowed like a dull coal, ruddy and bright. Even without her seeking 
ability, Mycelle could almost smell the magick. It was this glowing energy that 
kept the vessel afloat in the air.
She clenched the coin. Hurry, she urged.
No answer came, but in truth, what words could make any difference? Either the 
ship would arrive in time or not.
Mycelle crouched upon the altar as the rock shook under her. For a moment, she 
entertained Fardales idea: to shift into the shape of a large bird and wing 
away from the danger. It was tempting. She did not want to die. She had done so 
once before and cared not to repeat it. But even a shape-shifter had limits. 
Most could only summon enough energy for a major shift once a day. And she had 
already shifted twice this dayfrom woman to wolf and back again. She had no 
energy for another change.
She stared at the large treewolf as he steadied himself on wide-placed paws and 
maintained his vigil on the assault below. Even if she could shift and fly away, 
she would not. She could not abandon her last companion. She had failed too many 
others, and that pain was worse than any fear of death.
Biting her lip, Mycelle turned her attention to another matter of the wraiths. 
What had drawn the Grim here like moths to a flame? If she had that answer
The ground lurched again. The whole peak tilted. Mycelle grabbed the altars 
edge to keep from rolling.
Nearby, Fardale dug in claws and scrabbled to keep his footing, but he was 
losing his battle and slipping toward the edge. The Stone was toppling under 
them! Fardale! She thrust out an arm, reaching from where she
I
clutched the altar. Fardale slipped farther away from her hand, his hindquarters 
tumbling over the edge. No!
She willed the flesh of her arm to meld and stretch. She had no energy fr a 
ful change, but maybe this small shift
She concentrated, straining. Slowly the burn of melting bone answered her silent 
plea. Her arm thinned and lengthened. Her fingers crawled across the rock.
Fardales eyes went wild with desperation as he struggled to keep his precarious 
perch. Then he lost the battle and slid away.
No! She lunged with her flowing arm. Her fingers clamped on the wolfs 
forelimb as he slipped over the edge. Hold on! she urged between tight lips.
She fed some of her torsos bulk into her thinly stretched arm, building muscle 
to aid her grip. In her minds eye, she became just two armsone gripping rock, 
one gripping her friends flesh. Nothing else mattered. She fed her will with 
all her strength, her heart thundering in her ears. How long she struggled like 
that, she did not know, but slowly she forced her flesh to pull back to its 
original form. She maintained her grip on Fardales leg as her arm shortened, 
dragging the wolf back over the edge and to her side.
Once near enough, she shifted her grip, pulling Fardale tight under her arm. 
Exhausted, she finally realized that the Stone had ceased its topple and rested 
dangerously askew, the summit tilted at a steep angle. A lucky reprieve, but for 
how long?
Already the wail of the wraiths rose again from below.
Mycelle could not worry about that. With her eyes squeezed closed, she fought to 
keep her position on the slippery granite. If she lost her grip on the altars 
edge, they would both be lost.
As she concentrated on the muscles and fibers of her limbs, she felt loose 
hairs, those not braided in place, rise over her head. The smell of the air 
changed, as after a summers thunder shower. Energy! Mycelle opened her eyes and 
cried out in a mix of shock and relief.
Overhead, the sky was gone, consumed by a vast wooden hull and a shining iron 
keel. As she watched, a hatch opened on its underside. A long rope snaked out, 
the end of which fell to hang tantalizingly close above her. If she stood, she 
could easily grab the rope. But that was impossible. If she shifted even a 
single muscle, she feared tumbling away.
The rock under her, as if to remind and scold, shook again. The pinnacle tilted 
farther.
Sweet Mother So close!
A thin figure appeared in the hatchs opening, clearly an elvin. The slender 
man had the rope looped around his belly. He dove from the hatch and rolled down 
the rope, using the loops friction to slow his descent. Still, as fast as he 
fell, Mycelle was sure he would tumble from the ropes end and fall to his 
death. But at the last moment, the agile elvin sailor hooked a twist of rope 
around his knee and ankle and dropped to a stop, hanging upside down from the 
ropes end by only one leg.
Long-fingered hands grabbed the leather of her jacket. Dont struggle, the man 
warned with little warmth. And keep hold of that dog.
As soon as he had her gripped, the length of hemp began reeling back into the 
hatch above, dragging the elvin and his wards upward.
Mycelle was afraid to trust both their weights to the thin sailor. But what 
choice did she have? She reluctantly released her grip on the altar and hugged 
the large treewolf to her chest with her two arms. They were drawn slowly 
upward.
As her heels lifted free of the rock, a massive crack exploded from below. She 
gasped at the sudden noise, almost losing her hold on Fardale.
Under her toes, the pinnacle toppled away, falling at first slowly, then more 
rapidly, like a felled tree. Time seemed to slow as the length of stone crashed 
into the forest. A muffled roar accompanied the collision. Leaves and bits of 
shattered trunk blew into the sky as high as the flying ship itself. Water 
exploded far into the air as the felled pinnacle crashed across the Willowrush, 
damming the river and diverting its flow.
Tilting her neck, she eyed the opening of the hatch. It seemed a league away. 
The tackle and pulley that strung the rope from the hatch slowly turned, and she 
found the eyes of the elvin sailor meeting hers. He seemed unconcerned about 
the destruction or danger, his expression bland as if he were merely hauling dry 
goods to a shop. But Mycelle noticed the sheen of sweat on his forehead from the 
strain of their weights.
But there was nothing she could do to help, so Mycelle glanced
I
back down. The view was lost in a cloud of debris and mist. She saw no sign of 
the wraiths. Again she wondered what had drawn so rnany of them to this peak. 
Were they after her? Fardale? The ancient altar? Somehow Mycelle sensed it was 
none of these. Something else had drawn them here. But what? What were they 
after? What had driven the wraiths to such odd behavior?
Staring up again, she saw they neared the hatch. Hands grabbed them as they were 
hauled inside. At last, Mycelle found firm decking under her heels. She set 
Fardale down. Their elvin rescuer clambered free of the rope and landed deftly 
on his feet. He gave them a cold bow of his head and strode away, as if their 
salvation were of no significance.
Mycelle shook her head at the strangeness of the elvin and stared below one 
last time as the hatch was closed and sealed.
There was a mystery to the Grim that had yet to be answered, and she was sure 
the path to winning here in the north lay within that riddle. But such answers 
must wait on another day. For now, she was free, safe, and with new allies.
Well met, Mycelle, a voice said behind her.
She turned toward a familiar lanky form standing in a doorway. Relief flooded 
through her. Meric! She crossed over and hugged the elvin tightly.
It seems weve much to discuss, Meric said as he was finally let free. He gave 
Fardale a pat of greeting, then searched around the crowded hold.
With an eyebrow raised, he faced Mycelle. But where are the others?
Kral awoke to chaos. Winds screamed, thunder unlike any he had heard before 
shook the ground. He jerked awake, snapping up, banging his head into the roof 
of the rocking cart. A growl escaped his throat. He reached to his waist but 
found his ax gone. Then his memories returned in a flood of light and screams. 
The attack by dwarf raiders
He twisted around and spotted Mogweed, a tiny mouse of a man, huddled in the 
corner.
Where are we? Kral asked gruffly. What is going on? His eyes quickly attuned 
to the darkness. Though his iron ax with its ebonstone heart was missing, 
Legion still lived inside Kral, caged in this human form. His nostrils flared, 
sniffing the air with the senses of this inner beast. His ax was near, still 
sheathed in the pelt of a snow leopard. With the pelt in place, Kral had access 
to the leopards form and nature, but he dared not reveal his shape-shifting 
abilitiesat least not yet.
Nearby, Neelahn lifted her face, pushing aside a fall of honey-colored hair. On 
her knees, she leaned over the still form of Lord Tyrus, her expression pained. 
Weve been captured and travel north.
Kral frowned. A mix of conflicting feelings jangled through him as the nyphais 
violet eyes pierced to his bones. Her beauty stunned him. Her lips were a 
blooming rose on virgin snow. Her form was all curves and valleys. His senses 
drank her in, but he kept his face and voice stone. What caused the ground to 
quake?
Already the splintery roar was echoing away, and the tremble under the wagons 
wheels calmed.
Neelahn cocked her head and remained silent for a few moments. I I hear 
mourning in the woodsong, but can tell nothing more. Broken trees, drowning 
waters. She shook her head. Some disaster. I dont know its meaning.
A whip cracked overhead, and the cart jolted forward, moving faster. Off 
balance, Neelahn toppled into Krais side. He caught and gently righted her. 
She straightened the cloak about her shoulders, nodding in thanks.
Her scent filled Krais nose: musky loam and honeysuckle. His rocky countenance 
threatened to shatter. He turned away.
Lord Tyrus groaned where he lay at Neelahns knees.
How fares the prince? Kral asked, turning his attention.
Neelahn touched the wounded mans shoulder. He lives but swims in sick dreams. 
He wont wake.
Yet hes always crying out, Mogweed added, edging closer to them. 
Bloodcurdling wails. The man shivered, hugging his thin arms around his chest.
Kral eyed his two conscious companions. They were too few for him to lead an 
assault on their captors, even if he could break out of the wagon. Had the 
prince been hale, Kral would have attempted it. He had seen the man fight, a 
flurry of steel. Tyrus was surely his fathers son. Ten generations ago, it had 
been an ancient king of Castle Mryl who had helped Krais clans escape during 
the Dwarf Wars. A blood debt was owed to the Mrylian royal family. So even 
though Kral was bound to the Black Heart, he had not refused the princes call 
for arms at Port Rawls docks. How could he?
Though the Dark Lord might have opened his eyes to the beauty of raw flesh and 
fear, he had not totally burned away Krais honor. A lesser man might have been 
vanquished fully, enslaved completely. But in Krais veins ran the magick of 
deep, underground passages, of gray granite and black basalt, whorled agate and 
glassy obsidian, the bones of the world. Though the Black Beast of Gulgotha had 
branded Krais spirit, the Rock had protected Krais deeper self. He was scarred 
by darkfire but not shattered.
How long have we been traveling? he growled.
Neelahn settled back, sinking into her cloak. Almost a full day. Night nears.
I A M E S LLIMINS

Krai moved to the plank walls of their prison. He tried to peer out between the 
slats, but he could discern little in the meager light. He closed his eyes, 
extending the senses of his inner beast. He listened to the tromp of hoof and 
boot, the rattle of short swor.d and ax. He counted the thudding heartbeats of 
his captors. Over a score of the cursed creaturesdwarves, the blood enemy of 
his people.
In ages past, the dwarves had wrested Krais clans from their ancestral home, 
the mighty mountain Citadel above the blue lake of Tor Amon. The 
slaughtermonstrous beasts, foul magicks, horrible sacrificeswas sung in 
ballads and woeful odes around the flames of clan hearths. Out of a people that 
had numbered in the tens of thousands, only a hundred had escaped, including 
Krais great ancestors, the last of the Senta Flame, the royal house. It had 
been his great-great ancestor who had last sat on the Ice Throne of the Citadel. 
The same man had led the ragged bands out of the mountains, abandoning their 
homelands to become wandering nomads. Krai clenched his fists, nails drawing 
blood from his palm. No longer would they wander! He would regain his 
birthrightthe Ice Throneand call his people home. He would restore honor to 
the Senta Flame. This he swore!
Lost in the past, he sat frozen as the wagon trundled farther and farther north. 
He became stone, unmoving. Two days passed him by. Food was shoved through a 
slit in the door: moldy bread and a meatless gruel. Krai ignored it. To the 
side, Neelahn tended to the prince, dribbling water over Tyrus lips. At night, 
the cold drew the other three to huddle together, but not Krai. He remained 
fixed, a boulder of granitewaiting, patient. Occasionally the prince would cry 
out, drawing his eye. Behind his screams, Krai heard the mindless terror and the 
gibber of the mad. He turned away, dismissing the man. Lord Tyrus body might 
live, but surely his mind was gone.
So the days passed by.
Only on the third day did Krai stir. Night had fully descended, and a bright 
moon hung high overhead, glimpsed through cracks in the roof. The wagon slowed, 
and the guttural chatter of the raiders grew raucous amid coarse laughter.
We must be nearing this evenings camp, Neelahn whispered.
I dont know, Mogweed mumbled, his face pressed to the forward wall, one eye 
peering out. I see torches ahead, through the trees.
It is no temporary camp, Krai warned. He felt the vibration in his blood. 
Tuned to the worlds bones, Krai knew what they neared. He gritted his teeth. He 
could not believe the others were deaf to the roaring in his head. It was as if 
they approached the shore of some storm-swept ocean, waves pounding on rock.
The wagon continued to slow. New noises intruded: the clash of steel, the 
whinnying cry of horses, the blare of horns. Krai inhaled deeply: smoke and 
pine, blood and sun-cured meat, the stink of trench latrines. They were 
approaching a major encampment. Between the wooden planks of the wagon, a fiery 
light grew. Calls were exchanged between their captors and outer sentries.
As the wagon rolled into the encampment, the noises enveloped them. Fists 
occasionally pounded on the sides of the wagon, applauding the raiders success. 
But still the wagon rolled.
Where are we? Mogweed asked, his eyes wide with fright. Krai kept his silence. 
The wagon finally ground to a halt. No one breathed. Only Lord Tyrus stirred. He 
writhed in an unending nightmare, worse than ever.
Neelahn remained at the princes side. Whats wrong with him? Tyrus eyelids 
suddenly flickered open. Fingers clawed the air. The Wall Though his eyes 
were open and bright, there was no consciousness. The Lands voice the pain 
Neelahn tried to console him, holding his hands. A jangle of keys drew Krais 
attention. It sounded from the rear of the wagon. He turned, fists clenching. 
With a loud clanking, a lock and chain fell away. Oak scraped oak as a bar was 
shoved free.
Krai braced himself. He touched the dark magick in his bones the magick of 
Legion, his secret self tied to the chunk of ebonstone in the iron heart of his 
ax. He sensed his weapon nearby, felt the leopard trapped under his skin, ready 
to burst free, teeth and claws sheathed in this human form. Still, he held back. 
There was power in secrets.
Hinged at the bottom, the rear door of the wagon crashed down, becoming a ramp 
to freedom. Beyond, the flames from fires and torches were blinding. Krai 
squeezed his eyelids to slits. After three days locked up in the dark wagon, the 
brightness stung.
A voice barked at them, coarse, in the common tongue. Get your arses out here! 
Now!
The speaker, a dwarf lieutenant, stood flanked by a half score of
M VTA I R
his comrades, all armored and bristling with weapons. The guards bore axes in 
one hand and spiked hammers in the other. Krai knew from experience that the 
squat creatures were skilled with both weapons, unnaturally dexterous with 
either limb. It-was not a fight he could hope to win, not without the aid of 
weapons or the beast nested within his flesh.
Krai crawled first from the wagon, climbing down the ramp. Mogweed followed with 
Neelahn, the princes limp form slung between them.
The guards stared at the small party, wary. No one sheathed a weapon. Rumors of 
the battle under the Stone of Tor had reached these ears. No chances were taken. 
The lieutenant stepped toward Neelahn and Mogweed, but his eyes were on the 
unconscious form of the prince.
Hes of no use, the dwarf leader said. Cut his throat and feed him to the 
sniffers.
Krai noted a pen of purple-skinned beasts nearby, chained and tethered, like 
living pieces of twilight. Rows of fangs glinted. Sniffers. The most fearsome 
predators of the woodlands. Krai had once run the streets of Port Rawl as such a 
beast. Hunger and lust flared at the memory. Tender flesh, the spurt of hot 
blood
One of the guards stepped toward the limp form of the prince.
Neelahn backed away with Tyrus. Mogweed abandoned the man completely, leaving 
the tiny nyphai bent under the princes weight.
Krai stepped between guard and prisoner. No. Ill not let you harm him.
The guard raised his weapon. Krai stared at the dwarf; a low growl flowed from 
his throat. Krai let the beast inside shine forth. His vision grew more acute; 
his senses bloomed outward. He heard the dwarfs twin heartbeats quicken.
The guard held his weapon, faltering a step.
The lieutenant raised his short sword and moved to the guards side. The beasts 
are hungry. Mayhap we should feed you both to our pets. The dwarf leader 
glanced up and down Krais large form. Or maybe not. It has been a long time 
since my men and I have tasted the flesh of the mountain people. Wed make 
several good steaks and roasts out of you.
Krai felt his control of the beast inside weakening. He kept his
|ames Clemens i fists clenched, hiding the daggered claws of the leopard 
sprouting from the tips of his fingers.
The lieutenant raised his sword. So make your choice. Move aside or die!
Krai remained where he stood. Youll not harm the prince. As the leopard 
within writhed, fur sprouted under Krais leathers. His pupils grew slitted.
The dwarf leader balked, clearly sensing a dark current here. Touched by the 
Black Heart himself, had this dwarf recognized the kindred spirit before him? 
The sword remained poised.
A new voice intruded. Leave the captives be, Lieutenant!
All eyes swung to the right. Another dwarf approached. He was wider in form and 
heavier in bulk, twice the mass of the already large lieutenant. Atop his 
melon-sized head was a black cap with a silver insignia. Krai recognized the 
rank marking. The guards grew stiffen Krai smelled their nervousness.
The lieutenant retreated a half step. But, Captain Brytton, the man hanging in 
the womans arms is clearly too weak to work in the mines. I thought not to 
waste his meat. The sniffers
Quiet, Lieutenant. The captain moved toward Neelahn, who cringed back from 
him. The mountain man is correct. No harm must come to this man. The griffin 
has marked him.
Sir?
Captain Brytton waved to the guards. Take them to the castle dungeons. All of 
them.
Krai was baffled by the turn in events. The beast inside quieted. What was going 
on? He strode to Neelahns side and collected Tyrus up in his arms, unburdening 
her. As a group, they were led around the wagon.
Mogweed gasped as he turned, his gaze rising high into the am
Krai understood his shock. Two hundred strides away, the world ended. The black 
granite shield wall known as the Northwall rose before them. Stretching a league 
into the sky, its surface was as polished as a piece of sculpture, reflecting 
the firelight and the moon and stars. It was too high for the mind to grasp. It 
was said that the air at its summit was so thin that none could breathe it and 
not pass out.
The great wall marked the northernmost boundary of the Western Reaches; beyond 
it lay the Dire Fell. It had been here for as long
Witch lj ate as histories were spoken, thrust up by the Land itself to stop the 
evil of the Grim from ever passing into the woods of the Reaches. Eventually, 
the Wall had become the birthright of Tyrus people, the Dro, who kept vigil 
here.
Castle Mryl, Neelahn said softly, pointing to the west, toward where they 
were heading with the captain and guards.
Krai nodded, spotting the structure.
Limned in firelight, the granite castle was hard to miss, growing like a boil 
out of the Northwall and sprouting forth with ramparts, turrets, and towers, all 
formed of flowing black stone. The massive castle climbed the shield wall in 
countless granite terraces, merging so smoothly that it was hard to say where 
one started and the other ended. And in truth, there was no distinction. Castle 
Mryl was a part of the wall, a flowing construct grown by the Land to house the 
walls chosen, the Dro.
Krai craned his neck up. Beyond the reach of the camps firelight, tiny windows 
glowed like stars against a black firmament, openings into high rooms and 
chambers in the wall itself. Tales spoke of passages and secret chambers that 
ran the length of the walls thousand leagues, like the arteries and veins of a 
living being.
And in actuality, the wall was no dead rock. An ocean of elemental energies 
flowed through the stone. Even now, Krai heard the magicks call, and if Krai 
allowed it, he could be lost in that song. It vibrated through him. In his arms, 
Tyrus stirred again, writhing and moaning. The prince, too, heard the call and 
struggled to answer it.
Krai held the man to his chest. These lands had always been rich in rock 
magicks. Like the Dro, Krais people had lived in these mountainous lands, 
becoming imbued and blood-tied to these magicks. And though centuries had passed 
since any of his clansmen had returned here, the magick had never left Krais 
people. It was one of the chief reasons the clans had remained in the mountains 
of the Teeth: to be forever close to the granite spirit of the Land.
Krai felt heat on his cheeks; his vision clouded. He could not stop the tears. 
For the barest moment, he remembered himself fully. The darkness receded from 
his blood. He stumbled to a stop, a cry on his lips. Horror at what he had done, 
at what he had become, flared sharply, cut him deeply. Then the dark energies 
surged again in his heart, feeding off the raw power flowing here. Doubt and 
guilt faded.
Are you all right, mountain man? Neelahn asked, dropping back beside him as 
they marched toward the castle.
Krai closed his eyes, touching the beast inside, reassuring himself that all was 
in order. Im fine.
Neelahn looked little convinced, but she remained quiet.
As a group, they were herded to the main gate of the castle. Broken gates lay 
open to the south. Along the walls overhead, mounted on iron spikes, were the 
heads of the castles previous wards. Bleached by the sun, scavenged by ravens 
and crows, the decapitated heads were little more than white bone. As Krai 
stared with his keen vision, he spotted more of the castles decorations. All 
the walls, terrace after terrace, were mounted by these trophies of the dead. 
Thousands upon thousands.
Krai turned away. The great cat inside him stirred, scenting the bloodshed and 
terror. Krai reined in the beast with a promise. One day, he would replace each 
skull with a dwarfs.
Krai followed the others through the gate and across the stone courtyard, 
carrying the prince of the castle back into his home.
Across the yard stood the main keep. Its stone doors lay cracked and toppled. 
Scorch marks and pocked holes marred the polished surfaces of the yard, clear 
evidence of foul magicks and fierce fighting.
Captain Brytton halted before the stairs leading into the keep. He pointed to 
the side, to an open doorway with steps leading down into the ground. Take the 
prisoners below. Lock them away.
The lieutenant nodded and drew them away at swordpoint.
The passage down into the castles dungeons was narrow, barely wide enough for 
Krais shoulders. As the mountain man bent and climbed down the stairs, the 
granite walls swallowed him up. Though he was being led to his imprisonment, 
Krai could not escape the sense of coming home. The magick in the stone swelled 
through him, reminding him of hearth and clan. Even Tyrus grew quieter in his 
arms, seeming to slip into true slumber rather than the endless nightmare that 
had consumed him.
The long stairs opened into a large guardroom. Five dwarves sat around a hewn 
pine table, scraps of a meal spread before them. Krai spotted a human leg bone, 
well gnawed. A part of him turned away in disgust, while deeper inside another 
part growled with hunger.
The lieutenant grumbled in his native tongue, and one of the
WIT C H LrAT F.
fifs Clemens dwarves stood and grabbed up a ring of keys. The group was led 
past a stout oaken door and into a long passage of barred cells. The passage 
reeked of excrement, urine, charred flesh, and blood.
Neelahn wrinkled her nose in distaste.
As they were led down the way, the occupants of the cells glanced up, eyes dull 
with defeat. In one cage, a bruised and battered man hung from chains on the 
walls. He had no legs, only burned stumps. One of the dwarves leading them 
laughed and nudged his companion, licking his lips. Krai pictured the leg bone 
on the dinner table and shuddered.
He and the others were led all the way to the end of the passage, to the largest 
cell. Its door was opened, and they were shoved inside. With a clang, the door 
slammed shut and was locked.
The lieutenant leaned close to the bars as Krai settled Tyrus to the 
straw-covered stone floor. Do not think yourself safe, man of the mountains. I 
mean to taste your blood.
Krai, his arms freed, lashed backward with a fist, leopard swift. The lieutenant 
failed to move fast enough. Bones crunched under Krais knuckles; hot blood 
spurted over his wrist.
The lieutenant cried out, falling back.
Krai slowly turned to face him. Without a word, he lifted his fist and licked 
the lieutenants blood from his wrist.
Regaining his feet, the lieutenant lunged at the bars, his nose a crooked ruin. 
Ill eat your heart, mountain man! Do you hear me?
Krai licked his wrist again, then swung around, ignoring the mans screeches. He 
found the others eyes on him. Mogweeds mouth was hanging open.
The lieutenant was dragged away by his fellow guards.
Was that wise, Krai? Neelahn asked. What does it gain to provoke them?
He shrugged.
Further discussion was forestalled by a loud groan from the prince. Neelahn 
knelt beside him, taking his hand. The mans other arm rose, his fingers 
brushing over his face like a blind man struggling to recognize a stranger. 
Another groan escaped his lips.
Lord Tyrus, Neelahn whispered.
Eyelids slowly pulled open. His pupils rolled for a few breaths, then settled on 
Neelahn. He reathed to her face with his free hand and touched her cheek, as if 
firming in his mind that she was real and not another figment of fevered dreams. 
He tried to speak, but all that came out was a rasp.
Hush, Neelahn said.
Tyrus pushed up on his elbows, weak. Krai stooped and helped the prince sit up. 
Do you know where you are? he asked.
The prince nodded and rasped an answer. Home.
Youve been unconscious for almost three days, Mogweed said, coming forward to 
join them.
Tyrus held a palm against his forehead. I heard the Wall. It helped me find my 
way back.
Where were you? Neelahn asked. What happened?
Tyrus closed his eyes and shuddered. I I dont remember. All I recall is a 
shadow falling over me while I fought the dwarves. Its touch numbed the marrow 
of my bones. I felt my mind pulled from my body, leaving me unmoored and unable 
to find my way back.
It was the griffin, Neelahn said. I saw it. A monstrous statue made of 
shadows and fire. It attacked you.
Tyrus slowly shook his head. I dont remember. I became lost in nightmares, 
surrounded by strange, twisted beasts, and fiery eyes burning into me.
Fiery eyes? Krai mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. He remembered his own 
branding by the Black Heart. He sniffed at Tyrus. He sensed no corruption and 
was secretly relieved. The blood debt to the kings of Castle Mryl was ingrained 
in Krai like a vein of quartz in granite. Even darkfire could not burn away this 
bit of ancient obligation. He was glad to discover the-prince untainted.
Neelahn spoke up. The dwarf captain seemed especially interested in you, Lord 
Tyrus. He called you marked by the griffin, suggesting some importance in your 
capture.
Tyrus sat straighter, his strength slowly returning. I can imagine. As the last 
living prince of the Wall, my magick would be a boon to the raiders.
Magick? Neelahn asked.
Scrying, Tyrus explained. Tellings of the future. The Wall speaks with the 
will and knowledge of all the Land. Tyrus attempted to stand but needed Krais 
help. He limped to the rear wall f their cell and laid a palm on the glassy 
surfaceblack granite, like all the castle. I will not let them have me. Ill 
not let the Lands gift to my family be twisted.
Well protect you, Krai said.
Tyrus smiled, cracked lips splitting and bleeding fresh. I dont doubt your 
honor, Krai, but honor can be outnumberedas was proven on the battlefield three 
days ago.
So what do you propose?
To vanish.
How? Mogweed asked.
Theres a magick in the Northwall that is known only to members of the royal 
familysomething more than scrying. Tyrus glanced at them.
Krais eyes narrowed with suspicion. What? Tyrus paused, then took a deep 
breath and spoke softly. As Castle Mryl is a part of the Wall, so are its kings 
and princes. Granite runs in our blood. We are as much the Wall as the castle 
itself.
I dont understand, Krai grumbled.
Then watch. Tyrus turned and placed both palms on the wall. He closed his 
eyes.
Krai felt the flow of the Walls energy shift, like a river changing course. The 
rumble of elemental magick swept down upon the cell, swirling through the walls 
in torrents. At his side, Neelahn gasped.
Krais attention returned fully to the prince. The mans pale hands slowly 
blackened, matching the granite. As Krai watched, the transformation flowed up 
the princes arms, turning limbs to stone, polished and smooth. And still the 
magick spread, consuming chest and legs, swamping over the mans head. In a 
matter of breaths, his entire form had become living granite.
Stone lips moved. We are not called the Blood of the Wall for no reason. We are 
one with the Lands heart. It is our true home.
Tyrus stepped forward, merging into the stone wall. He stopped half in, half 
out. He turned to them. Fear not. Ill watch over you. But in the Wall, I can 
walk the castle unseen and learn the foul purpose of those who roost here.
Neelahn reached and touched the mans cheek. Be careful. Even the strongest 
stone can shatter.
So I have learned. He sank deeper into the wall, his clothes ripping and 
falling to the straw. Soon there was no sign of the prince, only bare wall.
Mogweed touched the stone, disbelieving his eyes.
Lord Tyrus face reappeared above Mogweeds fingers, growing into a stone mask 
hanging on the wall. Torchlight glinted off his glossy eyes. Granite lips smiled 
mischievously. Be ready.
Then he was gone.
As DAWN ROSE, MeRIC STARED OVER THE BOWSPRIT OF THE STORMWING.
Overhead, the morning breezes swelled the sails, ropes snapping taut. This close 
to the colossal wall, the winds blew in cold gusts, threatening to toss the ship 
against the looming cliff of granite. It took all Merics skill to keep the ship 
gliding beside the Northwall, edging along the misty heights, hiding from the 
hostile eyes far below.
Meric stood bundled in a thick-furred cloak. At this height, ice frosted the 
smooth rock, and the air was almost too thin to breathe. He craned his neck. 
Even from the deck of the Stormwing, Meric could not spy the Northwalls summit. 
It was too tall, higher than even the Stormwing could fly.
After rescuing Mycelle and Fardale from atop the Stone of Tor, Meric had flown 
his ship directly north, pursuing the trail discovered by the wolfs keen nose. 
There was no doubt where their captured friends were being takento Castle Mryl.
By air, it had taken only a day to reach the Northwall. Once here, they were 
forced to wait, well out of sight of the castle. Only at night did they dare 
risk drifting nearer, spying upon the encampment around the castle. A pair of 
elvin sailors had drifted on long lines below the keel, bearing spyglasses: 
Maps were quickly drawn of the castle grounds and surrounding forces. But so 
far, there was no sign of the others. As Meric and Mycelle waited, worry had 
begun to worm into their talks. What if they were wrong? What if the captives 
werent being taken here?
Something bumped Merics knee. He glanced down and found Fardale settling to his 
haunches. He touched the wolfs flank in reassurance. Well find your brother 
and the others. If theyre out there, we wont leave without them.
Fardale leaned a bit against the elvins leg, silently thanking him.
Together, the pair watched the sun rise over the mountains of the Teeth. As the 
first rays reflected off the upper heights of the North-Wall, Meric tacked the 
Stormwing slowly backward, putting distance between them and the castle. He 
slipped back along the Northwall to sit out another long dayanother day of 
interminable waiting and worry.
Fardale whined at his side. The wolfs nose was pointed toward the cliff of 
granite. At first, Meric failed to see anything, then spotted movement. 
Something swept toward them, a shadow on the rock. Clutching the rail, Meric 
leaned out, eyes squinted.
A great bird shot along the cliff face, diving from heights higher than the 
Stormwing could fly. Meric stepped back as the creature arced toward the deck of 
the ship. The elvin, his blood tied to all things of the air, recognized the 
bird: a great roc. The huge black bird swept toward their ship. Its wings were 
wider than Meric was tall. With a piercing cry, it tucked its wings and dove 
toward the deck, a deadly black bolt.
Meric stood his ground. When the beast was a span from the deck, its wings 
snapped open, braking its fall. Talons dug into the deck as the bird landed. It 
held its wings wide, a crown of feathers flaring up. Its beak stretched open as 
it panted from its flight. Glowing amber eyes stared back at him.
Fardale padded up to the bird, sniffing at it. Meric spoke to the majestic 
beast. What have you learned? As answer, the bird drew its wings down, 
ruffling its feathers with a shake. Black pinions withdrew back into pale flesh. 
Bones stretched. Blond hair sprouted to replace black feather, and wings 
rejointed into arms. In a matter of moments, bird became woman. The only feature 
shared between the two forms were the deep amber eyes.
Naked, Mycelle pushed up from her crouch, gasping slightly, still out of breath. 
Th-they arrived during the night. Theyve been taken to the dungeons.
Meric slipped off his fur-lined cloak and draped it over her bare shoulders. 
All of them?
She snugged the cloak tight, shivering against the cold. All of them. But Lord 
Tyrus appeared unconscious. Krai was carrying him. I could not judge the extent 
of his injuries from where I was perched.
Then we proceed as planned, Meric said. She nodded. Tonight. Under the cover 
of darkness.
Will they be safe for that long?
Theyll have to be. Our only hope is stealth. Therell be no victory without 
the advantage of surprise.
JAMES LLIMENS
T
Meric guided her toward the hatch. Then youll need to warm up and rest. With 
winter nearing, the days are shorter.
Mycelle scowled. Not short enough. She stared at Fardale, eyes growing briefly 
brighter as the two shared private thoughts. Afterward, the wolf nodded his head 
once, then swung away.
Meric followed the pair. At last, the waiting was over.
As the others disappeared through the hatch, Meric closed the doors, remaining 
on deck. He returned to his post by the bowsprit, shivering in the thin air. 
Mycelle still had his cloak. Ahead, the high mists thinned.
A quarter league beyond the bowsprit, the sheer face of the granite cliff lay 
shattered and broken. Distracted by Mycelles reappearance, he had let the 
Stormwing drift farther than he had intended. He slowed the winds in his sails. 
It was the first time the Stormwing neared the place where the great wall had 
been sundered. Meric had considered it too dangerous.
But now, with the wound in sight, he found himself drawn to it. Boulders the 
size of small villages lay tumbled into the meadows and forests of the Western 
Reaches. The trough of devastation stretched leagues to the south: gouged 
tracks, acres of broken trees, shattered hillsides. The horrendous fall of the 
Stone of Tor was a broken twig compared to the devastation here.
Meric extended his sight toward the Northwall. From summit to base, the wall was 
split completely. But as the ship drifted nearer, Meric saw the breach itself 
was quite narrow, no more than a hundred steps. It was as if a giant ax+iad 
cleaved the wall.
Both curious and appalled, Meric allowed his ship to sweep forward. As the 
Stormwing glided over the destruction below, Merics eyes remained fixed on the 
sundered cliff face. He held his breath as the view beyond the wall opened up. A 
thin slice of the dark forest appeared.
The Dire Fell. The twisted home of the wrathful Grim.
Meric stared. The trees of the Fell were nothing like the pines and aspens of 
the northern Reaches. These trees were monsters. The giants reached as high as 
the summit of the Northwall itself, their up-per branches crowned with ice. The 
boles were as thick around as farmhouses, each mounted atop a tangle of knotted 
roots. But worst f all, their branches, rather than sprouting straight, were 
twisted and curled upon themselves, appearing more like vines than tree limbs. 
Adding to this appearance was the lack of leaves. Not a single green tuft of 
foliage marked this skeletal forest.
Staring, not breathing, Meric shuddered. It was as if the word tortured were 
given living form in these behemoth trees.
He tore his eyes away, glancing below. Extending from the forest into the 
breach, a tangle of roots slowly writhed. Blind, woody worms shuffled and dug at 
the edge of the wound. To be seen from this height, Meric knew each root had to 
be thicker than a horses flank, powerful enough to chew into stone. Meric knew 
he was looking at the cause of the walls sundering. As at the Stone of Tor, the 
Grim must have directed their enslaved trees to tear this breach in the granite.
But why} What control did the Dark Lord exert over these wraiths? What had 
caused them to break free after countless centuries and leave their own trees to 
hunt the Western Reaches?
Over the past two days, Meric had learned the wraiths patterns. Only at night 
did the Grim flow out of the Fell to hunt the forests of the Reaches, creating 
an unnatural barrier around Castle Mryl, protecting the encamped dwarves. But 
againwhy} What dread pact had been forged between the mindless wraiths and the 
furtive dwarves?
Meric had no answer. He swung the Stormwing around. Tears froze on his cheek. 
Though there was so much unknown, Meric knew one truth, one secret. Something he 
had not shared with anyone, not even his own men.
He turned his back on the Fell. Oh, Neelahn maybe it wouldve been better if 
youd stayed dead.
You dont look well, Mogweed said.
Neelahn opened her eyes. She leaned against the cold wall of the cell, huddled 
in her cloak. Mogweed crouched before her. Im fine, she lied, turning away 
and pulling the hood of her cloak higher.
The mousy-haired man settled beside her. He picked a strand of long blond hair 
from the shoulder of her cloak. Whats wrong?
Neelahn remained silent. Though she strove to hide it, this crypt of stone 
threatened her rebirth. While in the vast Western Reaches, the woodsong had 
helped sustain her, but now, cut off, surrounded by spans of hard granite, she 
could barely hear a whisper of the endless song of the great forest.
You need your lute, dont you? Mogweed whispered, keenly perceptive. A nyphai 
cannot be far from her bonded tree spirit.
No more than a hundred steps, she answered quietly. Years ago, as the last 
koakona tree of her ancestral grove, Lokaihera, had succumbed to the Blight, 
a skilled woodcutter had carved Neelahn a magnificent lute from the heart of 
her tree, freeing the trees spirit, preserving it. With lute in hand, Neelahn 
had been able to travel across the lands of Alasea to search for a cure, to 
return vitality to what was now Blighted.
But no longer. She did not have her lute, and in its absence, she needed the 
strength of the vast forests of the Reach to keep her from unraveling. And now, 
imprisoned in granite, cut off from the forest, Neelahn felt herself weakening, 
fraying around the edges. Her lips were dry and cracked, and no amount of water 
could quench her thirst. Her hair hung limp, and strands fell like autumn 
leaves.
How long can you hold out? Mogweed asked with concern.
Not long. Maybe a day. Closing her eyes, Neelahn reached outward, 
concentrating on the whispers of song wending down through the passages and 
stairs. As she strained, she heard another song, a darker melody. It came not 
from before her, but from behind, from the Fell. She knew that black song.
No, she mumbled dully. I wont listen. Not even to sustain myself. That path 
only led to madness and twisted lusts.
What was that? Mogweed asked.
Neelahn shook her head. Sometimes even life costs too steep a price.
Mogweed frowned, clearly confused. He leaned away from her. Dont give up. Lord 
Tyrus has promised to help us.
Neelahn huddled deeper, praying Mogweed was right, praying for the prince to 
hurry. As she sat, she listened to the hushed whispers of woodsong: one bright, 
one dark. Two sides of the same coin.
She squeezed her eyelids tight but failed to keep tears from flowing down her 
cheeks. Lokaihera. Memories of green life and bright flowers. All gone. 
Neelahn winced, closing her ears against the call of the darkling song.
Hurry, Prince
The prince of Castle Mryl had borne many names during his short lifetime. His 
mother, long dead, had named him. Tylamon Roy-son, after his great grandfather. 
The pirates of Port Rawl had named him Captain Tyrus, caste leader and bloody 
tyrant. His first lover during his thirteenth winter had proclaimed him 
Sweetheart and considered him both tender and kind, while the last woman in his 
bed had cursed him Bastard and swore to gut him for the cruelties of his heart. 
In truth, the prince was all of these men, the sum of his past. No man bore a 
single name.
But now, swimming through the stone of the Wall, Lord Tyrus shed the vagaries of 
his past and became one man, one purpose, forged in granite. This was his home, 
his birthrightand he would see it returned and its dead avenged.
Tyrus moved through the rock of the Wall as easily as a fish through water. He 
felt currents in the stone, eddies and streams, all aspects of the flow of 
magick in the granite. Swimming upward, carried on a wellspring of energy, Tyrus 
aimed for the loftier heights of the great Wall. He stared around him. His sight 
stretched through the watery granite to the world beyond, so he viewed wavering 
images of the Western Reaches and the dwarf encampment. He turned his head and 
dimly viewed the murk of the Dire Fell.
But his destination was neither right nor left, but up and ahead, to where the 
central keep of Castle Mryl grew from the granite wall. He flowed toward the 
upper terraces, to the chambers that had once been his fathers, King Rys. He 
suspected that whoever held sway over these dwarves would be found thereas 
would answers.
Once Tyrus was high enough, he twisted and glided into the buttresses and walls 
that grew out of the North wall to form the castle proper. Here the thickness of 
the granite was thinner. His sight grew more acute, like that of a diver 
surfacing from the depths of a dark lake. He now had to be careful that he 
remained within the confines of the narrowing walls. It would ruin his spying if 
a limb should be seen jutting from a wall. He sidled down a long passage, coming 
at last to the proper door. Slowing his pace, he glided to a stop, twisting away 
from the corridor to spy inside the neighboring room.
The royal antechamber was oval in shape, a bubble in the granite. Across the 
way, other hallways led into the kings private suite of chambers. But the main 
room here had been his fathers greeting and conference room. Shelved books 
lined the walls, and a fireplace as tall as a man opened on the right, now cold 
and disused. A thick wool carpet, embroidered with the family icon of the snow 
leopard, covered the granite floor.
Tyrus frowned. The room was empty, dark except for a single torch.
As he floated in the stone, frustrated, he heard a sharp voice sound from deeper 
in the warren of chambers.
Following the sound, Tyrus stepped from the stone wall, willing the magick to 
stay with him. Black limbs sprouted from the stone as he pulled himself free. He 
hurried across the carpet to the far wall and dove back into the stone, merging 
completely without a ripple. He sped along the crisscrossing walls, delving 
deeper into his fathers private suite. He aimed toward the muffled voices.
At last, he reached his fathers bathing chamber and found the speakers. The 
chamber was steamy, blurring where the granite wall ended and the room began. 
Tyrus moved with great care, squinting.
A krge sunken tub occupied the center of the room. At its edge, a broad-chested 
dwarf knelt on one knee, cap in hand. His splayed nose and wide lips made him 
appear some squat toad perched before
* a lake. All is in readiness. The shaft under the Citadel has been mined and 
the chamber completed under the lake of Tor Amon.
And what of the griffin statue, Captain Brytton? The speaker floated in the 
hot waters of the tub. It was hard to make out any features through the steam, 
but the voice sounded distinctly feminine, lilting and sweet, but with a deeper 
undercurrent of menace. What of the Weirgate?
It has been returned to its roost at the Citadel. We await only the next full 
moon to finish the last step.
Good. The figure settled deeper in the tub. I thought it foolish or the Dark 
Lords lieutenant to mount the griffin and hunt a few stray elementals lost in 
the wood, especially at this critical time.
As the hour approaches, the Black Heart grows especially wary.
Or at least the one named Shortan does. That burned fiend watches all the 
Gates, popping between them like some scalded rat, keeping an eye on everything. 
With my brethren on guard, there is nothing to fear in the north. Our site is 
secure. The figure sighed.
Still, the discovery of the prince of the Wall was a fortuitous boon.
And with the griffin returned to its roost, we remain on schedule. Nothing lost, 
everything gained.
But the prince remains mindless.
Then we must pray his will is strong enough to withstand his brush with the 
Weir. If the prince could be broken to our cause, his skill at augury would 
serve our master well.
Aye, but what of his companions in the dungeon?
The figure shifted in the tub. Theyll be kindling for our fire. We shall use 
their tortures to help forge the young prince. We will not lose him as we did 
his father. The bather slid deep into the tub. Though in truth, even that 
matter did not end entirely without gain; this body I wear has grown quite 
comfortable. I had forgotten the delights of the physical flesh. Like this bath 
and fine wine. A hand, barely discernable through the steamy mists, reached to 
a glass as red as blood. The bather sipped at the wine, savoring it, then 
lowered the glass and stood.
The sudden motion stirred the steam in whorled eddies. When the prince wakes, 
well break him to our will. Where we failed with the father, well succeed with 
the son.
The mists parted as the figure stepped from the bath, naked. The snowy beard 
that trailed over the broad chest belied the feminine voice.
Tyrus gasped, reaching out of the wall, unmindful of exposing himself. Father!
The rooms two occupants turned in his direction, startled.
Before he was spotted, Tyrus yanked his arms back inside the granite.
Did you hear something just then?
The dwarf nodded, his long ears twitching. A muffled outburst. Maybe from the 
next room.
Go search!
The dwarf captain fled.
The naked figure strode to the wall, standing before it. Hands rose to explore 
the surface. Tyrus hovered frozen in the stone, half an arms length away. He 
searched his fathers face, seeing a man he had spent a decade mourning. His 
arms ached to reach out and hold his father in his arms, but Tyrus knew King Ry 
was no longer there. The eyes before him were cold and glowed with cruel fires.
Fists clenching, Tyrus bit back a scream of rage.
v- i. it M p. N
The squat captain returned, ax in hand. The rooms are empty.
The figure turned savagely, his voice ice. Check on our prisoners.
Aye, my lord. Captain Brytton bowed out of the room.
Now only father and son remainedalong with something foul wearing King Rys 
form. I can smell you, the demon whispered to the empty air. The scent of 
blood in the walls.
The figure moved back to the bath, voice raising, the feminine lilt growing hard 
and frosted. I dont know what trick of magick this is, but Ill find whoever 
you are and twist you to our end. This I promise!
As Tyrus watched, a darkness exuded from his fathers body, flowing from every 
pore. Tendrils of dark smoke probed the mists, hunting for him.
Tyrus dared not risk capturenot when the others were counting on him. He sank, 
down the wall, dropping away. The movement must have been sensed. The demon 
sprang toward his hiding spot, clawed nails bared.
But Tyrus was already gone, sunk into the lower depths of the castle, wending 
his way back toward the main wall. As he moved, tears flowed down his granite 
cheeks.
Fatherl
r
As THE MOON CLIMBED THE NIGHT SKY, MyCELLE HURRIED DOWN THE
woodland trail toward the glow of the encampment around Castle Mryl. She did not 
bother trying to hide. The trail ended at the forests edge. The Northwall and 
Castle Mryl loomed before her, a hundred paces away.
Taking a deep breath, Mycelle stepped out into the open and strode toward the 
sentry line of the outer camp. Around her upper arm, under her thick leather 
jerkin, the pakagolo snake curled in agitation. // must smell the magictgiven 
off by the Wall. Once Mycelle herself could have sensed the great well of power 
here; her ability as a seeker had been keen. But no longer. Risen from the dead 
by the small snakes magick, she had traded one ability for another seeking for 
shape-shifting.
Mycelle walked up to one of the outer sentries and lifted an arm in greeting. He 
just nodded at her, bored, leaning on a pike. She hurried past, eyes down.
Her deception had held. Earlier, Mycelles group had waylaid a trio of dwarf 
hunters. It had not been hard. Meric had lowered the Stormwing and dropped four 
of his kin into the trees, armed with poisoned crossbows. They had quickly 
dispatched the thick-bodied hunters, then signaled the all clear. After the 
attack, Mycelle had joined the archers. Choosing carefully, she had rolled the 
smallest of the dead dwarves, a female, on its back. Leaning over the slack 
form, she had studied the body and face, then shaped her own physique to match. 
Once satisfied with her appearance, she had quickly donned
M
the targets clothes and cinched her own weapons in place, hidden under an outer 
furred cloak.
The elvin bowmen then clambered back up the ropes to the waiting ship, leaving 
Mycelle to traverse the trails alone back to Castle Mryl. Her goal: to reach the 
upper heights of the castle and eliminate any stray eyes so the Stormwing could 
moor.
How was the nights hunting? a squat guard asked in the dwarvish tongue as 
she passed. He sat on a stool, honing his ax.
Mycelle swung around, quickly translating the words in her head. She shoved 
aside a cloak and revealed a trio of skinned hares hanging from her belt. The 
Grim have left us little to hunt.
The guard nodded, concentrating on his ax. Damned ghouls. Shrieking and wailing 
all the time. Makes my skin twitch.
Mycelle grunted and continued down the rows of tents and billets. She adjusted 
her cloak, nervous as she worked her way through the wide camp. With most of the 
host asleep in their tents, no others accosted her.
She soon reached the gates in the outer curtain wall of Castle Mryl. Two guards 
were posted. They straightened as she neared, pikes shifting in their grips.
Mycelle bit back a curse and kept her head down as she marched up to them. She 
did not want her amber eyes betraying her true heritage.
A long pike tipped with a steel blade lowered across her path, blocking the way. 
What manner of business do you have here at this time of night?
Mycelle again parted her cloak, revealing the trio of hares. Late-night meal 
for the captain of the guards. He asked I bring him something tasty. She let 
her cloak open farther to reveal her figures ample bosom, shape-shifting 
slightly to swell the fullness even more. Are these tasty enough to pass 
inspection? she asked with a lascivious grin, tilting one hip to make the 
rabbits sway.
Neither guard noticed the hares.
With a single finger, Mycelle reached and slid aside the pike. If youll excuse 
me, Ive heard the captains grown quite hungry.
There was no resistance as she sauntered past, only a mumbled protest. That 
damn captain gets all the best rabbits, his partner finished.
Both guards guffawed and settled back to their posts.
Mycelle continued across the central keep. Though the night had grown cold, 
sweat pebbled her brow. Her limbs threatened to shake. She had to concentrate on 
walking slowly.
Climbing the stairs toward the main entrance to the castle, My-celle found the 
way thankfully unguarded. It seemed the marauding force had grown complacent, 
content with the security of the entrenched encampment and the legions of Grim 
loose in the surrounding forest.
She moved through the broken stone doors and sped deeper into the keep. She 
strode with more assurance, knowing her way from here. Decades ago, she had 
trained in these very walls, learning the way of the sword, and once done, she 
had sworn fealty to King Ry in the great feasting hall. But as she climbed the 
twining stairs and sped along the dusty passages, she barely recognized the 
place. The once neat and bright hallways were now dark and fouled. Broken 
furniture and refuse lay scattered. At the top of one stairway, she found the 
old bones of a defender tumbled in a corner, bits of leather and cloth still 
clinging to them. She turned her face away and hurried on, chased by ghosts, 
while rats and other vermin scurried from her path.
This was not the castle she remembered.
Still, though the insides had been defiled, the structure was the same. Mycelle 
followed the last of the winding staircases to the topmost level. She marched 
toward the terraces open parapet. At the door, she paused to check her weapons.
According to last nights reconnoitering, there were two guards.
Leaning against the door, she braced herself. No alarm must be raised. She 
slipped out her pair of throwing daggers and palmed them, testing their weight. 
Satisfied, she pulled the doors latch and rolled through. One of the guards 
swung around at the squeak of hinges. She flew toward them.
What are you? The first dwarfs words were sliced from his throat by the 
dagger now protruding from under his chin. Blood spouted as he coughed and 
bumped backward.
His companion was a moment too slow in recognizing his fellow guardsmans 
distress. Before he could turn, Mycelle was there, jamming her second dagger 
into the soft spot where the spine met the skull. She slammed the heel of her 
hand against the pommel, driving its point deep into the brain. His body 
spasmed, his wide mouth opening and closing, silently gasping. Then his muscles 
gave out, and he slumped to the stone.
Mycelle did not witness the end of her handiwork. The first dwarf had ripped 
the dagger from his own throat and tossed it aside.
In his other hand appeared a long-hafted ax. He tried to sound the alarm, but 
all that came out was a gurgle, his voice box a bloody ruin.
Backing a step, Mycelle took in the situation. The advantage of surprise was 
gone. The soldier spun his ax skillfully, fire and hate in his eyes. She did not 
like her odds. Twin-hearted, dwarves were hard to kill, and she wore an 
unfamiliar formbut she had neither time nor magickal reserve to shift.
The dwarf attacked.
Mycelle whipped out her twin swords, caught the axs haft in her crossed blades, 
and turned it away. The axhead struck the granite floor, casting sparks at her 
heels. Mycelle danced, spinning and thrusting her sword deep into her attackers 
belly.
With a growl, the dwarf heaved around, dragging the hilt from Mycelles hand.
Mycelle backed, reduced to one weapon. She cursed her current form. It was too 
slow, too thick-fingered.
The dwarf, her sword hilt showing under his rib cage, swung on Mycelle. Blood 
frothed his thick lips. The impaled blade had not fazed the creature, no more 
than a thorn in his side. His ax spun again.
The next strike aimed for Mycelles head. With no hope of deflecting the heavy 
weapon, she didnt even try. Instead she lunged toward her attacker, bringing 
herself under his guard. The oak haft struck her shoulder, driving her to her 
knees. Using both hands, she drove her second sword up into his belly, then 
rolled away. Shoving to her feet, she twisted around.
The dwarf had dropped to one knee, now impaled with two blades, the last of 
Mycelles weapons. Using his ax as a crutch, he pushed himself up and glared at 
her. He glanced to her empty hands, and a bloody sneer formed as he 
straightened.
Now what? Mycelle thought. She found her back against the parapet wall. Her left 
arm was almost limp, numbed by the blow to her shoulder.
With a muted roar of victory, he rushed her, ax raised high.
Reacting on pure instinct, Mycelle dropped to the stone floor, legs sliding out 
from under her, her back striking the granite hard. She ignored the blade aiming 
for her face and lifted her feet. She caught the dwarf in the belly.
He let out a loud oof, blood spraying from his lipsbut still his ax fell.
She kicked out with her feet, driving his bulk a single step back. Thrown off 
balance, the ax struck the stone of the parapet just to the side of Mycelles 
head. She felt the jar of the impact in her legs.
Reaching past her knees, she grabbed the hilts of her twin swords. In a clean 
sweep, she unsheathed them from the guards belly.
He groaned and fell toward her, meaning to pin her.
Mycelle let him. In a flash of blades, she crossed her swords before her and 
kicked the guards legs out from under him, accelerating his fall atop her.
Surprised, he tumbled, his neck falling squarely between the crossed blades. The 
weight of his fall against the twin razored blades finished the work started by 
the first dagger. His neck was sliced all the way to his spine. He landed atop 
Mycelle, bleeding a hot lake across her face and upper chest.
Mycelle strained to move him, but he was too heavy. Blood filled her mouth and 
nose. She spat and choked on it, coughing, close to drowning. Then the twin 
pumps in his chest ceased their chugging beats, and the flow slowed enough for 
her to catch her breath.
Still, she was trapped. He was too massive, too wide. Giving up, she fumbled to 
a pocket and pulled free a silver coin, the princes coin: on one side, a 
leaping snow leopard, on the other, the visage of the princes father, King Ry.
She kissed the elders face, thanking him for her training, then closed her 
eyes. Xin, she silently willed. Xin, hear me.
Almost immediately, the coin grew warm in her hand.  I hear you.
She signed in relief. Earlier, it had been decided to use the coin to signal the 
ship, a silent dispatch. Xin had been awaiting her call.
The way is clear, she said. Bring the ship in.
// will be done. We come now.
Mycelle pulled the coin close to her lips. Hurry
J A M K S V>LEMENS
K.RAL STARED ACROSS THE CELL AT LoRD TyrUS. The PRINCE WAS CURLED
on a pile of straw. Ever since the mans journey through the stone, Tyrus had 
grown ashen and sullen. Krai matched his mood.
Last night, the prince had popped back through the cells wall, startling them 
all. Grabbing up the shreds of his clothes, he had hurriedly draped his naked 
form and hissed for them to remain quiet, warning that Captain Brytton was on 
his way down to check on them. Settling to the floor, Tyrus feigned to be still 
lost in a mindless nightmare, while the others sprawled about the cell, looking 
tired and hopeless.
The princes warning quickly proved true.
Moments later, the squat captain had shouted his way down the row of cells, 
stopping at their cage. He had stared between the bars, studying each for any 
subterfuge. Satisfied that his prisoners were still secured, he had grunted 
angrily and swung away.
Later, Tyrus had explained what he overheard in the royal chambersa foul plot 
unfolding in the north. He had also reported how his fathers body had been 
possessed by a demon. Since then, Tyrus had remained distant.
Hearing the news, Krai also withdrew. So the Dark Lord seeded some plot in the 
northat the Citadel. He cringed at the thought. Whether he was a servant or 
not, Krai could not stomach his ancestral home being tainted and possibly 
corrupted by black magicks. Conflicting loyalties twisted inside his chest: one 
forged in darkfire, the other formed of stone. As the day wore on, the answer 
slowly dawned in Krai. He had already defied the Dark Lord by coming here, 
abandoning the hunt for the witch. Having started down this path, he would see 
it to the end. The Citadel would be his peoples again, even if it meant 
thwarting his masters plan here.
Mogweed spoke up from across the cell, drawing Krai back to the present, where 
he sensed that night had again fallen. Mogweed nudged Tyrus. I still dont see 
why you cant just walk through the walls and get the keys. Free us. Why are we 
rotting here in these dungeons?
Tyrus, his eyes shadowed with circles, shook his head. And what then? There are 
over a legion of dwarves camped at the castles gates. Wed be recaptured, and 
my secret would be revealed. As long as I feign unconsciousness, itll buy us 
time. Ill hunt again this night when the guard here is lighter and see if I can 
learn more, something to free us.
Mogweed slumped back against the wall. I hate this waiting.
Youd hate more being in a dwarfs stew pot, Neelahn snapped irritably. It 
was the first time the nyphai had spoken all day. She looked sickly. Her skin 
was blotched, her lips dried and shrunken. Her hair hung lifeless to her 
shoulders.
Tyrus pushed to one elbow. Enough squabbling. Ill go search again. If the 
dungeon guard is light enough, I can try taking them out, giving you all a 
chance to escape, but Im staying here.
Krai grumbled. If you stay, so do I.
And I, Neelahn whispered hoarsely.
All their eyes turned to Mogweed. He sighed dramatically. Im not going by 
myself.
Krai nodded. Then its decided. Tyrus, you search for any means for us to leave 
here. Ive heard tales of secret passages that run the length of the North wall. 
What if we could make it to one of those?
Tyrus frowned. The passages are just myth. They dont exist. There is only one 
secret path, a secret means of escape in case of attack. But I dont think we 
want to tread that path.
Where does it lead? Krai asked.
To the Dire Fell, the dark wood beyond the Wall, to the forest of the wraiths. 
But there is no salvation in that wood. None may walk it safely. It would be 
better to die in battle than be a meal for the Grim. Growing up here, I never 
understood why this secret exit was even built.
I know, Neelahn said in a dry rasp.
Tyrus glanced at her in surprise. Why?
She shook her head. It no longer matters. Youre right. That path now only 
leads to a doom worse than death.
The princes eyes narrowed with suspicion. She met his gaze, unblinking.
Krai broke the silence. The night is full. Mayhap it would be best if you 
traveled the Wall again. See what you can learn. I wager our captors patience 
wears thin. Ive seen how the passing guards have eyed our cell with hunger.
Tyrus nodded and scooted up. Youre right, mountain man. I fear how long the 
demoness wearing my fathers flesh will wait for
me to wake. He stood and shrugged out of his torn clothes, showing no shame at 
his nakedness. He moved to the wall and placed his palms on the stone, calling 
up the magick.
Krai sensed the shift in energies. Soon Tyrus was sinking into the wall, 
vanishing away. The beast inside Krai sniffed for a sign of the prince but came 
up empty. Not even a heartbeat.
Granite had absorbed granite.
Meric left the Stormwing under the charge of his second cousin. The ship floated 
a hundred spans above the highest terrace of Castle Mryl, hidden in the icy 
mists that cloaked the upper Northwall. Meric craned his neck as he moved across 
the stone floor. His ship was indiscernible, the only sign of it the long 
trailing rope linking the hidden vessel to its mooring point on the parapet.
He crossed to the others gathered in the shadows. Mycelle looked truly ghastly. 
Still formed in the shape of a dwarf, her toadish body dripped with blood and 
gore. So shocked was he by her appearance, Merics left boot slid from under 
him. He cartwheeled his arms for balance and righted himself, scowling at the 
slick pool of blood that had betrayed his footing. The entire narrow open 
terrace was treacherous with blood and the bodies of the dead.
Meric straightened the lay of his dark cloak and repositioned the pack on his 
back, careful of its delicate contents. Are we ready? he asked as he joined 
the others.
Standing beside Mycelle were two of the elvin sailors, the most skilled with 
bow and dagger. Around them prowled the wolf Fardale, who had been lowered in a 
basket. His keen nose would come in handy in the search. Left aboard the 
Stormwing were the remaining crew, including Xin and the boy Tok. Xins ability 
to far-speak would allow the rescue team to keep in contact with the ship above.
Were ready. Make haste, Mycelle said, wrapping a clean cloak over her bloody 
clothes. I know the way to the dungeons, but I had best go first to make sure 
the halls are free of any prying eyes.
Meric nodded. Then lets go. Silent and swift.
Mycelle led the way, followed closely by Fardale. Meric and his two crewmates, 
the elvin twins Pyllac and Syllac, kept up the rear
Witch It at e guard. No one said a word as they worked their way down the 
flights of stairs and hallways. Mycelle would hurry ahead, then signal them with 
hand gestures to proceed or hold.
By this late in the evening, the upper tiers were deserted, and they made quick 
progress. But once they neared the lowermost levels, servants and sleepy-eyed 
guards wandered across their paths, and care had to be taken.
Fardale slunk ahead of Meric, sticking to shadows. Mycelle slipped around a 
corner, then waved a halt. She continued forward alone. Meric and Fardale crept 
to the corner and peeked past it. The hall ahead was quite wide. Halfway down 
the passage, a dozen dwarves lounged around a game of bones-and-cups. There was 
no way around them.
Mycelle approached, sauntering casually. Words were exchanged, but they were in 
the dwarvish tongue. Mycelle seemed to be arguing with them, clearly trying to 
get the group to shove off, but she was not succeeding. Finally she leaned 
against the wall, one hand signaling behind her back.
Be ready to fight. Wait for my signal.
Meric shrugged out of his bulky pack and set it down with care. Next he slipped 
free his blade. Ready, he fed magick into his limbs. An elvin could move with 
blinding speed for short bursts. Meric remembered his sword battle with Krai in 
the underground warrens of the rockgoblins. It seemed a lifetime ago.
Behind him, his elvin companions set quarrels into their crossbows, while 
Fardale crouched, teeth bared.
Down the hall, Mycelle shoved off the wall, two swords appearing in her fists as 
if from thin air. She drove them through the throats of the nearest two and 
twisted. Blood sprayed the wall.
The dwarf band sat stunned a moment, then reacted with a roar.
Mycelle abandoned her swords and rolled away. Daggers appeared in her fingers, 
flashing in the torchlight. She tossed one into the eye of a dwarf holding a 
handful of coins. Bits of copper and silver showered into the air as he fell 
backward, dead before his head hit the stone. She threw her second dagger just 
as surely. Another dropped, a hide cup rolling from his dead fingers.
Meric was impressed. Four dead in the span of a moment. Clearly she was growing 
accustomed to fighting in her bulky form.
But now the advantage of surprise was over; the other eight
(AMES LLEMENS
dwarves drew weapons and sprang to their feet. Mycelle danced away down the 
hall, drawing their attention to her. Empty-handed, she signaled Meric.
With the dwarves backs turned, Meric led the charge, sword raised. He flashed 
down the hall, a ghost in silver. Two dropped quickly to the poisoned bolts of 
the twins crossbows, and a third died upon the lightning-quick blade of 
Merictwo jabs, piercing both hearts, and a slice across the throat. Meric 
kicked the body over, toppling it across the spread of tossed bones.
Now the hall was littered with bodies, and the true melee began five against 
five.
Fardale knocked over a thick-limbed dwarf and ripped teeth into his throat. 
Meric looked away.
The two twins nocked up two more quarrels, but the fighting was fierce. Working 
as a team, they swung on a dwarf that sprinted down the hall, attempting to 
flee and raise the alarm. Two feathered barbs sprouted in his back. He continued 
to run until his pumping hearts fed the poison throughout his body and he 
stumbled to his knees, skidding, then fell face first.
Meric ducked an ax swing. The blade whistled over the crown of his head. He 
bounced back up, sword tip leading. The blade pierced the dwarfs groin and 
drove upward. Moving faster than the average eye could follow, Meric dragged his 
hilt up, splitting the dwarfs belly from stem to stern. A slather of 
intestines and organs spilled across the stone floor.
Meric leaped away. The dwarf, still alive, stumbled after the elvin, ax 
raised. But his own bowels betrayed him. He slipped on the blood and the loops 
of gut, and crashed to the floor. He writhed, but could not rise.
Swinging around, Meric saw Fardale rip into the hamstring of another dwarf, 
bringing the squat creature toppling down. The elvin twins were already there, 
abandoning their crossbows in such close fighting and attacking the downed 
dwarf with their long daggers.
Meric spun again. Down the hall, he saw the last and largest dwarf closing in 
on the weaponless Mycelle. She backed against the far wall, hands raised, ready 
to fight bare fist against iron ax.
Meric touched his magick but felt the leaden pull of his limbs. He had no 
reserve of lightning speed.
Mycelle! he called to her.
V. M VT A
Mycelle crouched, looking for some weakness in the others de-fense. Her eyes 
flicked over her opponent. He handled his ax expertly, balanced evenly. From the 
top of his ax, a sharp spike of iron protruded long enough to impale a small 
adversary. A wicked weapon.
She clenched a fist. If she could hold him off long enough, perhaps the others 
could come to her aid.
As she studied him, a swordbreaker appeared in his other hand. The long dagger 
was deeply notched, meant to trap and break an opponents blade. But this night, 
there was no sword to break; its sharp point and single-edged blade would do 
enough damage. The dwarf rolled the small weapon in his large grip, moving it 
as comfortably as a baker would a spoon.
Unlike the guard on the terrace, this dwarf was not about to underestimate her. 
He moved in for a swift but cautious kill.
Mycelle heard Meric call from down the hall, but she knew no aid could come from 
that quarter fast enough.
Prepare to die, traitor, he grumbled at her as if he were chewing rocks.
Mycelles eyes narrowed, readying herself. But she knew the battle was lost. Not 
only was she weaponless, she was exhausted and shaky from the long night of 
fighting.
The dwarf lunged, swiping in with both ax and dagger. She moved a step forward, 
twisting sideways, attempting to duck under his guard, but her attacker was not 
so easily fooled. The point of the dagger skimmed her side, forcing her back 
into the path of the descending ax blade. Encircled by blades, Mycelle knew her 
doom.
Ducking away, she prepared to take the ax blow to the shoulder, praying for a 
glancing blowbut the strike never happened.
Iron rang on stone.
Mycelle glanced up and saw an arm sprouted out of the wallan arm of granite! 
Stone fingers were latched to the haft of the ax, stopping its descent.
A voice whispered in her earfrom the wall. Move aside, Mycelle, unless you 
wish your death.
She recognized the taunting, sarcastic voice. Tyrus?
) A M E S LUMENS
Move, shape-shifter!
Though she did not understand this miracle, she ducked and rolled from beneath 
the imprisoned ax.
Her dwarf attacker, too stunned to respond, let her escape.
A few steps away, she twisted back around. The dwarf tugged on his weapon, 
trying to free its from Tyrus stone grip. He failed. Instead, as he pulled, 
Tyrus was drawn forth from the wall, stepping forth as a figure of granite.
The dwarf jabbed around Tyrus torso with his dagger, meaning to puncture a 
kidney, but the blade shattered against the stone. Tyrus smiled and dragged his 
other arm from the wall. In its grip was a long sword, a sliver of granite 
formed from the substance of the wall itself.
His smile hardened to a sneer. He swung the blade and impaled the dwarf. This 
is for Castle Mryl! He yanked out his weapon and plunged it in again. And this 
is for my people!
Free of the wall, the magick faded from his skin, and granite flesh became pale 
skin again. Naked, Tyrus pulled his blade from the bloody dwarf. The ax fell 
from the creatures thick fingers. Tyrus took his granite sword in both hands 
and swung from the hip, twisting his body with all the muscle of his taut form. 
The blade ran clean through the dwarfs neck, slicing through both flesh and 
bone. The large pumpkin head went flying, striking a wall and bouncing off.
Tyrus straightened, sword still held in both hands. And that was for my 
father, he said to the decapitated figure as it fell backward.
Mycelle approached the prince with caution. His body shook with pain and fury. 
Tyrus . .
He glanced up at her, the rage dying in his eyes. What are you doing here?
She kept her eyes diverted from his nakedness. He was the son of the man to whom 
she had sworn fealty. We came to rescue you.
Who?
Mycelle nodded at the approach of the others. I think you remember Meric from 
the docks of Port Rawl.
One of the allies of the witch. The burned one.
Ive mended from my injuries, Meric said, sheathing his sword and introducing 
his elvin compatriots.
Tyrus patted the wolf on the shoulder as he came nosing forward.
WIT CH U ATE
Good to see you again, too, Fardale. He then turned to those gathered around 
him and bowed slightly. Welcome to my home. Welcome to Castle Mryl.
Mycelle was surprised at the amount of dignity the man could assume even when 
naked as a newborn. Meric met his bow and explained briefly about the Stormwing 
while Mycelle marched back to the dead and sifted through the bodies for her 
weapons. Once returned, she asked, What of the others? Mogweed, Krai, 
Neelahn.
Tyrus shook free a cloak from the dead and wrapped it about himself. In the 
dungeons. Ill take you to them. With the ship above, we now have a means of 
escape. He began to lead the way.
Mycelle glanced to the blank wall from which he had stepped.
Tyrus noticed her attention. An extra gift of the Wall to the royal family.
She nodded, though she scarcely understood. Explanations would have to wait 
another day.
As a group, they continued down the halls. With Tyrus ability to meld into the 
wall and sneak upon the unwary, it was not long until the group moved past the 
guardroom and into the dungeons.
Mycelle unlocked the cell.
Krai was the first out. His eyes were wide upon the newcomers. Meric?
The elvin lord nodded in greeting. Its been a long time, mountain man.
Mogweed followed next, supporting Neelahn under an arm. Fardale nosed his twin 
brother, whining a greeting. Mogweed briefly acknowledged his brother, but 
groaned under the thin weight of the nyphai. She weakens, he said. We must 
return her to the forest. Leave this sick place to the dwarves.
No, Mycelle said. Not until we discover the whereabouts of the Griffin 
Weirgate.
Tyrus frowned. Weirgate? I know nothing of such a thing, but I do know the 
griffin beast has returned to some roost in the north.
At the Citadel, Krai added. We must go there!
Mycelle nodded. We will. We must. Come. Ill explain on the way up to the 
Stormwing. The Griffin Gate must be destroyed.
Wait, Meric said, his eyes wide upon the resurrected nyphai. He fumbled with 
his bulky, oversized pack and fished inside. He removed a velvet-wrapped object. 
Lifting it, he peeled back the covers
t0 reveal the small musical instrument protected inside. The lutes heartwood 
shone with such luster that it seemed to glow warmly with its own inner light. 
As he offered the tiny instrument to Neelahn, the dark-grained whorls churned 
with gold. I think this is yours, Meric whispered on bended knee.
Her fingers trembling, Neelahn accepted her lost lute. It was as if a severed 
limb were returned to her. She sighed as the warm wood met her skin, the touch 
of sunlight after an endless night. She stroked the instruments skin, sensing 
the trace of spirit in the wood. She brought it to her lips and kissed it 
gently. Beloved, she whispered silently, a brush of breath upon the wood.
Her eyes brimmed with tears as she looked up at Meric. Thank you. Already 
vitality infused her limbs. She was able to stand on her owntwo halves made 
whole.
We must be off, Tyrus interrupted. The dead will soon be discovered. We must 
be gone before the castle rouses.
They quickly freed the other prisoners in the neighboring cells: two unlucky 
woodsmen who had been captured by the raiders, food for the pot. Unfortunately, 
the man with the burned stumps for legs was found dead in his cell. He had 
chewed through his own tongue, drowning and choking himself to death.
Poor man, Neelahn said sadly.
No one spoke from there, but simply moved on, backtracking through to the 
guardroom and up into the central keep. Tyrus and Mycelle led the way, Meric and 
Neelahn next. The rest trailed with Krai in the rear. The mountain man found 
their stolen gear and supplies in the guardroom. He had his ax in hand again, 
and Tyrus his familys sword.
In a long thin parade, the group trod up the many stairs and through many twists 
and turns. Tyrus knew the castle well and guided them quickly and steadily, 
ducking through rooms and out into other halls. It was a winding path through a 
granite maze.
Neelahn barely noticed at first. Her only concern was the lute in her arms, 
hugged to her chest. Its warmth seeped into her core, spreading through her 
limbs. Her sight became sharper, her senses more acute. It was as if she were 
waking after a long dream.
At the top of a winding staircase, Tyrus paused, letting the line of stragglers 
along the stairs close ranks. Its not much farther, he called down, 
encouraging them. Another four levels.
Next, Tyrus led them off the stairs and into a lofty side chamber, a desolate 
ballroom with frescoed walls.
As Neelahn stepped from the stairs and into the room, she felt a pluck on the 
magick inside hera vibration that shook her limbs. She stumbled to a stop at 
the doorway. Something something comes.
With the words just out of her mouth, a scream arose from down the stairs. 
Mycelle and Tyrus returned to Neelahns side.
What is it? Meric asked, unsheathing a long, thin blade.
The answer came soon enough. Mogweed and Fardale flew up out of the darkness of 
the lower stairwell. Dwarves! Scores of them! Mogweed skidded to a stop at 
the entrance to the ballroom. Krai is holding them off as he retreats, but 
arrows took out the two woodsmen. And one of the elvin twins took an arrow 
through the shoulder.
Tyrus barked commands. Get everyone inside! He waved at the ballroom. We can 
bar this door, slow them enough for us to reach the ship. Tyrus pulled one of 
the thick double doors closed. Mycelle moved to the others.
In moments, the elvin archers came limping up the steps. One leaned heavily on 
his twin, his shoulder a bloody wound with a feathered shaft protruding from it. 
The sounds of combatroars of rage and clash of iron on ironechoed up the 
staircase.
Close the door! Mogweed cried out, retreating from the threshold.
Mycelle held the second door cracked open. Not until Krai gets here!
Tyrus was ready with the bar. Meric looked after his kinsmen and helped the pair 
deeper into the ballroom.
Suddenly, Krai burst through the doorway, wild-eyed, chest heaving, covered head 
to foot with blood and gore.
Neelahn gasped, stumbling a few steps away. It took her a moment to recognize 
their companion. For a flickering moment, she had seen a monster instead of the 
mountain man. She blinked away the image as Mycelle slammed the door and Tyrus 
slid in the thick bar.
Quickly! the prince of the castle called out. Out the far door.
Meric took the lead with the injured.
II Wl IL N ,N
It) I
As Neelahn stepped to follow, she realized the strange welling -ensation in her 
chest had not abated. In fact, it had grown worse. Strange vibrations strummed 
through her. Wait! she yelled sharply, drawing all their eyes.
Meric turned. The elvin twins bumbled on ahead toward the distant door. What 
is ?
The far stone portals burst open behind Meric, casting shards into the room, 
throwing the elvin prince to the floor. His two kinsmen were not as lucky. The 
wounded one took a blow to the face, falling backward, nose smashed. His brother 
was struck by a flying shard to the leg, breaking the thin bones and crumpling 
him to the floor.
Meric rolled to his feet, meaning to go to their aid. Mycelle and Tyrus ran with 
weapons in hand. Krai and Fardale guarded the barred door, along with Neelahn 
and Mogweed.
No! Neelahn warned from behind the mountain mans shoulder.
Through smoke tainted with sulfurous brimstone, two figures strode into the 
room. Neelahn recognized them both: Captain Bryt-ton, the dwarf leader, and an 
old familiar face, King Ry.
But when the latter spoke, it was clear that the king was here only in body, not 
spirit. It seems the dance is about to begin, the bearded figure said in a 
high, sibilant voice, so unlike the hard shape it wore. The demon-possessed 
figure waved a hand around the ballroom. But where are the minstrels and 
songbirds? Where are the courtly dancers?
Its your father! Mycelle gasped, lowering her sword. No, Tyrus said, 
raising his weapon higher. No longer.
So the princeling has woken, I see. The figure of King Ry spread his arms. 
Come to me, my son. The voice rang with high-pitched laughter.
Tyrus spat. His spittle arced across the space, striking the possessed in the 
face.
The demoness did not bother to wipe the spittle away as it dripped into the 
snowy beard. Is that any way to greet your elder? The creature strode forward, 
now exuding an oily darkness, revealing its true form. It stepped between the 
two fallen elvin brothers. Black tendrils wafted out from the kings 
fingertips, like curling ebony serpents.
Neelahns inner magick thrummed to the energies in the room recognizing it. 
Sweet Mother no! She knew what manner of beast possessed good King Ry.
The snaking bits of darkness lashed out to either side, biting into the prone 
elvin twins. As the darkness touched them, their bodies racked with agony, 
mouths open in silent screams.
Tyrus and Mycelle rushed forward, but a second legion of dwarves flooded into 
the room, bristling with weapons, warding them away.
On the floor, the elvin twins continued to writhe. Slowly, their skin was drawn 
to bone; their bodies curled in on themselves, bones twisting, as the life force 
of the brothers was sucked into the darkness. In moments, only dried husks 
remained on the stone floor.
The face of King Ry was ripe with pleasure, eyes aglow with a dark light.
Mycelle tugged Tyrus back as the figure stepped toward them. I know this 
creature. Its one of the Grim, the wraiths of Dire Fell.
Before them all, the darkness continued to pour forth, fed with blood, seeking 
more. Soon the true guise of the possessor took shape around the body of the 
kinga shred of night, all darkness and blood lust.
Neelahn knew she had to act lest they all be destroyed. She stepped around the 
broad back of the mountain man. Let us pass! she called out to the apparition.
A disdainful face turned her way. Who seeks to order in such a sweet voice?
Neelahn stepped more fully forward and raised her lute, letting it settle 
easily into her hands. A fingernail touched a single string, and the weak note 
pierced across the room with devastating effect.
The figure of King Ry crumbled backward, its living shadow reeling as if from a 
mighty gust of wind. A shriek arose from the darkness: the familiar wail of the 
Grim.
You know who I am, dont you? Neelahn plucked a second string. You know the 
magick in the wood, the power of woodsong.
The demoness swung on the captain of the dwarves. Youve brought a nyphai 
here! How could you, you fool?
Captain Brytton shook his head. Impossible. The nyphai are all dead.
Not all of them! One yet lives! A finger was pointed at Neelahn. You fool!
Neelahn continued to step forward, fingers now moving brightly across the lute. 
Chords and notes echoed off the wall. The wraith wailed again.
I dont know who you are, Neelahn said. But you serve the wrong master. Have 
you forgotten the song of the True Glen? Her fingers danced across the strings, 
conjuring up memories of green life and purple blossoms, fairy lights and 
hummingbirds.
No! The wraith pulled free of its possessed body and retreated. King Rys 
body, now an empty shell, collapsed to the floor.
Remember! Neelahn urged, following the creature. Remember who you are!
No! The wraith screamed in a high-pitched childs voice and flew back into the 
ranks of the dwarves. Where it passed, it left behind a path of destruction. 
Dwarves fell dead on the spot. Others fled, breaking ranks and running from the 
ballroom.
I command thee to remember! Neelahn called, singing, adding her voice to the 
chorus of the lutes woodsong.
The wailing died away. A smaller, scared voice rose from the shred of living 
darkness as it paused by the door. I I cannot Then the Grim fled, leaving an 
echoing cry behind it. Clearly wary of the magick here, Captain Brytton called a 
retreat and backed out of the ballroom, regrouping his damaged troops.
Mycelle ran forward and checked the hall. Theyve gathered just around the 
bend. We must move out now before they grow bold again.
The sharp sound of steel on stone drew Neelahns attention back to the 
ballroom. Tyrus leaned over his fathers body, sword in hand. His fathers head 
lay cleaved from its neck. I will not give the demon a place to roost. At 
least, not in my father.
Mogweed and Fardale joined Mycelle by the door. Lets go.
Mogweed urged.
Krai helped move Tyrus from his fathers side. Therell be time for burials and 
prayers later.
Theres no blood, Tyrus said dully, pointing with his sword.
Neelahn stepped to the princes other side. He was long dead. An empty vessel 
for the for the
Tyrus swung on her, eyes hard as the black granite. What? You know more than 
you say!
Neelahn clasped her lute across her chest protectively.
Meric came to her aid. Leave her, Lord Tyrus. Such matters are best discussed 
well away from here.
Mycelle agreed and ordered them to follow. She ducked out the door and raced 
down the hall, opposite where the dwarf host re-gathered. In a tangled group, 
they fled.
I know the way from here! Mycelle called back. She fumbled a coin from a 
pocket and clutched it to her lips. Xin, hear me!
Neelahn heard no answer, but in a few steps, Mycelle stumbled to a stop, 
pausing at the entrance to another winding staircase. After a few hushed 
heartbeats, Mycelle lowered the coin, fingers white-knuckled around it.
She turned to them. Trouble. The Stormwing had to break its mooring and flee. 
They had been discovered. The top terrace now crawls with dwarves. Another 
trap.
Merics thin lips frowned deeply. What are we to do? We cant go up. We cant 
go back.
They all remained silent.
Finally, Neelahn answered. We go down. She pointed toward the stairs that 
wound back into the depths of the castle. She turned to Lord Tyrus. The secret 
tunnel you mentioned in the cell. Take us there.
But it only leads to the Dire Fell. Even you said that path is death.
No longer. Neelahn held up the lute. A way opens.
How?
She shook her head. Lead us.
Tyrus bit his lip in indecision, eyes narrowed with suspicion of her. Behind 
them, a roar arose from Captain Bryttons forces. They come! Mycelle said.
Tyrus scowled and hurried forward. This way then. He raced down the steps, 
taking them two at a time.
Meric followed behind Neelahn. It did not take magick to sense the tension 
flowing from the small nyphai. Her arms hugged the lute to her chest, her 
facewhen he glimpsed itwas pale. Tyrus led the way down at a furious pace as 
the booming calls of the dwarves gave chase. Neelahn stumbled to keep up.
Moving to her side, Meric gripped her elbow, supporting her.
lt M h it ?
You dont have to do this, he whispered, careful to keep their words private.
We have no other choice.
Its not too late. We could try to forge a path through the encircled 
encampment. If we could reach the forests of the Western
There is no going back. You saw what lurked in King Ry.
One of the Grim.
Neelahn glanced hard at him. Both of us know better than that.
Meric lowered his face. Can you control them? Will the lutes song enchant the 
wraiths long enough for us to pass through the Dire Fell?
I believe so. Memories hold great power. They will either flee or become 
enthralled. Either way, they should leave us safe.
But what of the one who possessed King Ry? Where was her madness? Though 
clearly bent to the Dark Lord, she was lucid, calculating.
Neelahn shook her head. The Gulgothal demon must have found a way to untwist 
the damage. But I dont know why she serves the Black Beast.
Sudden insight dawned in Meric. He recalled his own darkfire trial in the 
cellars under the ancient keep of Shadowbrook. She must have been forged, 
changed into an illguard.
Neelahn frowned at him, not understanding.
Meric explained. If the Black Heart can use his dark magicks to enslave an 
elemental, bend the pure magick and spirit to his will, then perhaps, while 
forging this spirit, the Dark Lords fiery process unwound what was twisted, 
allowing this ones sanity to return, warped though it may be.
Neelahn seemed to grow paler. If he could do it to one
He could do it to the entire host.
Neelahn began to tremble. That must not happen. Id rather them all destroyed, 
than turned against the world.
Meric pulled the nyphai under his arm. Well not let it happen.
She leaned into his arms.
Below, Tyrus came to a halt between floors. He placed his hands on the 
neighboring wall, eyes drifting closed. Then he shoved, and a section of blank 
wall swung opena secret door. He grabbed a torch from a sconce. This way! Its 
not much farther. vv 1 1 <; H UATE
The prince ducked through the threshold and closed it after them, then continued 
on.
Meric and Neelahn followed. Beyond the door was a long, narrow passage. It ran 
straight. They followed the flickering torch as Tyrus ran. It seemed like 
forever until the end was reached. The passage ended at a blank wall of 
granitea dead end.
As the others gathered, Tyrus knelt and picked up something glittering from the 
floor. He turned with it in his hand. It was a simple circlet of gold, unadorned 
except for a thumb-sized inset of polished black granite shaped like a small 
star. Tyrus fingers shook as he held it.
Mycelle identified the discarded object. The crown, she said in a hushed 
voice. The crown of Castle Mryl.
My fathers crown, Tyrus said. He stared back at the blank wall. He came this 
way.
After the fall, he must have attempted to escape. One last desperate act. 
Mycelle shook her head sadly.
Tears filled the princes eyes. He clutched the crown in one hand and moved to 
the blank wall and touched it with his free hand. And he failed. Tyrus turned 
to Neelahn. Beyond here lies the Dire Fell. You said before that you knew why 
this secret passage had been built. I want to know why. My father took this 
path, and it led to his death and worse. Why should we trust your word now?
Neelahn glanced to the floor.
Meric gripped her elbow. Tell him.
Open the door, and Ill tell you all.
Mogweed scooted nearer. Is it safe?
As long as I have the lute, no harm will come.
Tyrus hesitated, then turned to the wall and placed a hand on its surface. In 
moments, his hand grew as black as the granite and sank into its depths. Meric 
watched the prince concentrate, his arm moving as if his sunken fingers were 
manipulating something inside the rock.
A loud crack sounded. Tyrus gasped and pulled his hand from the rock. The lock 
was very old was all he said.
Using his shoulder, Tyrus pushed, and a door opened in the wall, swinging 
outward. Lifting his torch, Tyrus ducked through the portal and out into the 
night.
The others followed, stepping from stone to soft loam.
Ahead, the dark forest of the Dire Fell opened before them. Jvlonstrous trunks 
climbed high into a sky obscured by twisted and leafless branches. Massive 
roots, knobbed and protruding, created a woody maze of barked arches and 
colonnades. Beneath it all huddled an underbrush of sallow ferns and prickly 
bushes.
The forest lay silent. Not a bird twittered; not an insect whirred.
Tyrus turned to Neelahn. What secret do you know of the Dire
Fell?
I know all its secrets, Neelahn said softly. She stepped forward, staring 
into the forest, tears on her cheeks. Then she turned and faced the others and 
lifted an arm to encompass the entire wood. This is my home. This is 
Lokaihera.
No one spoke for several moments, too stunned.
Your home? Mycelle asked with stunned disbelief.
Neelahn nodded.
And what of the wraiths? Tyrus asked coldly. The Grim?
Neelahn glanced to her toes. They are the last of my people.
Tyrus stepped toward her, murder in his eyes, but Mycelle stopped him. Let her 
speak.
Ages ago, Neelahn said dully, not looking up, long before the coming of man 
to these shores, the forests of Lokaihera spread from coast to coast. In our 
arrogance, we tried to reshape the Land, bringing down mountains so more trees 
could be seeded. But one day, a great Blight was cast on the wind. Trees began 
to die, twisting on themselves, leaves falling dead. The nyphai tied to these 
trees were not left unchanged. As the woodsong of their bonded trees was warped, 
so were my sisters spirits, ripping them from the flesh and changing them into 
the mad wraithsthe Grim.
But why did this happen? Mycelle asked. Where did this Blight come from?
Neelahn glanced apologetically at Meric. In our continued arrogance, we blamed 
the elvin, thinking they had betrayed us. But now I know better. It was the 
Land itself, warring against our attempt to thwart the natural order. We had 
grown too haughty and were punished for it. The disease ate away our forests 
until there was only this small grove here at the northern edge.
And the rest of the blighted forest? Mycelle asked softly. Where did it go?
Neelahns voice choked. We burned it. By our own hand, we
WIT C H I.JATE
torched the diseased trees, hoping to burn away the sickness before it 
threatened this last section of the woods. During the great conflagration, ash 
clouds hid the sun for many moons.
Neelahn wiped at her eyes. But eventually new growth took root in the razed 
lands, and green shoots grew forth from ash. As this new forest took shape, the 
Northwall and the Southwall formed, thrusting up and encircling the Western 
Reaches, giving form to the Lands will that this burgeoning forest be protected 
and cherished. And over the centuries, the Western Reaches was born, birthed 
from our fires.
And your own glen?
Our efforts had failed. We did not escape the Blight. Trapped beyond the wall, 
our trees continued to die until only the smallest grove at its heart survived. 
By this time, man had come to inhabit the lands of Alasea. The magick of the 
Chyric mages helped sustain us. This new magick held off the Blight and kept the 
surrounding Grim at bay. But with the fall of Chi, we became defenseless again. 
The Blight returned to threaten the last of our trees. The Grim grew stronger. 
The Northwall became home to the Dro, human allies of the Land charged with 
keeping the Grim from penetrating the Western Reaches. The last of my sisters 
joined the Dro and their kings in this cause. Neelahn glanced to Tyrus. 
Hence, the secret passage through the wall: an unspoken pact between our two 
peoples.
Neelahn turned to the forest. But eventually there was just my lone tree, the 
sole survivor. The lute was carved from its heart, and using the last dregs of 
Chyric magick, my bondeds spirit was moved into the lutes wood, preserving it 
from the Blight and allowing me to search the lands of Alasea for a cure.
Mycelle moved and touched the nyphais shoulder. Im sorry, Neelahn.
Tyrus seemed little swayed by her story. His eyes remained dark. And these 
wraiths, these blighted spirits of your peopletheyll allow us just to pass?
Neelahn raised the lute. The pure woodsong will keep them at bay.
Meric stepped forward. Like it drove away the Grim that possessed your father, 
Tyrus.
The wraiths of my people cannot stand to hear the old songs, to
JAMES LLEMENS
remember the True Glen. It forces them to face memories that are too painful. 
They will not come near us. This I promise.
Tyrus face remained hard as he closed the secret door. Then let us go, he 
said, stepping away from the Wall and toward the forest. Let us seek out this 
griffin beast and return the north to its peoples.
This earned a growled assent from Krai.
Neelahn stepped to the princes side and touched his elbow. Im lorry for your 
father, Lord Tyrus. Fifteen winters ago, it was King Ry who opened this very 
door to allow me passage into the south. He knew terrible times were coming, and 
an even greater darkness than the Grim was taking root in the far north. He was 
a good man.
Tyrus grumbled something under his breath, but his shoulders were less tight, 
less angry.
Neelahn bowed her head.
Meric joined her, walking in silence as they entered the edge of the dark 
forest. I know that was hard, he consoled her. But in these times, secrets 
are as dangerous as magick. Only truth will set us free.
Thank you, Meric, she said with a tired smile.
Distantly, a single wail echoed through the forest, full of hunger and fraught 
with madness.
Mogweed edged closer with Fardale at his side. His words were full of sourness 
and spite. Welcome home, Neelahn.
Meric scowled at the bitter-tongued shape-shifter.
But Neelahn seemed not to have heard him. Instead, she raised her lute and 
began to strum a slow melody, the notes as haunted as the deep forest. She 
slipped ahead of the rest, leading the way into the darkness of the Dire Fell.
Book Three

Atop the deck of the Eagles Fury, Joach studied the surrounding lands far 
below. The sun beat mercilessly, and the heat could not be escaped. Taught by 
the elvin sailors, Joach wore a bit of folded tartan atop his head, keeping the 
sun from his face and neck. Standing middeck, he stared out past the rails.
The terrain below was a broken waste of sand and rock. Sun-blasted mesas and 
deep canyons crisscrossed the landscape under the keel of the mighty windship. 
The region, known as the Crumbling Mounds, was where the southern end of the 
mountainous Teeth waned down into dry foothills before disappearing completely 
into the endless sands of the Southern Wastes. Few lived among the scrabbled 
cliffs and flinty scarps. At night, occasional camps could be seen by their 
campfires, most likely silk caravans crossing the harsh land. The only true 
inhabitants were the thick-browed giants who roamed these lands, living in deep 
caves away from the sun, coming out only to hunt at night.
Behind him, Joach heard a delighted giggle. He turned. Under the shade of the 
sails, the assassin Kesla was playing a game with a tiny child. The pair knelt 
over a tumble of thin sticks, carefully attempting to remove each piece of wood 
without disturbing the others.
Kesla bent with her nose almost touching the pile, her fingers teasing free a 
sliver of wood. Suddenly her hand jerked, and the pile of sticks crumbled.
On the other side, the small child clapped her hands with delight, laughing 
brightly. I win! I win!
Kesla straightened up. Youre too good at this, little flower. The child 
clambered to her feet and dove at the, assassin, giving her a firm hug.
Kesla returned the affection, squeezing her tightly, and slid smoothly to her 
feet, pulling the girl up into her arms. Turning, she found Joach staring at 
her. The slim smile on her face hardened.
With a final squeeze, Kesla lowered the child to the planks and patted her on 
the backside. Sheeshon, why dont you find Hunt? Get him to fetch you a treat 
for winning.
The girl bobbed her head vigorously and ran off, all legs and a flag of black 
hair.
Wearing a frown, Joach watched her disappear down the aft hatch. Though the girl 
had been born among the Drerendi, she bore the likeness of the merai: webbed 
fingers and toes, glassy inner eyelids. Joach was still not comfortable with a 
youngster of just six winters joining them on this risky venture. But the child, 
Sheeshon, had come aboard with Hunt, the high keels son. The odd pair shared 
some strange bond, tied to magicks and old oaths. She is my charge, Hunt had 
said firmly as he boarded. I swore a blood oath to her grandfather to watch 
over her.
Kesla knelt back down and began to collect the sticks from the deck.
Joach stepped to her side. They had been en route toward the Southwall for 
almost a quarter moon, and he had spoken barely a word to her. She glanced up at 
him. Her deep violet eyes flashed in the bright light, cutting to his heart.
Swallowing hard, he turned away. He still had trouble reconciling the kitchen 
scullion named Marta with this smooth assassin. How easily his heart had been 
tricked.
Kesla cleared her throat. Why dont you come try your hand at this game? Its 
not as easy as it appears.
I have no time for games, he said coldly, but his legs refused to move.
Yes, you looked so busy there standing by the rail. Besides, its not just a 
game. Its a guild exercise tool, used to train apprentices in the subtle 
movements of fingers and hand. loach scowled. An assassins game. Then Ill 
have nothing to do with it.
 Fraid Ill win?
He turned and found her staring up at him with one eyebrow raised coyly. He 
hesitated, feeling his neck growing red, then swung to the far side of the pile 
and collapsed to his knees. Throw the sticks.
She collected the remaining bits of wood, tapped them into order in both her 
fists, then tossed them into a thick pile, like a tumbled deadfall in the deep 
wood. You have to choose carefully. Pluck a twig without moving any others.
I know how to play.
So youve been spying on us.
Joach glanced up. She cocked her head. Her amber hair, braided into a tail, hung 
over one shoulder. Its a simple enough game, he answered.
Sometimes the simplest games are the most tricky. Pick a stick.
Joach chose carefully. A stick from the top of the pile. A deft pluck should 
leave those under it undisturbed. He used his left hand, since his right was 
missing two fingers. As he reached, concentrating, his fingers trembled. He 
pulled back, clenched a fist, then reached again. This time he tweezed the small 
sliver of wood and removed it cleanly. He sat back up. Done!
Very good, Kesla whispered, and bent over the pile. She studied it with 
narrowed eyes. First from the right, then the left. From top to bottom. Finally, 
she chose a stick near the very bottoma risky move with the other sticks piled 
atop it. Her fingers darted forward, almost too fast for the eye to follow, and 
the stick appeared in her hand. Done, she said, placing her token near her 
bare knee.
Joach stared at the pile. How had she done that? He reached to another stick 
from the top and removed it without disturbing the rest.
She nodded and took another twig from the middle of the pile.
After six more exchangesJoach plucking from the top and Kesla removing slivers 
from the bottomJoachs brow was beaded with sweat. His palms were damp. She 
moved with such assurance, lightning quick. Joach knew he was outmatched and 
that Kesla had let Sheeshon win the earlier games.
His fingers reached again, trembling. He felt her eyes drilling into him. He 
could hear her breathing, smell her pleasant scent. Lavender. Distracted, he 
glanced up at her.
She nodded to the pile. Your move.
Joach bit his lower lip and leaned close to the pile, beetling his brow with 
concentration. He reached for a twig balanced on the top. An easy target. Across 
the pile, Kesla made a chirping noise deep in her throat, warning him away.
Joach scowled. He would not be tricked. His fingers steadied. He reached and 
plucked the stick without disturbing any of the others. He held it up proudly. 
Done. Now its your
Kesla pointed to the pile. It trembled and collapsed in upon itself. Joach 
stared, stunned, suspecting some trickery. How ?
Sometimes,a wall is only as strong as its roof. Joachs mouth hung open. He 
knew he had not only been outplayed, but outfoxed, too. She had skillfully 
hollowed out the support in such a way that by his lessening the weight on top, 
the underlying structure could no longer stand and had collapsed.
Loser picks up the sticks, Kesla said, standing and moving to the rail.
Joach watched her step away: her slender figure, the swell of her breast, the 
tilt of her hip as she stood, the way the wind played with stray bits of 
unbraided hair. He was suddenly glad he had to pick up the sticks. He was not 
ready to stand, not in these tight breeches. He concentrated on his work, moving 
slowly, trying to find his way back to his anger for the womanbut he found he 
could not.
With the stray bits of wood collected, he composed himself and shoved to his 
feet. Perhaps it was time they finally talkedreally talked.
As he moved to her side, standing close, she lifted an arm and pointed. The 
dragon returns.
Joach searched the skies and saw nothing at first. Then, against the backdrop of 
the blinding sun, a black shape dropped out of the glare and swept toward them. 
It was Sy-wen and Ragnark.
The pair had left at dawn to search the country ahead as the ship approached the 
western edge of the Crumbling Mounds. They had not been expected back until 
dusk.
As he watched, Joach saw the dragon lurch, tumbling down toward the broken 
landscape. He gasped, clutching the rail. Then the wings sprang wide, catching 
an updraft. The plummeting fall evened out into a long swoop, shooting upward, 
back toward the ship- Somethings wrong, Joach said. Fetch Hunt and Richald!
He glanced to his side but found Kesla already gone. Turning farther, he saw her 
ducking through a hatch, a call for help already being sounded. Joach returned 
to his study of the sky.
What could be wrong?
Sy-wen hugged tight to the mighty dragon, her feet clamped tight in the ridge 
folds at base of his neck. You can do it, Ragnark. Its not much farther.
The dragons voice whispered in her head, so unlike his usual brass voice. No 
fear, my bonded. My heart is strong as sky and sea together.
I know, my great dragon. She ran her webbed fingers along his scales. I never 
doubted it.
A throaty growl of pride sounded from his long neck. He swept his black wings 
and struck for the higher skies. To the east, the Eagles Fury hung even higher. 
It would be a difficult climb.
Sy-wen tried to straighten in her seat, but her link to Ragnark meant she felt 
his pain. The skin of her belly and legs burned with a phantom fire. She bit 
back a cry. She could only imagine how much worse it must be for Ragnark. The 
attack had flayed his entire underside, searing it, blistering it.
Bonded?
Im fine, Ragnark. She gasped between clenched teeth. You need to catch 
another updraft. Well need more height to reach our roost.
/ try. His muscles bunched under him, and he beat his wings, scrabbling upward, 
straining.
Sy-wen leaned back down over her friend. Agony spread down her arms as he fought 
for more sky. Tears ran down her face. Higher, my sweet beast She tilted her 
head and saw a miracle.
The sleek windship dove toward them, sweeping in a graceful arc to intercept. 
They had been spotted, their distress noted.
The ship comes. Hold out a little longer.
For youforever.
Behind the beasts thoughts, she sensed Kast. Ever since the trials of the War 
of the Isles, the two had not been so separated. She sensed the man behind the 
beast. She pressed a palm to the dragons scaled flank and, closing her eyes, 
sent out her love to both hearts buried deepdragon and man.
Ragnark shifted under her. Without opening her eyes, Sy-wen sensed the approach 
of the ship and felt her mount prepare to alight on its aft deck. She clung 
tight as he tucked his wings. Careful, she whispered.
She need not have worried. The landing was sure. She opened her eyes and saw 
Richald, the captain of the Eagles Fury, climb up the ladder from the middeck. 
She raised an arm in greeting as the dragon under her collapsed to the planks. 
Ragnark! Tired sleep now.
Sy-wen rolled from his back, keeping one hand on the beast to maintain the 
magick. His chest heaved, and the breath from his wide nostrils was ragged. Her 
feet slipped a bit on the deck as she edged forward. Glancing to the wet deck, 
she realized it was bloodfrom Ragnark. Oh, no She swung to the elvin 
captain. I need dragons bloodnowt
Richald nodded. The copper streak in his silver hair glowed like a streak of 
fire. It comes. He pointed back to the ladder where Hunt climbed the rungs, a 
large cask balanced on his shoulder.
Hurry! Sy-wen urged. She felt her own breath growing short, gasping, but it 
was only her shared senses with the dragon.
Richald whisked over to the Bloodriders side and relieved him of the barrel. 
The elvin captain rushed to the dragons snout.
Sy-wen maneuvered to join him, fingers trailing along the scales. Drink, my 
sweet giant, she urged.
Richald struggled with the casks lid, face growing red with the effort. Then 
Hunt was there, a short ax in hand. He cleaved into the lid and ripped the 
cracked planks with his fingers.
How is he? a voice asked behind Sy-wen. It was Joach. He and the girl Kesla 
climbed to the deck.
Sy-wen waved away his inquiry and leaned her forehead against Ragnarks neck. 
Smell the blood. Drink.
Near her elbow, the cavernous nostrils twitched. She felt muscles strain, but he 
was unable to raise his head. Bending, using her shoulder, she struggled to lift 
his head. H-help me!
On either side, the group lifted the beasts snout. Hunt shoved the barrel 
closer. A long, snaking tongue slid out and tasted its thick contents. The 
others strained under the bulk. The tongue lashed out again and scooped up a 
large draught.
Good. . &#9632; the dragon sent to her weakly.
Keep drinking.
I think hes doing better, Joach said at her side.
Muscles moved under the thick scales, and Ragnark ducked his nose into the 
cracked barrel, snuffling and drinking. In moments, the group was able to step 
back as the dragon began supporting himself. Ragnark slurped at the thick blood 
of his brethren, strength returning as he healed.
Once the cask was empty, Ragnark flipped it over the far rail with a toss of 
his nose, trumpeting his satisfaction.
Sy-wen hugged his thick neck. Now you can rest, my giant.
Have large big heart he echoed.
As big as the sea and sky together.
A gentle feeling of pride and contentment overwhelmed her, coming from the 
dragon like the purr of a kitten on a lap.
Sleep now, she said softly, and stepped back.
As her fingers left his scales, the transformation reversed. Scale and wing 
exploded outward in a spinning whirlwind of bone and claw. The sails nearby 
flapped, caught in the edge of the maelstrom. Then the storm of scale collapsed 
in on itself, winding down and around, forming at last into the large frame of 
man lying on the planks belly down, naked.
Kast? she asked tentatively. She always worried that sometime the 
transformation would fail to return the man she loved.
The tall Bloodrider groaned and rolled over onto his back. His belly and the 
tops of his legs were seared red, raw and blistered.
Sy-wen covered her mouth fearfully and dropped to her knees beside him. But as 
she reached out a hand, the healing of the dragons blood continued its magick. 
Yellowed blisters sank. Red skin grew pink, then pale. Singed hair across his 
broad chest grew back into familiar landscapes. She touched his cheek as his 
eyes fluttered open.
We made it? he asked, thick-tongued and dazed.
She nodded. Back on the Eagles Fury. Do you know what happened?
He nodded. The more times I become Ragnark, the more the dragons memories 
merge with mine. He struggled to sit up but winced in pain.
Joach flipped off his own cloak and drew it over Kasts shoulder
He and Sy-wen helped lift the big man to his feet.
He needs to rest, Joach said. Lets get him to your cabin.
No, Kast said with returning strength. He ran a hand over his chest. We must 
prepare.
I can tell them what weve seen, Sy-wen argued. You rest. Kast struggled 
from their grips. Im fine. But his next step toppled him back toward the 
planks. Joach caught him and held him up. Kast groaned. Perhaps a short rest.
As a group, they assisted Kast to his cabin belowdecks, then returned to the 
large galley to discuss the events of Sy-wens journey. Everyone gathered around 
a long wooden table; the cook prepared a platter of fruits and cheeses and a 
pitcher of thin ale. What happened? Hunt asked.
Sy-wen chewed on the edge of a dry biscuit. We flew away from the sun in a 
direct course, following a dry riverbed as a landmark. About forty leagues from 
here, we spotted a wide lake stretching north and south and went down to 
investigate. We figured it might be a good place to restore our water supplies 
for the desert journey. But as we neared it, we saw it was not water that 
reflected the sun so invitingly, but a field of flowers whose petals were 
silvered blue and reflected the suns light.
Kesla gasped. Narcissus vine. But it doesnt grow among the Mounds, only in the 
deep deserts, near the Southwall.
Youve seen this flower before?
Kesla shook her head. No. Only a few blademen, those who hunt the deep wilds of 
the Blasted Fringe, have seen the vine and lived.
What sort of plant is it? Hunt asked.
The assassin hesitated. Some say it was born from the blood of the ghouls that 
once haunted the ruins of Tular. As I said before, the vine usually grows only 
along the sandstone cliffs of the Southwall. Rootless, its able to crawl along 
the walls length, hunting its prey. All who approach too near the Southwall 
must be wary of its path. A single bloom by itself is harmless, but the vine, as 
it stretches across the sand or drapes along the sandstone cliffs of the 
Southwall, will i a i
roduce hundreds, thousands, of palm-sized blossoms. Each is able collect the 
suns heat in its shiny petals and reflect it back on an enemy- Multiply this by 
a thousand and it can produce a blaze as hot the sun itself, capable of burning 
a man down to a smoking skeleton in mere heartbeats. She gaped at Sy-wen. You 
were lucky to have survived.
We almost didnt. But Ragnarks scales are as hard as stone. He shielded me 
and took the brunt of the attack on his belly. Yet even his scales could not 
protect him from the flames.
So what are we to do? Richald asked. I cant take the Eagles Fury across 
there.
Well have to go around it, Kesla said. Itll delay us reaching Alcazar, but 
its better than burning to cinders.
Time runs short already, Joach mumbled, then turned to Kesla. How many days 
until the next tithing of children is demanded by the demons of Tular?
Kesla frowned. Haifa moon.
So any delays could lead to more deaths, Joach said. How about if we just 
crossed the field at night? After the sun has set?
It wont help. At sunset, the petals close, storing the days sunlight. The 
vine uses this stored heat to hunt prey at night. Ive seen their lights from 
far across the desertflashes along the wall as the vine attacked mice and 
lizards. Night is no haven from the narcissus.
Everyone grew quiet.
Then we go around, Richald said. Find another way to reach Alcazar.
Sy-wen sighed. Itll be a long way. Even Ragnark could not see where the 
fields ended. It is a solid barrier for endless leagues. She turned back to 
Kesla, searching for some other answer. There must be a weakness. When the 
vines attack at night, is their heat as intense?
I Im not sure. But Ive heard tales that once a bloom casts its heat, it 
wont be able to renew until the next dawn.
Sy-wen leaned back in her chair, thinking. So it can only shoot one burning 
volley; then its harmless.
Kesla nodded. Thats according to old stories. But Im not sure if its true or 
not. So little is known about the narcissus.
Hunt stood up. So either we add days to our journey, searching for a break in 
the weed, or we take our chances on a nighttime flight across the fields.
Richald frowned. I will not risk my ship.
Sy-wen stared across at the elvin lord. You may not have to.
As THE SUN SET, GrESHYM SHAMBLED OUT OF THE LAST CANYON AND
into the empty sands. He was wrapped from head to toe in flows of linen and 
rough-spun cotton. As darkness spread and stars began to shine, Greshym hardly 
noticed the change in heat or the drop in light. He had a small spell cast 
around his body, keeping him cool and his sight keen. As he walked, he clutched 
his staff of petrified wood in his left hand. The magick trapped in its 
crystalline structure throbbed dully with his own pulse. Its energy was weak.
Free of the canyons, Greshym glanced skyward, calculating his bearings. He still 
had far to go.
Rocks skittered down a slope to his right. Slowing to a stop, Greshym cocked his 
head, extending his senses. It was Rukh returning. The stump gnome hopped down a 
slope of boulders, his split hooves moving with goatlike skill. At the bottom, 
he fell to his knees before Greshym. M-master
Did you do as I asked?
Y-yes, Master. Rukhs porcine face groveled in the rough sand. He held up his 
claws, dripping with blood. Clenched in each grip was a bloody heart.
The children of the caravan leader?
Yes.
The darkmage noted the dried blood around the creatures fanged muzzle. Youve 
fed?
Rukh ground his face into the sand at the tone of reprimand. Hungry much 
hungry.
Greshym lifted his staff threateningly, then lowered it back to the sand with a 
sigh. He could not blame the gnome. The journey through the Crumbling Mounds had 
been a long one, and they still had far to go.
Glancing to the stars, he wished he could have used his magick to bring himself 
directly to his target, but he dared not. When he had transported from his cave 
in the Stone Forest, he had sensed the vor-rex of energies swirling near the 
Southwall and knew it best to keep his magick to a whisper in its shadow. He 
could not risk any eyes turning in his direction.
So he had untied his magick and brought himself and his servant into the dry 
wastes of the neighboring Mounds. He had spent the past half moon hiking and 
climbing through this sun-seared terrain, using the barest touches of magick to 
bring strength to his decrepit body and to draw water up from the rocks. Then, 
two days ago, he had run into an even worse challenge than the stubborn 
landscape a field of deadly narcissus blooms blocking his way. Casting out his 
senses, he was able to divine that the infernal weed circled the entire region, 
a barrier protecting the foulness germinating at its heart. Determined not to 
turn back, he was forced to use more magick to cloak Rukh and himself so they 
could pass the weed unharmed. It had been a risk to cast such a strong spell, 
but he had no other choicenot if his gambit was to succeed.
Luckily, nothing seemed to notice his flare of magick. In fact, shortly after 
passing the weed, Greshym encountered a caravan, a mix of silk traders and 
ragged families carrying all they owned on their backs. The group had been 
attempting to flee the Wastes, but they had been turned back by the narcissus. 
Greshym had joined them, gladly accepting their hospitality and water, 
preserving his waning magick. He traveled in comfort with the group while Rukh 
tracked the caravan from a league away.
Then earlier this afternoon, with the open desert of the Wastes in sight, 
Greshym had cast the caravan into a sleep spell. He had no further use for his 
new companions. Upon leaving, he ordered Rukh to slay them and collect the 
hearts of the leaders two girl children. Both were virgins, untouched, rich in 
the power that surges just before their first bleed.
Enough groveling, Rukh. Hold the hearts higher for me.
The beasts long ears twitched in relief. He rose from the sands, sitting back 
on his heels, and held out the pair of hearts at arms length.
Greshym reached out with the heel of his staff, touching one of the hearts, then 
the other. With its touch, the two lumps of flesh began to beat anew, throbbing, 
squirting blood into the sands. Rising from the twin hearts, a distant wail 
could be heard. The spirits still trapped in the hearts cried for release.
Patience, my two little ones Patience.
Greshym lowered his staff to the sand and leaned on it as he bent over the two 
hearts. He brought his lips to the throbbing bits of muscle and kissed them 
gently, inhaling as he did so. He felt their spirits and energy flow into him. 
Their magick of burgeoning womanhood drew into him, becoming part of him as tiny 
screams of horror filled his ears.
He straightened, feeling vastly renewed and invigorated. In the claws of the 
stump gnome, the two hearts were now just dried and wrinkled chunks of meat, 
like grapes gone to raisins in the sun. Greshym grinned and wiped the blood from 
his lips. That was refreshing, he whispered contentedly.
He patted the leathery skull of his servant as he thumped on past with his staff 
in hand. Suffused with fresh magick, he knew nothing could stop him from 
reaching his destination. Alcazar, the desert guild of the assassins.
In its tunneled and sculpted halls, he would lay the trap for his prey. As he 
moved into the desert, he spoke to the stars and empty sands. Ill be waiting 
for you, Joach.
Joach stood at the bowsprit of the Eagles Fury. He shivered and wrapped his 
cloak tighter around his shoulders, unable to escape an uneasy edginess. He 
glanced behind as if expecting an enemy to attack. No one was there.
In the rigging, elvin sailors climbed the masts and worked the sails. Richald 
was a figure in silver on the stern deck, hands in the air, drawing on the 
magick of the winds, ready to propel them swiftly across the deadly fields. 
Already stray gusts and wild flurries spat around the ship as energies gathered.
Kesla popped her head by the ladder. Sy-wen and Kast are ready. Did you want to 
see them off?
He nodded, unable to shake off his misgivings. Joach had been blessed with the 
gift of prophetic dreams, and though he was awake, he could not dismiss his 
growing sense of catastrophe.
He crossed to the ladder and clambered down. On the middeck, Sy-wen and Kast 
held each others hands. The Bloodrider looked fully healed and rested. He would 
need to be. Sy-wen leaned on the

mans arm. The two would risk much to bring the ship swiftly over the fields of 
burning flowers.
As Joach stepped up to them, he heard Kast grumble, The winds smell bad, like 
smoke in the air.
Joachs eyes narrowed. Was the large man feeling the same misgivings he had 
felt? Its not too late to change course, he offered. We could still circle 
around the field.
Sy-wen shook her head. No. The vines field extends to the northern and 
southern horizons. There will be no way around the vine, only through it.
Kast hugged the merai woman closer to his side. Shes right. We must attempt 
this.
Joach reached out and shook the larger mans hand. Be careful.
And swift, Kesla added at Joachs side.
Ragnark has never failed me, Sy-wen answered them, then glanced up into 
Kasts eyes. Not when fueled with two strong hearts.
The Bloodrider leaned down and kissed her fully on the mouth, passionately. Arms 
reached to pull each other tight. Sy-wen was lifted off her feet.
Joach glanced away, giving them a moment of privacy.
Then Richald called from the stern deck. The winds come! We must be off! The 
sails overhead snapped with more vigor.
Sy-wen and Kast broke their embrace, fire still in their eyes. Are you ready? 
she asked the tall Bloodrider.
He nodded.
Together, they moved to the starboard rail. The landscape below was limned in 
silver from the moon and stars.
Safe journey, Kesla whispered.
Kast nodded and shrugged out of his robe, standing naked. With a nod to Joach, 
he picked up Sy-wen in his arms again and toppled over the rail.
Joach leaned and watched them tumble through the air. Theyre off!
In response, the ship lurched forward as a fierce gust swelled the sails and 
sped the ship toward the fields. Kesla, off guard, slid into Joachs side. He 
caught her under an arm and held her steady. Together the two searched below the 
keel of the windship.
Kast and Sy-wen were gone.
Sy-wen clutched Kast tight as they plummeted through the darkness toward the 
broken terrain below. They, needed as much momentum as possible for their 
mission to succeed. Her green hair whipped like sea snakes about her head.
Now, Sy-wen! Kast yelled. His lips nuzzled her ear, but the wind almost ripped 
the words away. Still, she could hear his thrill and excitement, a Bloodrider at 
heart.
She shifted her fingers from his shoulder to his neck, then up to his cheek. As 
her skin met his tattooed flesh, her fingertips warmed. Kast stiffened under 
her, arms squeezing tight; then she spoke the words. I have need of you.
With these words, the ancient magick ignited. The world vanished around her into 
a whirlwind of roaring. Clouds of magick burst forth. Scaled flesh spread apart 
her legs and slowed her fall, taking her weight. She squeezed her thighs, 
holding tight. In another heartbeat, Sy-wen was no longer falling, but riding 
the back of the great black dragon, sweeping at amazing speeds.
Ragnark trumpeted his rebirth with an echoing cry. Bonded! Despite the tension, 
Sy-wen smiled. She heard the same excitement in the dragons voice as she had in 
Kasts words a moment ago. Do not slow. We must forge a path through the 
burning blooms, Sy-wen instructed, then silently added additional directions to 
her mount.
Though he remained quiet, she sensed his confusion.
At night, the weed can only shoot at us once. We must get the flowers to 
unleash their fury upon us, opening a safe passage for the ship that follows.
Ragnark swept toward the fields, using the momentum of their plummeting fall to 
increase his speed. Danger. Rist to bonded.
I know, my brave heart. But this time we will not be caught by surprise. We 
}{now the danger. We must be swift, cunning. You must fly better than youve 
ever flown before!
The equivalent of a dragon chuckle filled her mind. Bonded has
heart as big as dragon!
Sy-wen thumped the side of his neck. Its not bravery! I just know my dragon! I 
trust his heart and wings!
Dragon laughter trailed behind them as he dove steeply toward the blooms, 
spinning in a curving arc.
Sy-wen leaned over his neck, hugging him tight. She felt the flare of wind under 
wing, sensed the dizzying spin of the landscape below. Instead of terror, she 
felt delight, sharing not only her dragons thrill but that of the man buried 
deeper, all three spirits merging in this common goal.
As the dragon roared, Sy-wen added her own voice, yelling her challenge into the 
wind.
From the bow rail, Joach watched the vines fiery attack begin. A quarter league 
away, the night was shattered by spears of brilliance blasting skyward. Some 
shot straight up, others striking at angles from the side. The lances of searing 
energy were so bright it hurt to stare at them directly. Can you see the 
dragon? he asked, grimacing.
Kesla stood at his side, a spyglass fixed to her right eye. I Im not sure. I 
spotted a flicker of movement, a spark of reflection, but it moved faster than I 
could follow.
It must be them, Joach said.
Id guess so, too. She lowered the spyglass. The vine is certainly hunting 
something.
As Joach watched, the sprout of bright spears traced farther away, deeper into 
the wide valley. Closer, the near edge of the field died back to dark, the 
blooms spent by their attack upon the dragon.
Joach half turned, lifting an arm. Now, Richald! Steer a straight course!
Both the elvin lord and Hunt stood ready at the stern. The Blood-rider raised a 
hand in acknowledgment, but Richald showed no sign of hearing his call. The 
elvin lord stood stiff, his head thrown back, cascades of crackling energy 
coursing over his body, his mind lost to the winds.
Just as Joach wondered if he had been heard, the gales grew worse around the 
ship. Overhead, the rigging and ropes groaned, strained by the sails stretching 
even farther. The ship sped faster, its bow rising for a moment, then settling 
into an even flight.
Turning, Joach gripped the bow rail. Below, the ships keel crested over the 
deadly fields. He waited, holding his breath. Were they right? Had the blooms 
emptied their energies pursuing the dragon? Was it safe to cross?
He glanced up. The fiery display drifted even farther away. The dragon still 
fled, a lightning rod for the fields energy, hopefully leaving a swath through 
which they could fly. Joach stared back down, leaning far over the rail.
The fields beneath the ship remained dark. He let out a long sigh, allowing hope 
to grow. Oh, no Kesla said at his side. He straightened back up.
Look, Kesla said. She pointed to either side of the ship. In the distance, a 
weak glow flowed toward their positionfrom both the north and the south. What 
is it?
Kesla passed him the spyglass. Joach pointed it toward the strange sight. 
Magnified, the continuous glow broke into a thousand gleaming snakes winding 
under the leaves and flowers, converging toward them. The field is one 
continuous vine, Kesla said. Its stalks are sucking energy from blooms 
elsewhere, siphoning power to fill this void, like roots moving water up a 
trunk.
Mother above Joachs stomach tightened. Once it reaches here, the blooms 
will be able to attack again. Well be snared.
Joach dropped the spyglass and swung around. By now, they were thick in the 
fields. It was too late to swing the ship and retreat.
Turning back forward, Joach stared. Distantly, across the fields, the fiery 
display slowly died away. Sy-wen and Ragnark must have reached the far side. 
Joach estimated the distance. At least another two leagues. He glanced north and 
south. The glow sped rapidly toward their position.
He shook his head. They would not make it in time.
Joach pushed away from the rails.
Where are you going? Kesla yelled.
To warn Richald! We need more speed! Joach fought to keep his footing in the 
gale blowing from the stern. He leaned into the wind.
Let me! Kesla argued. She danced from the rail, as if the wind didnt exist, 
and sped forward, racing sure-footed across the rocking deck. Reaching the 
ladder to the middeck, she waved him back i
to the bow rail. Keep a watch! Then she vanished down the ladder.
In a heartbeat, Joach spotted her again, running across the mid-deck toward the 
raised stern. He stared dumstruck after her. The 2irl was not only quick-limbed, 
but she had the balance of a jungle cat. Relenting, Joach allowed himself to be 
blown back to his position at the bow rail.
To either side, the snakes of bright energy twisted and slithered toward them. A 
single bloom shot a spear of light off the starboard side. It angled toward 
them, splashing against the ships side. Though bright, the one flower did not 
have enough power to burnbut soon there would be more. As the glow swept under 
the ships keel, new pillars of light blasted into the skies on both sides, 
creating a forest of blazing trunks.
As Joach watched, more and more blooms ignited.
Sy-wen guided her dragon to a flat-topped pinnacle of sand-stone. Ragnark 
settled to the rocky perch, with a heaving sigh from his chest.
As he dug in his claws, Sy-wen rubbed her right arm, wincing, but the stinging 
burn would not subside. She glanced to the dragons wing. Ragnark held it 
slightly out to the side, like a gull with a wound or a broken bone. The edge 
still smoked. The reek of burned dragon scale filled the night.
Thankfully it had been only a glancing strike. They had been lucky to escape 
with so little damage. The vine had fought fiercely, stabbing at them, chasing 
them to and fro across the sky. As they had flown, the vine had even seemed to 
grow wise to their evasive tactics, anticipating their moves. Luckily, they had 
reached the fields end before the vine had grown too skilled at hunting 
dragons.
Ship comes, Ragnark said.
Sy-wen twisted in her seat. Across the field, she spotted the Eagles Fury in 
the skies. The slower ship was under attack.
Sweet Mother
Lances of light streaked across the skies. As she watched, a sail caught flame 
and flared like an oiled torch.
We must go help them, Sy-wen said.
Cannot, my bonded. Ragnark tried to extend his wing. She felt the agony shoot 
up her own arm. Too far
Sy-wen gasped with the pain. The burning strike had been worse than she had 
initially thought.
I have failed you, my bonded. The agony in his heart was worse than his wing.
She leaned down and rubbed his neck. Never, my sweet dragon. Never. She stared 
out at the beleaguered ship, a flaming cloud in the night sky, and prayed for 
them. It was all she could do.
As the Eagles Fury foundered above the blazing flowers, Joach raced to where 
the others were gathered atop the stern deck. Overhead, the burning foresail was 
cut free, and it napped away. In the rigging, a chain of elvin sailors passed 
buckets, hand to hand, to drench ropes and stanch the smoldering of the 
foremast.
Joach climbed the stern ladder. Smoke began to rise all around the ship. Its 
planked sides were etched and burned from swiping passes of the fiery lances. 
Pulling himself up, Joach called to Hunt and Richald. We need more height! We 
need to keep the keel between us and the blooms!
Richald is trying, Hunt said. But he is tied to the ship; each strike weakens 
him.
As Joach neared, he heard the elvin lord groan, his face a mask of pain. Kesla 
hovered around the tall figure. We have to find a way to help him.
Joach searched the skies for an answer, wishing his sister were here. They 
needed Elenas magick. Coldfire or witch fireeither would be welcome now. 
Anything to fight this weed!
A ripping explosion sounded behind him. The ships deck bucked, tossing him to 
the planks. Joach rolled around. Sprouting from the middle of the ship, a spear 
of light shot into the sky, thrusting right through the belly of the ship. Bits 
of burning planks flew high, spinning away. The mainsail burst into flame.
A pair of the elvin sailors, caught in the blaze, tumbled from the rigging and 
over the ships side. Another was incinerated where he stood on the deck, his 
seared bones standing for a moment, then toppling down.
As quickly as it had struck, the spear blinked off. The blooms that had 
generated the intense spike had exhausted their energy. But for how long? The 
vine was growing cunning, learning to coordinate its efforts.
Joach! Help me!
Half blind from the radiance, Joach turned and saw Kesla struggling to hold 
Richald up. The elvins face was lined with horror and agony. My ship
Hunt was already on his feet. Help the captain. The fires need to be doused 
before they spread! The Bloodrider vaulted over the rail to the middeck. He 
joined the dwindling crew of sailors in putting out these new flames.
Joach half crawled over to Richald and Kesla. Under him, the ship lurched, 
drifting down toward the deadly fields. Joach grabbed the elvin lords other 
shoulder. You must keep fighting! he urged. Dont give up!
The Fury  I cant
Joach shouldered the man to his feet with Keslas help. Yes, you can. Or are 
you all wind and no substance? Prove your worth, prince of the Blood!
Richalds eyes flicked toward Joach. A flash of anger flared past the hopeless 
pain.
You still have a ship! You still have sails! Youre supposed to be the heart of 
this vessel. Act like it, Richald! Meric wouldnt give up like this and weep 
like a child!
Anger changed to prideful fury. The man shook free of Joachs grip and shoved 
Kesla away. Richald glared at Joach, then turned his eyes to the skies. He 
lifted his arms, and elemental magick bloomed in crackling spurts along his 
raised limbs.
The gales resumed. The foundering ship pushed forward, edging upward again. 
Drawn by its movement, new flares of light attacked. Smoke and flames encircled 
the ship.
Off the port side, Joach saw several spears joining together, attempting to fuse 
into another dread spike. The ship could not take a second such coordinated 
attack. Something had to be done. He leaned over the rail as wind whipped his 
lanky red hair. He held the locks from his eyesthen snapped upright, a sudden 
idea coming to him.
Why hadnt he thought of this earlier? .He swung back to the elvin lord. 
Richald! Were pointing the wind the wrong way! Drive it into the weeds! Lash 
the flowers with your gale. Dont let them hone in on the Furyl
Richalds eyes slowly focused from the sky back to Joach.
Kesla straightened. Sweet Mother, hes right! Caught in the winds, the flowers 
wont be able to focus!
Richald slowly nodded, too strained to speak. Overhead, the remaining few sails 
began to sag as some wind was stolen from them and diverted.
Joach returned to his watch by the port rail. The river of winds split, and a 
whirling tributary swept down upon the vine. As the winds shook petals and 
rattled stalks, the beams of fiery light were blown out like candles. Nearby, 
the growing spike of coordinated energy was driven into disarray.
Its working! Kesla yelled. They cant aim! Joach leaned and searched 
forward. They were only a quarter league from the end of the fields. Around 
them, the burning lances of light wobbled and spat sporadically. With luck, they 
might make it. Hunt yelled from the middeck, his voice booming with command. 
Get back, everyone! Its no use! Shes lost!
Joach had concentrated so fully on the fields that he had forgotten about the 
more immediate risk. He turned and saw the main mast explode into a flaming 
torch, catching another sail in its blaze. Other flames raced along ropes and 
rigging. Elvin sailors leaped from their perches to the deck.
Hunt suddenly appeared, flying up the ladder to join them. He carried the girl 
Sheeshon in his arms. His face was blackened with smears of soot. The fires in 
the lower holds. Its burning from the inside out. The ship is doomed.
With his words, the winds ebbed. Behind them, Richald sagged, lowering his arms. 
We cant win.
Joach strode up to the elvin prince and struck him hard across the cheek. 
Dont ever say that!
Richalds eyes flew wide. He touched his bloodied lip as rage flared bright. No 
one strikes
Fly this ship, Richald! Joach screamed. As long as we live, theres always 
hope! Youll drive this ship until it burns out from under you.
Richald stepped toward Joach.
Enough! Kesla said, stepping between them. Use your anger to fuel the winds! 
Were almost through the fields. The open sands lie not much further.
I have only the one sail.
Then you must prove your skills, elvin, Kesla said.
Richald stared at her, then set his face to stone. He lifted his arms, and the 
winds grew sharp again. Well never reach the sands.
What does it hurt to try? she challenged.
Around them, smoke billowed as the ship limped forward. The heat from the 
growing fires became a roaring hearth. Occasional lances of light chased after 
them, but the straggling winds kept the vine cowed.
No one spoke. Everyone held their breaths, clinging to handholds.
Joach searched beyond the rail, an arm across his nose and mouth, choking. Below 
the ship, the smoke parted. Under the keel, a broken terrain of dark canyons and 
sand-swept mesas appeared. He leaned closer, blinking the smoke and tears from 
his eyes.
No vines, no flowers!
Joach spun around, yelling, Were clear of the fields!
Faces turned in his direction, a glimmer of hopethen an explosion blasted. A 
middeck hatch blew high into the air. Flames licked upward from the ships 
bowel, roaring like a netherworld demon. Under Joachs feet, the entire ship 
shook and began to list. He grabbed the rail as the ship rolled.
Behind him, he heard Kesla call out. Dont falter, Richald.
Too weak the elvin captain gasped.
The ship tilted, canting at a steep angle. Joachs legs went out from under him. 
He hugged the rail with both arms.
Hang on! Kesla screamed.
The Eagles Fury slipped into a steep dive, a flaming stone crashing from the 
skies.
It took until dawn for Sy-wen to reach the wreck of the Eagles Fury. Her 
mounts injured wing had limited their flights to short, feeble hops. Ragnark 
struggled for longer jaunts, but Sy-wen forced the dragon to proceed slowly. 
Sharing his spirit, she sensed his pain. Her right arm felt as if it had been 
thrust into fire, and when in flight, the agony almost overwhelmed her. Despite 
their injuries, they worked themselves across the scrabbled landscape of the 
Crumbling Mounds, following the path where the flaming ship had passed overhead.
As the sun crested the eastern horizon, Sy-wen and Ragnark finally reached the 
open sands and dunes of the great Southern Wastes. Sy-wen hung limp atop her 
mountweak and thirsty. A thick column of smoke marked their goal.
Without being told, Ragnark shoved off the spur of rock that he had lighted 
upon and took wing, gliding low over the tall dunes. Sy-wen leaned on his neck 
and stared at the desert below. Like a great ocean of sand, she thought dully. 
It seemed endless, welling up into smooth waves, its constancy interrupted only 
by occasional rocky shoals.
As she clung to her mount, Ragnark crested over a tall dune and swept up in a 
wide circle. Bonded the ship . ..
Sy-wen straightened. A gouged trail of destruction led forward. Dunes lay 
blasted; hunks of wood flanked the path; a broken mast stood impaled in a 
shallow slope of sand.
Ragnark rose higher on a thermal.

In a deep valley ahead, Sy-wen spotted the bulk of the ship. It lay beached up 
against a dune, its hull cracked. Small fires still glowed and smoldered from 
its broken belly. Tiny figures moved around and over the husk of the ship. 
Rescued crates and supplies stood piled off to one side.
Some still live, Sy-wen said, pointing an arm. She silently directed her mount 
to land.
Ragnark circled the smoky column and spiraled to the sand.
Eyes watched them land. As the dragon settled with a loud huff of relief, 
figures moved toward them. Sy-wen spotted Joach and the Bloodrider Hunt. She 
slid from her seat and lifted an arm.
Joach approached, his clothes torn, a large bruise on his cheek. You survived, 
he said, exhaustion heavy in his voice.
She nodded. But Ragnark is wounded. Hell need a draught of dragons blood to 
heal. I dont think he can fly any farther.
Hunt shook his head. The large man was covered from crown to foot with soot. 
Im sorry. The casks were burned or shattered. The little that survived was 
used to help those injured by the crash. Theres not a drop left.
Sy-wen groaned and turned, still resting a hand on the dragon. Well manage.
Ragnark swung his head around and snuffled at her hair. Strong heart will 
heal.
I know you will, she said, but perhaps you should sleep. We can mend the 
wounds easier as Kast.
Man not as big heart. He pouted.
She smiled tiredly. But he has smaller wings.
Ragnark nuzzled her again, sending a silent but reluctant consent. She hugged 
him and willed him her love and thanks, then stepped back. The ancient spell 
reversed, and scale and claw wound back down to bare legs and arms.
As Kast stumbled forward out of the spell, he clutched his arm to his chest. His 
forearm was seared and blistered, but he kept his face stoic. How many 
survived? he asked, ignoring his own injury.
Joach offered the naked man his cloak, torn and soot-stained. As Kast tied it 
around his waist, Joach answered his question. Besides us, not many. He 
pointed to the piled supplies. The girl Sheeshon and the assassin Kesla were 
bruised and shaken up, but theyre doing Well.
H UATE
Sy-wen spotted the young woman rocking the girl in her lap.
Joach continued. Richald survived the crash, but he shattered his leg and now 
wont speak. He keeps with the other elvin. More than his broken leg, I think 
its the loss of his ship that has truly cripplecj him.
What of his crew? Kast asked.
Three survived. Four died in the crash.
Kast surveyed the broken and smoldering wreck. What now?
We continue on foot. Kesla says Alcazar lies about seven leagues from herea 
hard trek but manageable. This day, well gather what we can, then rest. After 
the sun goes down, well load a litter and travel by night.
Sy-wen stared up at the pillar of smoke. Will it be safe until then? Eyesnot 
all of them friendly, I imagineare sure to see this and investigate.
Kesla suddenly appeared at her elbow, startling Sy-wen. The assassin moved so 
silently. Turning, Sy-wen saw that not a single footstep marred the smooth sand.
Kesla answered her question. Sy-wen is correct. Its not safe. Not only will 
eyes see the smoke, but the sands of the Wastes hide even worse beasts. Theyll 
be attracted to the blood. We should build a pyre and burn the bodies. Leave no 
trail and leave as soon as possible.
Joach shook his head. We have no water. Were all exhausted. Itll be cooler to 
walk the night.
And more deadly, Kesla argued sternly.
Sy-wen watched Kesla and Joach stare each other down. Clearly the friction 
between them was piqued by more than just their current situation.
Kast spoke up. I think we should heed Keslas guidance. She knows the Wastes 
better than any of us. These are her homelands.
I agree, Sy-wen said.
Joach stared a moment longer, then turned on a heel. Fine. Ill let the elvin 
know.
Kesla stared at his back, then sighed. I should get Sheeshon ready.
Ill help you, Hunt said, following after her. Alone, Sy-wen turned to Kast. 
She stared up at him with a weary smile, glad to have him back at her side. 
Hows your arm?
Ill live.
Youd better. She leaned into him, careful of his burns.
j-Ie put his good arm around her and pulled her tight. Weve a 1 ng journey 
ahead of us. Perhaps we should find a bit of shade and reSt while we can.
She trailed a finger down his chest. Rest?
Kast stared down into her eyes. Did you have something else in mind?
She reached up with her lips and spoke huskily. I have need of you.
A ghost of a smile shadowed his face as he leaned down to meet her mouthbut 
before their lips could touch, a scream arose from near the shipwreck.
GUILDMASTER BeLGAN KNELT WITH THE SHAMAN IN THE DARKENED
private courtyard. Though the morning sun climbed the blue sky, it had yet to 
rise above the heights of Alcazar to shine down into the tall, narrow yard. In 
shadows, the pair crouched beside the tiled mouth of a small well. Around them, 
flowering bushes dotted the small garden amid bits of sandstone statuary.
Atop the red paving stones, Shaman Parthus tossed a set of bleached bones: tiny 
vertebrae, knobbed knuckles, lizard skulls, and other bits of bird bones. The 
bones danced and clattered, then settled to a scattered pattern. The shamans 
head cocked as he studied the bits of white bone against the red stone.
Belgan brushed back his white hair and tried to peer at the bones himself, but 
they made no sense. He did not have the gift. What does it show?
Parthus held up a hand that was just withered bones itself, wrapped in sun-cured 
leather. The old shaman leaned and sniffed at the scrying bones, eyeing the 
pattern with one eye then the other, like a bird studying an intriguing beetle. 
His long nose and sharp features added to the hawkish image.
Belgan sat back on his heels, waiting impatiently. Both men were wrapped in red 
desert cloaks, their hoods tossed backbut it was their only common feature. 
Where the shaman was bald, all bones and leather, Belgan was large boned, pale 
of skin, with long, flowing white hair. Belgan had been nicknamed the Ghost of 
Alcazar, both for his skill at moving unseen and for his pale form.
Though so dissimilar in appearance, the two men shared a common purpose. For the 
past two moons, the pair had come each morning to toss the bones, to search for 
some sign of hope. In only ten days, the next tithing would be demanded. More 
children would be led to their doom.
As the master of the Assassins Guild, Belgan had accepted the charge to free 
the Wastes of the corruption that now roosted in Tu-lar. He, in turn, had put 
the fates of the desert people into the small hands of a young girl, an assassin 
trained in the arts of stealthone of his best students. Before she left, her 
blood had been dribbled on the bones, allowing them to track her progress. For 
the past two moons, the shaman had discerned vague clues to her whereabouts. 
Then, half a moon ago, the bones went silent, no sign nor clue, as if the girl 
had vanished completely from the lands.
Belgan wrung his hands together. As each morning passed with no further word, 
his hopes for success dimmed. If there were no answers by tomorrow, Belgan would 
have to send word to the tribes to gather their children, to again choose who 
would live and who would die. They had no other option. The demand for blood 
would have to be answered.
Across the tossed bones, the shamans eyes narrowed. His head jerked up. I see 
her.
Belgan froze, afraid he had heard him wrong. Parthus growled. She is near. 
Already in the sands.
Kesla? Are you sure? He nodded.
Belgan gasped with relief. The girl had made it back to the Wastes! Thank the 
Sweet Mother. I knew she was a strong one.
The shaman held up a hand of warning. Before you rejoice. The bones also warn 
of a danger surrounding her.
What danger?
The bones are not clear. Blood and smoke teeth and torn flesh.
Will she survive? Will she make it back here? Parthus frowned. He reached and 
shifted the slivered jawbone of a desert rat. Not even the bones can answer 
that. the makeshift awning, Kesla held up a rumpled blanket as a scream echoed 
over the sands. It was a childs cry of terror, coming horn the far side of the 
smoldering wreck.
Hunt, a few steps away, called out, Sheeshon!
Kesla dropped the blanket and ran toward the ship. I left the child there, 
napping.
Hunt followed. Even with his longer legs, she kept well ahead of him, moving 
swiftly across the sand. The pair raced around the broken stern of the wreck. 
Others were converging from all around.
First to round the hull, Kesla immediately saw the danger. The elvin, in 
respect for their dead, had built a small shelter on the leeward side of the 
ship. It shadowed the four dead bodies from the blistering sun.
As she watched, one of the bodies was dragged from the shelter and drawn under 
the sand. The thief could be seen by its thin white fin and muscled tail 
protruding from the sand. It thrashed, throwing sand high into the air. Thin 
elvin bones cracked, and the body disappeared along with the predator into the 
cooler depths of the sand. All that remained was a bloody stain.
Another scream arose.
There she is! Hunt said, coming around the ship and pointing.
Sheeshon stood atop a spit of sandstone, balanced precariously, a look of terror 
on her tiny face.
Hunt moved toward her as others rushed up behind them.
No, Kesla said, pulling him back by an arm, holding the others in place, too. 
Dont move.
Hunt began to protest, but a pair of fins rose ominously from the sand and 
circled the rock, sweeping up and around the bank of a dune.
Sand sharks, Kesla said. Theyre drawn by the blood of the dead.
Sheeshon had spotted them by now. She reached her arms out, pleadingly, tears 
running down her face. I need you! she called out, eyes staring straight at 
Hunt.
The tall Bloodrider suddenly stiffened beside Kesla and broke her grip. He 
plodded toward the stranded girl.
No! Kesla yelled. Stand still! Besides blood, theyre attracted by movement!
Hunt seemed deaf and continued onward.
Its the spell, Sy-wen said. Between merai and Bloodrider. Hes enthralled.
Kast whipped off his cloak, naked again, and rushed forward. He tossed the wrap 
over Hunts head, breaking contact between the girl and the tall Bloodrider. 
Hunt sagged as if a string had been cut between him and the girl. Confused, he 
tried to rip away the cloak, but Kast restrained him. Keep your tattoo covered, 
Hunt.
Nodding his understanding, Hunt slid the cloak down to his shoulders and wore it 
as a scarf over the tattoo around his neck. No one move! Kesla ordered. Other 
fins surfaced, over a dozen.
At the shelter, two more elvin bodies were dragged under the sands. Another was 
torn between two of the predators fighting for meat. Bloody gobbets were tossed, 
only to be consumed by smaller sharks darting up and snagging the bits with a 
flash of serrated white teeth.
Will they attack us? Joach asked.
Theyre mostly scavengers. They seldom attack the living. But in a feeding 
frenzy, theyve been known to attack anything that moves. Just stand still. They 
should leave once theyve fed.
Kesla sensed the tension in the others. It was difficult to stand frozen with 
the girl sobbing and crying for help. But they had no choice. To move would draw 
the attention of the bloody jaws under the sand.
As they waited, the sun climbed the sky.
With the bodies now devoured and gone, the fins sank back into the sands with 
swishes of powerful tails until there was only one remaining. Kesla watched the 
last fin through narrowed eyes. It was the tallest of the groupthe bull shark. 
It led and herded the others. Its fin circled the bloody sand, clearly scenting 
for any traces of remaining meat. It swept up the far dune bank, sinking away, 
then was gone.
She allowed the breath trapped in her chest to slowly escape. They had survived.
The child began to clamber off the stone. Hunt moved toward her. Then Kesla saw 
a ripple in the bank of sand, something drifting just under the surface. Hiding.
No! she yelled. Get back! gut she was too late. The small girl had reached 
the sand and ran toward the tall Bloodrider, arms raised to be picked up. 
Neither noticed the tall fin rise again from the sand and surge toward them.
The others screamed warnings, too.
Turning, Hunt finally recognized the approaching danger. He darted forward and 
snatched up the girl, diving to the side as the fin swept up and passed by him, 
missing his heels by a hairbreadth. Cut off from both the spit of sandstone and 
the ship, he twisted around and struggled to climb the neighboring dune. But the 
loose sand fought him. The fin of the bull shark swept toward him in pursuit.
Other fins arose, hungry, circling, cutting off any means of rescue.
Kesla jerked Joach around. The nightglass dagger! Give it to me!
Joachs brows knit suspiciously.
Its the only thing to fight sand beasts. Trust me!
Joach hesitatedthen a scream arose from Sheeshon. He yanked the dagger from its 
sheath under his cloak and thrust it at her. She grabbed the cold handle, 
wrapping fingers around the coiled basilisk.
Kesla glanced to the group, her voice as sharp as the blades edge. No one move 
until I tell you! She ran forward as even more fins rose from the depths, 
cutting and crisscrossing each other in a hunting pattern. Kesla danced up and 
through the thrashing tangle. Trained as an assassin, she knew how to run the 
sands without disturbing a single grain. None of the predators noticed her 
passage through their territory.
Past the smaller fins, Kesla raced to the far dune. Ill draw it off! she 
yelled up to Hunt. But you have to stop moving!
Hunt tried to stop, but his feet slid in the loose sand. Sheeshon clutched his 
neck. The fin aimed straight for them. Kesla recognized the rising panic in the 
tall Bloodriders eyes as death swept in, but he fought to obey her orders. He 
slid to a stop, teetering, up to his shins in the loose sand.
Kesla angled away from them, trotting up the dunes face. This time she did not 
try to hide her steps but used her skill to accentuate them: pounding the sand 
with the flats of her feet, slapping with each footstep.
As she did this, she watched over her shoulder.
The fin continued to sweep toward Hunt and Sheeshonbut it slowed, coming to a 
stop only a step from the Bloodnders legs.
Kesla slowed also, stopping and pounding one foot harder. Hear me, she pleaded 
between clenched teeth. The fin did not move. It needed more coaxing. She drew 
the nightglass dagger across her palm, the blade so sharp she hardly felt its 
bite. Blood welled up, creating a dark pool in her palm. Turning her hand, she 
squeezed her fist and dribbled blood into the dry sand.
Near Hunt, the fin sank a bit. Then, in a burst of sand, the sand shark heaved 
itself around, its tail thrashing. Hunt was knocked backward, landing on his 
backside in the sand, cradling Sheeshon. But the bull shark seemed not to 
notice, fixed on the scent of fresh blood. The fin aimed toward Kesla.
Kesla backed up the dune, still walking flat-footed, ensuring her steps echoed 
deep into the sand, dribbling blood at the same time. At the peak of the dune, 
she paused. Cmon, hunter. Prove your hunger.
In the valley below, she saw her companions staring up at her, worried 
expressions fixed on their faces. Around them, the other smaller sharks 
continued to circle, not interfering with their leader.
Kesla crouched, ready.
The fin angled toward her position, sweeping up the face of the dune. Kesla 
waited until the beast was only two steps awaythen ran directly at the fin. 
This close, the beast sensed its prey and surged up out of the sand, a maw of 
teeth and black throat. Kesla leaped, rolling through the air, and landed atop 
the fin. Raising her dagger high, she plunged its full length deep into the 
beasts back.
Impaled, the beast bucked under her. It bulged up from the sand, its tail 
whipping viciously. She rode the shark, her fingers clenched to the fins edge. 
One hand reached out and yanked the dagger free. Black blood poured over the 
sand and down the dunes face. As it thrashed, she plunged the dagger in again, 
more to anchor her perch than as a true attack.
The shark attempted to flee, diving back into the sandy deep. Kesla was almost 
dragged down with it, but at the last moment, she tugged free her weapon and 
vaulted clear, rolling down the dune.
At the bottom, she slid to her feet, blade raised against any further attack. 
The smaller sharks circled a moment more, then slipped back under the sand, 
following their wounded bull. She signaled her com-
JAMES
anions to remain where they were. She wanted the pod of sand harks well away 
from the area before anyone moved.
he wrapped her sliced palm into the edge of her cloak. She did nOt want her 
blood attracting stragglers. As she stood, she saw movement among her companions 
gathered on the valley floor.
It was Joach. His arm shot up, his mouth opening The tiny hairs on Keslas nape 
quivered. Joach was pointing to the slope behind her.
Spinning on a heel, Kesla dropped.
Watch out! Joachs scream echoed behind her.
From the bank of the dune, a huge shape leaped forth, a monstrous wall of muscle 
and teeth. The bull shark, blind with anger and blood lust, flew its full length 
out of the sand, hurtling through the air toward Kesla. Its fleshy mouth 
stretched wide, baring rows of razored teeth. Kesla could have walked upright 
between its open jaws.
Instead, while still crouched, she dove forwardlow, under the beasts maw. As 
the shark flew over her, she thrust her dagger high. The magick-fed nightglass 
cut cleanly, as if through air.
As the monsters bulk hurtled by, the dagger sliced its belly from end to end. 
But the tip of its tail clipped Keslas shoulder, throwing her hard to the sand. 
The blow knocked the dagger from her hand and sent it twirling away.
Weaponless, she rolled to her belly, tiny lights dancing before her eyes. The 
bull shark crashed to the valley floor, landing on its side. Intestines and 
blood spilled from its gutted belly. Writhing, its cavernous mouth gnashed at 
the sand. The others backed away warily. But its twitching quickly grew still. 
Blood spread in a widening lake.
Kesla pushed to her feet. We should be safe for the moment, she gasped out, 
bruised, the air knocked from her lungs. The bulls blood will drive away its 
brethren. But there are other predators. We must keep moving.
Joach collected the dagger and came to her side, offering his arm for support. 
What you did Your speed
She smiled weakly. So youve finally found a use for an assassins skills.
Hunt came up on her other side, Sheeshon still in his arms. Tears and sand 
stained the girls face. She scowled at the sharks corpse. Big bad fish, she 
scolded in childish anger, holding her nose against the rising smell.
Kesla reached up to touch the girls cheek, but her legs wobblecj with sudden 
exhaustion. She stumbled back toward the sand. Ive got you, Joach said, 
catching her. Kesla stared up into his eyes. Thanks.
He slid the nightglass dagger into her belt. I think you should keep this. 
Youve earned it.
Kesla glanced down at this clear token of trust. She turned away to hide her 
welling tears and cleared her throat. We we should head out as soon as 
possible. She straightened and stared at the dead bulk of the shark. The 
tribes have an old adage: In the sands, only the dead stop moving. 
Then lets break camp, Kast said, and stepped ahead with Sy-wen, leading the 
way back to the smoldering wreck of the Eagles Fury.
Joach kept near to Keslas side. She noticed his gaze on her as she followed the 
others. Instead of his usual smoldering anger, she sensed something 
elsesomething she hadnt felt since back at the kitchens of Aloa Glen, when 
she had posed as a scullion maid.
She glanced out of the corner of an eye. Joach shuffled beside her, biting his 
lower lip, eyes thoughtful. Turning, she kept her face hidden and allowed a 
small smile to shine.
Belgan stood at his high window and studied the spread of des-erts around 
Alcazar. A moon, near to full, climbed the skies and cast the sands, dunes, and 
rocks in silver. It was so bright that he could see far into the distance.
Where are you, Kesla? he whispered to the desert. Worry kept him far from 
sleep this night. The shamans scrying bones were mixed with omens, both glad 
and dire. Kesla had reached the desertbut she was far from safe.
After reading the bones, the shaman had left Alcazar. He would send some of his 
tribesmen out into the desert to watch for the girl. Belgan prayed they would 
find her safe, prayed she had succeeded in priming the ancient dagger in witch 
blood. So much depended on someone so young.
But he knew Kesla was more than she appeared. He was the one who had found her a 
decade ago, walking the desert sands. Shed been naked, less than five winters 
of age, with no knowledge of her lv or pastbut he had known right away that she 
was special.
, harsh sun had not marked her. Her tawny hair was long, drag-in the sand behind 
her as if its strands had never been sheared.
had walked into his night camp as if birthed by the desert itself.
p r one so lost and alone, she appeared unnaturally calm, though she ould not 
speak. He had first believed her addled, but she had arned quickly: speaking 
within the year, reading the next, quickly mastering any and every skill and 
challenge posed her.
There was something special about Kesla. It shone from her. When the task came 
to wet the nightglass dagger in witch blood, there was no other choice. Even if 
the shamans bones had pointed another way, Belgan would have chosen Kesla. To 
him, she was the deserts best hope.
A knock sounded behind him.
He turned, wondering who could be disturbing him at this late hour. Enter, he 
called out.
The door to his room opened, and an apprentice bowed into the room. Master 
Belgan. I apologize for disturbing you so late.
What is it, Seth?
There comes to the gate a wanderer, someone begging entrance to Alcazar.
Is he alone?
Yes.
Belgan frowned. To walk the desert alone was the act of a fool. The dangers were 
too plentiful for a single pair of eyes to guard against. And at this late hour, 
he did not have the patience to tolerate fools. What does this wanderer want?
Thats why I disturbed you. He wishes to speak to you. He says that he comes 
with a warning.
Belgan sighed. He had better investigate. Plucking his cloak from its peg, he 
drew its red folds around his pale form. Have you let him inside?
No, Master. He waits outside the gate.
He nodded. Good. With the dangers and diseased creatures loose in the desert, 
the gates were ordered locked at twilight and were not to be opened until dawn. 
Take me to him.
Seth held the door open for his master, then scurried ahead, leading the way 
down the stairs and through the sandstone halls.
Ages ago, the keep of Alcazar had been hollowed and sculpted from a tall 
outcropping of sandstone. Approached from the desert Alcazar appeared to be a 
plain pinnacle of stone, hut a natural vertical crack in its northern face led 
into an inner central courtyyard open to the sky above. The keep itself had been 
carved from this yards surrounding cliffs, sculpted into straight towers, 
corkscrewing spires, and gigantic sculptures of ancient kings. It was a castle 
encased in a shell of sandstone, the private keep and hold of the Assassins 
Guild.
Seth pushed through a thick ash door and held it open. Belgan stepped out of his 
tower and onto the paving stones of the central yard. From here, Belgan 
continued ahead, Seth trailing at his heels.
As he crossed the yards, the moon hung high overhead, shining down into the 
heart of Alcazar. To the right, the stables housing the desert malluks whispered 
with their mewls and chuffing. The usually stoic beasts were clearly agitated, 
frightened. Even the stable-master had been roused. Belgan saw Humph, dressed 
only in his nightclothes, hauling the door open to check on his charges.
As he stared, a stray breeze wound under Belgans cloak and shivered his skin. 
He wrapped his garment tighter to his thin shoulders, hugging his sides. Strange 
omens ride this night.
Seth caught up and passed him. This way, Master Belgan. On the far side of the 
yard, the crack in the sandstone cliff led out to the open desert, but it had 
been sealed from top to bottom with a Crosshatch of iron bars, each as thick as 
a mans wrist. Spikes of poisoned barbs festooned the far side, discouraging any 
thief from attempting to climb the construction. The only opening in its iron 
face was a portcullis that could be raised or lowered by winches and 
counterbalances.
Seth led the way to the closed gate. In the dimness beyond the portal, Belgan 
spotted a shadowed lump.
As he neared, two apprentices stood to either side, spears in hand: the nights 
sentries. Belgan nodded to the pair, then slipped a flaming brand from a sconce 
and approached the gate.
The desert wanderer glanced up from where he knelt at the door.
Belgan gasped and fell back. The face under the cloaks hood was all wrinkles 
and milky eyes. It was as if an ancient mummified corpse stood at his portal. 
But this was no dead man. Leaning on a
th of graysn wood, the stranger dragged to his feet. Hoary joints tpped and 
creaked. Belgan composed himself. How How may I help you, old man?
The figure revealed a stumped wrist and shoved down his hood.
The mans staff swiped before his wrinkled face as if waving away a biting fly- 
Now that the stranger was standing and fully exposed to view, Belgan realized 
his first impression of the wanderer had been mistaken, a trick of flickering 
torchlight. Certainly the man was old, but not as corrupted as he had first 
thought.
Belgan cast aside his initial trepidation. There was nothing to fear. The 
wanderers voice, when he spoke, was rich and deep, though coarse with age 
around the edges. I come not seeking your help,
Master Belgan, but to offer you my assistance.
How so? Who are you? Where do you come from?
I have many names, but you may call me Dismarum. I am a nomad, wandering the 
many lands of Alasea.
The staff again waved before the mans face as he shifted his tired limbs. The 
old face suddenly reminded Belgan of his grandfather.
He felt a twinge of guilt at his own lack of hospitalitybut he kept his tone 
even. Why have you come to my gates?
To warn of an enemy coming this way. Belgan lifted one eyebrow. What enemy 
might that be?
A boy cloaked in black magicks. He goes by the name Joach.
And what makes you think he might be coming here? Dismarum leaned heavily on 
his staff, clearly weak and hungry.
Hes the brother of a witch.
Belgan jerked with these last words, shocked. How did you a witch?
Ive heard rumors on the road. He comes seeking to avenge the death of his 
sister.
Belgan felt the blood drain out of his limbs. The torch trembled.
What had Kesla done?
I would tell you more, but the desert has worn me, drained me.
The visitors words seemed to worm into Belgans skull. I would beg a boon. Let 
me in.
Belgans suspicions flared, but the mans staff waved again. Belgan blinked, 
staring back at the guileless old man. How could he distrust this wanderer who 
had risked so much to bring him news? Guilt ar his rudeness surged again. He 
stepped back. Raise the gate, he in structed Seth.
Master?
Belgan noticed the worried look on the apprentices face. Well offer this 
desert wanderer a drink and a warm meal. Now open these gates.
Seth hesitated, glancing past the gates bars with disgust. Belgan remembered 
with shame his own initial revulsion of Dis-marum and scowled at Seth. Do as I 
say!
Seths eyes widened as he rushed over to the winch. Belgan touched his forehead, 
surprised at his own outburst. He never raised his voice. It must be the lack of 
sleep, the days of worry for Kesla. His eyes drifted back to the old man behind 
the gates. Dis-marum lifted the staff, rolling it in his palmand all Belgans 
concerns vanished. What was he thinking? He must treat this elder with the 
utmost compassion. Perhaps he should even offer him his own room for the night, 
compensation for his lack of hospitality so far.
Gears cranked, and iron groaned. Slowly the portcullis rose, its speared lower 
tips drawn from the sandstone. Soon the way lay open. Belgan hurried forward and 
offered Dismarum his arm. The man smiled gratefully, all warmth and friendship. 
Belgan smiled back, content that he had pleased his guest. He led Dismarum under 
the gate and into the central yard.
For just a moment, Belgan thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. 
A blur of something hulking, a glimpse of claw and cloven hoof. Then it was 
gone, leaving the scent of goats in the air.
Belgan slowed, his brow furrowing. In his chest, his heart beat faster, 
panicked. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. His feet tripped.
Then the old man was there, catching him up, brushing him with his staff. With 
its touch, Belgan sighed with relief, all fears gone.
He shook his head at his own foolishness and continued toward the sculpted 
towers and spires. His ears ignored the burst of panicked nickering rising from 
the stables as he passed with his guest.
Instead, he patted the old mans arm. Welcome, Dismarum. Welcome to Alcazar.
On the second day of trekking through the desert, Joach marched beside the 
litter bearing the broken-limbed Richald. They were the last in the line of 
marchers. Kesla led. Hunt walked beside her, bearing Sheeshon in his arms. Ahead 
of Joach, Kast and Sy-wen strode side by side, wrapped head to toe in drapes of 
cloak and cloth. The only skin exposed to the sun were their two hands, fingers 
interlocked as they crossed the sands.
Joach glanced skyward, squinting. He shaded his eyes. The sun touched the 
western horizon. Soon they would need to seek another campsite for the nightand 
it could not come quick enough. The entire party was hot, sunburned, and 
thirsty.
Last night, Kesla had led them to a site amid a tumble of rocks. Off the sands, 
the risk of attack from the deserts nighttime prowlers was less. As they had 
set up camp, she had also directed them to prop up sections of the singed sails. 
To collect the nights dew, she had explained.
It proved a wise move. By morning, the cups and pans positioned under the lower 
edge of the canopies were filled with fresh water. It was not enough to wash the 
sand and dried sweat from their bodies, but it did allow them each to drink a 
small amount and to fill leather flasks for the days journey.
But now, as the sun lowered to the west, Joachs small water supply had long 
been used up. His lips were cracked, and his tongue felt like a sticky piece of 
hide. Kesla had shown him how to keep a pebble in his cheek to help stave off 
thirst and moisten his mouth, but he had spat it out long ago. As he walked, 
every joint and crevice in his body was chafed raw by the sand. Joachs eyes 
ached from the blinding reflection of the sun off the surrounding dunes. It 
seemed as if they had been marching for moons instead of days. Even Joachs 
dreams had been of sand and of endless, empty skies.
And he was not alone in his suffering. Each member of the party slogged through 
the desert, head hanging, beaten down by the sun. The litter bearers bore the 
worst, carrying Richald slung between thin poles. The elvin prince used traces 
of his magick to lighten his body and make his burden less for them, but the 
desert sun sapped everyones energy. At times, Richald would allow his bearers 
to rest and would limp with a crutch across the sands, his stoic face lined with 
pain. But he could not do this for long and would have to return to the litter.
Joach? A hoarse whisper rose from the litters rumple of cloths and sails.
Turning, Joach shifted the scarf of cloth from his face to stare at Richald. It 
was the first word the elvin prince had spoken since the crash of the Eagles 
Fury. What is it, Richald? Richald shifted to one elbow. Im sorry.
For what?
I failed you all.
Joach crinkled his brow. How so?
I should not have lost the Fury. It brings shame to my family. Joach sighed. 
He recognized the pain in the others eyes. Living among the clouds, Richald had 
seldom been so seriously challenged as he had been two nights ago. The 
experience had taken the winds out of his haughty sails.
Reaching up, Joach touched the others wrist. Richald tried to pull away, but 
Joach tightened his fingers, gripping the mans arm. Im sorry you lost your 
ship, Richald. Truly I am. But you sailed us through the narcissus fields and 
made it possible to continue our journey here. You have not shamed your name or 
family.
But the Fury 
It was just wood and sail. As long as you live, another ship can be built. You 
are the true Fury.
Richalds wounded face softened a few degrees. He stared at Joach for a moment, 
then pulled his arm free. Thank you, he whispered, then rolled away.
prom ahead, Kesla lifted an arm. Well camp just over the next rise.
Toach groaned with relief, glad this long day was over. According
Kesla, they should reach Alcazar by midday tomorrow.
As Joach trudged forward, he found renewed strength. The entire up increased its 
pace with the end of the days trek in sight. The last slope was a monstrous 
dune, sweeping up to the height of a steep foothill- The team climbed the ridge 
of sand, passing back and forth in ascending switchbacks.
At long last, as the sun sank into the western horizons and shadows stretched 
into a twilight gloom, they reached the summit. Joach, last in line behind the 
litter, saw the party stop with gasps of surprise on their lips. He trudged the 
final distance and stared into the next valley.
Sweet Mother!
Below was a wonderland. A small grove of tall, thin trees crowned with canopied 
leaves lay in the valley. The twilight gloom was even thicker in the deep 
trough, but there was no mistaking the glint of watera wide pond! Beside the 
water, tiny lanterns glowed, illuminating a scatter of tents. The tinkling 
whisper of some stringed instrument floated up to them.
The oasis of Ooshal, Kesla said with delight. She swept back her hood. The 
last rays of sunlight lit her cascade of tawny curls into strands of gold.
Why didnt you tell us you were heading here? Kast asked, mildly irritated. 
The same question was on Joachs mind, too.
I could not. It is taboo to speak of an oasis until you are at it. The desert 
tribes believe that to waste the moisture of ones breath to name or speak of an 
oasis will offend the gods of this land. As punishment, they might drain the 
waters back into the sand or hide it from your path. Kesla searched their faces 
with a trace of a smile. And you wouldnt want that to have happened, would 
you?
Hunt answered. Not for all the gold in the sea. He began to hurry down the 
slope.
Four masked men suddenly rose from the sand, stepping out of hiding behind small 
boulders and slipping from under camouflaged flaps of cloth. In their hands were 
long, sickle-shaped blades.
Kesla stepped forward, empty palms raised. Naato oshi ryt, she said calmly to 
the guards.
The lead swordsmans eyes grew large when he spotted her. swept back his own 
desert hood and mask. Kesla?
She grinned and bowed. It is good to see you again, Innsu.
The man sheathed his sword and ran up the slope. Joach noticed how tall and 
broad-shouldered the young man was. His skin was darkly complexioned, and he had 
deep, penetrating black eyes and a small, neatly trimmed beard and mustache. The 
dome of his head was shaved bald, as were all the other guards.
Reaching Kesla, he picked her up in his arms and swung her around. Weve been 
watching for you.
Watching for me? Kesla asked, breathless from the greeting as he set her back 
on her feet.
Shaman Parthus is down at the camp. Innsu nodded to the collection of low 
tents. His bones warned of danger along your path through the desert. We came 
searching for you. I knew youd come here to Ooshal.
Her grin broadened. You always know me so well.
And why wouldnt I? How many times have we been out here training? I couldnt 
keep you away from the water. As Innsu turned, Joach spotted a small daggered 
tattoo behind the mans left ear marking him as another assassin.
Hows Master Belgan? she asked.
The tall young man rolled his eyes. Worried, as usual.
This raised a bit of laughter from Kesla.
Joach frowned, irritated by the mans familiarity with the tawny-haired girl.
As if sensing his emotions, Kesla glanced back to him. Weve had a long days 
trek, Innsu. Perhaps wed better get these folks cleaned, fed, and settled. Then 
we can catch up.
He sobered. Of course. Straightening, he addressed the rest of them formally. 
Be welcome to Ooshal. Come share our waters. It was clearly a common 
greeting, spoken rotely without true emotion.
Innsu turned and spoke in the desert tongue to his companions. One darted away 
and ran down the slope toward the valley, evidently to spread the word of their 
arrival.
Kesla waved them all down toward the trees and waters. Come. Weve all traveled 
through hardship, and I imagine the road will grow even harder from here. But 
this night, let us honor the gods of
Wastes and enjoy the hospitality of Ooshal without worry or 1  She led them 
with Innsu at her side.
She le
Toach glanced behind him. The other two guards vanished into the sand, returning 
to guard the valley.
Turning back around, he found Keslas eyes upon him again. Her olet eyes matched 
the deep twilight waters below. Joachs breath ausht in his throat. She slowed 
her pace to come abreast of him and touch his elbow, leaning close. Well be 
safe tonight. Therell be nothing to fear.
He nodded, noticing the hard, studied look Innsu gave him from behind Keslas 
shoulder. A desert eagle studying a scurrying mouse.
Joach met his gaze, unblinking. An unspoken challenge passed between them.
With a slight narrowing of his eyes, Innsu turned away.
Kesla, seemingly oblivious to the exchange, continued to speak. Ooshal is a 
desert name. It means jewel of the sand. 
A jewel indeed, Sy-wen said, holding Kasts hand. Its beautiful.
The small ponds color deepened to a midnight blue as they worked down the slope 
and into the shadows. It stood in sharp contrast to the red sand and green 
trees. After the unending landscape of wind-sculpted dunes and jutting rock, the 
oasis seemed a paradise of splendor and color.
As they neared the outskirts of the oasis, the noises of the camp grew in 
volume. Voices called across the valley in ululating echoes, sounding the 
arrival of the newcomers and the return of Kesla from her journey. The single 
stringed instrument was joined by the strike and beat of scintillating cymbals, 
a much merrier tune than the previous melancholy one.
Stepping under the fronds of the tall, narrow trees, Joach stared up. Pendulous 
gourds of a purplish hue hung from the high canopy. Kesla caught his gaze. 
Grenesh fruit. Its flesh is very succulent and sweet. The tribesmen make a 
potent ale from its mashed and strained seeds, while shamans chew the seed whole 
to walk the dream desert.
Joachs ears pricked up. To walk the dream desert? What do you mean:
Its a shamans ritual. In truth, I never fully understood it. Joach was 
disappointed. Since his loss of Flint and Meric, hed had no one to instruct him 
in his own talent of drearnweaving. After his near-disastrous misinterpretation 
of one of his dreams, Joach had grown to consider his talent more a threat than 
a gift. Over the past moon, he had sensed the occasional twinge of magick 
attempting to infuse his dreams, but Joach had shunned it like an unwanted guest 
A voice spoke out the shadows ahead. You ask of the dream desert. Maybe I can 
explain it better after youve rested. A thin figure stepped across their path. 
He was gaunt, all worn bone and gristle, with skin burned to a deep bronze. Only 
his eyes seemed fresh and bright, almost aglow in the twilight murk.
Shaman Parthus! Kesla exclaimed, rushing forward to hug the old man. She 
quickly made introductions.
Come, the shaman finished. Weve healers to help the injured, and food and 
drinkbut first I imagine youd all like to wash the sand from your feet.
And hair, and mouth, and ears, and arse, Kast said.
This earned a small smile. Fear not, Ooshal will cleanse your body and spirit. 
Innsu will lead the men to their bathing pool; Kesla will take the girl child 
and woman. In the meantime, Ill guide the injured to the healers tent. 
Parthus waved a hand, and a group of tribesmen led Richald and his litter 
bearers down a side path.
Kesla scooped up Sheeshon, whose eyes were wide at the new surroundings. This 
way.
Sy-wen kissed Kast on the cheek and followed the lithe assassin. The remaining 
men were led down another path toward the waters.
Joach noticed the shamans eyes following him as he left. Caught staring, the 
shaman nodded knowingly. The shamans lips moved in words meant only for Joach, 
and though the man was a distance away, Joach heard him as clearly as if he had 
whispered in his ear. Well speak after the moon sets, the old man said.
Still pondering the shamans strange words, Joach found himself at the edge of 
the pool. As the sun finished setting, stars began to appear in the sky, 
mirrored in the waters here. As Joach stared, he was surprised by the size of 
the pool. From this shore, the far bank was almost indiscernible, more a small 
lake than a pond.
Kast tugged off one boot and reached a foot into the water. Its nice and 
cool.
Tnnsu explained, arms crossed over his chest. Ooshal is fed from derground 
springs deep beneath the desert.
Kast nodded and pulled his other boot off, then quickly shed his rrnents. Joach 
and Hunt did not hesitate, stripping off their sandy
J sweat-stained cloaks and undergarments. Kast ran and dove nto the waters, Hunt 
and Joach at his heels. Their whoops of delight mUst have been heard far across 
desert.
Innsu just stood on the bank, arms still crossed, face stoic as stone.
After rubbing the sand and grime from their bodies, the trio floated and swam. 
None of them wanted to leave the balm of the cool lake. But eventually Innsu 
waved them back to the shore. Climbing from the waters, they found clean, loose 
robes to don.
Your clothes will be washed tonight, Innsu said. Now we must hurry. A small 
feast is being prepared.
Joach quickly learned that small was a subjective term. In a clearing at the 
center of the low tents, a large woven blanket had been spread. Bright sitting 
pillows interwoven with thin strands of silver dotted the edges, but it was the 
platters and bowls of fruits and roasted meats and the flagons of ale that drew 
Joachs eyes. His mouth watered at the sight. And the rich scent of spices and 
sizzling roasts almost made him swoon on his feet.
Sy-wen, Sheeshon, and Kesla were already seated, waiting with clear impatience. 
Its high time you men showed up, Sy-wen said, wearing a scolding smile. It 
seems these desert tribesmen have the odd custom of allowing their men to eat 
first.
Kast crossed and settled to a pillow next to his mate. Sounds like a fitting 
rule to me.
His statement earned him an elbow jabbed in his side. He laughed as Joach and 
Hunt took pillows on the far side of the spread of food.
Innsu bowed. I must return to my watch. I bid thee a good meal. Kesla smiled 
up at her fellow assassin. Thank you, Innsu. Before he left, he glanced to 
Joach, his face again stone, unreadable. Then he swung away. The other tribesmen 
also gave them privacy to enjoy their meal, retreating to their tents, though 
somewhere a pair of musicians continued to ply the night with soft chords and 
the tinkle of bells.
Now settled, Kesla showed them how to partake of the meal. There were no plates, 
knives, forks, or spoons. All that rested before each pillow was a short spear, 
about as long as Joachs forearm. Kesla demonstrated how to use the tool to jab 
a morsel and bring it to ones lips.
She did not eat what she speared but nodded to Joach. Men must eat first.
Joach smiled and speared a chunk of sizzling meat. Roasted owl, Kesla 
explained.
Joach brought it to his lips. His eyes closed with satisfaction as his teeth 
sank through the charred skin to the tender meat. He sighed with appreciation, 
tasting the sweet juices used in the marinade. He had never experienced anything 
so wonderful.
Noises of appreciation arose from the others. With the men having sampled the 
fare, the women began to spear and jab at the feast. As the night wore on and 
the moon climbed high in the sky, laughter and ale flowed, easing residual 
tensions and aches. Joach could almost forget that he sat in the middle of the 
Southern Wastes, one of Alaseas harshest lands. Finally, his stomach full, he 
groaned with pleasure and put down his spear. More? Kesla teased.
Joach shook his head. I couldnt stand another morsel of your peoples 
hospitalityNot without bursting like an overripe pumpkin. The group shared his 
views. Sy-wen and Kast were soon retreating to their assigned tent, arms locked 
around each other. Hunt stirred, too. I should get Sheeshon to bed. The child 
leaned against the Bloodriders side, gently snoring. She had fallen asleep long 
ago. He picked her small form up under one arm and stood. Sheeshon did not even 
stir. Weaving slightly from the ale, Hunt strode toward the tents. Sleep well, 
Kesla called after him.
He lifted an arm in acknowledgment, then disappeared into a tent. Turning, 
Keslas eyes found Joachs. They were alone now. She glanced shyly away. I told 
Shaman Parthus about the nightglass dagger. Hell join us on the journey to 
Alcazar tomorrow.
Thats good, Joach mumbled, suddenly awkward. He rolled his feet under him, 
pushing up. I guess I should find my tent. Cross-legged, Kesla stared at her 
toes. Already? Joach felt his heart jump. He shuffled his feet. Well, I Im 
actually not that sleepy.
She slid smoothly to her feet. Its good to walk a bit after a large meal. 
Better for the digestion.
So Ive heard. But walk where?
She finally lifted her eyes back to his face. Ill show you. Kesla
ved him to a trail between a dense grove of trees. Theres something you should 
see.
Kesla led, but Joach quickly stepped beside her. Where are we going he asked. 
E Youll see.
In silence, they wound through the trees. Small bats roosting in the canopies 
took flight at their approach. But soon the trees were behind them, and they 
were climbing a path up the face of a dune. Joachs feet kept slipping in the 
sand, but Kesla moved lightly up the slope. She reached back and helped him.
Her hand was an ember in his palm.
If you walk with the inner edge of your feet, youll not need to fight the sand 
as much.
Joach did as she instructed and discovered she was right. But though he moved 
more easily, she never released his hand. He did not object. In fact, he moved 
closer to her side. He could smell the water of Ooshal in her hair, and the 
soft scent of her skin.
All too soon, they reached the crest of the dune.
The desert, etched in silver by the bright moon, stretched forever. Its 
beautiful, he mumbled.
She leaned closer to him and pointed her free arm. Do you see that spear of 
rock near the horizon?
Joach squinted. He could just make out a lone mountain in the distance, its 
slopes limned in moonlight. What is it?
Its Alcazar. My home.
Joach stared down at her. Her eyes brimmed with tears. He let go of her hand and 
draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his side, hugging and 
holding her.
The cold assassin melted into his side, now just a woman.
RlCHALD LAY ATOP THE THIN BLANKET, THE SAND BENEATH SCULPTED TO
his contours. The camp had long gone quiet, but sleep escaped him. The tribes 
healer had given him medicines to dull his pain, but the ache in his broken leg 
still nagged. His remaining crew lay around the wide tent, curled in slumber; a 
whistling chorus of snores surrounded him.
each pillow was a short spear, about as long as Joachs forearm. Kesla 
demonstrated how to use the tool to jab a morsel and bring it to ones lips.
She did not eat what she speared but nodded to Joach. Men must eat first.
Joach smiled and speared a chunk of sizzling meat.
Roasted owl, Kesla explained.
Joach brought it to his lips. His eyes closed with satisfaction as his teeth 
sank through the charred skin to the tender meat. He sighed with appreciation, 
tasting the sweet juices used in the marinade. He had never experienced anything 
so wonderful.
Noises of appreciation arose from the others. With the men having sampled the 
fare, the women began to spear and jab at the feast. As the night wore on and 
the moon climbed high in the sky, laughter and ale flowed, easing residual 
tensions and aches. Joach could almost forget that he sat in the middle of the 
Southern Wastes, one of Alaseas harshest lands. Finally, his stomach full, he 
groaned with pleasure and put down his spear.
More? Kesla teased.
Joach shook his head. I couldnt stand another morsel of your peoples 
hospitalityNot without bursting like an overripe pumpkin.
The group shared his views. Sy-wen and Kast were soon retreating to their 
assigned tent, arms locked around each other. Hunt stirred, too. I should get 
Sheeshon to bed. The child leaned against the Bloodriders side, gently 
snoring. She had fallen asleep long ago. He picked her small form up under one 
arm and stood. Sheeshon did not even stir. Weaving slightly from the ale, Hunt 
strode toward the tents.
Sleep well, Kesla called after him.
He lifted an arm in acknowledgment, then disappeared into a tent.
Turning, Keslas eyes found Joachs. They were alone now. She glanced shyly 
away. I told Shaman Parthus about the nightglass dagger. Hell join us on the 
journey to Alcazar tomorrow.
Thats good, Joach mumbled, suddenly awkward. He rolled his feet under him, 
pushing up. I guess I should find my tent.
Cross-legged, Kesla stared at her toes. Already?
Joach felt his heart jump. He shuffled his feet. Well, I Im actually not that 
sleepy.
She slid smoothly to her feet. Its good to walk a bit after a large meal. 
Better for the digestion.
So Ive heard. But walk where?
She finally lifted her eyes back to his face. Ill show you. Kesla vvaved him 
to a trail between a dense grove of trees. Theres something you should see.
Kesla led, but Joach quickly stepped beside her. Where are we going? he asked.
Youll see.
In silence, they wound through the trees. Small bats roosting in the canopies 
took flight at their approach. But soon the trees were behind them, and they 
were climbing a path up the face of a dune. Joachs feet kept slipping in the 
sand, but Kesla moved lightly up the slope. She reached back and helped him.
Her hand was an ember in his palm.
If you walk with the inner edge of your feet, youll not need to fight the sand 
as much.
Joach did as she instructed and discovered she was right. But though he moved 
more easily, she never released his hand. He did not object. In fact, he moved 
closer to her side. He could smell the water of Ooshal in her hair, and the 
soft scent of her skin.
All too soon, they reached the crest of the dune.
The desert, etched in silver by the bright moon, stretched forever.
Its beautiful, he mumbled.
She leaned closer to him and pointed her free arm. Do you see that spear of 
rock near the horizon?
Joach squinted. He could just make out a lone mountain in the distance, its 
slopes limned in moonlight. What is it?
Its Alcazar. My home.
Joach stared down at her. Her eyes brimmed with tears. He let go of her hand and 
draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his side, hugging and 
holding her.
The cold assassin melted into his side, now just a woman.
RlCHALD LAY ATOP THE THIN BLANKET, THE SAND BENEATH SCULPTED TO
his contours. The camp had long gone quiet, but sleep escaped him. The tribes 
healer had given him medicines to dull his pain, but the ache in his broken leg 
still nagged. His remaining crew lay around the wide tent, curled in slumber; a 
whistling chorus of snores surrounded him.
Wit ch (.tatf.
He closed his eyes. He could still sense his ship, even from leagues away. 
During his life, he had seldom left its planked decks. To lose the Fury was like 
losing a part of himself. He felt naked, vulnerable.
He remembered his distraught words to Joach. Foolish, he thought to himself. It 
was not proper for a prince of the Blood to show weakness, to ask for 
forgiveness, especially from a half-breed like Joach.
But in his heart, he knew he needed the comfort of the young mans counsel. As 
much as he sniped at Joach, Richald had grown to respect the man. He had proven 
his royal blood, both in the past and even on this journey. It had been Joach 
who had goaded him into finding that last bit of strength necessary to guide his 
ship over the vines fields. If it hadnt been for the boy, they all might have 
died. Joach had given Richald the strength to find his honor, to ply his 
elemental skills to their fullest.
And as much as the loss of his ship was a wound in his heart, Richald relished 
that final flight: the rush of wind, the snap of sailcloth, the dance of flames, 
even the overwhelming pain as the ship broke apart under him. At that moment, he 
had never felt more alive and vigorous. Lives had depended on him. His skill was 
all that had stood between life and death.
Tears filled his eyes. He owed the experience to Joach.
Richald shifted his hip, triggering a flash of agony up his leg. The pain helped 
focus his thoughts. Injured, he was more a burden than an asset to the mission 
here in the deserts. The plan was for him to recuperate at Alcazar while the 
others continued in their efforts to destroy the Basilisk Gate. And this rankled 
himit was the true reason sleep escaped him this night. He owed Joach a debt, 
and he meant to honor it.
But how? How could he be of use in his current broken state?
Richald stared at the tents roof. If there ever was a way to repay Joach, he 
would.
This I swear on the blood of my family, he muttered softly.
Content with his spoken promise, Richald rolled to his side, guarding his leg, 
and knew he could finally sleep.
In the thick of the night, Joach woke with a start, as if someone had called his 
name in the dark. He sat up, his heart pounding harshly. He stared around the 
small tent. It was emptysome stored oils and bags, but nothing more. He tossed 
aside his blanket and oiled from the thin bed, naked except for a pair of cotton 
breeches.
The cool desert night chilled his bare flesh. His ears strained for what had 
startled him awake.
The only noise outside was the soft whisper of tree fronds wafting in the gentle 
night breezes. Still, Joach shivered.
Stepping to the tent flap, he pushed a corner open and peeked outside. The night 
had grown darker than when he had climbed into his bedroll after his walk with 
Kesla.
Beyond the tent, past a few trees, Joach spotted the central clearing. As his 
eyes adjusted to the dark, he spotted a shadowy figure standing out there. The 
stranger waved an arm, indicating Joach should approach.
Glancing right and left, Joach hesitated. Not a single light glowed anywhere 
around the oasis. But he knew guards had been posted around the valley. No 
intruder should have been able to enter the area without raising an alarm.
Joach bit his lower lip and slipped through the tent flap. Out of the shelter, 
the night breeze chilled him to the bone. He wrapped his arms around his bare 
chest.
Ahead, the dark figure waited, unmoving.
Joach stepped forward, swallowing back his fear. Once closer, the features of 
the lurker grew clearer: his bald head, his burnt-copper skin, and his piercing 
eyes that glowed as bright as the moon. Joach recognized the tribes shaman.
He strode more confidently forward. Shaman Parthus.
Joach Morinstal. The shamans voice rasped like flowing sand. How may I help 
you? Joach asked hesitantly, not fully able to shake his nervousness.
The shaman did not answer. He simply waved Joach to sit with him in the sand. 
The old man folded to the ground, cross-legged.
Joach felt uncomfortable looming over the elder, so he settled to the sand, too. 
Only then did he spot a small bone bowl resting before the shamans knees. It 
was filled with thumb-sized nuts.
Parthus noticed his attention. Grenesh seeds.
Joach remembered Keslas description of the fruits seed. Diluted, it made a 
strong, intoxicating ale, but when taken whole, it supposedly helped the shamans 
of the tribes in some mysterious ways.
Parthus picked up the bowl and offered its contents to Joach. The young man took 
one of the offered seeds, as did the shaman.
I dont understand, Joach mumbled.
You are a shaman. I spotted it in your eyes when you first came to Ooshal.
Joach shook his head. I have the gift of dreamweaving, nothing more. I am no 
shaman.
Parthus stared at Joach with those intense bright eyes. That will be seen. The 
shaman popped a grenesh seed into his mouth. A loud crack sounded as his teeth 
bit into the nut. Parthus nodded for Joach to do the same.
He hesitated, then did as instructed. He popped the seed between his molars and 
crunched down on it. Almost instantly, a bitter taste filled his mouth. He 
swallowed back a gag.
Do not fight it, the shaman said, but his voice was dreamy, almost as if he 
were drifting away.
Joach stared across the small space, eye to eye. His mouth filled with saliva as 
his tongue fought the bitterness, trying to wash away the taste. With his 
fingers clenched on his knees, Joach swallowed hard. For a moment, he felt 
nothing, just relief to get the foulness off his tongue.
With a nod, the shaman spit out the empty husk of his seed; Joach did the same.
Joach coughed on the residual bitterness. What now? Is there some Then the 
world dissolved around him. Trees and tents, water and skyall washed away. All 
that remained were two things: the endless sand and the lone figure of Parthus 
still seated across from him.
Joach craned his neck. Overhead, the night sky was emptyno stars, just an 
endless blank expanse that spread to all horizons. Yet instead of finding this 
strange landscape dark, Joach had to squint against the brightness. All the 
sands around them glowed with the same shine found in the shamans eyes.
Joach gawked at the landscape. As strange as this all was, Joach felt a twinge 
of familiarity. He had been here before. Last night, as he slept, he had dreamed 
of this place. In the morning, he had thought the sandy dream a mere reflection 
of the days arduous trek. But here he was again.
parthus rose smoothly to his feet and held out a hand. Come. It is me you 
walked the dream desert.
Joach, his mouth still hanging open, accepted the mans firm grip nd allowed 
himself to be pulled to his feet. Where exactly are we?
V/hat is this dream desert?
The grenesh seed freed our spirits from our bodies. Once un-tethered, those 
attuned to the elemental energy of sand are drawn into the deserts endless 
dream.
But I have no skill in sand magick.
Parthus nodded. I know this. But you thrum to all things dreaming. You were 
drawn not by the sand, but by the dream itself.
Joach frowned and stared around him. Not a creature stirred, not a wind blew. 
But even though it was quiet, he sensed a great pressure all around him, as if 
he were submerged deep under the sea and something large were examining him for 
dinner. He wrapped his arms around his bare chest and wished he had thought to 
don a shirt. Turning back to the shaman he asked, But where exactly are we? Why 
did you bring me here?
Follow me. Parthus swept his cloak around his thin shoulders and struck out 
across the smooth landscape.
Joach matched his stride. As they walked, Joach sensed great distances were 
crossed with each step. Where are you taking me?
To the heart of the dreaming To the Southwall itself. Joach cringed. Is it 
safe?
As long as you stay at my side. Dont wander off. Joach studied the landscape 
of empty glowing sands and emptier skies. Where could he go?
As if reading his thoughts, Parthus spoke. To walk alone here can threaten your 
very spirit. Occasionally other dreams will intersect with this plane and bring 
nightmares to the sands. Here they have the strength of real beasts. They can 
kill or worse.
Worse?
Sometimes as you engage anothers night figment, you can become drawn out of 
this landscape and into the dreamers mind. If that happens, you will be lost 
forever.
Joachs belly became queasy. He studied the sands more closely. Was that a 
flicker of movement at the corner of his eye? His gaze darted all around him.
Do not search too closely. It gives the figments power, sapping your own spirit 
through your attention. Instead, focus on your own goal. Do not be distracted.
Joach nodded, but his eyes spotted a shimmer to his left. He looked. A handsome 
silvery woman appeared from the sands wrapped in diaphanous silks, barely hiding 
a lithe body of long legs and inviting curves. Joach stared.
The figure noticed his gaze and smiled. Joach found his own lips curling to 
match her expression. She raised a slender arm and, with a single red-nailed 
ringer, motioned for him to come nearer.
Joach stepped away from the shamanbut a bony grip clenched his elbow. The 
shaman held him tight. Look closer, boy, Parthus hissed in his ear.
Blinking, Joach opened his mouth to protest, but the shamans words cast the 
glamor from his eyes. The slender woman still stood in the sands, inviting, 
alluringbut from the waist down, Joach realized her body was that of a 
monstrous coiled snake, writhing in the sands.
Joach jumped away, bumping into the shaman behind him.
The nightmare hissed, lips parting to reveal silvered fangs.
Keep moving, the shaman said, shoving Joach forward. Its nothing. A figment. 
But a moment longer, and your attention would have pulled it fully from the 
sands.
Joach swallowed the terror down into his belly, suddenly sick.
The shaman steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. Take deep breaths. The 
figment drew some of your energy. Itll take a moment for you to gain it back.
Joach nodded and kept marching. He drew great gasps into his chest, and after a 
few moments, the queasiness did indeed fade away. Im feeling better, he 
mumbled as Parthus drew beside him.
Good, because were almost to the Wall.
Joach frowned. Ahead the desert stretched just as featureless as usual. Where?
The shaman motioned him to silence. No further words from here. He reached and 
took Joachs hand.
Together, they walked across the desert. Again Joach was struck by the odd 
sensation of great distances being traveled, but soon this feeling waned. Though 
they walked at the same pace, Joach felt as if they were slowing, less distance 
being crossed with each step.
At last, Joach noted a slight ripple in the sand ahead. He squinted, u r it was 
too far away. They continued on in silence. Slowly details merged as they 
approached. Movementthe ripple grew into a sil-
x river cutting across their path, with only a slight meander to its course.
As they neared, Joach saw it was not water that flowed along this channel but 
what looked like molten silver. Parthus drew Joach up to the nearest bank. He 
could feel the power here, like a pressure in his ears. The sand led at a gentle 
slope to the silvers edge. Parthus pointed into its depths.
Leaning over the river, Joach saw his own reflected face, as clear as in any 
looking glassbut that was not all! He bit back a gasp, covering his mouth with 
a hand. Reflected in the silver was the night sky filled with stars and a 
massive wall towering behind Joach. He glanced over his shoulder but saw 
nothingjust the endless smooth desert. He returned to his study of the 
reflection. Glancing to the left and right, he saw the walls length was 
reflected along the silver rivers entire course.
The Southwall, Parthus whispered. The desert dreams of it here.
Joachs eyes widened in wonder.
Before he could comment, Parthus hushed him and led the way along the banks 
edge, heading to the left. Joach followed. He found it hard for his eyes to 
leave the river. Along the silver channel, he watched their images striding 
along the length of the Southwall. Amazing.
But after a bit of time, the reflection in the river began to fade, growing 
darker. It was a subtle change, but with each step, the silver seemed to lose 
its luster. Joach also noticed that the constant pressure of power wavered, too. 
He glanced questioningly to the shaman.
The elder held a finger to his lips. He led the way over a slight slope. The 
river swept around the sandy hill in a gentle curve. As they crested over the 
low mound, Joach cringed at what came into view.
A short distance ahead, the river swept around the slope and into a cauldron of 
blackness, where it was swallowed away. The sick flow churned in on itself, 
forming a swirling vortex, a whirlpool of disease. Beyond this cauldron, Joach 
spotted a trace of the silver river continuing deeper into the desert, winding 
toward the endless horizon. But even from the distance, Joach could tell the 
flow was feeble, weakened and corrupted by its passage through this black stain.
Joach returned his attention to the vortex of corrupted energy. He saw that the 
stain was not limited to the rivers course, but tendrils ran under the sandy 
banks and spread into the desert, shadowy veins that burrowed far, dimming the 
glow of the dream sand.
Joach shuddered. He remembered Keslas description of a spreading poison that 
tainted the Southern Wastes. He knew he was staring at the cause.
At his side, Parthus raised an arm and pointed to the black cauldron of swirling 
corruption. A single word formed on his lips, a name. Tular.
With this revelation, the shaman drew Joach back down the slope and away from 
the river, heading back the way they had come. Joach marched in silence, stunned 
by what he had just been shown. The evil at Tular was feeding off a vein of the 
Lands energy, twisting this font of power to its own fetid purposes.
As he walked, Joach recalled the manner by which the illguard were forged, how 
certain elementals energies were corrupted and bent to the Black Hearts cause. 
The same was going on hereonly on a grander scale. Horror ran like ice through 
Joachs veins. Could the Dark Lord twist the Land itself into an illguard 
slave? Was such a thing possible? If it came to be, if the Land itself turned 
against their side, no one would be able to withstand the Gulgothanot even 
Elena.
Joachs hands formed tight fists. That must not happen.
Joach was tugged to a stop. His eyes refocused back to the dream desert.
Weve returned, the shaman said, folding his legs and sitting. He indicated 
for Joach to do the same.
Joach settled to the sand, too shocked to resist, and asked the question 
foremost in his mind. Why did you show me this?
The shaman closed his eyes and raised his hands, holding two fist-fuls of sand. 
He tossed the glowing grains high into the air, sweeping it over both men. As 
the sand fell, it drew back the real world, like drawing down a curtain. Trees 
and tents reappeared around them. Over the shoulder of the shaman, the waters of 
Ooshal again reflected the starlight.
Parthus opened his eyes. In them, Joach recognized the glow of the dream desert. 
After a lifetime of communing on the dream plane, the shaman now shone outwardly 
with its magick.
Why did I reveal this to you? the elder repeated. Why you?
Y-yes.
Because you are strong, yet do not know your full strength.
Joach frowned.
You are no ordinary dreamweaver, a mere prophet of dreams. Has no one mentioned 
how infinitely deep your dreaming power runs?
Joach remembered Brother Flints statement of long ago: how the old mage had 
claimed Joach was one of the strongest elementals in dream magick. He shook his 
head. I still dont understand the significance.
Most dreamweavers are just passive bystanders, reading the writing on the wall, 
watching things happen from a distance. But you, Joach, have the ability to do 
so much more. The dream plane is your canvas. Rather than be a passive player, 
you can be a participant. You can be a dream sculptor, someone with the ability 
to craft elements from the land of dreams and bring them into the real world. 
Joach made a scoffing noise. Ive never heard of such a thing.
Because youre the first sculptor to appear in countless generations. It was an 
art thought forever lost. But we sand shamans have never forgotten. It is seared 
into our most secret histories.
I dont understand. What histories? Parthus sighed. The histories of Tular.
Joach blinked with shock. The image of the black vortex flashed across his 
vision. Tular?
Long ago, when the South wall was new, the Land drew certain desert people to 
its sandstone walls. It grew the castle of Tular to house these special 
guardians and gifted them with a part of the deserts dreaming magick. They 
ruled the Southern Wastes with honor and justice. During this time, the desert 
flourished, and the tribes grew in number. It was a wonderful age.
So what happened?
The shamans face darkened. Slowly the power began to corrupt the leaders of 
Tular. Guardians became ghouls. They learned to bring demons and beasts from the 
dreamscape to terrorize the Wastes. One of their most fearsome was the great 
basilisk, a feathered serpent with an undying thirst for blood. For centuries, 
the ghouls of Tular ruled with an iron fist. Until one day, the Witch of Spirit 
and Stone came to our aid.
Sisakofa?
Parthus nodded. She rallied our people and used her own blood to create weapons 
that could slay the dream beasts. The ghouls were torn from their roosts and the 
misshapen beasts destroyed. Tular was left empty and abandoned. And the magick 
of dream sculpting died with it. The shaman eyed Joach. That is, until now.
Joach licked his lips nervously. How can you be so sure I have this power?
The shaman studied Joach hard and long. I dont know if youre ready for that 
answer. Can you simply trust that I know?
Joachs eyes narrowed. Tell me why you suspect such a thing.
I do not just suspectI know?
How can you be so certain?
Because Kesla found you and brought you here.
Joach waved away his answer. She found me because she needed to prime the 
nightglass dagger with my sisters blood. Nothing more.
Parthus frowned. He took out a small pouch, opened it, and poured tiny white 
bones into his palm. I use these to study the unseen paths in life. But not all 
roads are clearly marked. Kesla was sent with the dagger, but was it solely to 
wet its blade in witch bloodor was there another reason? A path to another 
end? Parthus glanced up at Joach.
What? To find me? To bring me here?
He slowly nodded, rolling the bones from one hand to the other. Many paths 
twine and wind. It is often hard to say which is the truest path.
Joach sighed. I still dont see the significance. So I came here. So Im 
strongly gifted in dream magicks. How does any of this make me one of these 
dream sculptors?
The shaman closed his eyes, his face pained. Because as soon as the two of you 
walked into the oasis, I could read your hearts, see the ties that bound you two 
together. She loves you like she has loved no other. The shaman opened his 
eyes. And I suspect the same could be said of you toward her.
Joachs cheeks grew warm with a fierce blush. He attempted to rebut the shamans 
words, but all that came out was a nonsensical stammer.
po not deny your heart, boy, Parthus spat angrily. I will hear 0 lies spoken 
in Ooshal. loach swallowed back any further protest. Cowed, he nodded for the 
shaman to continue.
With a grumble, Parthus calmed his voice. Before Kesla left on the iourney to 
Aloa Glen, her blood was dribbled over these bones. It is a trick shamans use 
to keep track of a person from afar. He rattled the bits in his fist. But on 
the first tossing, I learned much more. The bones spoke Keslas true name and 
from where she had come.
Joach crinkled his brow. Kesla had claimed she had been found wandering in the 
desert by the head of the Assassins Guild, then fostered at Alcazar and trained 
in the guilds ways. Was there more she hadnt revealed? What did you learn?
It is difficult to speak aloud. I have told no one, not even Guild-master 
Belgan. The shaman dropped the bones into the sand and stood.
Joach stared at the spread of the fallen bones, then up at the thin shaman. 
What did they reveal about Kesla?
It is late, Parthus said, partially turning away. We have a hard trek to 
reach Alcazar tomorrow.
Joach stood up quickly, kicking sand over the bones. He grabbed for the shamans 
elbow, but the man moved beyond his reach.
Parthus turned. One last timedo you truly want the truth? About Kesla, about 
her connection to you? Why she marks you as a sculptor?
Joach felt a momentary twinge of doubt, fearful of the answer.
But a part of him had to know this secret, could not be satisfied with mere 
faith. Not trusting his voice, Joach nodded.
No, Parthus said. I want to hear it in your own voice.
Joach cleared his throat with great difficulty. Tell me, he croaked out.
You must swear to tell no others. Not your friends, not even
Kesla.
I swear. Parthus sighed, his body sagging. The girl you love, Keslashe is 
not what she appears.
I dont understand. Parthus turned away. Kesla is a dream, a figment sculpted 
by the desert and given form and substance to walk this world. As she has chosen 
you, so the desert has also chosen. It has drawn a sculptor back to the sands of 
the Wastes, to call you back to guardianship, marking you as the one to rid the 
deserts of the pestilence that festers in Tular. The shaman moved away, leaving 
Joach standing stunned. But Kesla, the girlshe is not real.
Joach stood in the clearing, frozen. The shamans words bound him in place as 
surely as any ropes. Trembling, Joach pictured Keslas tawny hair, her crooked 
smile, the way she tilted on a hip when joking, how her hand fit so snugly into 
his palm. As he stood, a thick tear rolled down his cheekwhile deep inside, 
something shattered into a thousand sharp and brittle pieces.
His pained voice whispered over the waters of Ooshal. Kesla
With the sun directly overhead, Kesla climbed the ridge ahead of the slower 
caravan. She wanted to be the first to glimpse Alcazar, to share a moment of 
private homecoming. She cast off her sweep of silk scarf from her face and shook 
loose the hood of her desert cloak.
Haifa league away, the red sandstone cliff of Alcazar thrust sheer from the 
desert, a solitary behemoth, a great ship in the sand. Its sweeping bluffs 
glowed in the sunlight, its dense silicate crystals sparkling like jewels. It 
took a keen eye to discern that this mountain of wind-sculpted rock harbored a 
castle in its heart. But Kesla knew the hulking rock as well as her own face. 
Alcazar was the only home she had ever known, and to her, its secrets could 
never be hidden in shadow and stone. From the dunes ridge, she spotted small 
crevices and cracks high up the cliffs that masked windows and spy holes. She 
imagined eyes staring back at her, sentries alert to the approach of others.
She lifted an arm to these unseen watchers, a salute of welcome.
As she waited, no acknowledgment came, not even the customary flash of a signal 
mirror. Kesla lowered her arm with a frown. At dawn, Shaman Parthus had sent 
ahead two sand runners to carry advance word to Master Belgan. Surely they had 
arrived a quarter of a day ahead of them.
Kesla sighed and glanced over a shoulder. Her companions worked up the last of 
the switchbacks toward her position. She shifted her feet, impatient to continue 
ahead. With Alcazar in sight, she could hardly constrain herself. It had been so 
many moons since she had last seen her friends and caretakers: Shargyll, the 
rotund matron who had trained Kesla in her scullions skills; Humph, the 
long-eared stablemaster and his herd of ornery malluks; and Crannus, the master 
of poisons who told the most vile jokes. But most of all she missed Master 
Belganher teacher, her counselor, her confessor. In many ways, he was the 
father she had never known.
This last thought made her melancholy. She stared at the great spread of the 
Wastes. Where had she come from? Where in this sand-blown landscape was her true 
home? Her gaze settled back on the great rock of Alcazar. She knew the answer: 
there stood her home.
Sighing, she turned again as the caravan of desert tribesmen and her fellow 
companions worked their way up to the ridge. Joach was the first to join her. 
His eyes were instantly drawn to the cliffs and sandy ledges of Alcazar.
Its so large, he said, craning for a better view. She nodded with a shy 
smile. It houses over four hundred apprentices, journeymen, and masters of the 
guild.
You cant even tell anyone resides there.
That was done purposefully. Five centuries ago, when the keep of Alcazar was 
first carved from the rock, the guild was fleeing from the sinking of Castle 
Drakk in southern Alasea. They wanted privacy, a secure place away from prying 
eyes and their Gulgothal pursuers, a strong citadel in which to regroup and 
rebuild the Assassins Guild.
I see, Joach mumbled.
Kesla moved a step closer, but Joach shifted away from her. She noticed how he 
seemed to sink deeper into his cloak. From the corner of her eye, she watched 
him. All day he had been distant like this: refusing to meet her gaze, 
communicating with terse words, always seeming to be too busy to talk. Though 
his attitude was not as rude and distrustful as it had been on the journey from 
Aloa Glen, it was markedly more cold than the warmth they had shared under the 
desert stars.
Joach she began softly, gently trying to coax some answers.
But he twisted away as the litter bearing Richald neared. I should help them. 
He hurried to lend his shoulder with the elvin in lifting their captain up and 
over the ridge. Behind them, Hunt trudged up the last slope with Sheeshon riding 
his shoulders.
Lookie, Kesla! Sheeshon called to her. Hunts a malluk.
JCesla smiled. He certainly is. The girl had been enchanted by the deserts 
beasts of burden, plaguing the drovers as they loaded and prepared the shaggy 
creatures for the journey.
Hunt rolled his eyes as he moved past Keslas post. After trekking here, I must 
smell like a malluk, too. The large Bloodrider continued over the ridge, 
following after the litter.
Slowly the rest of the caravan trundled past. Sy-wen and Kast climbed over the 
ridge, only pausing to share a sip from a waterskin. From the way Kast had to 
squeeze the leathery malluk bladder, it was the last of their share. As he 
drank, Kesla noted that the wide-shouldered mans singed arm was slathered in 
yellowish serpent tongue oil, a potent healing balm. Already Kasts arm looked 
much less red, the blistering subsiding. If there was one thing desert healers 
knew how to mend, it was skin burns; the sun of the Southern Wastes was 
merciless.
As the two lovers moved down the slope toward Alcazar, the desert tribesmen with 
their drovers and laden malluks swept past. The malluks, as usual, were unfazed 
by the trek, shambling along with their riders half dozing in their saddles. The 
beasts towered twice the height of an ordinary man and had a thick insulating 
coat of sandy-red hair that blended almost perfectly with the desert. Their 
wide, flat-splayed feet padded across the loose sand, and their large brown eyes 
studied Kesla as they passed. One of the beasts leaned toward her and snuffled 
at her, checking to see if she had something good to eat. She gently but firmly 
nudged him away.
Soon the caravan was past, and Kesla stood with Shaman Parthus at the ridgeline.
The leathery elder leaned on a length of sandalwood. Are you glad to be almost 
home, child?
I will be happy to see Master Belgan again.
He offered his elbow to her. Then lets not keep him waiting.
Together the pair worked down the slope.
I talked to the young man with the red hair last night. The shamans words 
were spoken casually, but it was clearly forced. Parthus wanted to tell her 
something. His feet also moved slower as he feigned disability, leaning on her 
arm and on his staff. The rest of the caravan moved farther and farther ahead.
You spoke to Joach?
Yes. We shared the fruit of the grenesh.
Kesla now slowed their pace even more, surprise hobbling her feet. She had never 
heard of any shaman sharing the magick of the desert fruit with someone 
uninitiated into their brotherhood. What happened ?
He shrugged. The man is quite rich in the dreaming magicks. He will be a strong 
ally in the coming assault against the ghouls of Tular.
Kesla touched the hilt of her sheathed weapon. All I need is the nightglass 
dagger. If its blade is sharp enough to kill the basilisk, I will not fail. I 
can be in and out of Tular before any of their minions grow wise.
I do not doubt your skill, Kesla. But I believe the true battle against Tular 
will prove more of a challenge.
You tossed the bones?
I did. Frowning, he eyed the windblown heights of Alcazar. But it does not 
always take prophecy to see the future. One simply has to open ones eyes and 
look.
Kesla found her gaze following the shamans. The heights remained as empty as 
when she had been atop the ridge. By now, the front of the caravan was winding 
into the black crack that led into the rocks interior. She listened but heard 
no horn announcing their return. No one moved on the sentry ledges. She squinted 
her eyes, trying to spot the camouflaged guards at their high rocky posts. 
Either they were well hidden, or no one was there.
Twinges of unease skittered across her skin like the tickle of spiders in the 
dark, but ahead, the last of the caravan was swallowed into the narrow canyon 
with no signs of distress.
Kesla glanced over at the shaman. He continued to amble after the others, 
apparently unconcerned, but why then had he spoken to her? Why hint at something 
wrong but not voice it?
A test, he mumbled, seeming to read her heart. A rite of passage.
For me?
He shrugged. The young man must learn the depths of his own power and 
strength.
Joach? Again the shrug. Panic welled up inside her. Wide-eyed, she stared at 
the towering rock. The sun cast its cliffs in shadows and flows of reds, like 
blood running down its flanks.
I must help him! She moved to race ahead but found her arm locked in the 
shamans hold.
It is his test, Kesla. You cannot take it for him.
Wild with fear and concern, Kesla used her skills to break the shamans grip and 
raced forward. But even as her feet flew across the sands, she did not need the 
shamans prophetic words to know she would be too late.
Joach was the first through the iron gates of Alcazar. The litter bearing 
Richald followed behind. Two things struck him immediately.
First was the castles beauty. As he stepped under the gates and into the 
central yard, the keep of the assassins opened before him. He craned his neck. 
Impossibly thin towers, twisting spires, and slender statues climbed the cliff 
faces, carved from the very heart of this great block. It was a small city 
encased in sandstone.
But as the others joined him in the yard, his second impression overwhelmed his 
wonder of this place. Hunt voiced it aloud, settling Sheeshon to her feet. 
Where is everyone?
The keep was deserted. No one manned the gate. No one greeted them. Joach was 
unaware of the custom here, but it seemed strange to leave the gates unguarded.
Kast stepped to Joachs other side, Sy-wen in his shadow. I dont like this, 
the tall Bloodrider grumbled.
To punctuate his statement, the gates to Alcazar fell closed behind them. The 
spiked portcullis crashed into place with a clang of finality.
Joach spun around. Iron bars now separated them from the desert tribesmen, who 
through the bars looked just as confused as Joach was. Only Innsu, the tall 
bronzed assassin, stood trapped on this side of the gate, along with two of his 
men.
Somethings wrong, Innsu said, turning and sweeping back his cloak. His 
sickle-shaped sword flashed in the bright sunlight of the open yard.
Its a trap, Sy-wen said.
Kast already had his own sword in hand. The elvin bearers lowered Richalds 
litter to the paving stones of the yard, and crossbows appeared from under their 
cloaks. Hunt pushed Sheeshon behind him, freeing a short ax from his belt.
Joach reached for the nightglass dagger but found his belt empty. Defenseless, 
there was nothing he could do but scan the heights around him and wait for their 
attackers to reveal themselves.
Across the yard, a set of thick double doors burst open, thrown wide by more 
than just the strength of arm. The wooden portals crashed against the stone, 
ripping from their iron hinges and falling away. Two figures walked out of the 
castles darkness and into the sunny yard.
The first was tall, striking, dressed in a sweeping red desert cloak. His pale 
face and snowy hair were strange in this land of dark men. But it was his eyes, 
sparking red with anger, that held their attention. He eyed them all. I see our 
doom. I see a boy who brings destruction upon people of the Wastes.
Master Belgan? Innsu said, stepping forward and lowering his sword. You 
misunderstand them. They mean us no harm. Shaman Parthus says
Silence! the pale figure snapped.
Joach noticed how shocked the young assassin was by his masters outburst. What 
was going on here?
The second figure hobbled around the taller man, fully hidden in folds of cloak 
and silk. He leaned upon a staff and moved closer to Belgan. Do not listen to 
the young fool, the bent-backed man whispered. He is clearly enthralled by the 
dire magicks of the witchs brother.
As these soft words reached Joachs ears, he froze, ice forming in his veins. 
Even whispered, Joach knew that rasped voice. It had been in his head for over 
half a winter. He could never forget. He knew who stood at the guildmasters 
right sidethe murderer of his mother and father. The one who had ripped him 
from his sisters side and used him like a puppet.
The darkmage Greshym.
The bent figure shifted his grip on his staff. Belgans eyes seemed to shine 
momentarily stronger with the false brightness of a fever. Joach recognized a 
spell of influence, one of Greshyms favorite mag-
cks. But Belgan clearly fought this possession, trying to struggle through the 
fog of deceptions.
]xjow alerted, Joach could almost smell the dark energies here. He had once 
dabbled in the black arts himself when he had stolen the darkmages staff. 
Squinting, Joach studied the monsters new stave. Greenish crystals laced its 
length, shining sickly like dripping pustules on the gray wood. This new staff 
appeared even more deadly than the old poiwood one. Joachs blood rang with its 
proximity. Attuned to the dark magicks, he sensed the power welling through the 
staff and into the enfeebled figure.
Strong emotions flared in Joach: rage, fear, hatred, loathing. But as he stared 
at the staff, his heart burned with both disgust and desire. A part of him was 
drawn to the energy emanating from the sick length of gray wood.
His hands formed twin fists. He stepped forward, unable to control himself.
Greshyms gaze flicked in his direction. Milky eyes in an age-ravaged face 
stared back at Joach, amused, triumphant. From the doorway behind Greshym, a 
crooked, hulking creature clambered down the three steps on cloven hoofs. It 
groveled at the edge of the dark-mages robe. From a flat-muzzled face, piggish 
eyes glared at Joach. Its pointed ears were held back against its skull in clear 
aggression.
Do you like my new pet, Joach? Greshym whispered. I needed someone to be my 
dog after you left me.
Before Joach could respond, the darkmage flicked his staff and touched the 
guildmasters shoulder.
Belgans arm sprang up like a tweaked marionette. A signal. All around the 
yardat windows, ledges, and doorsscores of armed men and women appeared. 
Weapons bristled: bows and arrows, swords and axes.
Joach retreated toward his companions.
The staff moved again, and the guildmasters arm swept down, like an ax cleaving 
wood.
Kill them! Belgan yelled. Slay them all!
Kesla reached the canyon that led into Alcazars heart as Bel-gans order echoed 
out to the sands. She froze. What is happening?
A malluk, eyes rolled to white in panic, burst out of the chasms gloom and 
galloped toward her. Kesla dodged to the side, almost trampled into the sand as 
it raced from the canyon and out into the open desert, packs and gear flying 
from its back. Its drover was not far behind, a shout on his lips, a whip raised 
in his hand. The mans forehead was bloody. He must have been thrown by the 
beast.
Kesla stopped him as he ran past. Whats wrong?
Already the clash of steel on steel rang out to her. Men shouted deeper in the 
canyon.
The tribesman shook his head and spoke rapidly in the desert tongue. An ambush. 
The master of Alcazar has gone mad. Hes closed the gates to the castle and 
seeks to murder the outlanders.
Why?
The man shook his head and ran after his panicked mount, leaving Kesla alone at 
the entrance to the canyon. She tried to grasp meaning behind the drovers 
words. It made no sense.
Turning from the entrance, she raced back into the desert and ran along the edge 
of the great rock, circling its base. When she was younger, she and Innsu used 
to sneak out of Alcazar. Both trained in the assassin ways of the snake, and 
there were few walls they could not scale. Flying past a tumble of sandstone 
boulders, Kesla came upon a section of cliff face that seemed sheer.
She shrugged her cloak aside and, with a flick of her wrist, shot a grappling 
rope up to a small outcropping high overhead. With a skilled tug, she set the 
trisling hooks and scrambled up the thin rope of braided spiders silk. Her toes 
in their soft boots found easy purchase. Once high enough, she used her weight 
to swing the rope, her feet racing along the wall. At the right moment, she 
shoved with all her strength and swung up and out to a small ledge. She let go 
of the rope with one hand and snatched a hold on the ledges lip. Hanging 
precariously, she caught a loop of the rope around an ankle so as not to lose 
it, then freed her other hand and grabbed the ledge. Quickly, she pulled herself 
up onto the narrow shelf. Rolling, she retrieved the slack rope, snapped its 
length to free the trisling hooks, afnd wound the rope back to her hip.
She repeated her efforts twice more to scale the sheer face until far above the 
desert floor. At its top was a lookouts post, long deserted and mostly 
forgotten. She and Innsu had discovered it in their youth. Pulling up onto the 
stone platform, she crossed to the tiny tunnel that burrowed into Alcazar. The 
passage was no more than a long rawlway. On hands and knees, Kesla scurried down 
its length.
In the narrow space, the panic in her heart welled up. Why was gelgan attacking 
her companions?
Dusty and abraded, Kesla finally reached the tunnels end. She used a spy mirror 
to examine the small storeroom. Nothing but crates and an old rolled rug propped 
in the corner. She crawled out, senses straining for any sign of others. Once 
up, she slipped to the door, pressed an ear to the wood, then tested its hinges. 
A whispered creak sounded as she twisted the latch and edged the door open.
Beyond was a deserted servants hall. The air smelled little disturbed; dust lay 
thick. Kesla did not hesitate. She had been taught the wisdom of when to sit 
still and when to hurry, skills learned from the masters of this very house.
In a few swift steps, she reached the stairs leading from the heights to the 
more-occupied lower sections. As she flew down the steps, the sounds of battle 
grew around her: screams, shouts, clashes of steel.
When she reached the fifth level of the keep, she darted from the stairwell and 
headed toward the windows and balconies that opened onto the central yard. She 
did not have to go far before she collided into one of her fellow students, five 
years her junior, running back from the open window.
He had a bow slung over a shoulder, and his quiver was empty.
His eyes flew wide as he recognized Kesla.
She grabbed him by his shoulder before he could flee from her. What is going 
on, Symion? Why are you attacking the outlanders? The younger boy cowered a 
bit. Master Belgan says they come to destroy us all, minions of the witch you 
killed.
Killed? What are you talking about?
Youre bewitched! Youve brought death back to Alcazar! Symion tried to break 
free of her grip, attempting to use the cinch-knot technique, but Kesla easily 
countered it and held him in place.
Nonsense, she hissed at him. Im not under any spell. The witch still lives 
and has freely offered to aid us in our battle against
Tular.
In Symions eyes, suspicion shone.
Its true, Symion. This fighting must be stopped, or all hope for saving the 
Wastes will be lost. You must take me to someone who will listen.
But the witchs brother
Joach?
Symion frowned. A wanderer came from the desert. He holed up with the 
guildmaster in his rooms for half a day. When Belgan came out, he was convinced 
the witchs brother was a danger to all the Wastes, bent to avenge his sister.
Kesla was shocked. Master Belgan was not one to believe rumors and innuendos. 
What had convinced Belgan that Joach and the others were a threat? Again it made 
no sense. Belgan would not move without serious proof. For a moment, she began 
to doubt herself. Could it be possible? Could she have been somehow deceived?
She shook her head. There was no way. Master Belgan must have been deceived, 
she mumbled, though such a thought shook Kesla to her foundations.
Distracted, she allowed the boy to wriggle free of her hold and dance out of her 
reach.
You are the one deceived! Symion yelled back at her and raced down a side 
corridor before she could stop him. She heard his voice raised in alarm, 
announcing her presence.
Kesla hurried away, toward the windows and balconies. She had to see what was 
happening. She had to find a way to stop this madness that had infiltrated her 
home.
She turned a corner, and sunlight flared up ahead, flowing through a set of 
doors thrown wide open. She hurried forward to the balcony. It was abandoned, 
most likely Symions post during the ambush. She recalled his bow and empty 
quiver. He must have run out of arrows and gone to fetch more.
Stepping into the bright light of the midday sun, she crossed to the balconys 
balustrade. The sounds of battle swelled. She leaned over the rail to view the 
central yard.
Below, chaos reigned. The paving stones flowed with blood. Bodies lay sprawled 
across the yard. The clash of steel rang loudly, as did the cries of rage and 
screams of pain.
Amidst the fighting, Kesla easily spotted her friends. Kast and Hunt fought with 
axes in one hand and swords in the other. They were twin whirlwinds of death, 
laying waste to all that neared. The two guarded both Sy-wen and little 
Sheeshon. They would let no one come close.
Not far from them, in the thick of the melee, Innsu twirled, bring-
 2 the quick death of the striking snake. He spun and twisted his
urved sword, while two other tribesmen fought to guard his flanks.
Fven from her high perch, Kesla recognized the mask of pain fixed
Innsus face as he slew those he knew by name.
From the far wall, a volley of arrows arced toward the outlanders and their 
allies, but rather than raining down upon them, a sudden 2ust turned the flight 
aside. Below, Kesla spotted the reason for the sudden fortuitous breeze.
Richald sat upon his broken litter, an arm held high, scintillating with energy. 
Around him, his fellow elvin danced with crossbows and thin silver swords, 
guarding their captain. They flew like flittering moths, almost too fast to see, 
bringing death both near and far. Richald suddenly flicked his wrist, and the 
deadly volley of arrows swung to pepper down upon the attackers themselves.
Men and women fell. Kesla watched one girl, no older than eight winters, take a 
bolt through the eye and fall, twitching upon the stone.
Kesla knew her name. Lisl.
Tears of frustration and anger blurred Keslas vision. Master Belgan would never 
allow someone so young to fight. He would never allow any of this to happennot 
if he was in his right mind.
The fighting continued.
Off to the right, someone screamed and fell from a balcony, crashing 
broken-limbed to the pavement below, an elvin bolt through his neck.
Death had truly come to Alcazarbut not for the reason Master Belgan had 
claimed. It was not vengeance that fueled this battle. It was delusion. Two 
allies had been set against one another. But why? And more importantly by whom}
Kesla searched the bloody yard. Finally, leaning far over the rail, she saw her 
answer directly below her. Master Belgan stood at the main entrance to the keep, 
his red cloak and flowing white hair easy to spot.
At his side stood a bent-backed figure, leaning on a long staff. Kesla had never 
seen him before, but she could guess who he was the wanderer Symion had 
mentioned.
From her vantage point, she watched in disgust as a misshapen creature pranced 
about the pair of men. It was clearly being driven wild by its blood lust, 
gnashing at the air, claws ripping at the edge of
Master Belgans cloak. But Keslas teacher seemed oblivious to the horrid 
creatures antics and braying cries. Watching this, Kesla cast aside any 
lingering doubts. The guildmaster was possessed by some geis or spell.
The cloaked figure lifted a stumped wrist and pointed. The motion drew Keslas 
attention from the strange beast. Belgan stepped aside, and Kesla saw to where 
the bent figure pointed.
At the foot of the stairs, a figure was forced to his knees. An arrow protruded 
from the prisoners shoulder. He was held in place by two journeymen assassins: 
Dryll and Ynyian, masters of the hunt.
Belgan waved a hand, and the figures hood was ripped away. The prisoner glared 
up at the two men.
Kesla gasped, a fist at her throat.
It was Joach.
JOACH GLOWERED AT GrESHYM, THEN SPAT AT HIS ENEMY, HIS AIM TRUE.
The darkmage merely smiled at his display, not even bothering to wipe the 
spittle dripping from his chin.
The response from his captors was more dramatic. Joachs head was yanked cruelly 
backward by a fist twisted in his hair. One of the assassins leaned to his ear. 
Do not again insult a guest of Alcazar.
On his other side, the second guard grabbed the arrow imbedded in his shoulder 
and ground the shaft in farther. Joachs shoulder exploded with fire. He tried 
not to cry out, but the pain was too great, too sudden. A scream ripped from his 
throat. Tears rose in his eyes.
Moments ago, he had been knocked off his feet by the hunters arrow. He had been 
stunned, unable to move, even when the tides of battle had flowed away from him. 
Cut off from his companions, he had been easily captured by the pair of hunters.
His head was released, and Joach sagged to the paving stones. Behind him, cries 
and the strike of steel grew dim as agony threatened to overwhelm him. Movement 
drew his eyes back forward. Greshym leaned toward him. A leathery beast capered 
at the darkmages ankles, snuffling at Joachs blood. Greshym nudged it aside 
and reached toward Joach with the butt of his staff.
Joach struggled to pull away, but he was restrained by his captors. The sick, 
corpse-gray stave wavered before his eyes.
You can smell the magick in here, cant you? Greshym said. Youve tasted the 
blackness. It marks you, Joach.
Never, he gasped out. But in truth, he could sense the energy thrilling 
through the foul wood. Its greenish crystalline surface glowed and pulsed with 
power. Joach had a hard time looking away. It was darkly beautiful. His blood 
remembered wielding the dread magick of balefire.
Unbidden, a handhis half hand, two fingers lost to the sick magick of an 
illguard in the catacombs under Aloa Glenreached to the wood. It was the hand 
that had once held Greshyms stolen staff. It drew to the length of wood like 
lodestone to iron. Blood dribbled from his fingertipsblood that had trailed 
down his arm from his impaled shoulder.
Greshyms wrinkled smile spread wider.
A part of Joach knew hed be lost if he touched the staff. It would claim his 
spirit foreverbut he could not resist. Bloody fingers stretched to the gray 
wood, drawn by its power. Deep in his heart, a scream bubbled up. He knew he was 
a moment away from total annihilation. A simple touch, and all would be lost.
A savage howl erupted. It cut through the dark enchantment. Joachs eyes flicked 
to the side. The beast at Greshyms feet lunged forward. It snapped at Joachs 
bloody fingers, crazed by blood lust and hunger, unable to resist the flesh 
dangling so near. The creatures wide maw swallowed his hand to the wrist; 
razored teeth tore into flesh, crushing through bone.
Joach fell back, but his arm was caught by the creature. It shook his limb like 
a dog fighting for a bone.
No, Rukh! Greshym screeched with thwarted rage. He struck the creature 
backhanded with his staff. The beast flew high, striking the wall hard and 
landing in a curled ball. It mewled and writhed on the stones, its flesh smoking 
where the staff had touched.
Joach was thrown backward by the flare of magick, colliding with his captors. On 
his knees, Joach raised his arm. Blood fountained from the severed stump of his 
wrist. His hand was gone.
One of his captors quickly twisted a length of binding cord around his upper 
arm, cinching it tight, squeezing off his blood. Joach swooned on his knees, 
falling on his face toward the stones. Before he hit, he was jerked slightly and 
landed on his good shoulder. He rolled enough to see the fighting in the yard: 
blood, steel, screams sprawled bodies, and crawling wounded.
In the middle of the chaos, a black blur grew,, spreading wide Joach tried to 
focus on it through his pain and shock. A smoky cloud Then the darkness formed a 
great winged dragon crouched in the center of the yard. It bellowed with rage.
Ragnart
Grab the boy! Greshym ordered savagely. Bring him into the castle! , ?
His captors hesitated. Joach turned his head. Greshym motioned to the tall pale 
figure, who had remained a statue the entire time. The figure turned to the 
hunters. Take the boy! he croaked out, clearly a puppet whose strings had been 
pulled.
Yes, Master Belgan.
Joach was jerked to his feet and slung between the two tall men. Greshym led the 
way through the open doors and into the castles darkness. The beaten creature 
followed, groveling at its masters heels.
Passing through the threshold, Joach craned back around and watched Ragnark rip 
into the defenders of Alcazar, tearing through them, forging forward.
But it was too late for Joach. His limp form was hauled farther into the depths 
of the castle. Ahead, Greshym lifted his staff, aglow in the murk. Behind them, 
the castles broken doors swept back into place, slamming shut with the finality 
of a coffins lid.
Sy-wen sat atop her dragon. Though the great beast was not able to fly out of 
this confined space with his injured wing, he was able to defend their rapidly 
weakening companions. Up to now, they had managed to hold off the ambush through 
magick and strength of limb, but neither was an indefatigable resource. Against 
so many, it was only a matter of time until the sheer numbers attacking them 
overran the smaller party.
As such, Sy-wen had no choice but to call forth the dragon. They had delayed up 
to now, hoping for some sense to come to the denizens of Alcazar. Once the black 
dragon was released, it would be hard to convince the castles defenders that 
their group was not some minion of the Black Heart. And this concern proved 
rapidly
The sudden appearance of the dragon triggered a general nic People fled. Some of 
the slower were trampled under the feet f others. Those that remained, the 
bravest and most skilled, fought harder. From here, there was little chance of 
gaining the trust f Alcazar. Their best hope lay in escape. They would have to 
take their chances in the open desert.
Using wing, claw, and fang, Ragnark cleared a space between the attackers and 
the defenders. Behind the large dragon, the others gathered in a corner of the 
yard, not far from the gates. A temporary lull settled over the courtyard as 
both sides regrouped. The northerners needed a way out of here.
Sy-wen pointed to the iron barrier. Can you rip out those bars? A dismissive 
snort sounded. Small cage not hold Ragnart. As the creature turned, Richald 
called from his broken litter, his weak voice carried on winds of magick to her 
perch. Joach I dont see the boy anywhere here.
Sy-wen twisted in her seat and searched the small corner. The elvin was right. 
Joach was missing. In the confusion of fighting, he must have been separated. 
She searched the wide yard but saw nothing.
She stood slightly on the dragons back and yelled, Joach!
No answer. An arrow whistled past her ear. She sank back closer to Ragnark, 
under the shield of his half-raised wings. A small voice shouted from the far 
side of the yard. Sy-wen squinted and spotted Kesla standing at an upper 
balcony. How had she gotten up there?
Joach was captured! Kesla shouted, her words as shrill as an eagles cry. He 
was taken inside! I will try to find him, but some dark magick has taken root 
here. Make for the desert! Join with Shaman Parthus! I will join you with Joach 
if I can!
Sy-wen lifted an arm, acknowledging that Kesla had been heard.
Hunt spoke near the dragons wing. It could be a trick. It was Kesla that led 
us into this ambush. How do we know she does not mean Joach harm?
Innsu, the young assassin, heard his words and responded hotly. Kesla is no 
traitor.
Sy-wen considered both their wordsbut she also remembered the way Kesla had 
stared at Joach on the journey here. It was not hard to read the young girls 
heart. It took a woman to recognize love in anothers eyes. Sy-wen straightened 
in her seat. She will not betray Joach, she said firmly, and turned away. With 
a silent thought, she urged Ragnark to attack the gate.
With a grunt of assent, his neck twisted; fangs as long Sy-wens forearm grabbed 
the bars. She felt the dragons muscles tense and bulge with the strain of the 
stubborn iron. His silver claws dug deep into the paving stones.
One of the assassins used the moment of distraction to race forward, ax raised. 
But Hunt ducked under the dragons wing and blocked the cloaked man. Ax rang on 
ax. Both men were skilled masters of their weaponsbut Hunt was not as fresh. 
His heel slipped in a pool of blood, and he missed a parry. The wood handle of 
his opponents ax cracked across the Bloodriders face. He fell backward.
The opponent lunged forward, his ax sweeping down in death stroke.
Ragnark! Sy-wen yelled.
/ see, my bonded
The dragon twitched his wing, slamming its edge into the attackers side. From 
her perch, Sy-wen heard ribs crack, and the man went sailing across the yard. 
Hunt, dazed, lumbered to his feet and wiped blood from his lips. He spat out a 
single tooth that skittered across the stones, then glared at the row of 
attackers, daring another to approach.
No one did. It seemed they were only too happy to let the out-landers leave.
The groan of iron and rasp of stone drew Sy-wens attention. Glancing back to 
the gate, she saw the portcullis and a section of the barrier above pull free. 
With a final tug, Ragnark ripped it away and tossed it across the yard. It 
clanged and bounced across the bloody paving stones.
With the way now open, Sy-wen waved the group forward. She and Ragnark would 
defend their rear.
Outside the gate, a group of desert tribesmen, those who had accompanied them 
from Ooshal, helped the injured. One of the party stepped forward, eyeing the 
dragon warily. Shaman Parthus waits for you in the desert.
Sy-wen nodded. Hurry, she urged her friends.
Innsu helped one of his injured comrades, while Hunt carried
Sheeshon, who was clearly terrified. With the litter broken, Richald was hauled 
between two of the cloaked desert men. The other elvin -ere too weak from 
fighting to assist. Limping, the worn and blooded party retreated into the 
chasm.
Once the others were safely under way, Ragnark backed into the canyon, keeping 
a watchful eye on any last attack. It never came. No one was willing to 
challenge the beast, especially when it was clearly leaving.
Sy-wen glanced across the fouled yard. Blood stained the red stones black. 
Bodies lay twisted. The very air reeked of death. She glanced to the castle 
beyond. Though the fighting in the yard had ended, somewhere in the keeps 
shadowed halls, the battle still awaited a final act. Two of their party had yet 
to escape this ambush. Sy-wen willed them her strength. May the Sweet Mother 
protect you both.
Kesla fled through the halls, moving lightly on her toes, ears pricked for any 
noise. She had to find where they were taking Joach. She had seen the ravenous 
beasts attack. Joach needed a healers attention as soon as possible. But she 
had to be cautious. Clearly the cloaked stranger wielded black magicks.
Wending down stairs and gliding silently along passages, Kesla came at last to 
the first level of the keep. She stepped into the great meeting hall and pulled 
her cloaks hood over her head, hiding her face in shadow. She studied the room. 
People crowded here, some helping the wounded, some walking dead-eyed. All were 
shocked and bone-tired. Among them, servants bustled with hot water, bandages, 
medicinal herbs, and salves.
Kesla kept her face down as she strode purposefully across the room. Groans and 
cries of pain echoed around her, and she cringed.
As she walked along one of the walls toward the far side, familiar voices caught 
her attention. Her feet slowed.
I cant believe Master Belgan did not at least try talking to these 
outlanders. It was Humph, Alcazars stablemaster. There was no mistaking his 
short, stout body and muscled arms. It is so unlike
Belgan to strike without council.
And that desert wanderer Kesla recognized Humphs companion: Mistress 
Shargyll, matron of the kitchens. The large woman wiped her hands on her stained 
apron. He crossed near me as I prepared the mornings meal. My skin crawled 
with his mere presence. There is something wrong about that man.
I agree. Master Belgan takes this strangers advisement too easily During the 
attack, I saw young Innsu fighting alongside the outlanders. And when the group 
left, I overheard a tribesman say they were being taken to the desert, to join 
Shaman Parthus. Humph blew out a rude noise, sounding not unlike a disgruntled 
malluk. None of this makes sense.
Kesla paused, hearing her own sentiments in the stablemasters words. Could she 
trust these two to help her? Joachs chances were best with more allies. Kesla 
stepped to Mistress Shargylls side.
The large woman glanced over to her, sensing her presence. What is it, child?
Kesla lifted her face and saw the shock in the kitchen matrons eyes. I need 
your help, Kesla whispered.
Mistress Shargyll stared, stunned. Humph leaned over and blinked in surprise.
Kesla did not know how they would act from here. She pleaded with her eyesthen 
Shargyll reached a thick arm and scooped her to her side, pulling her between 
them. You should not be seen here, little Kes. There is murder in the air. Many 
think youve betrayed Alcazar.
Kesla nodded. I ran into Symion. I know the lies that have been seeded here and 
that took root in Master Belgan. These outlanders came at my bidding, with 
Master Parthus blessing. They are strong allies, come to help us, not harm us.
I knew it! Humph exclaimed a little too loudly. Others glanced their way. 
Shargyll moved her wide bulk to hide the smaller girl and tugged Keslas hood a 
bit farther over her face.
Master Belgan is under some dark enchantment, Kesla said. He and the stranger 
have taken a prisoner, a friend. I must find where they have imprisoned him. 
According to Shaman Parthus, the future of the Wastes lies in this mans blood. 
He must be freed.
I saw the lad you mentioned, Humph whispered. Gravely wounded. He should have 
been taken to the healers. Even a prisoner deserves having his wounds dressed. 
That callousness alone made me question Master Belgans spirit.
Do you know where he was taken? Kesla asked.
jytistress Shargyll answered. I overheard Ynyian and Dryll when they came down 
for a flagon of ale. They have the boy bound in jylaster Belgans chambers.
I must go there.
How can we help? Humph said.
Kesla had been taught in the assassins way of the snake: to move unseen, to 
enter hidden places, to strike swiftly. But here she would need help. She 
glanced to her two old friends. It will be dangerous.
Greshyms blood raged. He clumped angrily back and forth across the small 
chamber whose windows had been curtained against the sun. His plan had come so 
close to fruition. He glowered at the misshapen beast cowering in a corner. If 
not for the untimely attack by the stump gnome, Joach would have been lost to 
the black magicks by now, his spirit tainted forever. With the boy bent, it 
would have been a simple thing then to complete the one final act necessary to 
return youth to Greshyms decayed body. So close
Leaning on his staff, Greshym studied Joach. The boy was tied to the bed, naked, 
spread-eagled. Blood from his severed wrist seeped into the bedding, even with 
the tourniquet. His skin was pale from shock and blood loss. Joachs eyes 
remained dazed, as he waxed into and out of consciousness.
Greshym scowled and crossed back to Joach. The boy must not die. In his young 
body, so rich in magicks, lay the hope of freeing Greshym of his own decrepit 
one. Greshym lifted his staff and touched Joachs stumped wrist. He whispered a 
quick spell. Slowly, severed veins and arteries closed; then flesh sealed over 
the exposed bone. Soon the ragged tear was replaced by a smooth stump. 
Satisfied, Greshym repaired the arrow wound just as effortlessly.
Greshym saw the boys body relax, his breathing deepen. Death had been staved 
off for the moment.
Though still lost, Joachs eyes slowly refocused.
Good. Greshym leaned away. He could now continue what had been interrupted. He 
leaned his staff against the bed, then held out his hand to the rooms only 
other occupant.
Belgan passed him a long, crooked dagger.
Greshyms fingers closed over its hilt. There was another wayt0 break this boy. 
It would take only a little more work.
JoACH WALKED THE DREAM DESERT AGAIN. He STOOD NAKED UNDER THE
starless sky. Blood trailed his feeble steps across the sand. He teetered weak. 
Then a wave of coolness swept over his body. It was as if he dove again into the 
refreshing waters of Ooshal. The soothing energy spread through his body, 
centering upon his burning wrist and inflamed shoulder, a balm that washed away 
pain. He sighed in relief, lifting his arm to watch rent flesh seal to a smooth 
stump. Magick, he mumbled to the empty desert.
The desert answered. Dark magick. Can you tell one from the other?
Joach turned and found a familiar figure standing at his side. Shaman Parthus?
The elder was dressed in his usual red desert cloak, the hood tossed back. His 
eyes shone brightly. It is time you accepted your heritage.
What do you mean?
You are a shaper. A dream sculptor. If you are to live, you must accept your 
gift.
I dont under Joach suddenly gasped, folding over as pain again struck him, 
ripping into his chest.
The shaman did not move to aid him, but simply stood silently. Joach lifted his 
hand from his chest. Blood dripped from his fingers. He stared down to his bare 
skin and saw a rune slowly form, carved in fiery lines of pain. Glancing back 
up, he saw a new world overlap the dream desert. A small chamber appeared as a 
ghostly image. In this other world, his body was bound to a bed. He watched as 
Greshym, bent over his body, dragged a dagger along his chest, drawing the rune 
in his flesh.
Greshym seemed to sense Joachs attention and glanced up. So you wake, Joach? 
Good. I want you to watch this.
In the desert, Joach turned to Shaman Parthus. The tribesman and desert had 
grown just as insubstantial as the room. What is happening?
You are twixt the dream and the real, Joach, where only a sculptor can walk. I 
cant follow you there.
) A M
Greshym also seemed to have heard Joachs question. You ask vhats happening, 
my boy? Isnt it obvious? He lifted the bloody dagger. What wont be given 
willingly, Ill take by force. I mean to steal your spirit and twist it past any 
undoing. You will be mine forever.
As the darkmage returned to his work, Joach stared back at Shaman Parthus. Help 
me, he pleaded.
The image of the shaman faded further. I cant walk your path, Joach. Only you 
can do this. Parthus lifted an arm and pointed to the bloody trail he had left 
in the sand.
Joach stared at the bright stain.
Remember what I taught you, Parthus said. In the dream desert, what is 
figment can be given substance by your attention. Use this knowledge; tap into 
the power of your blood.
I dont know how to
The dreaming desert has called you. It is time you answered. The shamans form 
slowly dissipated. You go now where I cant follow.
Joach gazed around him. The dream desert seemed to glow brighter. 
Simultaneously, the room beyond grew more substantial. He watched as Greshym 
handed the dagger to the tall, pale figure of Master Belgan. In the corner, he 
spotted the crouched beast, licking its burned flank.
Even in his nose, the two worlds commingled: the dry stillness of the glowing 
desert mixed with the hint of burning tallow from the bedside candles. But one 
smell was shared by both worldsthe red scent of Joachs own spilled blood.
He stared again at the bloody sand. With the two worlds overlapped, the red 
trail seemed in both planes: dribbled both on the sand and across the floor of 
the chamber. A connection between the two worlds. Though he did not fully 
understand, he remembered the shamans words. He concentrated upon the blood, 
trying to make it more real. As he did so, he felt a bit of his spirit and 
strength drain out and fill the blood. The stain grew brighter and more 
substantial, the connection between the two worlds stronger. Joach began to 
sense the flows of power here. He could almost see the threads of magick twining 
out from his blood and into the sand. And as he stared further, these thin 
strands grew more substantial. But what did it mean?
Before he could ponder the mystery, a loud knock drew his attention back into 
the castle chamber. Someone pounded on the rooms door.
At his bedside, Greshym waved his hand, and Belgan called out gruffly. What do 
you want? Who disturbs us?
The rooms door creaked open, and a short, stocky man bowed his way into the 
room. Ive come to report that the outlanders have been chased off. Theyre 
retreating deep into the desert.
Belgan nodded. Thank you, Humph.
The mans eyes flicked toward Joach strapped to the bed. Greshym noticed his 
attention. Persuasion to make the young man reveal his secrets.
Humph nodded, wearing a sick expression. His eyes narrowed briefly as he turned 
away. He waved a hand, and a portly woman stepped into the room. She carried a 
wide tray in her arms, burdened with tankards of ale and plates of sliced meats 
and breads.
I thought you and your guest might like some food, Humph said. Mistress 
Shargyll has prepared a small dinner.
From the corner, the hunched beast lifted its head at the smell of roasted 
meats, still warm from the kitchens ovens. It shambled closer, snuffling.
The woman glanced to the creature, suddenly seeing it. Her eyes flew wide, and 
she shrieked, throwing her platter into the air. Food and ale flew high. She 
pulled out a small dagger and warded off the beast.
There is nothing to fear, Greshym said with thick irritation.
The woman glanced to the darkmage, all panic gone from her face, leaving only 
cunning. Yes, there is. The dagger flew from her fingers and pierced Greshyms 
left eye.
A long leather whip appeared in Humphs hand. As Greshym stumbled back from the 
dagger strike, Humph snapped his whip, wrapping its tip around the darkmages 
staff, and with a tug, ripped it from his fingers. The stave flew across the 
room to clatter against the far wall.
It had all happened in a heartbeat. Beside the bed, Master Belgan sagged, like a 
marionette with its strings cut. Wh-what is going on? he asked blearily.
Hope surged in Joachbut it did not last long.
Greshym straightened. He raised his hand, and the stolen staff flew back into 
his fingers. Energy surged along the gray woods length. Joach recognized the 
spell. Balefire.
Run! he croaked outbut he was caught between two worlds, unable to help those 
who had come to his aid.
Greshym pointed his staff, its end flaring with black flames.
No Joach moaned.
Then, from the curtain behind Greshyms back, a small figure glided out, moving 
so silently that not even the drapery rustled. It was Kesla. Joach caught a 
brief glimpse of an open window behind the curtain and a trailing rope outside. 
She ran with a dagger in each hand. Before Greshym could react, she struck him 
from behind, driving both daggers into his neck. Black blood surged from the 
wounds.
Kesla danced back, a cry on her lips. Her hands smoked where the darkmages 
blood had touched her skin.
Greshym whirled around, sweeping his staff toward Kesla. Dread energies coursed 
its length. Humph attacked with his whip, but when its leather touched the wood 
this time, its length was set aflame. Humph grunted in surprise, tossing his 
weapon aside as it burned to ash.
Joach watched in horror as the end of Greshyms staff bloomed into a black rose 
of darkfire. The daggers piercing the darkmages flesh fell away harmlessly. 
You will pay for that! Greshym screeched. Kesla backed to the wall, her hands 
curled painfully to her chest. Fire flared from the staffs end.
No! Without thought, Joach struck out instinctively, grabbing the threads of 
power in his veins. From the bloodstained sands of the dream desert, a colossal 
fist of sculpted sand shot upward, passing from this world to the next.
As balefire shot out of Greshyms staff, sandy fingers opened, and the large 
palm blocked the spew of deadly energies, absorbing it, growing more 
substantial. Its flow stanched, the sudden backlash of power threw the darkmage 
across the room.
Kesla, shocked and confused, remained sheltered behind the sculpted hand.
Greshym shared her expression as he rose from the floor. He slid along the wall 
until he was near his beastly pet. The darkmages single milky eye studied 
Joach, seeming to read the flows of power in the room, sensing the source. You 
are full of surprises, boy.
Joach, still twined to his power, birthed another fist of sand. He swept it 
toward Greshym and his foul pet, meaning to swat them from this world. But 
before it reached them, Greshym struck his staff on the stone floorand the 
beast and darkmage vanished in a whirl of oily blackness.
Words and laughter echoed out. This is not over, boy!
The dream fist slammed into the empty wall and blew into a shower of sand. The 
first hand, however, remained where it stood, now a sculpture in sandstone, 
sheltering Kesla.
Belgan collapsed toward the floor, no longer supported by magick. Humph and 
Shargyll rushed to his side while Kesla retrieved a dagger and sliced Joachs 
bonds.
She touched his cheek, her fingers cool on his hot skin.
You must get the boy out of here, Shargyll said. Join Parthus in the desert 
with the others.
How is Master Belgan? Kesla asked.
He lives but has been cruelly used. It will take time to return him to his 
wits. Until then you and the boy must not be found here.
Kesla nodded, her expression worried.
Humph stood, eyeballing the sandstone sculpture. Well go to the stables. Ill 
saddle up one of the malluks so you can travel swiftly.
Kesla gently wrapped Joach in the beds blanket. Ill need help with him. Hes 
still dazed.
Humph leaned over the bed and scooped up Joach and the blanket in strong arms. 
We must not tarry.
Kesla checked Joach and tugged up a corner of the blanket, but before drawing it 
over his face, she quickly leaned down. Thank you, she whispered in his ear, 
then kissed him on the cheek.
With the touch of her lips, Joach lost his hold on the real world. Consciousness 
faded. He drifted deeper into the dream desert again. As he did so, the sands 
grew brighter. The figure of Shaman Parthus reappeared in the sands at his side.
Youve done well, Joach, the elder said with a quiet smile of satisfaction. 
Now sleep.
But
Sleep. The road from here leads to the Southwall to Tular.
You must be rested. So sleep, sculptor.
Given permission, Joach let loose his control. The dream desert d the shaman 
faded around him. He fell into a deep slumber, where even dreams did not exist. 
Still, one memory swirled down
w;th him into the bottomless depths of his spirit: the brush of soft lips
on his skin.
STORM CASTLE

From the deck of the Sunchaser, Elena stared as the coastline appeared like an 
apparition out of the mists. A light rain fell, but she stood under an awning 
set up on the foredeck and was dressed warmly in a calfskin leather jacket 
trimmed in rabbit fur. Overhead, the weeping sky was a featureless gray that 
stretched forever, as it had for the past six days, covering both sun and stars. 
During these last days of the long journey over the Great Ocean, the only 
difference between day and night was a slight brightening in the gloom.
But at last their flight was almost at an end.
Ahead, the skies blew against a steep coastline, bunching up into dark 
thunderheads. Lightning crackled, but the storm was too distant for them to hear 
any thunder.
Still, the forks of lightning lit up the mist-shrouded cliffs of Gul-gotha. It 
was a formidable sight. Jagged rock faces were beset with an angry white surf, 
while cracked boulders churned in the waters like clashing seabeasts. No ship 
dared approach this place, let alone try to make landfall.
Earlier in the day, Elena had studied the map of Gulgotha with the others. 
Along this coastline there was only one safe port, far to the south: Banal, a 
trading port that made Port Rawl seem like a well-kept, civilized haven. But 
they would not be going there. With the elvin windship, they could land 
anywhere. Wennar, the dwarf battalions leader, had placed a thick finger on a 
mountainous region of the map, a good hundred leagues from the coast. We should 
go here, he had stated.
Why? Erril had asked with his usual sharp suspicion.
The thick-browed dwarf had grunted. Its our homelandand the birthplace of 
the Dark Lords reign. If you seek something of the blackest evil, it will be 
found there.
Without any better idea where to begin their search for the Manti-core Gate, 
they had agreed to start there. As Elena stared out at the storm-besieged 
cliffs, she remembered Cassa Dars old story of the Dark Lords appearance among 
the dwarves:
Five centuries ago, a troupe of deep miners discovered a vein of ore, leagues 
under our mountains. They had never seen such a stone: blacker than the darkest 
tunnel and impervious to any tool. Undaunted and determined to mine this vein, 
they used the kingdoms strongest hammer to attact the stone. They employed the 
Trysil, the Hammer of Thunder. Its magics-wrought iron was said to shatter any 
stone. And this claim proved true. The stone was mined and given the name ebon 
stone by its discoverers. At first, it was greatly treasured: every Dwarf Lord 
lusted to wort a piece, to prove his skill at fashioning the new ore. Bowls, 
cups, plates, swords, even statues were carved from the material. But then the 
stone began to warp and bind the dwarves in ways they did not understand. The 
lands, too, began to sicken and poison. Volcanoes grew, and the ground 
constantly shook; Gases and ash soured the skies. Poisonous beasts, the 
mulgothra and skaltum, began to appear from pits deep under the mountains. The 
Dart Lord arose among our people, almost as if out of the bowels of the land. 
Some said the Black Heart was a dwarf, succumbed to the stones blacky magick, 
while others said he came from the stone itself, released by our miners from an 
ebonstone tomb. No one knew for sure.
Though dressed warmly in leathers and woolens, Elena shivered at the thought of 
where they must travel nextinto the heart of Gulgotha, into the heart of this 
ancient mystery. Who was the Dark Lord of the Gulgotha? Where had the demon 
truly come from? Cassa Dars final words echoed in her head: No one knew for 
sure
As Elena frowned at the broken coastline, a voice spoke behind her. You should 
go below. We will be upon the storm soon.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Tolchuk crouched nearby. How long had he 
been there? For such a hulking creature, he could move as silently as a mouse 
sometimes. He leaned on one knuckle of his thick right arm, bent to peer under 
the awning. In the open, the rain had soaked the ridge of fur along his bowed 
back and dripped down the thousand crevices of his face and body. He appeared 
like a weathered mountain worn down by the rain. The only part of him that did 
not seem carved of rock was his large eyes, glowing a warm amber in concern for 
her.
She smiled at his worry and touched his damp shoulder with a gloved hand. When 
they had first met, his monstrous appearance had frightened her, but over time, 
she could no longer see the monster, just the large heart and undying loyalty. 
I think the storm is the least of our concerns in the days ahead, she said 
softly. But I appreciate your worry. Ill go down below in a moment. I just 
wanted to see Gulgotha with my own eyes.
He nodded, peering over her shoulder. It be not a welcome sight.
Elena saw Tolchuk touch his thigh pouch that hid the jeweled Heart of his 
people. She moved a step closer to him, bringing her arm around his thicker one. 
We will not leave here until both our missions are finished. This I promise. If 
theres a Gate here, well destroy it. And if theres a way to rid your people 
of the Bane, well find it.
A deep rumble flowed from the giant. Though it was wordless, Elena heard the 
thanks in his tone. They stood silently for a few moments more, then Tolchuk 
spoke. I dont think it be mere luck that our paths go the same way now.
What do you mean?
The Heart first guided me to you. I believe both our paths will end at the same 
place. He stared out toward Gulgotha. Wherever the Manticore Gate be hidden, 
it be there that all answers will come.
Elena nodded. I believe youre right. She frowned once more toward the coming 
storm. Thunder finally rumbled out to them, as if trying to ward them off. She 
wished she could mind the storms warning but knew she could not. She turned 
from the sight. Im ready to return below. Lets keep warm while we still can.
Tolchuk grunted and swung around. He led the way, sheltering her somewhat from 
the sting of the cold rain.
As Elena followed, she pondered the twining lines of fate. The Bane, the 
Weirgate, the birthplace of the Black Heart, the homeland of the dwarveshow 
did they all weave together?
Once again, Cassa Dars words echoed to her.
No one tnewfor sure
Elena glanced briefly over a shoulder before ducking through the hatch held open 
by Tolchuk. On this path, answers to these mysteries would be discoveredof 
this she was sure. But she shivered as a bigger question loomed: Would they be 
strong enough to face those answers?
Queen Tratal watched the fiery-haired woman descend into the bowels of the 
Sunchaser. Neither the woman nor her large companion had been aware of the 
queens presence. Aboard the ship, Tratal could move unseen whenever and 
wherever she wanted. Wisps of energy still traced her figure, casting a heavy 
mist that hid her from others eyes without clouding her own vision. She walked 
from her position by the stern rail. One hand trailed along the wood, caressing 
it like a lover brushing a sweethearts cheek.
Alone, except for a lone sentry in the crows nest atop the central mast, Tratal 
extended her senses into the ship. She made sure the woman was gone, feeling 
Elenas footsteps on a lower deck ladder. The witch soon joined the others 
gathered in the galley.
Good
She dropped her cloak of mists and stared ahead, past the ships bow. No one had 
seemed to sense the falseness to the tempest hovering at the coastline. She 
signaled the elvin sailor in the crows nest. He nodded back to her. All was in 
readiness.
Tratal faced forward. Along the bow of the ship, elemental energies crackled 
brightly as she tapped into the power of the storm ahead. A nimbus of 
silver-white hair plumed about her slender face as the magicks swelled in her. 
She lifted her arms, sighing in the play of wind and power. Sails swelled. 
Tratal aimed for the heart of the storm, a hard smile fixed on her face. In the 
gray light, her skin was carved ice, her eyes imbedded jewels of azure.
Show yourself, she wind-spoke to the heavy clouds that hung above the 
storm-lashed cliffs ahead. It is time! Her words were borne on gusts of winds.
Near the coast, the mists slowly blew apart and a bank of angry
James Llemens clouds opened. A fleet of a dozen small sky-cutters broke free and 
swept forward like a flight of angry bees. Energy crackled along their black 
keels, stabbing downward in dazzling bolts of lightning. The swift warships 
split into two waves, diving to circle the larger flagship.
Whispers in the wind carried greetings and acknowledgment from each of the 
cutters elvin captains. They sounded their readiness.
Then let it begin, Queen Tratal commanded. She sent more energies out into the 
false storm.
The black length of cloud swirled, and a passage opened through the middle of 
the storm. The small cutters, now flanking the larger ship, escorted it toward 
the roiling tunnel in the tempest. Far ahead, buried in the clouds and lit by 
flickers of lightning, she spotted familiar fortresses and battlements.
Queen Tratal smiled. For the past moon, Elena had refused to abandon this petty 
war and accept her true heritage and bloodline. Even her own son Meric had 
foolishly been swayed to the passions of these mud dwellers. But Queen Tratal 
was not so easily persuaded. She knew her duties to the past and future of her 
people. The bloodline of their lost king would not be lost again. It would be 
returned to its rightful place. What did the squabbling of land-bound nations 
concern the elvin? They had flown above such fighting and wars for countless 
centuries.
Still, her attempts at convincing Elena had been another matter. The witch had 
proven to be obstinate and headstrong. But there were other ways to turn a 
stubborn wind. If Elena would not travel willingly to the elvin kingdom, then 
the kingdom would be brought to her.
The Sunchaser swept down into the long stormy tunnel, flanked by the cutters 
that assisted her in keeping the tempest at bay. Lightning flared in bright 
glows along the passages walls. Ahead, at the end of the tunnel, massive wooden 
gates swung open. Bright, clear sunlight flowed out into the passage from the 
heart of the elvins sky fortress.
As they neared the open gates, the lead cutters captain announced the return of 
their queen. Almost lost in the rumbling thunder of the storm, trumpets blared. 
Tratals keen ears picked up the triumphant greeting. The head captain turned 
his attention back to the
Sunchaser. His words were bold on the winds. Welcome, Queen Tratal. Welcome 
back to Stormhaven.
As the city in the sky opened before her, she smiled, like ice finally breaking 
with the coming spring. It was good to be home again.
Stormhaven.
The elvin citadel floated atop this unnatural storm, hidden from below, open to 
the bare sky above. For centuries, the city had flown over the worlds seas and 
islands, oceans and landsjust an unexpected gale passing overhead. None were 
aware of what rode atop this tempest. For an endless time, none but the elvin 
had ever set eyes upon the ancient citadel. Until now.
Upon first learning of Elenas intent to leave Aloa Glen, Trata1 had sent word 
by hawk to Stormhaven, ordering the citadels keepers to fly the fortress to the 
monstrous cliffs of Gulgotha. All was going as she had ordered. Before any of 
the others grew wise, the Sunchaser would be docked at Stormhavenand at long 
last, the ancient kings bloodline would be rejoined to her own.
Queen Tratal whispered her own greeting to the girl below. Welcome home, Elena. 
Welcome to your true home.
Erril barely noticed as the rumbling thunder grew worse. The planks under his 
feet trembled with each roar. Ignoring the storm, he remained intent on the map 
spread atop the galley table. He had borrowed the browned and weathered 
parchment from the libraries back at Aloa Glen. His eyes ran over the old 
names, many unreadable, the colored inks faded to blurs by age.
The lands of Gulgotha.
Across from him, the captain of the dwarves, Wennar, hunched just as raptly. 
The craggy-faced dwarf poked a thick finger at a mountain. We can land on the 
slopes of the southern side of Mount Gallmanor. There is an old trail that winds 
around its flank and into our homeland valleys. It should allow us to approach 
the region in secret.
Why could we not just fly directly into your lands? Elena asked. She stood by 
the hearth, warming her hands. Her hair still dripped and clung to her face. I 
thought the mines and townships of your people were long abandoned. i
Wennar glanced to her from under heavy brows. They were abandoned by dwarves. 
But they are not uninhabited. Ive heard tales of the diseased creatures and 
awful rites that are still performed there, fouling our lands. To explore, we 
must move swiftly and attract no unwanted attention. He tapped the map. This 
is an old hunting trail. Few should be watching it.
Erril nodded. As much as he distrusted this dwarf, he could not fault his 
plan. It seemed sound. If anything lurked in the mines and valleys of the dwarf 
homelands, a more cautious approach was warranted. I think we should consider 
Wennars plan. In fact
Rrrippp
Erril turned to see the little tamrink, Tikal, snatch up a torn corner of the 
map and pop it into his mouth. The furry beast chewed its stolen prize with much 
gusto. Erril swung a backhand at it, but Tikal went hopping away. It dodged 
around the crouched figure of Tolchuk and scrambled toward its keeper.
Tikal!  Mama Freda scolded with a snort. The old woman, who had been drowsing 
in the chair, pushed up. She scooped the fiery-furred tamrink and settled it 
into the crook of her arm. Her sightless face turned to Erril. Im sorry. Hes 
unduly agitated right now.
An explosion of thunder rattled through the ships bones.
Im not surprised, Elena said, her eyes glinting with worry. The storm along 
the coast is piled high and dark.
Erril returned to his study of the map. Queen Tratal will get us through 
safely. She said the storm is of no concern.
Mama Freda cleared her throat as Tikal whined in her arms. I dont know. She 
cocked her head. Tikal mimicked her. Something sounds wrong with this storm.
What do you mean? Erril grumbled, instantly suspicious.
The old healer simply shook her head.
Tolchuk stirred, eyes slowly opening. I should go and check.
No need, Mama Freda said. Tikal is faster. She bowed her face toward her 
pet, and Tikal jumped from her lap. The tiny tamrink scrambled out the door, 
running on all fours, a flash of fur.
Erril straightened from the map table. The others stood silently.
Mama Freda tugged her black shawl tighter about her shoulders. Tikal has 
reached the middeck. Her lips pursed as she concentrated. The winds are 
strong. Angry black clouds surround the ship on all sides. The sky is afire with 
lightning.
To punctuate her words, a new volley of rumbling thunder echoed through the 
ship.
But but the light is wrong. Its too bright. Tikal is climbing the rigging to 
get a better view. I see Queen Tratal. Shes at the stern, full of power and 
crackling energy. She stretches for the sky, her toes barely touching the 
planks.
Mama Freda suddenly sat up straighten
What is it? Elena asked.
Other ships I see smaller boats flanking ours.
Erril moved forward, a hand shifting to the hilt of his silver sword. 
Attackers?
I dont think so. With Tikals keen eyes, I can spot elvin in the other ships 
riggings.
Elvin? Erril scowled. From where?
Mama Freda frowned, holding up a hand. The light Sweet Mother, theres 
sunlight ahead! She burst to her feet, wobbling in her blindness, her vision 
fixed elsewhere. Elena hurried forward to steady the eyeless healer. A city! 
Theres a city in the storm!
Erril unsheathed his sword and moved toward the door. Weve been betrayed! 
Elena made a move to follow him, but he placed a restraining hand on her arm. 
Stay here with Mama Freda. Tolchuk and I will go and investigate. He turned 
to the blind elder. Mama Freda, keep your pets eyes atop the deck. Watch and 
be ready if theres trouble.
Elena yanked off one of her gloves, then grabbed her witch dagger. The small 
blade flashed in the lamplight.
Erril blocked her dagger. Be cautious with your magick. Even you cant fly if 
the boat is burned out from under you.
She slipped her hand free of his, then flicked her blade across each fingertip. 
Dont worry, Erril. Blood turned to tendrils of fire, rising from her 
fingers. He watched as she wove the flames into a rose burning in her palm. She 
stared tightly at him, her eyes bright with power. The ship wont burn.
Errils eyebrows rose at Elenas mastery of her magick. With a nod, he swung to 
Tolchuk, who waited at the doorway.
Behind him, Mama Freda spoke urgently. We fly toward the citys gates. Hurry.
Erril raced up the steps, taking them two at a time. Tolchuk fol-lowed. Erril 
burst out the door to the middeck, sword raised. The shock of the sight awaiting 
him stumbled his feet.
Catching himself, he gaped at the spectacle. All about the ship, angry black 
clouds roiled, lit from within by flashes of lightning. Thunder rolled 
everywhere, and distantly he thought he heard the blare of hundreds of trumpets. 
But all this was nothing compared to the sight beyond the Sunchasert bow.
Massive gates of wood towered a quarter league high into the sky. They lay open 
on a wondrous sight. Beyond the gates lay a vast sunlit city, resting atop the 
storm itself. Above the roofs and towers, the late afternoon sun hung clear, 
shining down upon this city in the clouds.
Just beyond the walls lay a wide open space, a sheltered bay, where wooden docks 
and piers protruded into the air above roiling storm clouds. Erril spotted 
other ships moored there, of all shapes and sizes: sleek cutters, thick-bellied 
supply ships, even fanciful boats shaped like swans and eagles. Beyond the 
ports docks, wooden buildings and shops climbed the clouds, spreading to the 
horizon. Some had chimneys leaking thin streams of smoke; others had small faces 
peering from windows. But all were brightly colored, like the plumage of a 
peacock. Instead of stone streets or muddy tracks, complex bridges and wooden 
spans connected the buildings together in a maze of rope and wood. Higher on the 
cloudy slopes, larger homes, towers, and steeples poked toward the sunny skies 
as the city spread far and wide.
But all this was dwarfed by the lofty castle in the citys center, its walls of 
solid iron glowing bright with the energy of the storm below. Beyond the wall, 
the central keeps score of towers climbed to impossible heights. Clustered 
tight together, they appeared not unlike a gathered bunch of reeds.
Tolchuk stepped to Errils side, neck stretched as he gawked at the wonder. By 
now, elvin sailors appeared from hatches and doors. Ignoring Erril and 
Tolchuk, they swarmed up into the rigging and began to reef the sails.
Erril turned away. He could guess the name of the sky city they approached: 
Stormhaven. In the past, he had heard Meric speak of the elvin citadel in the 
sky. But what he did not understand was what the city was doing here, and why 
they were flying through its gates. Errils face hardened to granite. He knew 
one person who held these answers.
Come on, Erril ordered. He led the way to the ladder up to the stern deck. 
Mama Freda had mentioned seeing Queen Tratal near the stern rail. The old woman 
was not wrong. As Erril clambered to the deck, he spotted the elvin queen 
framed in crackles of blue energies, her arms raised high. Her silver-white hair 
was an angry cloud about her upturned face.
Tratal! Erril barked. What deceit is this? The womans gaze slowly lowered 
from the skies. Her eyes flashed with lightning. I will take the witch to her 
true throne. Her blood will unite the elvins past with its future. It is time 
Elena put aside her mud-wallowing, to accept her true heritage.
Erril kept his sword in hand. I wont allow you to kidnap her. Queen Tratals 
heels settled to the planks as she lowered her hands. And what do you think you 
can do? She waved an arm as the Sunchaser swept through the gates, flanked by 
its escorts. Our home flies leagues above the world. Beyond our walls lies only 
death. There is no escape.
Erril considered her words. In truth, there was no way down from the clouds 
without the cooperation of the elvin. They were all dependent on their hosts 
good graces. Still, over the centuries, Erril had learned that anothers 
cooperation could often be bought at the point of a sword. He stepped forward, 
sword raised. With a queen as hostage
Tratal snapped her fingers, and a small bolt of lightning lanced from the 
energies about the ship. The blinding bolt struck Errils sword and burned it 
from his hand.
Erril gasped and shook away the burn. His sword clattered at his feet. Tolchuk 
rumbled in menace, but Erril held him back.
Queen Tratal remained ice. Retrieve your sword, plainsman. She turned her back 
on him, unconcerned by any threat he could offer. It is time you accepted your 
fate as well.
Erril collected his sword. He held it a moment, then shoved it back into its 
sheath. Elena will never cooperate with you.
Tratal swung around, leaning against the rail, oblivious to the energies racing 
along the wood. She will when the fate of her dear friends is held hostage 
against her goodwill. She is a smart girl. Here all the wild magick in the world 
will not free her, only get you all killed.
Erril opened his mouth to argue, but he found no words. Elena would fight this 
imprisonmentbut not at the cost of all their lives. Tratal was most correct. 
They were caught snugly in her icy web.
Cursing his blind trust, Erril stared at the spread of Stormhaven as the 
flagship swept toward the docks. The vast elvin city glowed under the golden 
sunlight. Already hundreds of residents flowed along bridges and appeared waving 
at windows. All had come to cheer the return of their queen. Trumpets blared, 
and drums began to beat cheerily. Several banners waved, bearing the sigil of an 
azure eagle against a silver background.
Behind them, the mighty gates swung slowly closed, shutting out the storm 
beyond, cutting off any means of escape.
A handsome city, is it not? Queen Tratal asked airily.
Erril frowned at the bright citadel. Its as pretty a prison as Ive ever 
seen.
Elena followed the others along the wide bridge spanning the length of 
Stormhaven. Queen Tratal led the way, borne in a draped litter floating above 
the bridge. Energy crackled along the small vessels iron runners. The lithe 
woman lifted an arm and waved to her people as flower petals floated and swirled 
in the air, tossed from windows and doorways, scenting the thin air in sweet 
fragrances. Voices were raised in welcoming cheers, well-wishes, and song. 
Tratal acknowledged them all, nodding and waving.
Elena scowled at the spectacle. Upon disembarking the Sunchaser, Tratal had 
invited Elena to accompany her aboard the cushioned litter, but Elena had 
refused. Ill walk with the other prisoners, she had said coldly. Tratal had 
merely shrugged and climbed into the high seat.
Upon first hearing of her imprisonment, Elenas initial instinct had been to 
strike out, ripe with coldfire and witchfire. Who dared stand in her way? But 
Erril had talked her down from her sharp fury. Hers was a power of destruction 
and the laying of waste. Here, her magick would only lead to a tumbling death. 
Mama Freda had agreed with Erril, insisting that time and wise words might win, 
where sword and fiery magick failed. Elena had finally forced her bright anger 
down to a tight-lipped glower.- With no other choice, she accepted her fatefor 
now. But as the parade led to the royal keep, Elena silently promised herself to 
find a way out of this gilded birdcage. The fate of Alasea depended on it.
Erril marched at her side, keeping a watch on windows and doorways as they 
passed. Wennar and Mama Freda marched behind, flanked by a half dozen elvin 
swordsmen. Tolchuk and the other six dwarves of their party remained 
imprisoned aboard the Sunchaser, ransomed against their good behavior.
So the group marched sullenly toward the spired citadel across the vast city. To 
either side, carefully crafted homes and shops lined the way. Lintels and beams 
were ornately carved. Windows were filled with colored glass. Everywhere Elena 
looked, the skills of the elvin artisans were evident. The city was one 
extensive work of sculpted art. As much as her kidnapping rankled, she could not 
dismiss the wonder of the place.
Children, barefoot and dressed in motley colors, danced on the ropes and thin 
spans bridging the skies. They raced and launched kites in various shapes and 
sizes, all creatures of the air, their shapes and colors both real and fanciful: 
sharp-eyed eagles, black-winged crows, osprey, terns, bats, butterflies, even 
colored clouds. The hues and shimmers flared in the bright sky, shining as 
brightly as the childrens songs and laughter.
Unbidden, a smile came to Elenas lips. One bold child ran up to her, dodging 
easily around Errils attempt to wave him off; he could be no older than five 
winters. He ran beside her, matching her stride, staring up at her with large 
blue eyes, his hair an unkempt gale of white-blond hair. You dont look like a 
king, he said with a small frown. Papa says youre a king. Kings are supposed 
to be boys.
Im not a king, little one, she said with an amused grin. Just the grandchild 
of your ancient king.
He studied her with narrowed eyes, his mouth crooked as he pondered her words. 
You still dont look like no king, he finally concluded, but he offered her 
his hand to take anyway. She accepted it. How could she refuse? He leaned a bit 
toward her, his eyes peeking past to Ernl. Papa says when I turn six, hes 
gonna get me a sword for my birthingday party. Then Ill guard you instead of 
him.
I would be honored, little knight.
He nodded, satisfied with his future assignment. After a bit, he waved her down 
closer and kissed her quickly on the cheek. With his prize won, he ran away on 
light feet, singing at the top of his lungs. I kissed the king! I kissed the 
king!
Smiling, Elena watched other children converge on him to hear his exciting tale. 
It seemed young ones were the same the world round. By now her mood had greatly 
improved. Still, she only had to look down to be reminded of her prison.
Underfoot, the bridge was composed of slats of white ash. Each iron bolt in the 
wood glowed with the magick of the elvinmagick keeping it afloat above the 
endless fall. Elena could smell the magick thick in the airor was it just the 
scent of lightning? Below, between the slats, the storm roiled like a raging 
torrent. Lightning flared deep in its heart, thunder a constant rumble.
Wennar moved up to her side. Gulgotha lies below.
How do you know? she asked.
Wennar pointed to the north. Elena turned. Between a slate-roofed cobblers shop 
and a two-story chandlery, the view of the skies opened to the storm beyond the 
citys towering walls. Thunderclouds churned and swirled. But this was not the 
sight that the dwarf leader indicated. Up from the whorling bank of black 
clouds, a solitary peak protruded, an island of steep cliffs and flinty outcrops 
riding an angry sea.
The Anvil, Wennar said. Its a sacred mountain to our people. It is said in 
our histories that upon this peak, the first of our people were forged by the 
gods hammers.
Elena nodded. The peaks flat summit did indeed appear like a giants blacksmith 
anvil. She watched as the storm swept up its slopes, the clouds trying to swamp 
the island in the sky. Were adrift, Elena mumbled. She sensed no movement, 
but as she stared, the storm rode past the giant mountain. Stormhaven was on the 
move, passing over Gulgotha.
Erril moved closer. How far are we from the coast?
A half dozen leagues, Id say.
And how far from your homeland valley?
A ten-day march. Fifty leagues or so.
As they continued following the queens litter, the view vanished behind a blue 
house trimmed in silver. Six leagues from the coast? The storm moved swiftly.
Erril grumbled. Then well be over your valleys by morning.
And well beyond after that, Wennar added quietly.
Erril glanced to Elena, his expression hard. She understood what was left 
unspoken. They must escape this very night, or they would be lost forever.
Elena, her chest tight with worry, stared down between her boots. Deep in the 
whirling darkness, lightning lit the heart of the storm. How did one escape a 
prison in the sky? For the hundredth time, she wished she could consult her Aunt 
Fila and Cho. But the Blood Diary had been confiscated along with the Trysil, 
the Hammer of Thunder. Not that the book would be any help. The moon would not 
grow full for several days. She would find only blank pages if she opened it 
now.
As Wennar slipped back behind, Mama Freda took his place at Elenas side. I 
heard what the dwarf said, the old healer whispered. It leaves us little time 
to sway these cold-blooded sky dwellers.
If we cant sway them, Elena said hotly, Ill burn their city from the sky.
Mama Freda glanced over at her. Though the lack of eyes made the womans 
expression difficult to read at times, now the healers shock was etched in 
every wrinkle. Youd kill the boy who came a moment ago stealing a kiss.
Elena lowered her face with shame.
Erril answered. Elvin only respect strength. Innocents are often killed in 
war.
Perhaps. Mama Fredas next words were for Elena. But can you slay them with 
your own hand, not accidentally, but willfully and with forethought?
Elena tightened her fingers into frustrated fists. No, she finally sighed. 
No, I cant.
Good. I feared perhaps that I was aiding the wrong side in this war.
It was just my anger speaking.
Mama Freda nodded and touched Elenas shoulder. Then heed me a moment, lass. 
There are ways to play this that dont require fire and death.
What do you mean?
Tikal allows me to see and hear much that others would not wish known.
Erril stepped closer to Elenas side, half huddling. What have you learned?
As we were off-loading from the Sunchaser, I overheard some sailors speaking 
privately. Rumors say that Elena will be forced to wed an elvin prince as the 
moon rises tonight. Her bridemate will be announced at a feast with the suns 
setting.
Elena was aghast. Married? I will never! Ill refuse. Mama Freda nodded. I 
suspect that our lives and continued comfort will depend upon you acquiescing. 
Even words of marriage spoken under duress are recognized by the elvin. 
Elenas feet stumbled.
And this very night, they will take your maidenhead upon your marriage bedby 
force if necessary.
Elena grew cold. Though she had already flowered as a woman and her moons blood 
marked her old enough to be wedded, the thought of lying with a man terrified 
her more than any illguard demon. With her bodys spellcast maturation, she 
understood the needs of a woman. And her own mother had explained the ways of 
men and women when she was much younger. In fact, she had once practiced kissing 
with a farmhand from the Nickleburry ranch. But to bed a man? Someone she did 
not know? A stranger? I will not allow this, Erril said with an icy menace. 
Mama Freda nodded. I didnt expect you would. But these elvin mean to reclaim 
their ancient kings lineage, to rejoin the royal lines. Elena found her voice 
again, but her words cracked. Y-you hinted of a way out of this trap.
As I was saying, these sailors were talkative, and their blood was up with 
their return to Stormhaven. It seems your looks and charms have not gone 
unnoticed by the men in the rigging. One of the sailors seemed especially 
captivated by you. With a coarse laugh, he suggested challenging your bridemate 
by rite oiryth lor. What is that? Erril asked.
I asked my cabin boy as he was helping me from my room. Ryth lor translates as 
hearts blood in the high elvin tongue. A suitor for a womans hand can be 
challenged by another. A trial by combat. The victor wins the hand and no other 
can contest it.
Erril touched his sword hilt. Then I will challenge this queens man.
It is not as easy as that. The challenger must fight the potential suitor with 
his bare hands. The suitor is under no such restraint. He will be armed with a 
ceremonial sword and dagger.
The plainsmans expression hardened. I will still challenge.
Of course you will and most likely die.
Elena shook her head. You must not, Erril.
And even if you succeed, you will be forced to take your suitors place. You 
must marry Elena within the day of the challenge.
Erril and Elena glanced at each other. Even in the chill air, her face flushed 
warmly. His own eyes seemed a mix of confused emotions.
Erril cleared his throat. If I must, I must.
I I still dont see how this will help us, Elena mumbled.
Upon your marriage kiss, Erril can make one request of the suitors family. A 
dowry, so to speak, for the stolen bride. Mama Freda glanced significantly at 
them. It cannot be refused.
Elena understood almost immediately. Erril could ask that we be let go.
Exactly. What cannot be won in war can be gained by love.
But would they honor this tradition? Erril grumbled.
I believe so. Even though theyd take Elena by force to gain her bloodline, 
they are still a people of tradition and strict law. If the challenge is made, 
it must be honored. If they broke their code in order to father a kings child 
from Elena, the Blood would be tainted no more than a bastard child. No, I 
believe they must bow to the challenge of ryth lor.
Elena turned to Erril. Then it must be attempted.
She glanced up to her knight. Deep inside her, something more than hope swelled 
in her heart. She fought tears, remembering a dance atop a tower roof, arm in 
arm, the brush of his cheek on hers. No words had been shared during that long 
nightbut it did not always take words to speak ones heart.
It will be a hard fight, Mama Freda warned.
I will succeed. The plainsmans gray eyes never left hers. His words were 
hushed. I will win Elena.
Mama Freda nodded. Then there is only one other item you must know.
What?
, Lt Mt N S
Before the suitors family honors your request, you must prove your marriage.
Prove our marriage? Elena broke her gaze from Erril. What does that mean?
Mama Freda stared forward, her expression unreadable. Before we are freed, 
Erril must take your maidenhood himself.
Erril stared as Elena was led into the feast hall. She was a beauty in green 
velvet. Her gown flowed in draperies and trains, held aloft by a pair of young 
girls in matching velvet as she stepped down the stairs and into the hall. Her 
hair was woven into a sweep atop her head, held in place by a fine net of silver 
filigree, fiery with diamonds. At her appearance, polite applause rose from the 
nobles gathered to either side of the hall.
She was led into the room by the queen herself. Queen Tratal was a cloud of silk 
laced with gold filaments. In her arms rested a scepter of red iron shaped like 
a lightning bolt, as stark and unforgiving as the one who cradled it. As she 
moved, traceries of azure energies danced along the scepters length.
Queen Tratal crossed the great hall. To either side, tables were decorated with 
rose petals amid settings of crystal and porcelain. Overhead, the vaulted beams 
were festooned with flowering vines. Serving staff waited in doorways laden with 
wine bottles and trays. Smells of the kitchens wafted up from the hearths below. 
The hall held its breath for the feast and celebration to begin.
On the rooms far side, atop a raised dais, Erril stood with Mama Freda and 
Wennar at the main table. Each of them had also been bathed, perfumed, and 
dressed in fineries. As Erril stood, waiting for the long procession of 
courtiers to file in after Elena and the queen, he tugged at his gray jacket and 
ruffled linen shirt, both a bit too snug for his wide plainsman shoulders.
Elena and Queen Tratal wound through the room and up the three stairs to join 
them atop the dais. The elvin queen took her place at a delicate throne of 
silver, cushioned with midnight blue pillows. Elena followed to take the chair 
at the queens right side, a matching throne but with more stern lines, clearly 
the kings seat. She settled into it uncomfortably. Erril and the others were 
positioned a dozen chairs away on Elenas wing of the table.
Erril caught Elenas attention as she sat down. Her green eyes, flecked with 
gold, showed clearly that she was scared and worried, but he noted the core of 
determination behind her gaze, too. She nodded to him, then turned back as the 
queen began to address the gathered audience.
This is a fateful day. Queen Tratals words were softly spoken but carried 
easily across the wide room. Since our banishment from the shores of our 
ancient homelands, we have only been half a people. Our ancient king, King 
Belanon, was stolen from ushis wisdom, guidance, and love were lost in the mix 
of blood down the ages. And though weve grown beyond the need for grubbing the 
land and instead fashion castles in the sky, we can never forget what was stolen 
from us, what is ours by right of blood and heritage.
Queen Tratal motioned for Elena to stand. She obeyed, gliding to her feet. 
Though King Belarions bloodline was mixed with that of commoners, the iron in 
the royal blood can never be fully vanquished. Here stands the vessel for the 
return of our king. From her womb, King Belarion will be reborn to his people. 
Queen Tratal reached and lifted a slender glass of white wine. Long live the 
king!
Across the hall, celebrants raised their own glasses. The queens words were 
carried and echoed across the room. Long live the hjngl
Erril scowled and was prodded from behind by a guard to take up his own glass. 
He downed his glass of wine in one gulp and slammed it back down upon the table, 
shattering the stem of the goblet. No one noticed. They were all too focused on 
the central dais. Only Mama Freda placed a restraining hand upon his elbow, 
cautioning him to be patient. Earlier, she had explained the details of rhyth 
lor. He could only make his challenge after Elenas bridemate had been 
namedthen he must state his own claim before the suitor sealed the engagement 
with a kiss upon Elenas cheek. After this gesture, no challenge could be made 
or accepted.
As the hall grew quiet again, Queen Tratal continued her speech.
On this auspicious night, with the moon silvering bright in the twilight skies, 
I will now seal the two halves of our people. With all here as witness, let it 
be known that Elena Morinstal will be wed this night to my own sisters first 
son, Prince Typhon.
It was a well-rehearsed act. A tall slender man stood to the queens left. There 
was no surprise on his dour face, nor delight. He wore a sickly pained 
expression as he lifted an arm in acknowledgment. He looked as if he were about 
to be fed naked to a pack of sniffers. Erril noted how a small-boned woman on 
his left touched his hand as he stood. Her eyes were full of regret and sorrow. 
He gave her fingers the barest squeeze, then released them. It seemed the prince 
had already given his heart to another. But with the royal princes spread 
thinMeric off to the Northwall, Richald off to the Souththe burden of uniting 
the two elvin houses had fallen upon this young mans shoulders.
I accept this offered hand of marriage, he said formally. And will fill it 
with mine own.
Queen Tratal lifted her iron scepter, which scintillated with energy. Let the 
offer be bound with a kiss so all may see the claim sealed. Then as the moon 
reaches its zenith, we will join these two in marriage. And by the dawns light 
tomorrow, our two halves will be made whole upon their marriage bed.
Her words were greeted with more cheering. Prince Typhon slipped around his 
chair and stepped behind the queens throne toward where Elena stood stiffly, 
her eyes wide and glassy. Mama Freda nudged Erril. Now was the time. Around the 
hall, the celebrants grew quiet, anticipating the kiss to come. Prince Typhon 
reached to Elenas gloved hand. The tall man leaned toward her cheek.
Before his lips could touch, Erril pounded his fist upon the hardwood table. 
Porcelain rattled, and wine spilled from neighboring cups. The crack of his 
knuckles echoed across the room. Gazes swung in his direction. Half bent toward 
Elena, Typhon glanced his way.
By rite ofryth lor Erril bellowed, I challenge this suitor for Elenas 
hand.
The low murmur in the hall went deathly quiet. Prince Typhon straightened, 
bewilderment in his eyes, but there was no confusion in Queen Tratals gaze. 
Even from a dozen seats away, Erril felt the icy chill from the elvin leader. 
Tratals face was a mask of anger.
You have no right to claim ryth lor. It is elvin law and does not apply to 
common folk of the lands below.
Erril was ready for this response. He had discussed the details at length with 
Mama Freda. It is not your choice to deny my claim or not. Only the woman to be 
betrothed can dismiss the challenge and deny the claimant. Erril swung his 
gaze to Elena. And by your own word, Elena is of elvin heritage, so by your 
own elvin law, she can make this judgment.
Erril noted Elena shift her feet and turn to face the queen. Though Elenas 
eyes glinted nervously, her words were hard and firm. I accept the challenge 
for my hand by Erril of Standi.
By now, the queens scepter spat tiny bolts of energy. Her thin lips had drained 
of color. She was trapped by her own laws and customs. Elena may choose to 
accept the challenge, but I have the right to decide how the outcome will be 
judged.
Erril glanced to Mama Freda. She shrugged, equally in the dark about this 
statement.
As ruler of Stormhaven, I declare that this challenge must be won only by 
blood. It will be a fight to the death.
Gasps arose from the gathered throng. Even Erril was taken aback by this turn 
of events. According to Mama Freda, the victor in the challenge merely had to 
make the other combatant submit, not kill him.
By our oldest law, from the time of King Belarion himself, ryth lor was 
decided by blood. So to win the hand of the kings heritage, I claim the old 
rites be followed. Only death will settle this claim. Queen Tratal turned to 
Elena. Do you still accept this challenge?
Elenas face had paled with the queens words. She glanced up to Prince Typhon. 
He was young, lithe, and quick-eyed. Armed with a sword and dagger, the young 
elvin lord would prove a formidable opponent. Even the prince looked little 
concerned about the challenge, his arms crossed, his face calm.
Only the young elvin woman on the queens side mirrored Elenas expression. 
Both women were frightened for their men.
Do you accept Erril of Standis claim for your hand? Tratal repeated, a tiny 
smile beginning to form on her cold lips.
VJ Alt
Elena turned to Erril, her face pained and terrified. Make your choice, the 
queen demanded!
Tolchuk sat in the galley of the Sunchaser. He was alone except for a single 
dwarf who worked at the small stone oven. Magnam was one of the smallest of the 
ten dwarf warriors. To him fell the more menial chores, like cooking their 
meals. But he did not seem to mind. He stirred a pot of stew with a long wooden 
ladle, a soft song bubbling from his lips. The language was unknown to Tolchuk, 
but the deep tone and slow cadence whispered of old loss and ancient sorrows. It 
spoke to Tolchuks own spirit.
Atop the table, the large chunk of heartstone glowed mutely, merely reflecting 
the small flames from the galleys hearth. The shade of his father had told him 
he must take the Heart of his people back to where it was first minedto 
Gulgotha. But now they were all prisoners in the clouds. How could he hope to 
complete his journey? Crouched beside the table, lost in his own pain, Tolchuk 
failed to notice the small dwarf cook until a large bowl of stew was pushed in 
front of him, a wooden spoon stuck in the middle. Eat, Magnam said.
I be not hungry, Tolchuk mumbled politely, shifting slightly away. The dwarf 
sighed and sat opposite from Tolchuk. You been staring at that bauble for 
days. Its time you started looking back out to the world. He used a thick 
finger to push the bowl toward Tolchuk. Even boulders like you must eat 
sometime. Tolchuk did not move.
You can pine and mope just as well with a full belly. Tolchuk rolled a large 
amber eye in Magnams direction. The dwarfs face cracked with a soft smile. He 
reached for the jeweled stone, but his fingers hovered above its surface. May 
I?
Tolchuk shrugged. What did it matter now? The stone was dead, poisoned by the 
Bane.
Magnam picked up the stone and held it up to the flames of a nearby lamp. He 
stared at it one way, then another. His eyes pinched with concentration. 
Wonderful craftsmanship, the dwarf said, lowering the stone. A masters 
work. Tolchuk shrugged. Magnam sighed again, his gaze shifting to the 
untouched bowl of
JAMKS
stew. I might not have the skill to cut a stone of this quality, but I do make 
a tasty bowl of stew. Its the only real reason I was allowed to stay among 
Wennars battalion. The taskmasters of the Nameless One dont coddle the small 
or weak-limbed. Were usually fed to his Dreadlords. I learned early on to 
concentrate on my strengths, not my weaknesses. An army travels on its stomach, 
and if you can fill it with tasty stews, youre less likely to become a tasty 
stew yourself. The dwarfs easy manner slowly drew Tolchuk out of his gloom. 
Magnam continued. Ill make a deal with you, Lord Boulder. You eat, and Ill 
tell you a story of dwarves and heartstones.
Tolchuk stared warily. But curiosity made him reach for the bowl of stew. He 
picked up the spoon. Tell me your story. Magnam simply waited, eyeing the 
empty spoon. Tolchuk grumbled and scooped up a bit of potato and a chunk of 
beef. He started to speak around the mouthful of stew, demanding his story, but 
then the taste of the stew struck his senses. The beef melted on his tongue; the 
potatoes were delicate and savory with a thick creamy broth. Tolchuks eyes 
grew wide. He spooned up another mouthful, suddenly finding his hunger.
So hows my stew, Lord Boulder? Magnam asked with a raised eyebrow. Good.
Magnam settled back in his chair. Itll be even better tomorrow. Twice-stewed 
is twice as good, my ol mammy always taught me. The small dwarf grew silent 
for a breath, his gaze on the past and distant memories.
Tolchuk ate in silence.
Finally, Magnam stirred. But I promised you a story, didnt I? Tolchuk merely 
waved his spoon, too busy to speak. The dwarf crossed his arms. Do you know 
where heartstone first came from?
His mouth full, Tolchuk grunted his ignorance and shook his head. Well, the 
first piece of heartstone ever discovered was found by a dwarfa fellow named 
Mimblywad Treedle. He was mining his claim off in the hinterlands of Gulgotha, 
in a mountain named Gyhallmanti. In the old tongue, this translates to the 
Peak of the Sorrowed Heart. Many considered the old dwarf to be mad. Not only 
had the mountain been mined dry long ago, tales spoke of hauntings and ghosts in 
its tunnels. The last group of miners who had entered the mines some two 
centuries earlier had never returned, lost forever.
Tolchuk slowed his eating, drawn into the tale.
But ol Mimblywad insisted he smelled fresh riches down in the lowest shafts of 
his mine. And mad or not, he was the keenest scenter of his time. It was said 
his nose could sniff out an opal in a pile of pig dung. So for moon after moon, 
he dug with pick and shovel. Neighboring homesteads reported the echoing sounds 
of his work both day and night. They also whispered of other noises, stranger 
sounds. But when they were asked for details, they would only shake their heads. 
Many moved away, leaving their claims unsold. After ten winters, the entire 
region around Gyhallmanti was deserted, except for the lone Mimblywad Treedle.
What happened? Tolchuk asked, his spoon forgotten for the moment.
Magnam grew dour and slowly shook his head. Mimblywad would sometimes trek out 
of his tunnels for supplies. He would travel to trading stores, a wasted figure 
of bones and haunted eyes. He would talk to himself, mumbling angrily, as if 
arguing with someone only he could see. But addled as he was, he always seemed 
to come down from his mines with enough gold and bits of shattered rubies to buy 
more supplies and disappear back into his tunnels. He soon became a legend among 
our people. OF Mad Mimbly. Then for an entire winter, no one saw him. Most 
guessed he had finally died in the haunted tunnels of Gyhallmanti, becoming 
just another ghost himself. But they were wrong.
Magnam took out a pipe from a pocket and filled it with bit of dried tobacco 
leaf. More stew?
Tolchuk glanced to his bowl, finding it surprisingly empty. No. I be fine. 
Tell me more of this Mad Mimbly.
Magnam lit his pipe and chewed on its end, speaking around the stem. Some three 
winters later, ol Mimbly comes down to the village of Tweentown, drawing a cart 
behind him like he were a mule. No one recognized the bent-backed, white-haired 
dwarf. His beard was wrapped around his waist, and his eyes shone with 
wormglow.
Wormglow?
Magnam nodded. Wherever you find heartstone, youll find the worms. Glowworms.
Tolchuk remembered the Spirit Gate of his people, the arch of pure heartstone 
through which he had stepped to begin this journey so long ago. The tunnels 
leading to the Gate had been filled with worms that glowed the green of pond 
scum.
No one knows what attracts the creatures, but if theres a vein of heartstone 
mined, within days youll find the place crawling with the squirmy beasts. There 
are some who say theyre actually birthed out of the heartstone itself.
Tolchuk glanced to his own crystal. When first he had looked into the Heart, 
before its recent transformation, the Bane had appeared to be a black worm, a 
cousin to the tunnels glowworms. Could there be some connection?
Anyway, if you hang around the worms long enough, their glow creeps into your 
own eyes. Some say it lets you see not only this world but the next. The 
spirit world?
No, the future. Glimpses of whats to come. Magnam waved his pipe. But that 
all makes no never mind. What ol Mad Mimbly had in his cart was what drew 
everyone in Tweentowns attention. Piled atop his cart were gems never seen 
before. Redder than rubies, brighter than the finest cut diamonds. The dwarf 
pointed his pipe stem to the chunk of stone. It were heartstone, the first ever 
mined.
But how come it was never found before?
Magnam shrugged. I guess the mountains were finally ready to let them go. 
Miners say youll never find a single jewel unless the Land herself wants you to 
find it.
What did Mimbly say? Did he explain how he found them?
Ah, now theres the rub, Lord Boulder. He labored all those years, wearing his 
fingers to nubsand what does he do when he finally strikes the motherlode of 
riches? He up and dies. Magnam clucked out a sad laugh and shook his head. 
That very night, he falls dead on his bed in Tweentown.
Disappointment ached in Tolchuks breast. He died?
In his sleep. Curled like a babe. Magnam sighed. Fate can be cruel. But at 
least ol Mimbly proved his nose. He had scented riches and found them at last. 
He was also the one to lend the new gem its name. He would let no one near his 
cart of jewels. He claimed it was the blood of the mountains, from the Lands 
very heart. Hence, its nameheartstone.
Blood of the Land?
So he claimed, but he was addled after his years alone. Talking and hollering 
at invisible figments, swatting at the empty air. He claimed the stones were the 
Lands gift to our people, that it was all that could save them from the 
darkness to come. The jewels must be hidden away and protected. Everyone laughed 
at his babbling. Ol Mad Mimbly. Magnam puffed out a perfect smoke ring and 
gave Tolchuk a one-eyed stare. But maybe he werent as mad as we thought.
The dwarf kicked to his feet. Best I return to my cooking, he mumbled.
Wait. What did you mean, maybe he werent as mad as we thought?
Magnam nodded to the chunk of heartstone. It guided you here, didnt it? After 
he died, his load was taken, spread throughout our kingdom, and crafted into 
thousands of objects. It was a jewel of such beauty that it could not be simply 
hidden away. For centuries, other miners tried to find ol Mimblys vein. But he 
must have mined it all himself. No other heartstone was ever found in 
Gyhallmanti, not even a sliver. Occasionally a bit was found here and there 
across the lands, but never a strike like ol Mimblys.
Tolchuk remembered his own tribes secret: a towering arch of heartstone hidden 
deep in their homeland mountains. The blood of the Land. It had sent him forth 
on this journey. But according to the shade of his father, the Heart of his 
people had not come from this arch but from Gulgotha, from these foreign lands. 
Realization slowly dawned in Tolchuk. His words were a whisper. No other large 
pieces were ever found in Gulgotha?
Magnam shook his head and crossed to his stove. None. Thats what makes 
heartstone so precious.
Stunned, Tolchuk reached and took up his chunk of heartstone. If Magnams story 
was true, there was only one place from which the Heart of his people could have 
comefrom ol Mad Mimblys strike! Here was one of the very stones the ancient 
dwarf had mined. Tolchuk squeezed the crystal, trying to sense its age. His 
father had assigned him to return the Heart to where it was first mined. He now 
had an answer. He stared back up at the dwarf. The mountain of 
Gyhallmantiwhat else can you tell me of the place? Was nothing else ever found 
there?
Magnam frowned, stirring his stew pot. Now I didnt say that.
After ol Mimbly, many miners tried their hand at delving into Gyhallmanti. 
They all went bust. But five centuries ago, a new strike was discovered.
More heartstone?
Magnams face twisted into a pained scowl. No, but like the heartstone 
Mimblywad discovered, it was a stone like no other. A stone the world had never 
seen before.
What was it?
Magnam returned to his stew. His voice hushed to a whisper. Ebonstone. They 
found ebonstone, damn them all.
Ice crept into Tolchuks veins. His mind struggled to put this horror together. 
Heartstone, ebonstoneboth had been birthed from the same mines. What did it 
mean?
Magnam continued, this throat strained. There is only one other thing that ever 
came forth from the tunnels of Gyhallmanti.
What? Tolchuk asked. His fingers clutched tight to the chunk of crystal, 
afraid of the answer.
The Nameless One. From the endless tunnels of Gyhallmanti, the Black Beast of 
Gulgotha first walked our lands.
Elena stared at Erril. He was dressed in a gray silk jacket over a bright white 
shirt. His raven hair was combed back and tied into a tail. How could she ask 
him to risk his life in the challenge for her hand, especially with the odds so 
badly stacked against him? Prince Typhon was strong and hale, and armed with 
both sword and dagger against Errils empty hand. What hope could there be for 
victory? If Elena accepted the claim ofryth lor, she would be sentencing her 
liegeman to almost certain death. Yet if she refused, she would be married to 
Prince Typhon this night, and any hope for Alasea would die on her marriage bed.
Make your choice, Elena, Queen Tratal demanded.
Elena refused to turn from Erril. Her eyes met his storm-gray ones. He stared 
hard at her, then his head nodded imperceptibly. His face showed no fear, no 
indecision. His eyes said he would win this fight. Elena drew strength from his 
gaze and stood straighter. She wiped her welling tears and turned to Queen 
Tratal.
Clenching her fists, Elenas words were harsh and sharply spoken. It is upon 
your hands, Queen Tratal, that blood will be spilled this
H VJ A I H
night. By your actions, you have doomed your nephew to his death. My liegeman 
will not fail me.
Then you accept his challenge of ryth lor} Thequeens voice snapped with 
anger.
Elena met her fury with her own. You have given us no choice but to murder for 
the sake of our freedom. For this, I will never forgive you. I offer you this 
one moment to rescind your words. Put aside this claim of marriage, and we will 
part allies and friends. Insist on this course, and the blood of Prince Typhon 
will stain this halls floor.
On the queens other side, a thin elvin woman stumbled to her feet. Her eyes, 
full of tears, were fixed upon the young prince. Please, Queen Tratal listen 
to the witch.
Prince Typhon waved the woman back to her seat and hissed, Mela, sit down. You 
shame me.
The woman would not be so easily cowed. She reached to Queen Tratals sleeve. I 
love him, my queen. I would give him up freely to this witch for the sake of 
the kingdom, but not not to his death. I could not live with that.
Queen Tratal snatched her sleeve from the womans thin-fingered grip. Begone 
from my side! she snapped. She flicked her wrist to a guard. Take Princess 
Mela to her room. She seems to have fallen ill.
No! the elvin woman wailed. But two guards flanked her and took her arms. 
Mela fell limp in their grips, sobbing. Unperturbed, the stoic royal guards 
dragged the weeping woman from the hall.
Elena noticed the pained expression on Prince Typhons face. He had taken a step 
in Melas direction when she had first swooned, but a stern glance from the 
queen had frozen his steps.
The queen lifted her lightning scepter. The claim oi ryth lor has been 
accepted. Let the way be cleared for the challengers to the hand of Elena 
Morinstal.
Quickly, tables and chairs were pulled back from the foot of the raised dais. 
The celebrants now all stood, ringing a wide, empty space before the pair of 
thrones. Even the serving staff moved inside to cluster in corners or stand on 
chairs to view the coming battle. Elena turned to Erril. Guards stripped him of 
his sword. Queen Tratal lifted her voice to the crowded hall. The challenger 
must meet the challenged with no weapon but the clothes on his back.
Elenas legs grew numb. Erril could not even don leathers to pro-
JAMES ULtMEB! + u &#9632; tect him. Only silk and linen. Yet despite the threat, 
Erril seemed little fazed. He merely stepped around the royal table and leaped 
to the cleared floor.
The elvin queen raised her left arm. The challenged will be allowed the 
traditional weapons to defend the hand of his bridemate. Sword and dagger!
Prince Typhon already had a sword strapped to his waist. He climbed off the dais 
to the other side of the floor. After shrugging out of his own jacket, he pulled 
free his sword and swept his thin blade in a deadly flourish before him, 
practicing, loosening his arms. The sword was a blur of silver. Polite clapping 
met this display of skill and swordsmanship.
Erril watched all this with dispassionate eyes. Queen Tratal turned her head 
slightly in Elenas direction. Her voice was a whisper meant for Elenas ears 
only. My blood is not so much ice as to refuse you one last chance, Elena. 
Dismiss this challenge and Erril will be spared.
Elena wanted desperately to take the queens offer. What hope lay between honed 
steel and bare flesh? As if sensing her faltering heart, Erril turned to stare 
up at her. His eyes shone with pride and determination. All across the lands of 
Alasea and throughout the War of the Isles, he had been her protector and her 
champion. But since the war, Errils role had drifted into the background. And 
she had sensed his ill ease at this new role. But no longer. Here was the old 
Erril, the man she had known during the long journey to this moment. As much as 
she feared for his life, she could not take this challenge from him.
I will not decline the claim, Elena whispered back to the queen. I will mourn 
the death of your kin.
The only evidence of the queens anger was the flare of energy that burst along 
the iron scepters length. So be it.
Queen Tratal lifted both arms. Let the strength of hearts now judge whose hand 
will be joined to Elenas this night! Prepare yourselves!
Prince Typhon repeated his swords flourish, moving now. He spun and twisted, 
weaving around him a deadly cloud of steel. More applause greeted his 
performance.
Erril watched for a moment, eyes narrowed, judging his opponent. Then he simply 
pulled out of his gray silk jacket and slowly stripped off the crisp shirt. Bare 
chested, he cracked the kinks from his neck and worked knots from his muscles. 
With hardly a concern, he wrapped his jacket around his left forearm, then 
twisted his shirt into a long whip. Once done, he simply stood still, staring 
across the way toward Prince Typhon.
The prince finished his bow to the audience, then faced his queen.
A long tense moment of silence stretched. Finally, Queen Tratal brought her 
scepter down. Let the challenge begin!
Erril waited for his opponent to come to him. Around the hall, the crowd 
cheered, and coins exchanged hands as bets were made. He forced it all away, 
focusing his full attention upon Prince Typhon. The elvin swordsman crossed the 
polished pine floor with confidence, striding purposefully, the tip of his sword 
steady and aimed at Errils heart.
I will make your death clean, Typhon called as he approached. I bear you no 
animosity.
Erril did not answer. His only response was the narrowing of his eyes. He 
studied his opponents movements: how his swordpoint dropped when he led with 
his left leg, how he was easily distracted by the crowdhis gaze flitting to the 
side when a celebrant yelled his name. Typhon had probably never fought amid the 
chaos and screams of a true battlefield. Isolated as the elvin were, it was 
unlikely the young prince had ever even killed a man.
The same could not be said of Erril. He had slogged through battlefields 
muddied with blood and muck. Hed had friends die at his side as he fought with 
sword or ax. The number slaughtered upon his sword were too many to count. 
Erril felt a twinge of pity for this young prince. Though he himself bore no 
edged weapon, he knew they were in fact evenly matched. And the lack of 
understanding in his opponent would be the elvins downfall.
Typhon paused when only two steps away. He steadied his sword. I will honor 
your memory.
Erril tightened his grip on the rolled linen shirt. Typhon took a deep breath 
as he prepared for the fight. But unknown to the boy, the battle had already 
begun. Erril flicked his wrist and snapped the tip of the shirt at the princes 
face.
Typhon, caught off guard, danced back.
Taking advantage, Erril leaped forward. He knocked the boys
J A
svvord aside with his jacket-wrapped left arm and spun past the youth. With a 
deft grab, he relieved the prince of the dagger at his belt and was away before 
Typhon could turn with his sword.
The young mans blade swept through empty air.
From a step away, Erril spun the daggers hilt in his hand, testing its weight 
and grip.
The princes eyes grew wider in surprise as he realized the dagger was now in 
Errils possession. A twinge of concern entered Typhons gazebut not fear. The 
boy was still too green to know when to be properly scared.
The crowd around them grew hushed by the turn of events. From the corner of his 
eye, Erril saw Elena still standing beside the elvin queen. From this 
distance, side by side, Erril recognized her elvin blood: the high cheekbones; 
the long, graceful neck; eyes as bright as ice in sunlight. Elena met his gaze, 
a fist held at her throat with worry.
He did not have time to acknowledge her. With a hiss, Typhon leaped at him. 
Erril was barely able to parry the blade with his dagger. The elvin moved with 
unnatural speed now, tapping into the elemental energies inherent in his family. 
His blade was a blur. Erril danced back, reacting with pure instinct. The 
attack continued.
Erril saw no opportunity to turn defense into offense. Though the young prince 
was green in actual battle, he was a skilled swordsman. He offered no break in 
which Erril could slip through with the dagger. Erril simply waited. He knew 
from Meric that this artificial speed taxed an elvin. The boy could not 
maintain this level of swiftness forever.
Still, neither could Erril. The princes sword sliced through his own defense, 
requiring Erril to block a fatal blow with his jacket-wrapped arm. The blades 
edge sliced easily through the silk material, biting deep into the meat of 
Erril forearm. Hot blood immediately soaked through the ruined jacket and ran 
onto the floor.
Erril grimaced, not with pain but frustration. Did this boy never grow tired?
Around them, the crowd began to grow boisterous again. Stirred on by the crowd 
and whetted by the sight of Errils bloody arm, Typhon fought more 
savagelyagain proving his inexperience. He leaped at the wounded tiger, 
anticipating a kill, abandoning his art to attack with broad strokes.
Erril ducked under the sword and dove forward, driving his shoulder into the 
elvins knee. Both men went down. Erril doubted the prince had much experience 
with simple brawling. Erril spun and found the prince had managed to keep his 
sword in his grip. Ty-phon roared, twisting, and hacked his sword at Erril. But 
Erril was no longer there.
Erril rolled clear as the sword struck the pine planks with a thunk behind him. 
Before the prince could pull the sword away, Erril rolled back over the blade, 
laying atop it now, his dagger held between his chest and the swords edge, 
pinning it to the planks. Ty-phon tried to yank free his trapped sword. Steel 
screamed on steel. Erril had only a moment. He slammed the elbow of his bloody 
arm into the princes nose. Bones cracked. A cry of alarm burst from his 
opponent.
Erril next brought his elbow down upon the princes fingers, crushing them 
against the hilt. The sword fell free as the prince abandoned his last weapon. 
Nose bloodied, he tried to roll away.
Erril followed, kicking the sword well away with the toe of his boot. Before 
the prince could gain his knees, Erril leaped onto his back and drove him back 
to the planks, knocking the air out of the boys lungs. Now pinned under 
Errils heavier weight and weaponless, the prince began to sob, gasping, 
sensing his death to come.
Erril grabbed a fistful of the young mans hair and yanked his head up, baring 
his neck toward the queen on her dais. Erril brought the daggers sharp edge to 
the princes throat. His own hot blood dribbled from his sliced arm, soaking the 
silver-blond hair of the defeated prince.
Erril turned to those gathered at the high table. The hall had grown silent. 
Erril stared hard at Queen Tratal. I have defeated the suitor to Elenas hand 
in honest battle. I have bloodied your champion. Do you accept my claim upon 
Elena now, or must I slay the blood of your kin? Must this young one die because 
of your pride?
Queen Tratal still held her scepter aloft, energy crackling along its length. 
Her eyes were ice, her face unreadable.
Elena spoke up. By your own law, Erril is the victor here. Please release him 
of the need to slay Prince Typhon. I can tell the princes heart has already 
been claimed by Princess Mela. Do not add sorrow atop sorrow.
The energies began to die along the length of the queens scepter.
I cannot lose the kings line.
And you will not. The king lives both in my brother and me and will again in 
our future descendants. In exchange for the princes life, I give my word and 
promise that sometime our two family lines will be joined. The two royal houses 
will be one again. Elena touched the queens arm. But not today not this 
night.
The queen lowered her scepter. Energy faded from its red iron surface. She 
stared down at Erril. By elvin law, I declare the trial oiryth lor to be 
ended. Erril of Standi is the victor. The hand of Elena Morinstal is now 
claimed and sealed by blood.
Erril bowed his head, accepting his victory. He climbed from Prince Typhons 
back and helped the young man stand. Well fought, he whispered in the princes 
ear.
Prince Typhon rubbed his neck where the dagger had been pressed and the fate of 
his life had hung. Erril tossed aside his dagger and offered his hand to the 
young elvin. The prince stared blankly at Errils open palm.
In the past, Erril had seen many a defeated man unable to accept his opponents 
good graces, too prideful and angry.
But Typhon slowly lifted his good hand and took Errils grip. He bowed his 
head. It seems Ive much still to learn. Erril shook the mans hand. As does 
every man. Typhon released his hand and stepped aside. Erril moved toward the 
dais. The entire matter had yet to be completely resolved. He spoke for all the 
hall to hear. With Elenas hand now free, I ask that you let us forego the 
marriage and allow us passage to Gulgotha below.
Queen Tratal glanced down to Erril with confusion. It seems youve 
misunderstood the trial oiryth lor. You offered the challenge. Elena accepted 
it. Youve proven the victor. As I said a moment ago, the seal has been forged 
in blood. It cannot be sundered.
What do you mean? Elena asked, mirroring Errils own bewildered expression.
Queen Tratal stared back and forth between the two, then slowly sat down*shaking 
her head in defeat. In the eyes of the elvin, youre already married. Youve 
just had your ceremony.
Elena turned, stunned, toward Erril.
Typhon clapped Erril on the shoulder. Congratulations.
With dawn not far away, Elena stood at the balcony overlook-ing the city of 
Stormhaven. She was still dressed in her bedclothes, unable to sleep. After the 
fight between Erril and Prince Typhon, the floors of the great hall had been 
quickly wiped of the combatants blood, and the celebration of Elenas marriage 
had begun in earnest. Servants marched out course after course of food and wine: 
thick soups filled with onions and lentils, roasted quail wings in jellied 
orange sauce, salads made of a tumble of flower petals, breads rich in cinnamon 
and baked with raisins, fruits of every variety sculpted in shapes to delight, 
smoked duck curried with spices that burned the tongue, and finally velvety 
smooth chocolates accented with sips of port wine.
But the entire meal was just a long blur to Elena. After the fighting, Erril 
had been taken to the citys healers, along with Prince Typhon. Elena had yet to 
see him, even after the celebration ended and she was led to her rooms. Everyone 
assured her that Erril was fine and the healers of Stormhaven were the best. 
Her only consolation was that Mama Freda had gone with Erril. Elena trusted her 
skill, and as the party wound down to dancing and slow ballads played by 
minstrels in the balconies, Mama Freda had returned to report that Erril was 
mending well. Dragons blood will make short work of that little scratch on 
hfis arm. After passing the news, the old healer had left to return to Errils 
bedside with the assurance that she and Tikal would watch over him.
As the party ended, Queen Tratal led Elena from the hall. Tratal had hardly 
spoken more than a word to her during the long night of celebration, merely 
picking at her food, nodding to those courtiers who attempted to engage her in 
conversation. But once free of the hall, Tratal had stopped Elena. I will hold 
you to your word, Elena Morinstal. One day, our two houses will be joined.
Youve waited countless generations, she had answered. What ) is one or two 
more?
Queen Tratal had just stared with those ice blue eyes. Elena did not look away. 
I will honor my word. There will come a day when our two houses are joinedof 
this I am surebut it
JAMES Kj I, E M h n !> must never be by force. Only a hand freely given in love 
will unite the royal lines.
The queen had then sighed, her mask of ice momentarily melting away. Her voice 
softened. Love For one so young, it is so easily spoken. But do you even know 
your own heart, Elena? With those cryptic words, Queen Tratal had drifted away, 
leaving Elena to her guards. The climb to the tower suite was long, and at the 
top, Elena found no rest.
The queens words had nagged her. She was now married to Erril. And she did not 
know how she felt about it. On one hand, she knew it was merely a ceremonial 
act, and once free of the elvin, it would mean nothing. But a part of her did 
not want it to mean nothing. She remembered the dance atop the tower, in 
Errils arms. She had never felt safer. Yet at the same time, she did not want 
her hand won upon the point of a blade, not even by Erril. There was too much 
unspoken between them. Until those words could be voiced aloud, Elena would 
never feel married. She did not need roses, rings, and flowing gowns of silk and 
pearlsonly a quiet moment with Erril, a moment when the heavy silence between 
them could finally be broken.
But the thought of such a meeting terrified her to the core of her spirit.
Queen Tratal was right. She was not ready to face the secret hidden in her own 
heart. Not now, not yet. The witch and woman in her were carefully balanced on 
a knifes edge. It took all her spirit to define herself amid the powers raging 
in her blood. She lifted her hands to the stars. Even now the power sang in her 
blood, a chorus of wild energies that threatened to overwhelm. Like the city of 
Stormhaven imbedded in the heart of the raging storms, so Elena stood in the eye 
of her own power. Here no one could protect her, not even Erril. Her only wall 
against these wild forces was her own resolve and determination.
So how could she ever hope to share her heart with anyone? To open herself 
completely? That path she must not risknot even for
Erril.
Elena lowered her arms and leaned on the balconys balustrade.
Far below, Stormhaven was a spread of tiny lights: homes, shops, narrow streets. 
Above, a sprinkling of stars, so quiet, so peaceful, blind to the storm beyond 
the walls. But from her vantage high in the royal spire, she watched the flares 
of lightning brighten the churning black clouds, a pool of energies beyond 
imagination. There was power enough there to lift cities into the skiesor to 
lay waste to the same. Life and death were all a matter of balance. Elena knew 
this only too well.
To the left, the storms thunder grew louder, roaring now with the voice of 
giants. A sudden wind gusted forth to nip at the hems of her loose bedclothes. 
She shivered in the sudden cold. She wrapped her arms around her body and 
stepped back toward the open doorway and her bed beyond. Pausing at the 
threshold, she turned back to the dark storm. The hairs at the nape of her neck 
quivered. Something was wrong.
From the left, a huge fireball burst from the storms belly and arced high into 
the sky, like a meteor sailing back to the heavens. But it was not returning to 
the stars. It reached its zenith and began falling back downwardtoward 
Stormhaven.
Trailing a fiery tail, the large flaming boulder crashed down into the city. The 
muffled crash seemed a small thing compared to the storms thunder, but the 
devastation was anything but small. The boulder punched through the city and set 
fire to all around it. Elena saw a four-story building, lit by the flames, 
topple into the ragged hole.
Distantly the strike of hundreds of gongs sounded the alarm from the citys 
walls. Below, across the dark expanse, more lamps and lights flickered into 
existence as the city was shaken awake.
Elena again heard the telltale roar. She glanced up in time to see another 
flaming boulder belched forth from the stormthen another, and another.
From all directions, fiery arcs blazed across the night sky. The door to her 
suite suddenly burst open behind her. Wennar and two of the elvin guards 
tumbled inside the room.
Stormhavens under attack! Wennar blurted out. Come! We must reach the 
ships!
Elena fled the balcony. The others?
Theyre being gathered as we speak. Hurry, mistress.
Whats happening?
Wennar shook his head. We have no time to waste! Elena glanced back through 
the balcony doors. More and more flaming trails roared across the night sky. The 
strike of gongs be-
] A M
came more strident. Distant explosions rumbled, shaking the ensconced wall 
lamps.
As Elena followed the dwarf toward the halls beyond, the floor canted under her 
feet, tilting abruptly. Caught off balance, Elena tumbled into Wennars arms.
He grabbed her, holding her steady as the floors continued to list at an 
ever-steepening angle. His eyes were wide with fear.
Stormhaven falls!
Aboard the Sunchaser, Tolchuk woke with the first explosion and was on his feet 
before the echoes had died down. He tumbled out the door of his cabin. Up and 
down the lower passageway, other doors banged open. Faces peered out in 
confusion.
The dwarf Magnam tugged a shirt over his bare chest and crossed to Tolchuk. 
What is going on?
Crouched against the low beams, Tolchuk shook his head. Distantly a low roaring 
could be heard. Something be wrong. Confirming this, strident gongs began to 
clang. Tolchuk turned toward the door leading to the middeck just as it burst 
open.
A wild-eyed elvin sailor waved them toward the open deck. Stormhaven is under 
attack!
Tolchuk hurried forward, leading the dwarves and elvin from their cabins. He 
clambered out to the open deck to find the winds had picked up. Free of the 
passage, his keen nose immediately picked up a trace of smoke upon the sharp 
breezes. Turning, he saw the source. A quarter league beyond the docks, flames 
danced high into the night air.
Magnam stepped to his side, gawking not at the burning city, but up at the sky. 
Whats bloody happening?
Tolchuk looked up. A score of fiery trails arced across the night sky. He 
watched as one flaming boulder sailed past overhead and struck a steepled 
building, bounced off, then crashed into a bridge, smashing it to splinters as 
new fires sprouted.
J A
Maybe the captain knows whats going on, Magnam said, point-&#9632; g toward the 
starboard rail.
Jerrick, temporary captain of the Sunchaser, stood with a long spyglass fixed to 
one eye. The elder remained steady as other flaming &#9632;uggernauts struck the city, 
punching holes and setting homes and buildings ablaze. Tolchuk followed the 
line of his spyglass toward the spires of the royal palace. With his keen ogre 
eyes, he discerned a flicker from the highest tower: a mirrored signal.
Jerrick lowered his spyglass and turned to those gathered around the deck. His 
voice boomed for all to hear. Cast off the mooring lines! Send word to the rest 
of the ships! Free the skiffs! Were to evacuate as many as we can from the 
fires!
Elvin sailors scurried to their posts. Ropes were tugged free and lines 
loosened. Sails tumbled down to snap in the steady wind. Along the harbor, other 
shipsboth small and largefollowed suit. A few drifted upward from their docks, 
their red iron keels glowing with energy.
By the rails, tarps were tugged from the smaller skiffs flanking the Sunchaser. 
Elvin sailors scrambled to haul up the boats short masts and loosen the 
skiffs moorings.
After passing final orders to his crew, Jerrick crossed to Tolchuk and the 
gathered dwarves. His eyes were worried, but his words were steady. The word 
from the castle is to load you all into the Sunchasers lead skiff. Im to take 
you to the palace to join your companions. The queen suspects the attack is not 
upon Stormhaven itself, but set against the witch.
What then? Tolchuk asked.
Jerrick shook his head. I am to take you to the palace. Those were my orders. 
He led the way to the ships stern. Beyond the rail, the largest of the skiffs 
was being readied. Sails bloomed from the short mast.
A splintering crash sounded off the port side. Tolchuk watched a neighboring 
thick-bellied supply ship crack in half. A flaming boulder had struck its hull 
and arced over the tip of the Sunchasert masts. The heat of its passage burned 
like a passing sun. The damaged supply ship, its sails aflame, tumbled from the 
sky. In the fiery light, the small figures of sailors could be seen falling to 
their deaths.
Grim-faced, Jerrick waved Tolchuk and the others onto the skiff.
Get aboard. We must be under way. As the dwarves clambered along the narrow 
gangway, the captains eyes turned to his city now aglow with scores of fires. 
The city itself began to tilt, sinking into the storm around it. Distant screams 
and shouts echoed out to them Tolchuk crossed the short way onto the skiff. 
Jerrick followed last, his lips bloodless and tight. He waved a sailor from the 
boats tiller and took the place himself. I can manage on my own, Jerrick 
said. Attend your duties on the Sunchaser. Ive left the first mate in charge.
The elvin sailor bowed, then scrambled back to the ship.
Once the last lines were loosened and the gangplank pulled in, the small skiff 
fell away from the Sunchaser. Its sails swelled, and it hove in a sharp turn 
toward the burning city, spiraling upward
By now, a good quarter of the city was ablaze. Smoke choked the skies. Tolchuk 
watched as a flaming boulder exploded out from the citys center, punching 
through from below and shooting into the sky. Splintered wood cascaded upward, 
catching fire and showering back down upon the homes and buildings. New blazes 
blew into existence.
Numb, Tolchuk settled to his haunches near the mast. The dwarves huddled in 
smaller groups in the cramped boat. Magnam scuttled over to join Tolchuk. So 
much for sneaking up on Gul-gotha unawares, he mumbled. Someone knows were 
here.
Now high enough, the skiff glided over the destruction below. Wafts of stinging 
smoke struck the small boat like rogue waves. Jerrick guided the craft with 
skill, shying from the worst flames and watching the sky for danger from above. 
Still the heat grew searing, and the smoky fumes watered the eyes and singed the 
nose.
Ahead, the spires of the royal palace drew nearer. Several of the towers listed 
like drunken sailors, threatening to topple at any moment. Tolchuk glanced 
behind him.
Jerrick manned his post, his pale face smeared with soot and sweat. He, too, saw 
the danger, but maintained his stoicism, his sharp face fixed with 
determination. The captains gaze flickered to the flash of a signal fire from 
one of the listing towers. The silver light flickered in code.
In response, Jerrick leaned his shoulder into the tiller, and the skiff swept 
around toward the threatened tower. Your companions are in there, Jerrick said 
calmly, nodding forward.
j !t ivi r.
Tolch-uk swallowed. The spire continued to tilt, falling slowly, as if the flow 
of time had slowed. They would not make it in time.
Jerrick tried to aim the skiff on a steady and swift course, but the nres 
wreaked havoc on the winds. The swirl of cold and hot air created pocket 
tempests. Jerrick was forced to cut back and forth, buffeted by errant gusts.
As the captain fought the tiller, a roar like a thousand raging dragons sounded 
below.
Grab hold tight! the captain bellowed.
Tolchuk dug his claws into the rail as another boulder shot upward from below, 
passing no more than a stones throw from the starboard side, a monstrous sun 
shooting past their tiny ship. Dwarves scrambled away, crying out. The small 
skiff was pelted from below by splintered debris.
Tolchuk turned forward in time to see a flaming section of a demolished house 
fly up in front of the skiff. It flipped end over end, throwing off burning 
shingles. Jerrick angled the skiff up and away and avoided a collision by less 
than a handspan.
But they did not pass the flying house unscathed. A handful of flaming shingles 
rained over the skiff. The dwarves kicked and swatted the fiery bits off the 
deck, but one shingle struck the sail, burning through it and setting the 
sailcloth aflame.
Tolchuk shoved to his feet and patted at the flames, scorching the hair from 
his fingers and arms, but the fire spread quickly, eating away their only sail. 
Other flames spat up around the rails. The hulls on fire! Jerrick yelled.
As Tolchuk and the others fought the flames, the skiff went into a steep tumble 
down toward the burning city.
Elena raced with Wennar down the spiraling stairs that led to the main keep of 
the elvin palace. The steps were canted at a unnatural angle, as if this were 
all a fevered dreambut it was not. The air reeked of smoke. The heat was 
stifling in the tight stairwell. Screams echoed from afar. Through narrow 
windows in the tower, they caught passing glimpses of the destruction. Fires 
burned throughout the city. Whole sections were just cratered ruins.
Not much farther! Wennar wheezed.
Ahead a pair of elvin guards led the way. They were to gather in
Lt M r.
the queens audience chamber on the palaces lowest level. Elena glanced out a 
window and spotted a few elvin windships aloft over the ravaged city. Lamps lit 
their riggings, and ropestrailed down to rescue those most at risk.
Praying for the citizens of Stormhaven, Elena hurried after Wen-nar. As she ran, 
she pictured the face of the elvin boy who had stolen a kiss from her cheek, 
his eyes full of life, full of joy. But now look what she had brought to his 
home: fire and death. Such was the fate of all who met her. And though the 
flames here were not lit-by her own hand, they might as well have been. She was 
ultimately to blame for the destruction here. The dark forces of the Gulgotha 
must have sensed her presence here.
Thank the Sweet Mother, Wennar grumbled. Elena glanced ahead. The stairwells 
end came in sight. As a group, they rushed out of the slanted tower and into the 
main keep. This way! one of the elvin called.
In the main keep, the floors were still tilted, but it was now all downhill. 
They raced down the passage. Other elvin crowded these lower halls, many still 
in their bedclothes like Elena, seeking refuge in the lower levels of the 
towers. Panic and fear were bright in their eyes. But that was not all. Elena 
caught the narrow-eyed glares and whispered curses as she was led past by the 
guards. One thin man spat at her feet. Begone, witch! Wennar elbowed him aside 
and pushed Elena ahead. Dont mind him, mistress. Elena bit her lip.
But others took up the mans chant. Begone, witchl The noise drew other 
elvin into the hall from neighboring passages. The guards were forced to bare 
their swords against the growing crowd. Their progress slowed. Behind them, the 
crowds now surged, pressing them from the rear.
Shes murdered us all! a woman shrilled.
To the left, a dagger appeared in someones hand. All Elena saw was a flash of 
silver. But Wennar was there, catching the attackers wrist and breaking the 
thin bones with a loud crack. The man fell to his knees in pain, but Wennar 
kicked him aside after relieving him of his weapon.
Now armed, Wennar sheltered Elena in front of him, keeping her close to the 
backs of the guards. The double doors to the queens private audience chamber 
lay ahead, but the way was packed with a swelling mob. They could not move 
forward. Kill the witchl
Wennar grunted as a piece of broken chair leg was thrown at his head, clouting 
him on his ear. His feet stumbled, but he kept his place. We need to get clear 
of this passage.
Elena glanced to her ruby hands, ripe with power. Could she slay these panicked 
folk? Kill them so she might live? She clenched her fists. Sweet Mother, do not 
ma/{e me do this.
Then the doors to the audience chamber crashed open. All eyes swung around. 
Queen Tratal towered in the threshold. Though her form was clothed in a long 
shift and her hair fell loose to the small of her back, there was no mistaking 
that royalty stood before them. Her skin was as pale as fresh snow; her eyes 
blazed with ice-fire. All along her bare arms, blue cascades of energy 
shimmered. Even her hair was alive with power.
When she spoke, her voice rumbled with the threat of thunder. What is the 
meaning of this?
A man answered from down the hall, brave in his anonymity. The witch has 
brought this destruction upon us all! We must be avenged! Murmurs of assent 
wafted through the crowd.
A dagger appeared in Queen Tratals hand. She held it out toward the crowd. 
Then kill me she said, her words crackling down the hall. It is I who brought 
Elena here against her will. If anyone is to blame for this night, it is your 
own queen. It is my pride that has brought ruin down upon us all.
Elena was close enough to see the tears in Tratals eyes. The dagger trembled in 
the queens fingersnot from fear, but agony and sorrow.
Take this knife and plunge it into my own breast! The hall grew deathly 
silent. No! those nearest answered. The sorrow of their queen quickly spread 
outward. People fell to their knees, into each others arms, sobbing. Like ice 
floes in spring, the crowd began to break up around them, falling away.
Tratal lowered the blade with a look of regret, almost as if she wished someone 
had taken up her challenge. Her eyes met Elenas, and the fire died in them. 
Come, she said. Weve not much time.
Elena pushed past the guards and stepped around those weeping on the slanted 
floor. Once at the queens side, Elena touched Tratals bare arm, a silent 
gesture of sympathy.
Queen Tratal placed her hand gently atop Elenas. Im sorry.
Is there nothing I can do to help save your city? Tratal shook her head. 
Well take flight on our ships, save as many as we can. The queen led Elena 
into her audience chamber. The room was deep and long. Its walls were draped in 
tapestries, and a throne of polished mahogany stood at one end. While normally 
serving as a hall for the queen to settle disputes and oversee her city, now it 
was a rallying point for the royal household. Elvin of all ages and dress 
scurried about the room, preparing to evacuate the palace.
Elena stared at the organized confusion, frowning at a row of elvin elders bent 
over strange devices along the far wall. What of my friends? she asked.
Tratal nodded across the chamber. Elena finally noticed Mama Freda bandaging up 
Errils arm. The plainsman sat atop a crate of their gear. Even from across the 
room, Elena recognized the Blood Diary in his lap; he guarded it even now.
Tratal led her toward them. Ive also sent for your companions on the 
Sunchaser. They should arrive at any moment with one of the smaller skiffs. In 
the confusion, you should be able to slip away as the city is pursued.
Erril spotted Elena and stood, trailing a length of ripped linen from his left 
arm. Elena, are you all right?
Im fine, she answered, waving him back down. Let Mama Freda finish her 
work.
The old healer yanked on her length of bandage. Hes been pulling at these 
reins since the first fireball, wanting to gallop to your side.
Erril opened his mouth to protest, but Elena silenced him with an upraised 
hand. She directed her next question back to Queen Tratal. These fireballs do 
you know where they came from? Or who attacks?
Queen Tratal nodded to the four elvin elders and their bronze devices. Come. 
Weve not much time. But you should this see yourself. Elena and Wennar were 
led quickly across the room to the four stations just behind the throne. The men 
sat upon high stools before wooden columns sprouting bronze contraptions. They 
had their faces pressed to oval cutouts in the columns while their fingers 
manipulated bronze mechanisms.
As the queen approached with Elena, one of the elvin straightened, pulling his 
face away from his station. My queen, he said with a bob of his head. Im 
afraid weve discovered no safe path for the city.
Queen Tratal placed a hand on his shoulder. Thank you, Ger-mayn. You and the 
other farseers should attend to your own families. But first, could you show 
Elena what youve seen?
He bobbed his head again. Certainly, my queen. He hopped off his seat and 
patted the stool. Sit, child.
Elena, her brow wrinkled with curiosity, climbed the seat. Wennar was offered 
another station. Once settled, the old elvin coaxed the two to peer into the 
cutout in the column. The oval shape was a perfect fit for her face, the wooden 
edges worn smooth from ages of use. Within the column, Elena found only 
darkness, but sensed the column was hollow.
Let me open a farseer channel, the elder said.
Elena heard the elvin swivel the bronze controls. Queen Tratal spoke as he 
worked. Weve crystal eyes set on the citys underside to pierce the belly of 
the storm. Ancient architects of the city devised a x. complex of mirrors and 
prisms to allow us to spy upon the world below us.
There we go, the elder mumbled. An echoing click sounded.
The interior of the dark column lit up, drawing a shocked gasp from Elena. A 
fiery view of a blasted landscape was reflected in a mirror tilted in front of 
her face. Elena instantly knew at what she was staring.
Wennar named it aloud, his voice strained. Gulgotha. Below Stormhaven, a 
mountainous terrain spread in all directions. Even in the predawn darkness, the 
landscape was easy to discern. Sprinkled amidst the dark peaks glowed hundreds 
of volcanic cones. Crimson magma churned in their craters, some brighter than 
the midday sun. It was an infernal land of smoke, fire, and ash.
As she watched, one of the cones exploded forth with a fountain oflava. From the 
volcanos fiery throat, a large, flaming boulder coughed skyward. It was no 
random event. With her face pressed to the farseeing device, Elena saw other 
peaks cast out fireballs, all aiming in fiery arcs toward the city.
Elena pulled away, shocked, the blood draining from her face. The Land itself 
is attacking the city.
So it would seem, the queen said. Scout ships and my farseers had deemed the 
volcanos dormant. But once the city passed over it, the peaks began to erupt. 
Whether a foul hand directs the assault or whether it is some unnatural defense 
triggered by our presence, no one is able to say. All we know with certainty is 
that weve flown into this trap with no safe passage to escape it. Our only hope 
is for evacuation aboard our smaller, swifter ships.
Elena and Wennar climbed down from their stools. Are there enough ships? she 
asked.
Queen Tratal turned away, her pained expression answer enough. Across the hall, 
near one of the narrow windows, an elvin sentry with a spyglass called out to 
the queen, drawing all their attentions. Ive spotted Jerricks skiff! The 
young sentry turned, and Elena realized it was Prince Typhon, his nose bandaged. 
But its taken flame! It burns!
Queen Tratal glanced down to Elena with concern.
What is it? Elena asked.
Its your friends boat, the queen said in a rush, hurrying toward Typhon. She 
yelled to her guards as she strode his way. Open the Storm Gate!
Elvin scurried to obey, exposing long chains hidden behind narrow tapestries at 
the back corners of the room. As the chains were worked, old gears groaned 
overhead. The entire wall behind the throne began to rise, opening an expansive 
view across the city of Stormhaven.
As the monstrous gate winched open, smoke billowed into the hall. By now half of 
the city was aflame. Standing by the throne with the queen, Elena coughed and 
blinked against the fumes. Below, ships of all sizes drifted above the carnage. 
Rope ladders dangled down from the open hulls, crowded with fleeing townsfolk.
Elena glanced to Tratal. It was more than stinging smoke that drew tears from 
the queens eyes. What have I done? Tratal moaned.
Prince Typhon stepped to their side. There! he said, pointing out into the 
maelstrom of smoke and fire. Off to the left, a tiny boat swept in a steep dive 
toward the palace. Its keel trailed smoke and flames. Its mast was a torch in 
the darkness. Theyll burn to cinders before they can reach here.
No, Queen Tratal said firmly. I may not be able to save my city, but I can 
rescue this one ship. She lifted her arms, eyes closing.
The young prince stepped away, drawing Elena with him. He stared back upon the 
queen with a mix of awe, love, and concern. The queen weakens rapidly. All this 
horrible night, she has fought to bolster sections of the city, to keep the 
broken sections aloft long enough for ships to rescue as many as possible. But 
even here in the heart of the storm, her power is not limitless.
Is there anything I can do to help? Elena asked.
He shook his head. She is mistress of the storm. This is her domain.
Erril, his arm bandaged from wrist to elbow, joined them. Mama Freda shadowed 
the plainsman with Tikal on her shoulder.
I smell lightning in the air, Mama Freda whispered.
It starts, Typhon said.
Elena glanced to him. What?
The queen seeks the storms heart.
Near the Storm Gate, Queen Tratals arms crackled anew with blue energies. She 
gave a strangled gasp, and her hair blew into a nimbus around her. Rivulets of 
sweat trailed down her face as her kin grew translucentbut beneath her glassy 
skin was not bone. Instead, storm clouds churned amid flashes of lightning. She 
was becoming the storm itself.
As the queen stood, her limbs started to tremble. Prince Typhon rushed to her 
side, catching her as her legs gave out, holding her up. Suddenly Tratals neck 
arched backward, and a scream ripped from her throat.
Singed and blistered, Tolchuk continued to bat at the flames as the 
conflagration ate the last of the skiffs sails. It was hopeless. Flames raced 
along the rails. The deck burned underfoot. Tolchuk bellowed his frustration.
Then, as if the skies themselves had heard his protests, an answering cry 
pierced the storms thunder. Tolchuk searched the skies. Far off to port, a 
stream of clouds broke over the city wall and raced toward their ship. Tendrils 
broke from its foremost edge, spreading outward. Tolchuks eyes grew wide. Lit 
by the fires below, the race of clouds looked like a giants arm reaching out 
toward them, fingers spreading above.
The dwarves aboard the skiff stopped their attempts to stanch the many fires. 
What new horror is this? Magnam asked.
With a scream of winds, a spat of lightning danced among the giants fingers. 
Thunder blasted, throwing them all to the deck.
Only Jerrick maintained his position, standing at his tiller, eyes filling with 
tears, face exposed to the winds. My queen
Overhead, the clouds split open, and a downpour flooded over the burning ship, 
drenching, pelting, swirling. Near Tolchuk, the burning mast hissed angrily as 
it was doused by rain. Tolchuk rolled to his feet. Thant the Sweet Mother! 
Look! Magnam said, pointing toward the city wall. Tolchuk turned from the 
mast. Out beyond the towering wall, the storm clouds swirled, afire with 
lightning. At first, Tolchuk failed to see what had caught the small dwarfs 
attention, but as his vision broadened, he began to discern a form hidden among 
the clouds.
No not hidden in the clouds, but made of the storm itself.
He saw a woman crouching in the storm, with lightning for eyes, her arm reaching 
out over them, drenching their boat with life-saving rain.
From this distance, Tolchuk recognized the pain and sorrow in her face. Even 
the thunder seemed to moan with the grief in her heart.
Who is that? Magnam asked.
Jerrick answered softly, sobbing, as he fell to his knees by the tiller. My 
queen
Erril watched Tratal fall limp in Prince Typhons arms. He hurried forward with 
Elena at his side. Let me help you, Erril said, bending down. He handed the 
Blood Diary to Elena, who clutched the book to her chest, her gaze fixed on the 
queen. Lets get Her Highness away from this open gate.
Typhon nodded gratefully, his eyes wide with concern. Between the two of them, 
they were able to carry Queen Tratal to her throne, gut Erril could have 
carried her on his own, even with his injured arm. Her body was as light as spun 
cotton.
Once the queen was settled in her cushioned chair, Mama Freda joined them and 
ran her hands over Tratals body. Shes cold as the grave.
Typhon glanced between the queens prone form and back to the open gate. Smoke 
continued to billow into the hall. Overhead, a fireball sailed past the top of 
the palace spires, smashing the highest levels to burning splinters, showering 
flaming debris across the gateway. The prince took a step toward the opening, 
but his gaze shifted back to the queen. His fists clenched in frustration. I 
should help oversee the landing of Jerricks skiff, but
Go! Ive enough help here. See to the boat!
He nodded, relieved to have the decision taken from him, and raced to join the 
other elvin at the gate.
I should go help him, Wennar said. It is my dwarves who are aboard the 
boat.
Elena nodded, giving him permission. Once he stepped away, she moved near the 
queen and Mama Freda. What can I do to help?
The healer fingered Tratals throat. The beat of her heart is faint.
She is fading.
Elena held up one of her ruby hands. What if I lent her some of iny magick?
Erril stepped closer to protest, but one look from Elena kept him quiet. Though 
he may now be her husband by elvin law, she warned him that this was not a 
matter up for discussion. Erril bit his lip. Elena had lent her magick to 
others in the past to help bolster their spiritsonce with her Uncle Bol as the 
old mans heart had failed, and once even with Erril when he had been poisoned 
by a goblins dagger. But it was not without risk to Elena herself.
Mama Freda patted Elenas hand. I dont believe your magick will help here, 
child. It is not her body that is fading, so much as her spirit. It is not 
sickness that casts the queen out, but her own will.
But if I strengthen her body ?
Mama Freda shrugged. I am no witch. I cannot say.
Erril sighed and spoke. If the queen is doomed, what harm could it do to try?
Elena glanced to Erril with surprise. He maintained a fixed stare at Mama 
Freda. Though he might not like Elenas choice to risk herself for a queen who 
had betrayed them, he was still her liegeman.  He would offer whatever advice 
and counsel that he possessed.
The old healer shrugged again. As I said, I am no witch.
Erril reached to his belt and pulled free a rose-handled dagger.
My witchs blade!
Erril held out the dagger to Elena. The queen had them return all our gear 
taken from the Sunchaser. He nodded to the stacked crates.
Elena passed the Diary to him in exchange for the dagger, but Erril kept his 
grip on the knife. He stared hard into Elenas eyes. Be careful, he warned 
under his breath.
She nodded grimly at him as he relinquished the blade. Next, Elena knelt beside 
the throne. She took Queen Tratals hand and bloodied a finger with the tip of 
the dagger. A drop of blood welled up on the queens skin. Elena glanced 
nervously to Erril.
He touched her shoulder, striving to instill his own strength into her.
Taking a deep breath, Elena pierced one of her own ruby fingers. Against the 
dark crimson stain, it was hard to say if blood had been drawn, but Erril saw 
Elena stiffen slightlynot with pain, but with the release of her pent magick. 
Her eyes closed narrowly, lips parting. A breath escaped her throat.
She leaned closer to the queen, but before she could mix their blood, a loud 
crash echoed through the hall. The floorboards jarred. Elena grabbed the throne 
to keep from tumbling.
Behind the throne, Erril saw the cause of the interruption. A large boat had 
slammed broadside into the edge of the Storm Gate. Elvin scurried at the 
opening, tossing ropes, shouting orders. Smoke and steam billowed from the 
beaten craft, but Erril spotted the large bulk of Tolchuk near the stern.
Prince Typhon called out to them, hauling on a rope as the winds tore at the 
rocking boat. The skiff is docked! We must load up your gear!
Erril spotted Wennar already hurrying toward the crates. The dwarf could not 
handle the stack by himself. He stepped in the dwarfs direction, but stopped, 
hesitating.
Go! Elena said. Get everything aboard. I will attempt this, then we must be 
off.
We dont have much time.
Then dont argue. Go!
Erril paused a moment, locking eyes with Elena. She met his gaze. Her stony 
demeanor softened as she understood his consternation. Go, she said softly but 
firmly. Ill be fine.
Erril turned away. He had won her hand in marriage, but Elena was forever her 
own womanand if truth be told, he would wish it no other way.
Tucking the Blood Diary inside his shirt, he hurried to join the others by the 
boat.
Alone now with Queen Tratal and Mama Freda, Elena returned to her duty. She 
lifted the queens hand and positioned their two bloody fingers near one 
another. The daggers slices still bled freshly from both wounds.
Mama Freda hovered at her shoulder. Careful, child. Elena barely heard the 
healers words, turning her ear instead to the song of her own magick. After 
practicing her arts, Elena understood the flows of her own power, but in this 
matter, sending a part of her magick into another, control was critical. Too 
much energy and she could burn Queen Tratal into a smoking cinder.
Taking a steadying breath, Elena lowered her finger to the queens.
Instantly Elenas mind snapped away, flowing down the blood link into the 
queens prone form. Elena had done this beforewith
Uncle Bol, with Flint, with Errilbut nothing had prepared her for what she 
discovered inside Queen Tratal.
Storm winds tore at Elenas mind, threatening to tear her away from her own 
body. Elena struggled to hold her place, drawing more of her own energy to 
define herself in the maelstrom. Around her, dark clouds swirled; lightning 
flashed in silver streaks of fire. In that moment, Elena realized she was not 
inside Tratalat least not in her body of flesh and blood.
Instead, she had entered the storm beyond the city. The queen and the storm had 
become oneand Elena had joined them. * She wrapped her magick around herself 
like a cloak, struggling to hold herself in place. She could not stay long. It 
was hard even now to discern the tenuous connection back to her body in the 
throne room. It was a mere thread in the whirlwind.
As she floated, anchoring herself in the storm, she sensed even fainter threads 
spreading in an infinite web around her, stretching out in all directions. The 
overall effect was one of interconnectivity. She knew what she was sensing out 
here in the middle of the storm. It was lifeevery living thing connected 
together in an endless web of energy and power. Elena longed to follow it 
outward. It called to her from countless throats. But even she did not have that 
much power. She would be lost in that infinite maze, a mote in the vastness of 
life.
So instead she concentrated on the one single thread near her that which 
connected the storm to the queens body.
As she did so, Elena felt eyes turning in her direction, a familiar icy stare. 
Queen Tratal. She must have sensed Elenas presence. Words formed in the howl of 
winds around her. Go, child. This is my battle.
Elena recognized the figure of a woman, formed of clouds and energy, swirling 
around her. Youre dying, she yelled into the howling winds.
So be it. Death is not an end, and by using my spirit to fuel the storm, giving 
myself fully to it, I can save more of my people.
Images formed in Elenas mind. A woman of clouds wrapped around the ravaged 
city, holding it to her breast, speeding it faster over the volcanic peaks, 
making the city a harder target. Elena understood. Queen Tratal intended to give 
her own life so more of her people might escape.
I can help, Elena argued. You do not have to spend all your lifes energy. 
Use my magick!
A tired smile formed in the clouds. You are truly King Belarions child. The 
thin thread back to the queens body and the throne room blazed brighter. But 
the path here is too fragile. Enough energy to make any difference would burn 
away this conduit, trapping you forever in this storm with me. I will not allow 
you to risk yourself.
Elena sensed the truth of her words. Even the bits of energy she used to define 
herself here threatened the weak connection. But what of you?
Away, child. This is my battle.
Winds buffeted Elena, shoving her back along the thread. For a moment, she 
fought, refusing to give up. But the energy to resist frazzled the connection, 
thinning it to the faintest strand. Realizing the futility of her actions, she 
yielded to the storm, surrendering herself to the winds.
Elena felt herself pass through Queen Tratals body. As she did so, she sensed 
the thin thread connecting the queen here to the storm snap away. Elena heard 
the last beat of Tratals heart as she fell back into her own body.
Elena sagged, slumping backward, suddenly weak. Mama Freda caught her. Youre 
safe, child safe.
The queen ? she asked faintly. Gone.
Elena grabbed the thrones arm to pull herself up. In the seat, she found Queen 
Tratals shift crumpled on the cushionsbut nothing more. Her body had vanished.
Typhon suddenly stumbled up to the other side of the throne, falling to his 
knees. He stared at the empty seat, tears running down his cheeks. He moaned. 
Shes given herself fully to the storm.
Elena nodded. She means to use her energy to speed the city over the lands of 
Gulgotha, to buy more time for her people to escape.
Wennar appeared behind Typhon. Then we must hurry. Weve already flown past the 
home mines of my people. Mama Freda helped Elena to her feet.
All the gear has been stowed, the dwarf captain added, stepping away. We 
must be gone.
Typhon stood, wiping tears from his eyes. I will captain the skiff myself. I 
know the queens will in this matterto get you safely to your destination.
From behind the prince, a tall elvin man strode forward and rested a hand on 
the princes shoulder. Erril was with him. Elena recognized the stern newcomer 
from the Sunchaser. It was Captain Jerrick. His face was smeared with soot, his 
hair and clothes soaked with rain. No. Ill not allow it, Prince Typhon. Your 
place is here.
But the queens command
Tha queen is no longer. And with her sons gone to the far corners of the world, 
you are the next in line to the throne. You must serve as regent until such a 
time as one of them returns.
Prince Typhons eyes grew huge with horror.
Jerrick gripped his shoulder tighter. You must lead our people from 
Stormhaven.
I I cant
You will.
Elena understood his pain and shockthe sudden thrust of power, the burden of 
responsibility.
Take your Lady Mela, Jerrick continued, and lead as many away as you can. 
They are seeds cast to the wind. You must find them all a safe place to land.
But what of Elena and her companions?
I will take them myself. That is my duty as ships captain. Your duty is here.
Elena saw the young prince bow under the heavy mantle of leadership. For a 
moment, she thought he would break, but slowly he stood straighten Pain and 
sorrow shadowed his eyes, but he nodded. Take them to the skiff. I will see to 
our people.
Captain Jerrick nodded once, then lifted an arm to direct them to the ship. We 
must hurry, he said.
Erril stepped beside Elena, putting a protective arm around her shoulders. Are 
you all right?
She leaned into him. Im fine. She glanced behind her to see Prince Typhon 
standing stiffly beside the empty mahogany throne. Hell make a better leader 
than I, she thought, and wished him strength for the hardships ahead.
At the gate, the winds had grown harsher. The small skiff bounced and rattled 
against its moorings. Elena saw that a burned hole in the sail had been hastily 
patched with a bit of tapestry ripped from the throne rooms walls. A sailor 
with a long needle was repairing the last rent as their group reached the 
gangplank.
Captain Jerrick yelled into the storms winds. Clear off! Be ready to loose the 
moorings on my command!
Elvin scurried to obey, leaping from the rail or swinging on mooring ropes. 
Soon the deck was clear of all but Elenas party. The witeh crossed to join 
Tolchuk, nodding to the gathered dwarves, who looked like a gaggle of drowned 
geese in their drenched clothes. Elena moved to a spot near the stacked crates, 
seeking shelter against the wind. She was still dressed only in her 
nightclothes, but Erril joined her with a fur-lined cloak under each arm.
JAMhS
Lt M  in ; pa
This should could keep you warm until we can get to your eked clothes.
Teeth chattering, Elena accepted the cloak and wrapped its thickness around her. 
Warm gear was passed to the others. Soon they were all huddled under cloaks and 
blankets.
Captain Jerrick took his place near the skiffs tiller. Ready to cast off! he 
yelled to the elvin manning the gate.
Knots were tugged loose, and the skiff lurched forward. Elena bumped into a 
neighboring crate.
Keep low! Jerrick ordered, his words directed at the skiff this time. The 
masts boom swept by overhead, and the craft turned smartly in the wind. Its 
going to get rough from here!
Elena sighed. Doesnt it always ?
The skiff circled out from the palace. By now, four of the buildings twenty 
spires had fallen away, and another three burned, casting flames high into the 
air. Below, the city fared worse. Fully three-quarters of it was lost to the 
fires or destroyed by the rain of fireballs. But for the moment, there seemed a 
respite from the attacks. The night sky was empty of flaming juggernauts. It 
seemed Tratals efforts had not been in vain. The elvin queen must have 
succeeded in accelerating the citys flightbut for how long?
Overhead, other elvin ships, crowded with peering faces, trundled past, many 
heading toward the walls of the ravaged city. A handful of others patrolled the 
lower city, searching out those still living, offering one last lifeline.
What of those still in the palace? Elena asked, glancing back to
Jerrick.
Stormhaven takes care of its own, he answered cryptically.
Elena turned to stare back at the retreating castle as the skiff drifted 
downward.
Where are you heading? Erril asked.
Jerrick pointed to the deck. Straight down through the heart of the storm.
Is that safe? Erril said.
Jerrick wiped soot from his eyes. Is anywhere safe? he mumbled. But after 
Errils expression darkened further, he added, Ill get us through. Dont you 
worry. Ive plied the storms since I was a boy.
Elena watched the elvin citadel fade behind them, then gasped as vv l I CH 
liATE
all the remaining towers fell away like toppling sticks. Oh, no! Prince Typhon 
the others
But she need not have worried. A wondrous sight appeared. Trie walls of the 
central keep shed away, revealing the hidden heart of the castle. A gigantic 
ship rose from the wreckage of the palace, lifting atop an iron keel that glowed 
with the light of a rising sun. Slowly sails unfurled and caught the tempests 
winds, billowing out. The ship hove gracefully away, leading the myriad scores 
of other ships, both large and small, away from the burning city.
Then the sight vanished as the skiff swept into the storms edge. Hold tight! 
Jerrick called out.
The bow end of the craft dipped steeply as the captain dove the skiff into the 
storms depths under the city. Instantly winds tore at the craft. The sails 
whipped and snapped. Rains sluiced across the deck, soaking them to the bone. 
But Jerrick seemed little fazed by the bucking skiff. He manipulated his tiller, 
and energy danced along his hands as he touched his own magick.
As they fled through the clouds, lightning chased them. Thunder roared and 
pummeled the skiff. But the captain rode the storms lines: coursing swiftly 
along downdrafts, banking steeply through eddies and rapids.
Elena held white-knuckled to the rail, while Erril did his best to shelter her. 
Overhead, the sails patch began to tatter, its rent edge snapping in the winds. 
Jerricks lips drew tighter, bloodlessly thin, but he continued to work his 
tiller.
Elena turned forward just as the skiff suddenly bucked, coming close to spilling 
end over end. Erril clutched hard to her as her knees lifted from the planks. 
Then the skiff slammed back to an even keel. She and Erril fell with a hard 
bump back to the deck.
Were through, Jerrick said simply, as if they had been merely gliding along a 
calm stream.
Elena pushed up and was immediately struck by the heat. After the endless chill, 
the air was stifling, reeking of sulfur and molten rock. She stared past the 
rail and saw the spread of dark peaks under them, aglow with the infernal light 
of volcanic cones. It was a sight to burn away her resolve. How could they hope 
to survive down there?
A loathsome place indeed, Mama Freda mumbled.
It wasnt always this way, Wennar said. The land grew sick vvith volcanoes 
and quakes only after the Nameless One corrupted our people. It was once a green 
and hale place.
Searching below, Elena could never imagine that to be true. She turned her face 
away.
Overhead, swirling dark clouds swept past. Distantly, Elena saw bits of the 
hidden city fall through the storms belly to litter the landscape below. Off to 
the side, a section of a building tumbled from the clouds, hit the peak of a 
mountain, and disintegrated into an explosion of broken planks. Elena stretched 
her neck and searched for escaping ships. There was no sign.
Stormhaven slows, Jerrick said, noticing the direction of Elenas stare.
Elena realized he was correct. At the edges, the storm was fraying. Clouds 
drifted away. The queens energy must be fading.
Gulgotha will again sense Stormhavens passage, Jerrick said dourly. 
Punctuating his statement, a volcanic peak exploded a league away, belching out 
another fireball. The flaming shot of magma arced brilliantly, disappearing into 
the storm front with an immense hiss. The attack renews, Erril said.
The captains face became lined with worry as he returned his attention to the 
skiff. My peoples ships and boats will not have enough time to escape safely.
As the skiff spun in a slow spiral toward the cursed landscape, Elena stood and 
tossed off her wet cloak. Ill not let that happen. She slipped free her 
witchs dagger. Elena Erril warned.
If its energy the storm needs, then its energy Ill give it. She sliced the 
meat of both thumbs, releasing coldfire from her left hand and witchfire from 
her right. Inside the swirling clouds, Tratal had warned her that passing magick 
into the queens body would only burn away the tenuous tie between the woman and 
the storm, but Elena saw no such risk now. Tratal was gone from this world.
Elena studied the swirl of clouds. She did not know how much of Tratal still 
rode the storm, but there was one energy that the storm should be able to feed 
upon.
Lifting her right hand, Elena formed a fist and called for the power of the 
suntouching its heat and fire. Energy built to a feverish blaze inside her 
clenched palm. Her hand grew to a bright ruby blaze. Elena next raised her left 
fist and summoned the magick of moonlightcold and ice. Her fist grew to match 
the other; the only difference was a slight azure hue to the ruby glow.
Power sang in her blood and heart, rejoicing, crying for release. Elena was 
well-used to the song of the witch and ignored the chorus of chaos and wild 
magicks. Instead she brought her two fists together, knuckles to knuckles. The 
trapped energy shook her very frame. Finally, when she could hold it no longer, 
she shoved her arms toward the sky, unfolding her fingers like an opening rose. 
A rage of energy blew skyward, a mix of witchfire and coldfire, the two 
becoming one in a blaze oistormfire.
Magick shrieked skyward, a tumble of ice and fire. Elena gasped, her back 
arching as energy spasmed out of her. Her stream of stormfire struck the storm 
and disappeared into it. Lightning radiated from the point of impact, like 
spokes on a wheel. But as she fed more and more of her power into the dark 
clouds, the lightning forked and forked again, becoming a blazing net of energy 
spreading through the entire bank of clouds.
Elena! Erril screamed into her ear, but she hardly heard him. Magick sang 
through her blood. Elena! Look to the left!
His words sank through the chorus of her power. Her gaze slowly turned, and she 
saw a fireball arcing directly at them. From the corner of her eye, she watched 
Jerrick fight his tiller. The captain must have been so fixed on her display 
that he had failed to notice the threat until it was too late. The boat could 
not move out of the path of the flaming boulder in time.
Though Elena should have felt terror, magick was too ripe in her. She rang with 
invincibility. Swinging her arms down from the skies, she separated her hands 
and flung a spray of pure coldfire at the magma ball, snuffing its flames and 
freezing it solid. With hardly a thought, she followed next with a blinding 
lance of witchfire, striking the boulder when it was less than a dozen spans 
from the boat. The frozen ball of magma exploded with its touch, shattering into 
dust that plumed harmlessly over the skiff, coating them all.
Once done, Elena sagged to her knees, her magick spent. Erril was there, 
tossing her cloak back over her shoulders and hugging her tight.
JAMES <^LEMKNS
Get us down into the valleys! Erril yelled. We cant risk being shot at 
again.
Jerrick dove the skiff at a steep angle.
Elena sank into her knights arms. Her bones felt like butter.
Erril squeezed and rubbed her arms. The wards here must be attuned to magick, 
whether from the elemental energies or your own power. v
I was foolish, she mumbled. I should have thought before acting.
You were following your heart, Erril whispered.
Tolchuk pointed behind the stern. The woman in the clouds. She returns!
Elena glanced skyward, staying in Errils arms.
Above and behind them, the storm churned and roiled with lightning. But there 
was no mistaking the gigantic figure formed of clouds and framed by lightning.
Queen Tratal Jerrick said, his voice cracking.
The elvin woman floated along the tempests belly.
As they watched, the storm grew thicker, its edges more substantial. The wide 
bank of clouds rolled more swiftly away from them, propelled upon unseen winds.
The figure in the clouds stared back down, a sad smile on her lips. Words swept 
toward them upon a gust of wind. Youve saved us. The words echoed and faded 
away. Saved us all.
Queen Tratal, Elena murmured.
Godspeed, Elena Morinstal. The woman dissolved back into the stormbut one 
final message whispered back to her: words only meant for Elena. Remember your 
promise.
Elena stared as the storm streamed toward the dark horizon. I will, she said 
firmly. And in her heart, she knew she spoke truly. In some distant time, some 
other place, the elvin houses would be reunited again.
But not here, not now. That was anothers story, not hers. Elena leaned to the 
rail and stared below.
The skiff glided toward the blasted landscape of Gulgotha: a maze of craggy red 
mountains, deep-clefted valleys, stunted trees, and blighted streams that glowed 
a sickly green. This was her future.
BROKEN CROWNS

Mycelle kept a wary watch on the dark forest around them, her breath billowing 
white before her. Nearby, Krai built a fire of deadfall wood to prepare their 
midday meal. Even the large mountain mans fingers shivered as he struck steel 
on flint. The days since leaving Castle Mryl and the Northwall had grown more 
frigid with every step. The skies, what could be seen of them, were now a blank 
slate of gray, and last night, a gentle snow had sifted through the monstrous 
twisted branches. In the morning, the entire wood was dusted in white.
Mycelle stared around her. Normally a snow-cloaked forest held a certain calm 
beauty. But here in the Dire Fell, the sight was disheartening, like a frosted 
corpse, contorted by the ice.
The only warmth came from their own camp. Neelahn sat on a knobbed root of a 
tree and played her lute softly. The strings thrummed with hummingbirds and 
green leaves, ringing of soft-petaled flowers and long summer nights. It was no 
surprise that the Grim wraiths held back. It was the song of their True Glen, of 
the lost Lokaihera. How it must pain them to be reminded of their past, here 
among the twisted boles and tortured branches of their ancient trees. Even 
Mycelle felt a twinge of the loss as she listened to the nyphais gentle 
playing.
Meric stepped up to Mycelle. He rubbed his hands together, blowing on his bare 
fingers for warmth, but his eyes were on the sky. Itll snow again tonight.
She nodded. The elvin lord had a keen weather sense.
We cannot keep going like this, he continued, moving nearer and lowering his 
voice. If and when we pass this sick forest, the cold and winds will only grow 
worse. We need to find warmer gear for the road ahead.
I know. I saw Mogweed eyeing Fardale earlier. He had a look in his eye like he 
wanted to skin his brother for his warm pelt. Mycelle frowned. They each had 
thick cloaks and.leather boots to keep the worst of the chill away, but they 
would need furs and warmer bedrolls to reach Tor Amon and the Citadel of the 
Mountain Folk.
If only the Stormwing could have crossed the Wall, Meric mumbled.
Mycelle sighed. It was a constant wish by them all. But shortly after escaping 
Castle Mryl, they had contacted Merics ship through the use of Lord Tyrus 
silver coin. Xin had reported that not only was the Northwall too tall to pass 
over, but even the breach in the wall was blocked by the monstrous trees. Any 
attempts they made to pass had triggered the forest to attack the ship with 
whipping, clawing branches, guided by wraiths perched in the trees limbs. The 
Stormwing could not fly high enough to escape their assault.
Well manage, Mycelle said.
I hope so, Meric said, and wandered back to the camp as Krai finally managed 
to coax the smoldering pile of dead leaves to take his flints spark. Tiny 
flames sizzled up, drawing all their eyes.
The tiny snap of a twig sounded behind Mycelle. She whipped around, swords in 
both fists. A dark shape slinked from the scrubby brush. It was Fardale, 
returning from scouting the forest; the broken branch had been his way of 
warning her of his approach. His amber eyes glowed toward her. The image of an 
empty path appeared in her minds eye, indicating the immediate region was clear 
of any wraiths.
Ill tell Neelahn, she said. Go warm yourself by the fire.
Tongue lolling, Fardale padded past her.
Mycelle watched the huge treewolf with a worried narrowing of her eyes. Since 
entering the forest, his sendings had grown rougher, his responses now curt and 
often unintelligible. It would not be long until Fardale was lost completely to 
his wolfish nature. According to Mogweed, the twins were little more than a moon 
away from settling into their current forms. Time was running out for them 
bothas well as it was for them all.
L
Working around the camps periphery, Mycelle approached Neelahn. The small 
nyphai glanced up at her. Neelahns eyes were haunted, shadowed with dark 
circles. Day and night, she had been forced to play her lute to keep the wraiths 
at bay. Only when the woods seemed clear could the woman take short naps. The 
burden vvas taking its toll.
Mycelle laid a hand on her shoulder. Rest. Fardale says the woods around us are 
safe for the moment.
Neelahn nodded and eased her lute to her lap. She stretched her fingers, 
working free the knots and kinks from her cramped playing. Mycelle noticed her 
worn nails and the raw tips of her fingers. Neelahn searched through her 
pockets for the numbweed balm.
How are you faring? Mycelle asked. Will your fingers hold out until we reach 
the end of the forest?
Neelahn stared dully at the forest around her. It is not the playing that 
wears at me.
Mycelle understood. As much as her lutes song pained the Grim, so the dark wood 
drained Neelahns own spirit. This had once been her home. Mycelle offered what 
consolation she could. It wont be much longer. From my calculations, we should 
reach the far edge of the Fell in another two days.
Neelahn did not react. She only stared toward the north. Come. Lets get you 
some food. Mycelle helped her stand and guided her toward the growing fire. By 
now, Krai had managed to work up a solid blaze.
Once Neelahn was settled beside Mogweed at the fire, Mycelle returned to her 
sentry duty. With the lutes magick ended, the wood had to be closely watched 
against the encroachment of the Grim. During the first couple of days, any halt 
in the music had almost immediately resulted in their wailing assault. But now, 
several days deeper into the wood, the Grim were slower to respond. Either their 
numbers were not as great here or the music had by now succeeded in chasing the 
wraiths far from their path. Still, caution had to be taken. Eyes had to watch 
for shifting shadows, and ears had to remain pricked to the smallest sounds of 
the forest.
Mycelle nodded to Lord Tyrus on the camps far side. The two would watch the 
forest during this break in the days trek, circling around and around the camp 
until they were on the move again. Mogweed came over with a tin plate of boiled 
roots mixed with roasted snails. Mycelle ate on her feet, picking through the 
thin fare with her fingers. Hunting was poor in the Fell. Few creatures still 
lived among its twisted roots and haunted bowers: bony rabbits, burrowing moles, 
a few rangy birds. But at least the waters were fresh. Streams and brooks were 
frequent.
Mogweed kept pace with her for a few steps while she ate. The thin man eyed the 
forest with clear trepidation. I heard you tell Neelahn that we should be out 
of this cursed woods in a couple of days. Is that so?
If my maps are accurate.
Mogweed chewed his lower lip, eyes narrowed. And what then? He lowered his 
voice. Are we really going to try and sneak into Krais old home up in the 
northern mountains? I heard him say that the snows up there never thaw, not even 
in the summer. And if the weather doesnt kill us, the dwarves surely will. 
Its not like we can surprise them. The encampment in Castle Mryl will surely 
send a bird reporting our escape.
Mycelle let the man drone on, then finally shrugged. Who knows what well face 
up in the mountains? But I suspect dwarves and snow will be the least of our 
worries.
She could tell that her words did little to ease Mogweeds mind. His eyes grew 
wider as he obviously imagined the horrors ahead.
Mycelle sighed. Dont fret so much about the future, Mogweed. Itll come 
whether youre ready or not. Well deal with the cold as best we can. As for the 
dwarves, I imagine theyll think the wraiths have consumed the lot of us.
He nodded, appearing slightly relieved by this small bit of reassurance as he 
stumbled back to the fire.
Mycelle shook her head. Despite her words, Mogweeds concern had set a seed of 
misgiving in her own breast. What were they going to do?
Finally, with the hole in their bellies somewhat filled, the party broke camp 
and moved out once again. Neelahn took up her lute, while Fardale patrolled the 
near woods. The remainder of the group trudged after them. Slowly more leagues 
passed under their boots. Few words were spoken.
Krai hung back, watching their back trail. But as the afternoon wore on, his 
post seemed unnecessary. No sign of the Grim threat-ened. Not even a distant 
wail was heard. Krai moved forward to join Mycelle.
I dont like this quiet, he mumbled.
Mycelle nodded, then frowned as the small snake that roosted around her upper 
arm squirmed and tightened its grip. After traveling for so long with the large 
man, she had come to notice his presence often aggravated the tiny beast. She 
had always attributed this response to the mans strong elemental energies. The 
magick of deep caves and rock ran strong in Krais blood. But then why didnt 
the snake respond to Meric or Lord Tyrus? Both were just as endowed in the 
Lands gifts. With no satisfactory answer, she pushed her misgivings aside and 
concentrated on the more immediate threat.
The Grim have been growing less bold for the past few days, Mycelle said, 
staring out into the oddly silent forest. Maybe at last Neelahns music has 
succeeded in driving them fully away.
What music? Krai grumbled.
Mycelle opened her mouth to answer, then realized the mountain man was correct. 
The nyphais lute had gone silent. Mycelle glanced forward and saw the small 
woman standing far ahead, frozen atop a slight rise in the land.
Somethings wrong, Mycelle said, and hurried forward. Krai followed.
Mycelle closed the distance, collecting Meric and Tyrus en route. Neither of 
them had noticed Neelahns lapse either. All afternoon, her music had been 
slowing and drifting lower. When it had finally stopped, no one but Krai seemed 
to have been aware.
As a group, they jogged forward. Neelahn continued to stare forward, the lute 
hanging limp in her fingers.
Whats wrong with her? Tyrus whispered breathlessly as they reached the top of 
the hill. A light snow began to drift down from the gray skies. The sun was 
close to setting.
Mycelle glanced to the girl, then followed the line of her vision. In the hollow 
below, a small lake filled the lower lands, but what caught her eye was a huge 
tree on the lakes far side. Its bole, as thick around as a small cottage, stood 
straight as a sword, cutting up from the tangle of twisted trees around it. Its 
branches, though bare of leaves, splayed out in gentle terraces, like a hand 
offered to a tired traveler. It seemed so out of place among its tortured 
brethren.
Neelahn? Mycelle asked gently.
The nyphais mouth moved, but no words came out. She licked her lips and tried 
again. Its my tree. She turned finally toward Mycelle. Tears ran down her 
cheeks, streaming freely. Her voice became a sob. Its its my home.
Neelahn fell to her knees. The pain in her heart was too much. She stared at 
her love, so tall, so stately. Though naked of its lush greenery and heavy 
violet flowers, Neelahn could never mistake its form. She had not thought to 
find her mate so untouched. It was as if it were only sleeping, not dead and 
lifeless. On her knees, her eyes drank in the sight of her spirit tree. She had 
not even meant to cross near its resting place, knowing the pain it would cause, 
but her tired feet must have led her here, drawn to the only home she had ever 
known.
Mogweed stepped to her side. Its so so normal looking.
Neelahn wiped at her eyes. I know. I dont understand the Blight She waved 
an arm to encompass the rest of the forest.
Come, Mycelle said gently, and helped her back to her feet. Do you want to go 
closer?
Neelahn covered her face with a hand. She wanted to run as lithe as a deer, but 
she did not know which waytoward her tree or away. It tore at her heart to see 
her love again. But she knew that as much as it pained her, she had to go on.
Clutching the lute to her breast, she nodded forward. I I must go.
Before a single step could be taken, Fardale came loping up the slope from the 
lakes edge, tongue lolling. His amber eyes glowed. Mycelle matched his gaze. 
After a moment, she turned to the others. Fardale senses someone hiding ahead.
One of the wraiths? Tyrus asked.
No if I understand right, its a man. Mycelle turned to Mogweed, clearly 
seeking to see if he understood his brother any better.
The small man shrugged. He grows too close to the wolf, he mumbled under his 
breath. I can barely understand him any longer.
Whats someone doing way out here? Krai grumbled. He unhitched his ax and 
slowly pulled the snow leopard pelt off its iron blade. Anyone who can survive 
among the Grim is surely tainted by the Dark Lord.
Krai is right, Meric said, his eyes narrowed. We must proceed with caution.
Why proceed at all? Mogweed said, stepping back. Why not leave here, circle 
far around? Why invite danger?
Perhaps we should heed the shape-shifter, Tyrus said.
And put an unknown enemy at our back? Krai said. I say we flush him out.
Neelahn swallowed hard. Either way, I must go. Even if its alone.
Gazes swung in her direction.
Before anyone else could speak, her lute began to play softly. Gentle notes 
wafted out and upward. Neelahn lifted the instrument in amazement. Her fingers 
were not touching the strings, yet the music began to grow fuller. A chorus 
flowed forth, bright as a summer moon, while around them the snow began to fall 
thicker. As soft as the falling flakes, the music floated over the lake.
Krai growled. Quiet the cursed thing before it gives us away.
Neelahn pulled the lute away from him as he snatched at it. No!
Krais warning proved too late anyway. As the music reached the far side, warm 
yellow light appeared, glowing forth from several small square openings in the 
trees wide trunk.
Mogweed gasped and hid behind Krai.
Windows, Meric said with amazement. Someones made a home inside your tree.
Fardales lurker, Tyrus commented, his familys fine sword in his grip.
He must have heard the music, Mycelle said. Hes inviting us forward.
Krai squinted his eyes. More likely inviting us into a trap.
No, its no trap. Neelahn stepped forward.
How can you know that? the mountain man gruffed.
The music. Neelahn lifted her lute. The wood rejoices. There can be no 
danger. And in her heart, she knew this to be true. She moved down into the 
hollow, meaning to follow the lakes edge. * She heard the elvin whisper behind 
her. I trust Neelahn. As corrupt as these woods may be now, they were once her 
home. Come. Lets see what mystery lies here.
As Neelahn reached the lakes edge, a bit of melancholy infused  the lutes 
song. She understood why. Once this small lake had teemed with fish and 
tadpoles. Fireflies had lit the boughs that overhung the still waters, 
reflecting their beauty, while around its banks, flowers had always been in 
bloom. But now the lake was black and featureless, edged by dank algae and 
clinging weeds. So much beauty lost.
Neelahn turned her eyes to the overhanging limbs of her love. Only its branches 
still spread over the lake, shooting strong and straight from a trunk so thick 
around that thirty men couldnt join hands around it. New tears flowed on her 
cheeks. Oh, my bonded, how proudly you still stand while all around you has 
fallen to grief and madness.
As she led the others, she studied the lights that glowed forth from the trunk 
of her handsome tree. Though she should have felt anger at the violation of her 
beloved, the warm yellow glow cheered her heavy heart. A spark of life inside 
the dead. She found her feet hurrying.
The others followed.
Once they had reached the far side of the lake, a doorway swung open in the base 
of the tree, framed by the large roots, kneeing up from the soil. A figure stood 
bathed in the light. No threat was offered.
Weve been waiting so long for you, the figure at the door said in a gravelly 
voice.
Neelahn slowed as the lutes song faded away. Who are you?
The figure stepped clear of the doors brightness. It was a large man, dressed 
in simple rough-spun cotton. He was wide-shouldered, and though once clearly 
strong of limb, he was now gray-haired and leaned on a wooden crutch for 
support. Have you forgotten me already, Neelahn?
She shook her head. Sir, I have no
He waved away her words with his crutch. Och, it is of no matter. My eyes may 
have gone bad, but not my ears. All that matters is that Ive not forgotten the 
voice of your lute. But then how could I? He lifted a frail hand. Its a voice 
I helped forge with mine own fingers.
Understanding struck Neelahn. Rodricko?
Ah, the girl does remember the simple woodcutter.
She hurried forward, pausing a moment to recognize the mans sharp eyes and 
beaked nose that shadowed over a thick gray mustache. When last she had lain 
eyes on him, the mustache had been black as oil. The last fifteen winters had 
worn the man. Satisfied that it was indeed her old friend, she hugged him tight, 
holding her lute to the side.
Once done with their greeting, Neelahn pulled back. Have you remained here, in 
the Fell, the entire time?
He fingered his mustache, and the brightness in his eyes grew dark. He glanced 
from her lute to the twisted forest beyond. Aye, lass.
But why? How? Neelahn tried to comprehend what had happened since she had 
left with her lute.
Mycelle stepped forward. She still had her swords bared. Neelahn realized Tyrus 
and Krai were armed as well. Indeed. How have you managed to survive out here 
among the Grim without being consumed?
Rodricko eyed their weapons. Be at peace here, travelers. Sheathe your blades 
and come inside. If its stories you ask, then its tales Ill tellbut not 
before we get out of this snow and in front of a warm fire.
Neelahn cautiously reached and pushed Mycelles blade down. Rodricko can be 
trusted. It is he who carved my lute. He and his family have been friends of the 
nyphai for untold generations. They are as near to nyphai as any human can be.
Mycelle hesitated, then nodded. She swung her blades back into the crossed 
scabbards on her back. She waved the others to follow suit. Lord Tyrus slipped 
his Mrylian-steel sword away, and Krai slowly hitched his ax to his belt. Meric 
remained weaponless, arms across his chest. Mogweed hid in his shadow.
Come inside, he urged them, holding the door open. Just follow the stairs 
here to the room above.
Neelahn led the way, stepping reverently back inside her home tree. A mix of 
feelings swept through her as she mounted the winding stairs that led upward. 
The smell of wood oil and sweet camphors triggered a response that strummed 
through her as if she were a lute string herself. Old memories stirred. Joy and 
sorrow rang in chorus. The dust of the last fifteen winters roads washed off 
her. Her hand rose and touched the bare wood, seeking the heartsong of the great 
tree. But she felt nothing there. It was empty. Her legs trembled, but the 
fingers of her other hand squeezed reassuringly around the neck of her lute. 
Here was where her trees spirit now resided.
As she moved up the stairs, trailed by the group, Neelahn suddenly realized the 
path they were taking. The nyphai never made their homes inside their own trees. 
Instead, they built shelters and bridges among the branches. Only the bonded to 
a tree could enter inside the gentle giants, and it was a mingling of spirits, 
not a physical intrusion, like now.
She glanced behind her. Only once before had she entered her tree like this. Her 
eyes caught upon Rodrickos. He nodded and urged her onward.
Where she reached the head of the stairs, a large room opened up, encompassing 
the full diameter of the tree. A single thick pillar stood in the center of the 
floor, while around it the space was crammed with cabinets, chairs, and tables, 
all formed of the deeply whorled, rich wood. The woodwright had kept himself 
busy over the past fifteen years, making himself a cozy home here.
But Neelahn ignored all this. Instead, her eyes were drawn back to the central 
column, the true heart of her tree. She slowly circled it, searching until she 
found the spot in the column where a hollow had been carved from it. She held 
her lute up to it. The two shapes matched.
Rodricko stepped to her side. Its true home.
She turned to him, glancing briefly around the room. And I see youve made your 
own home here, inside my tree. A slightly accusatory tone crept into her voice.
Like some burrowing worm, he said with a sad sigh. Drilling and coring 
through a dead apple.
Neelahn touched his hand. Im sorry I didnt mean to imply
No, lass. It aint natural. Ive been among the nyphai too long not to feel the 
same way. He looked to his boots. But after you left, the tree called to me.
What?
He shook his head. Though its spirit had retreated into the lute, there was 
still magic in its root, enough to fuel a trace of its spirit. On the day you 
set off on your journey, I came here to gather my tools, and the tree spoke to 
mewell not rightly spo^e, more a feeling inside my heart and head. It was not 
done with me yet.
I dont understand.
He sighed. Come by the fire, and Ill explain all. He leaned on his crutch and 
led the way toward the tall stone-lined hearth dug into one wall of the chamber.
Her friends were already gathered around it. Fardale lay sprawled before the 
hearth, almost laying in the flames, content, tail thumping slowly. The others 
stood, wary, ignoring the many wide chairs.
Sit, Rodricko said. Someones got to use these chairs Ive been whittling 
away these many long winters. Relax. Ive warmed elderberry wine beside the 
fire. And afterward there are rooms and beds above.
Slowly the group settled to the chairs, and wine was passed from hand to hand, 
warming the chill from their bones.
Rodricko returned from a small pantry with cheeses and a platter of chestnuts 
for roasting on the hearth. I promised you all my story, he said, shaking the 
pan of chestnuts as they popped and sizzled.
Mycelle nodded. How did you survive out here when nothing else can?
Rodricko groaned a bit as he stood, then settled to his own seat. Its not a 
short tale I must speak, so let me start where all stories should startat the 
beginning, with Cecelia.
Cecelia? Neelahn asked, shocked to hear the name of the ancient elder of the 
grove.
Mycelle set her mug of warm wine down. Who is that?
Cecelia is the keeper of the True Glen, Rodricko said. The eldest sister of 
the nyphai. She was bonded to the oldest tree of the grove, and when her tree 
began to twist and bend to the Blight, she herself was also tortured. Fevered 
dreams, delirium. It went on for three moons. But at last, when I was certain 
the end was near, she had a visionof Lokaihera sprouting to life in a lake of 
red fire. A fire born of magick. She bade me carve the heart from Neelahns 
tree so that Neelahn might be free to search the lands of Alasea for this 
magickal cure to their doomed forest.
Neelahn stared into the fire. It was Cecelias prophecy that set me on my 
path. She raised her face to Rodricko. But what of you? Why did you not leave? 
Your duty here was done.
So I thought, but as I mentioned, the tree called to me, entreating me to one 
last task.
But what of the Grim? Krai asked.
They do not bother coming near here, Neelahns tree reminds them too much of 
what they lost. It stands straight and tall while all the rest lay twisted and 
tainted. The sight is too much for the wraiths to bear. So they stay away.
Mogweed knelt by the fire and checked the chestnuts. But all this? He nodded 
to the surroundings. You have to have traveled to bring all this here. The 
chestnuts, the wine.
Rodricko nodded. Twice each passing winter, Ive journeyed to mountain hamlets 
for supplies. That is, until just recently.
Mogweed sat on his heels, eyes narrowed with suspicion. Yet even on the 
woodland trails, the wraiths did not attack you?
I was still under the protection of the tree.
How? Mogweed squeaked.
Rodricko lifted the wooden crutch from where it rested between his legs and 
thumped it on the floor. As Neelahns lute was carved from its heart, I hewed 
a branch of this great tree as my walking stick. He pulled his hands away from 
the crutchs grip to reveal a single sprout of green near its apex.
Neelahn leaned closer. Leaves! A sprouted patch of tiny green leaves grew 
from the dead wood. Though each leaf was no longer than a fingernail, they were 
clearly koakona. How ?
A bit of magick and a bit of spirit keep it fresh. Neelahn bent nearer, 
toothen she stared into the woodsmans eyes. It draws off your own spirit.
Magick alone was not enough. He lowered his cane back down. No wonder the man 
had seemed to age so much since last she had seen him. But why? she asked. 
What was so important? He met her gaze. Hope.
Hope for what?
Rodricko leaned back and closed his eyes. My family has served the True Glen 
for as far back as we can remember. It is our home, too. If there is a way to 
bring the Grove back, I would do anything, give up my own blood if necessary.
J A M h S
But I still dont understand. What did my tree ask of you?
He opened his eyes. Its easier to show you. Rodricko struggled to his feet. 
Come. The answer to all lies above.
Neelahn stood, biting back a twinge of misgiving.
The old woodwright crossed to a narrow, curved staircase. It led up to a landing 
above the hearth room. Without another word, he climbed the stairs with^ the 
rest trailing behind.
Neelahn heard Mogweed mumble, I dont like this.
On the landing above, small rooms branched off. But Rodricko led the way to the 
innermost doorway. He rested a hand on the iron latch and glanced to Neelahn. 
His eyes were full of painand something else.
Her worries flared brighter.
Im sorry, he said, and pulled the door open. You had better go in first.
Inside was another circular room, similar to the hearth chamber, only smaller. 
In this room, a central pillar also ran from floor to ceiling. And like the 
column below, this one had been carved. It contained a cubbyhole no larger than 
a pumpkin.
A soft gentle light wafted out from the opening.
Neelahn knew that faint purple light. It was the same glowing hue as given off 
by a blooming koakona. Alone, she moved nearer. Something rested inside the 
cubby.
Rodricko spoke behind her. For almost a full winter, the tree had enough magick 
stored in its taproot and enough traces of residual spirit to keep its branches 
full of leaves even flowers.
Neelahn glanced back to the doorway, where the woodwright leaned on his crutch. 
She recalled the day she had left her bonded, remembering it as clearly as if it 
were a moon ago instead of fifteen winters. Her tree had looked untouched.
With a feeling bordering on dread, she turned back to the carved cubby and what 
rested inside.
The tree somehow knew it bloomed its last flowers, Rodricko said with a low 
voice. It called out with its dying breath. One last time.
Neelahn barely heard his words, or the question asked by tMycelle.
What do you mean? the swordswoman asked.
When a koakona is re^dy for its flowers to go to seed, it calls for another 
spirit, a kindred sister to leave her own tree briefly and mingle her spirit 
with its own, like a bee passing pollen from one flower to another. So 
Neelahns tree called for someone to join with it.
But there were no nyphai left, Mycelle said. Rodricko lowered his voice. Not 
true. Though the Grim are twisted, they are still nyphai. One came to the trees 
call. It pushed past its own pain to respond to the trees summons.
Are you saying one of the Grim joined with Neelahns tree? Rodrickos voice 
cracked. It was Cecelia, the keeper. She was still fresh to the Blight and new 
to her madness. She came and shared her spirit so the trees last flower could 
go to seed.
Sweet Mother, Lord Tyrus said. What happened? By now, Neelahn stared into 
the cubby. The answer lay within. A small babe lay cradled in the cubby. The 
source of the glow was easy to spot. It came from a plum-sized purple seed 
protruding from its lower belly, where a human babys navel would be. She 
reached but was afraid to touch the seed or babe. It germinated, she realized 
with shock.
Rodricko continued. A new nyphai was born from the fertile seed. Normally, the 
tree and its bonded would nurture the young sister until it was strong enough to 
plant her seed and grow another koakona tree, spreading the grove. But 
something something went wrong here.
Neelahn saw that clearly enough. The germination from the seed looked to have 
proceeded naturally enough. All nyphai grew slowly from their seeds, like the 
trees themselves. And this young one, though appearing only an infant, was 
growing well for only fourteen winters. But Rodricko was most correctsomething 
was dreadfully wrong here.
Rodricko continued. I dont know what happened or what it all means. Maybe it 
was due to the union with a Grim, a tainted and twisted spirit. I just dont 
know.
Whats wrong? Mycelle asked.
Neelahn turned from the pillar, her legs swooning under her. The new nyphai 
its a boy.
The next morning, Kral climbed down the stairs to the main hearth room. The 
scent of warm bread and the sizzle of pork flesh had drawn him from his 
goose-feather bed and quiet chamber. After almost half a winter on the road with 
only the hard forest floor as his bed and his rucksack as a pillow, he had slept 
soundly throughout the night and well into the late morning.
He stretched the kinks from his arms and entered the room. He was clearly the 
last to rise. The others were already seated around a wide table spread with 
breads, fruits, boiled eggs, and meats. He also noticed a stack or gear piled on 
the rooms far side: fox-fur gloves, hooded cold-weather cloaks trimmed in 
ermine, even slabs of dried and smoked beef and hard cheeses.
Mycelle noticed his approach. The banded viper on her arm hissed at him, then 
settled back to its curled perch. Kral, sit. Eat. Weve much to discuss and 
plan.
He nodded, his nose filled with the scents of the table. His stomach grumbled 
appreciatively. He settled into his seat as Rodricko filled a stone mug with hot 
kaffee.
Ive done my best to put together warmer clothes and additional fodder for your 
trek from here, Rodricko explained. But I dont know what good it will do. The 
snows are beginning to fall, and the upper passes of the Ice Trail will be 
impassable before much longer.
Well leave today, Mycelle said, and set a hard pace. With your generous 
supplies, we can move faster and stretch each days march a bit longer.
Mogweed groaned from across the table, but he remained otherwise silent. Kral 
could understand the mans consternation. A few more days here at this warm, 
well-stocked place would suit him, too. But he also understood the necessity not 
to delay. Mountain storms were unpredictable, especially this time of year. 
Blizzards, ice storms, and cold fogs were more likely with each days delay.
But how are we to travel the remainder of the Fell? Meric asked, his thin 
fingers wrapped around his stone mug. If Neelahn remains here with the child
But she must, Rodricko interrupted. The trees seed has sustained the child 
until now but will not for much longer.
Neelahn glanced up from beside Mogweed. Her eyes were shadowed and tired. 
Clearly she had not found her sleep as restful as Kral. She faced them. The boy 
nears the age when he will separate from his birth seed. Afterward, he will need 
the trees song and spirit to sustain him.
So you must stay? Tyrus asked.
I have no choice. Boy or not, the foundling is the offspring of my beloved. I 
cannot abandon it. The song of the lute will help sustain the strange child 
while I care for him and protect him. I dont understand the significance of a 
male nyphai, or why this has come to be, but I must see it through. She stared 
around the table. Im sorry.
I can take you through the woods, Rodricko said. He nudged his wooden crutch 
with its little sprout of leaves. The fresh, untainted branch will be as much a 
bane to the Grim as Neelahns lute. We should be safe.
Krai read doubt in the mans eyes. The short length of wood had protected the 
woodwright, but there was no guarantee its meager protection would extend to 
their party.
The others must have sensed the mans worry. A heavy silence grew around the 
table.
Distantly, a wailing echoed through the wood walls. A lonely sound that was soon 
joined by another and another. As they sat stone still, the horrid chorus grew 
and swelled.
Krai smelled the sudden fear in their host. Rodrickos voice trem-ored as he 
settled his pitcher to the table. Theyve never come so near.
Mycelle stood. They must know were here.
The others quickly gained their feet, and weapons were gathered.
What are we to do? Mogweed asked. Will they attack?
Rodricko crossed to a broad window that faced south. Krai and the others 
followed the woodwright. Beyond the window, the woods were bathed in early 
morning sunlight, but due to the perpetual cloud cover, it was wan and lifeless. 
Snow frosted the twisted branches of the surrounding trees, creating a stark 
landscape. Even the small lake was a black mirror.
As they watched, the shadows of the deeper woods stretched toward them, 
swallowing up the trees and snow, descending and sweeping into the hollow. It 
was as if a black fog were consuming the world.
Wh-what is happening? Mogweed asked, backing away, his fingers reaching for 
his brother.
Neelahn stood still. The Grim gather. Ive never seen its like. Krai knew 
what she meant. The wraiths were generally solitary creatures, hunting the 
forest trails on their own. It was one of the reasons that the Northwall had 
withstood their numbers until now.
But as Krai stared out at the force gathering around the hollow, he understood 
how the great Wall had fallen. The Grim were now a unified force, a dark army. 
Krai remembered the illguard wraith who had possessed King Rys dead body, 
animating it. Was this demoness the reason for the change in the Grim as a 
whole? If so, what control did she bear on these other wild, mindless creatures? 
How had she joined their madness to her own foul cause?
Outside, the wail of the wraiths grew to a fevered pitch.
The beast inside Krai stirred. How it wanted to howl along with the mad screams 
and cries, add its voice to the wild chorus. But Krai fought this urge. Now was 
not the time for Legion, not yet.
He closed his eyes and sent his beastly senses soaring. Touched by the Dark 
Lord, he felt a familiar thrill running through the gathered dark army. Shes 
out there, he realized. The demoness herself led this force to their doorstep. 
She hid amid the wraiths, but she could not hide from another illguard. Krai 
understood who led this assault, but could not alert his companions without 
exposing himself.
Neelahn spoke up, drawing his attention back to the room. She lifted her lute. 
I will go out to meet them.
Mycelle placed a hand on her shoulder. I dont know if even your lutes song 
will be strong enough against such numbers.
You will be a single note against a storm, Meric said. Their chorus of wails 
will swamp the song of a single tree.
I must try. We have no other means to drive them away.
I will help, Rodricko said, lifting his crutch. The bit of living spirit 
along with the lutes song may prevail.
But we must all be ready, Neelahn said. If I can drive a wedge through their 
forces, then you must be as fleet of foot as possible.
What do you propose? Lord Tyrus asked.
Pack and stow the gear. She nodded to the stacks of warm clothes and food. If 
Rodricko and I succeed in opening a breach, you all must take advantage and flee 
immediately.
And you? Mycelle asked.
Neelahns eyes were haunted but determined. I must stay and protect the 
child.
Mogweed shifted his feet, eyes darting everywhere, searching vainly for a means 
of escape. Why not take the cursed child with you? If this tree is dead anyway, 
why do you need to stay here? We dont stand a chance in the woods on our own.
Neelahn opened her mouth to dismiss this thought, but Mycelle interrupted. 
Mogweeds right. The child will always be in danger here. It is only two days 
march out of the forest. If you could whisk him away
Rodricko agreed. Perhaps you should heed their counsel Neelahn.
But I cant just
This place is an empty tomb. As long as the child is at your side and you have 
the lute, he should remain safe. The woodwright stared out at the gathering 
darkness. Besides, the boy is close to ripening and dropping his seed. Perhaps 
it is best if that were not done here, in this Blighted soil. Maybe thats the 
reason you were all drawn hereto take the boy away.
I I dont know, Neelahn mumbled.
Well, someone had better make a decision, Mogweed said, pointing to the 
windows. Or it will be made for us.
Beyond the lake, no trees could be seen. A solid wall of darkness spread all 
around them.
Neelahn bit her lip, then turned to Mycelle. Gather up the boy. Wrap him well 
against the cold. At his tender age, hes still susceptible to frost. You others 
grab as much gear as possible.
They all moved quickly, goaded by the rising howl of the wraiths. In moments, 
they were dressed in warm gear with packs of food and supplies on their backs. 
Mycelle had the additional burden of a child strapped to her chest. Encumbered 
as she was, she would be useless in a swordfight, but Krai knew it was not the 
point of a blade that would win freedom here.
He studied Neelahn as she held her lute in her arms, staring into the darkness. 
All their hopes were weighed upon this lone woman. Krai smelled the fear in her, 
but also her resolve and determination.
She must have sensed his gaze. She turned. Lets get this done.
Krai nodded, turning away, but not before glancing one more time at the gathered 
horde. Again, he scented the Dark Lords touch out there. The illguard demoness 
hid in that cloak of blackness, one wraith among many.
But to what purpose, what end?
Nee was the first through the door. After the warmth in-side, the sudden cold 
struck her like a fist. She gasped. It was an unnatural cold. As the wraiths 
drew the life from a victim, they now drew the warmth from the air. t
She stepped away from the threshold and clear of the large tree roots. The lake 
lay ahead, rimmed in frost. Its edges had frozen overnight. Neelahn moved to 
its shore, facing the wall of blackness that circled the hollow, surrounding 
them. Closer, she saw that the wall whorled and churned as the massed wraiths 
writhed at the valleys edge.
Sisters, she mumbled, praying. Hear me and depart in peace. As she lifted 
her lute, the group gathered behind her. Rodricko stood amongst them, his bit of 
living wood held out before him like a sword.
Taking a deep breath, Neelahn strummed her strings, and sweet notes spread into 
the gale of cries and screams. The music, though soft and sweet, fought through 
the cacophony. Hear me, Sisters, she repeated, now singing forth with the 
lutes melody.
The notes swept across the cold water to strike the wall of darkness like a 
thousand arrows. Holes were rent through the solidness as individual wraiths 
wailed and fled. Glimpses of the snow-crowned forest peeked through the throng, 
but the tears did not last long. The holes quickly disappeared as the remaining 
Grim closed ranks.
Neelahns eyes narrowed, suspicious of this action. What was driving the 
wraiths forward? What was making them fight their natural urge to flee the touch 
of the True Glen?
A sharp scream split the air. Neelahn swung around and saw a wraith rip forth 
from the others and fly at her companions. It was a dark mist against the white 
snow.
Rodricko stepped forward, guarding the party with his crutch. Neelahns fingers 
hesitated on her strings, fearful for her friends.
Keep playing! Mycelle urged, wincing against the railing screams. Dont 
stop!
Rodricko swept his bit of wood between him and the scrap of darkness. Begone! 
he yelled in the face of his enemy.
The bold wraith hesitated, then stabbed a stream of darkness toward the 
woodsmans chest. Rodricko danced back, surprisingly spry on his feeble legs. 
His stick sliced through the deadly shadow Where it struck, light flared, the 
violet of blossoming koakona flowers. The wraith blew apart into ragged 
fragments. Its bits of shredded spirit fled back into the mass of wraiths. Krai 
bellowed in triumph.
But Mycelles eyes swung to Neelahn. Play! Play if you want to live!
Neelahn returned to her lute, strumming with renewed energy. The wall of 
wraiths squirmed in clear agony, screams chasing screams. Neelahn turned in a 
slow circle, casting her music in all directions.
Hear the song of the True Glen, she sang softly as the music carried her words 
far, echoing out over the hollow. Remember the spring shoots rising with the 
new sun Remember the hills of a summers night, aglow with blossoms Remember 
autumns display of brilliance and the endless rain of leaves, a warm blanket 
against the winter to come Remember the winters crisp breath when the sap runs 
slow and the stars shine like silver in the night sky. Remember it all. Remember 
the Glen. Remember life!
Her words cast a spell on the wraiths. They began to flow and ebb to her music. 
The wail became less sharp, more mournful. Breaks in the wall grew all around 
them. Bits of darkness shot high in the air and away, crying in pain and sorrow. 
Its working, Meric said.
Neelahn continued to sing, now in the Old Tongue. She sang of flowers, and 
sunshine, and drops of morning dew, while the lute rang with woodsong and a call 
for communion. It was all too much, even for the strength of the gathered horde. 
More wraiths fled.
A pair tried again to attack the group, more in an attempt to stop the pain of 
her song than in true malice. But Rodricko quickly dispatched them.
Neelahn kept singing. Sensing victory, she let her voice grow in strength, but 
eventually she realized she did not sing alone. Another voice had crept in on 
hers, blending into her song so smoothly that Neelahn was not aware of it until 
it was too late. It came from the fraying wall of darkness. The new voice 
twisted Neelahns song, subtly and skillfully, changing the bright to the dark.
Dream of the suns warm touch Neelahn sang.
 and the burn of an endless drought, the unseen singer chorused.
Sing of petals soft with the first bloom Neelahn fought back. , . and worms 
that eat out the flowers tender heart. Frowning, Neelahn struggled to chase 
the other off, singing more fiercely, ringing with the voice of the True Glen. 
But the parasitic voice would not let go, wrapping its song around her own, 
strangling it with whispers of dead wood and rotting roots. Slowly Neelahn 
realized she was outmatched. The singer was older, more experienced. The voice 
sang with the echoes of centuries.
Neelahn could not resist it. Her voice began to warp; her lutes music shook 
with disease and crumbling bark. All around the hollow, the wraiths regrouped, 
fortifying the dark wall.
Whats wrong? Mycelle asked, moving nearer, clutching the small child to her 
chest.
I dont know, Neelahn said, slowing her fingers on the lutes strings, 
struggling to think of a means to attack. Something somethings out there 
Something stronger than I Krai moved to her other side. He growled. It 
comes. Mycelle glanced to him, then out to the gathered wraiths. A black cloud 
bloomed from the wall, a swirling formless fog. It drifted across the lake, 
slowly, laconically, as if it cared little for the small band of people or the 
music of the lute. Neelahn and the others retreated from it.
Upon reaching the near shore, the cloud roiled inward on itself, fog becoming 
substance. The vague figure of a slender woman took shape on the frozen lakes 
edge. Silver energy traced her form. Her eyes opened.
Neelahn sensed here stood the singer who had so skillfully corrupted her song.
Fardale growled, baring his teeth, and Rodricko stepped forward, the branch held 
before him.
The dark woman smiled at the mans response. A brave knight carved of wood, 
she said disdainfully. The last protector of the True Glen. Yet despite her 
words, she held back.
I know you, Neelahn said, recognizing the screechy voice and where she had 
heard it last. Youre the wraith who possessed
King Ry.
The wraiths smile broadened, while growing colder at the same time. Ah, yes 
it was good to wear flesh again. She glanced to Lord Tyrus. Even a moldy form 
as distasteful as that old man.
The Mrylian prince lunged forward, but he was blocked by Krai Youve no weapon 
that can harm an iljguard, the mountain man warned, holding fast to the 
princes elbow.
The wraith ignored the men and swung her gaze back to Nee-lahn. As you know 
me, so I know you, Neelahn. A laugh, empty of mirth, escaped the shadowy lips. 
You caught me by surprise back at the castle. I had not been expecting you to 
pop out of the granite like that. But now Ive had time to adjust to your 
presence. The Black Root has strengthened me against your pretty little song.
Youll not have us, Neelahn warned. I will fight with every spark of life in 
me.
This earned another laugh. Youve grown full of yourself, little one. But it is 
not you I want. The figures gaze swung to the child held by Mycelle, then back 
to Neelahn. I want the boy My
boy.
Neelahn jerked a step back. Y-your boy?
Again the laugh. I thought you said you knew me, Neelahn. The smoky figure 
coalesced tighter, firming the vague form into someone familiar.
Cecelia. Neelahn gasped, stunned. Rodricko stepped forward. The keeper of 
the Grove. Neelahn moaned. No wonder her song had been thwarted. Before 
Cecelias corruption, the elders age had numbered in centuries. She was the 
wisest of the nyphai, full of knowledge and guile.
The wraith glanced down at the woodwright. Are you still here? She glided 
closer. Rodricko swung his stave. No! Neelahn called out.
The branch swept into the shadowed woman. Violet light again flared, but this 
time no harm was done to the wraith. Cecelia smiled, staring down at the wooden 
crutch imbedded in her chest. Your trees spirit cannot harm me. Our two 
spirits have mingled. We are one. A tendril of darkness swept out of the 
womans chest to wrap lovingly around the branch.
Get back, Rodricko! Neelahn urged.
I I cant move
The wraith smiled. I smell your spirit in the wood, brave knight.
j-Ias it been feeding on you? Such a cruel act, dragging out the inevitable so 
slowly. Let me show you the benevolence of the Dark One. The tendril spasmed on 
the branch, and Rodricko fell to his knees.
In less than a heartbeat, the woodwrights life was sucked through the branch 
and into the dread wraith. He shriveled with a scream on his lips, then tumbled 
dead to the snowy ground, a twisted, empty shell. The tree branch (ell to 
cinders in his hand.
A shame. So little life was left in him, the demoness whined, kicking aside 
the branch. It did nothing but whet my appetite.
Neelahn felt her legs weaken. Rodrickos family served you for generations. 
What have you become?
Krai appeared at her side, holding her up. Do not look for answers here. She is 
lost to the Black Heart, twisted to his will.
Twisted? The forest rang with her laughter and bitterness. Look around you, 
man of the mountains. It was the Land itself that twisted my forest. The grief, 
the loss it is unimaginable. And when Neelahns dying tree summoned me, the 
pain grew a hundredfold. I could not stand it, touching the pure spirit with my 
taint. A mournful wail blew up into the sky.
Around Neelahn, her companions fell to their knees at the despairing cry. Only 
Neelahn remained standing.
Cecelias keening moan slowly died away. She continued in a quieter voice. In 
my weak and defenseless state, the Black Root found me. I let him do what he 
wished. What did it matter any longer? Afterward I was glad that Id not fought. 
The Black Roots touch unwove what was tangled by the Lands curse. His fire 
returned my mind and revealed my true enemy.
And what enemy is that? Neelahn asked.
The wraith stared hard at her. The Land, my dear! The cruel, harsh, unforgiving 
Land. The Black Root promised vengeance. I used my skills to gather the Grim to 
our mutual cause, to bring down the Northwall, to guard the paths up into the 
mountains. Nothing must interfere with his design. Neelahn stood stunned. 
Mycelle spoke up, still on her knees in the snow. What does he plan to do?
Cecelias eyes shone with madness. Hell make the Land wail as my sisters do. 
Twist it the same as my handsome forest.
After a stunned moment, Mycelle slowly stood. And what of this child? What role 
does he play?
This question seemed to shake the demoness. Her gaze fixed on the swaddled child 
held in the shape-shifters arms. He hes mine.
Mycelle remained quiet, then whispered. The Dark Lord doesnt know about your 
child, does he? Youve kept a secret from your master.
The figure trembled. He hes mine, she repeated.
Your last bit of purity, Mycelle pressed.
The edges of the shadow began to fray.
Neelahn stepped forward, sensing a weakness to probe. She tenderly stroked the 
lutes strings. The music wafted so gently that no human ear could hear it. She 
wove an ancient songof birth and death, the cycle of life. Distracted, the 
wraith seemed unaware of it.
Let us take the child from here, Mycelle urged. Take him where the Blight can 
never touch him.
The wraith hesitated, becoming more cloud than woman. There is no such place. 
Not until the Black Root destroys the Land. Only then will the boy be able to 
grow hale and straight.
Mycelle nodded her understanding. Let us keep him safe until that day.
He is safest with me. No harm will come to him.
But how can you be so sure? Did you escape the Blight? Did your sisters? The 
Dire Fell poses the most risk to the boy. His only safety lies in escaping here, 
as Neelahn did. The black cloud swirled in indecision.
Neelahn continued to weave her song around the wraith, gently drawing out the 
motherly instincts of this tainted creature, holding tight to that seed of 
sanity buried deep inside.
I cant I cant part with him, the wraith moaned. Mycelle persisted. Would 
you rather the boy was raised on the wails of the Grim or the pure woodsong of 
Neelahns lute? Which is more likely to leave the child hale? Youve produced 
something new, something wondrous, something pure. Let us help you protect it.
Neelahn complemented Mycelles words with her music. She wove the image of 
autumn leaves falling, crumbling back to soil and loam, feeding the next 
generation, preparing the forest floor for new sprouts. The cycle of lifes 
sacrifice. The dead giving back to the living- The selfless act of love and 
birth.
Something finally broke inside the wraith. The dark cloud blew into the air, 
coursing over the lake. Take the child, the wraith wailed. Take my boy from 
here.
Her cry spread across the sky, shattering the wall of wraiths. As the illguard 
demoness flew through the forest, her sisters followed, only too glad to flee.
Neelahn crossed and knelt by Rodnckos body. She touched his cheek gently, 
wishing him a safe journey to the next world, and silently thanked him for all 
he had done. His sacrifice, as much as any, had brought this new life out of a 
dead forest.
Mycelle stepped near Neelahn, watching the darkness shred apart around them. 
Cecelia is mad and not to be trusted. It took your music to sway her to her own 
nobler instincts.
Neelahn raised her eyebrows as she stood, surprised Mycelle had heard her lute.
I have the ears of a shape-shifter, she explained. I heard your song plying 
Cecelias will. But we cant trust your enchantment holding for long, especially 
when she realizes where were headed. She could turn back on us in a heartbeat.
Then let us be gone far from here before that happens, Neelahn said, and 
slipped the lute over her shoulder. Her arms free, she took the child from 
Mycelle. Neelahn stared down into the tiny face, then back up at her tree, dead 
but still stately. Tears welled.
Do you wish a moment to say good-bye to your home?
Neelahn turned her back and stepped away, holding the child close. This wood 
is no longer my home. Lokaihera is dead. All that I love, I carry with me 
now.


Mogweeds legs ached, and his lungs burned both from the cold and the airs 
thinness. He stared ahead at the narrow mountain trail. It wound up and up, 
higher and higher. For the six days since leaving the Dire Fell, the group had 
been continually climbing upward. There were only brief respites when the trail 
wound down into a short valley. Otherwise, for league after league, they climbed 
the granite peaks of Alaseas northernmost mountains.
But at least they had left the Grim behind in their twisted homeland. Here a 
forest of pine and redwood towered around them, boles as straight as arrows, 
limbs hanging heavy with snow.
It had been such a cheerful sight once they had climbed from the woods, but 
within a days travel, they had come upon their first mountain hamlet. It had 
been torched. Singed chimneys stood amid burned and cracked timber, and heads 
had been staked in the towns central squareclear work of marauding dwarf 
raiders. Any hope of replenishing their supplies died as they tromped through 
the sacked hamlet. The only boon gleaned from the township was a scraggly, 
bone-thin pony found in the near woods.
After discovering the ruined hamlet, Krai had guided the group from the wide Ice 
Trail, deeming it unsafe. After bringing down the Wall, Krai had said, Id 
wager the dwarves have cleared all the townships along the road here, 
fortifying the main approach to the Citadel. Therell be lookouts and guard 
posts all along the main pass. Well be less likely to be spotted on the 
smaller, steeper back trails.
So the group had left the gentler, wider trails for the winding, cliff-hugging 
tracks. Near the head of the group, Neelahn rode the thin pony, nestled over 
the small child. She was the only one light enough for the small horse to carry. 
Mogweed scowled at the nyphai. He was not that much heavier than she was. 
Besides, the pony would have served them all better if it had been slaughtered 
and sun-cured. With the hamlets sacked, their supplies had dwindled rapidly.
At last, as the sun fell behind a ridge of snow-tipped peaks, My-celle lifted an 
arm, signaling the end of the days trek. Well set up camp near the stream, 
she called out, and pointed to where a creek chattered along a series of short 
falls off to the right.
Thank the Sweet Mother, Mogweed mumbled. His thighs and calves were cramped 
knots. He stumbled away from the thin deer trail and followed the others to the 
flat shelf.
The camp was quickly assembled. After so long on the road, everyone knew their 
duties. Krai dug out a fire pit and cleared the dead pine needles from around 
the nights hearth. Bedrolls were laid out around it. Meric and Tyrus gathered 
wood and kindling, while Neelahn fetched water. Mogweed fished through the 
packs for their cooking gear and their dwindling fodder. He snatched a bit of 
hard cheese and popped it into his mouth, then pulled out some strips of dried 
mutton.
Mycelle stepped to Mogweeds side. He had to swallow his stolen tidbit quickly, 
but the womans eyes were on the forest. Have you seen any sign of your 
brother?
Mogweed frowned. No, not since last night.
Fardale must be hunting wide off our trail. But Id be happier knowing he was 
safe.
Mogweed straightened with a pan in hand. Hes safer in the wood than with us. 
Out there, he is just another lone forest creature.
Its not the dangers of the forest that worry me. Mycelle glanced back to him. 
Its his own will. The wolf inside draws close to claiming him completely.
Weve another moon at least before we settle.
Mycelle craned her neck toward the twilight skies. The moon hung full above. I 
hope youre right. She stalked away.
A chill crept through Mogweed as he searched the surrounding forest. Where was 
Fardale? His brother had never disappeared for a full day before. And last 
night, before slinking off to hunt the dark
. 1-1 UA 1 K
forest, Fardale had turned to him, sending fuzzy images. They had made no sense. 
Even his eyes had not glowed as bright. Mycelle was right. The wolf was near to 
claiming him completely.
Mogweed, at least, wore a human form and was less prone to such urges. It was 
known that the wilder the beast, the quicker someone settled. Still, Mogweed 
could not dismiss that he had grown more and more comfortable in his current 
body. He recalled how at first his sallow and thin-limbed form had grated, how 
even wearing boots had chafed him with each step. But now, after so long, 
Mogweed wore his body with ease. In fact, he had grown to be possessive of it, 
and the fervency of his longings to melt from this flesh into another shape had 
dimmed. And even when he did crave to shape stronger legs or sprout a warmer 
pelt, it was always with the knowledge that hed return to this same body.
Mogweed shivered. As much as he wanted to ignore these changes in perspective, 
he knew in his heart what it meant. He, too, was close to settling. The human in 
him threatened his true heritage. Even Mycelle understood Fardale better than he 
did. Not only were Fardales sendings coarser, Mogweeds ability to receive was 
fading.
Mogweed stared up at the moon, full and bright in the darkening sky. One more 
moon then all is lost.
Quit stargazing, Krai grumbled, off to the side. Get the cooking gear over 
here.
Mogweed turned and saw the mountain man had already managed to raise a small 
fire. With pots and pans in hand, Mogweed moved to Krais side. The large man 
fed sticks into the flames, his black beard dripping as the ice melted from its 
dark curls.
Wheres that elvin with some real wood? Krai said. I cant hold this flame 
without something more substantial to feed its hunger. The mountain mans eyes 
shone with a matching smolder.
Mogweed set his pots and pans down and stepped away, not turning his back. He 
had lived all his life in the deep forest, and even though he was close to 
settling, his woodland instincts were deeply instilled. He sensed something wild 
and savage in the tall man. And like Fardale, each day the beastly nature seemed 
to grow stronger, less hidden. Mogweed had assumed it was because they neared 
Tor Amon, the mountain folks ancient homelands; perhaps that had Krais old 
animosities burning brighter. But when near the man, as now, Mogweed was less 
sure of this explanation.
)AMF.S LLEMENS .5 ^ /
I Ill go look for Meric and Tyrus. Help them gather more wood.
Make sure they each bring an armload, Krai growled, his eyes on the skies now. 
Well see snow tonight, and the cold will grow savage.
Mogweed nodded and moved away. He had no intention of looking for the others. 
That was not his chore. Besides, the woods had grown dark, and there was no way 
he was going to search for the others in those deep shadows. Instead, once out 
of direct sight of Krai, Mogweed slinked toward the river. He heard the voices 
of Neelahn and Mycelle. Moving on his toes, he crept close enough to overhear.
Hows little Rodricko doing? Mycelle asked, referring to the nyphai male 
child. Neelahn had named the child after the old dead woodwright. Mycelle 
scooped a pail into the stream and hauled it out.
Neelahn took the pail from her with a shy smile. The-babe fares well and draws 
strength from my trees spirit. With her free hand, Neelahn hitched the babes 
sling higher, then touched her chest. But hes not the only one. My own breasts 
have begun their swelling. Theyll be ready to suckle by the time he drops his 
birth seed.
And how much longer will that be? Mycelle asked, picking up a second pail 
slopping with fresh water.
Its hard to say. But no longer than a couple moons. bo soon?
Neelahn nodded. The two women moved in the direction of Mogweeds hiding spot. 
He scrambled behind a granite outcropping so as not to be seen, then followed 
them back to camp.
From his new vantage under the boughs of a redwood, Mogweed spied upon the 
entire campsite. Meric and Tyrus had returned with ample wood, and Krai fed his 
fires. Neelahn placed her pail of water down nearby, then settled to a stone 
seat and gently rocked the babe in her arms.
Mycelle moved away from the flames and brought her pail to the tethered pony. It 
ignored the water and continued to tug on the scraggly patches of green grasses. 
Mycelle wiped her hands and stared up at the full moon. Even from his roost, 
Mogweed saw her sigh heavily, eye the camp, then slip off to the side.
Mogweeds lips thinned. He knew what she was about to do. He moved silently 
around, keeping Mycelle in sight. When he wanted Mogweed could slip as silently 
through the woods as his wolfish brother. ,
Mycelle crossed back to the streams edge, then tossed her cloak across a slab 
of flat granite. Next she worked off her swords belts and unbuttoned her 
leathers. Shortly she stood only in her linen underclothesthen, oblivious to 
the cold, she shed even these, adding them to the pile of her garments. Once 
naked, she settled cross-legged atop her cloak.
Mogweed squirmed at the sight of her. He felt stirrings in his loins, a rush of 
heat, and licked his dry lips. His eyes wandered over her curves and her long, 
muscled legs. He hunkered down for a better look.
As she sat, it was easy to see that Mycelle was not completely naked. Twisted 
around her upper arm, she still wore the rainbow-banded snake, the pakagolo.
Mycelle glanced to the moon again, staring at it for a long moment.
As Mogweed had hoped, it was timetime once more for Mycelle to renew herself 
with the snakes poison. Carefully, Mycelle teased the tiny pakagolo from its 
perch and onto her hand. It squirmed with clear agitation. It, too, sensed the 
moment had drawn near once again.
Mogweed swallowed in anticipation, his eyes fixed on what was to come.
Mycelle lifted the snake and brought it to her throat, craning her neck to bare 
the tender flesh at its crook. The pakagolo writhed in her fingers, its tiny 
tongue flickering. It drew back to strike, jaws opening, fangs unhinging to 
expose their lengths.
Mogweed did not see the serpent lash out. One moment it stood poised; then the 
next its jaws were fastened to Mycelles throat. Mogweed watched the snake spasm 
as it pumped its poison into her.
Slowly the woman toppled backward limply, arms falling loosely to the side. 
Where the snake had struck, Mycelles flesh melted as the poison spread. First 
her neck and shoulder dissolved into an amorphous shape, an amber-hued gel that 
flowed and churned. Then, as the poison spread outward, so did the 
transformation. Her naked form melted like a wax doll placed too near the 
flames.
ames Clemens

Mogweeds fists clenched with both frustration and desire. Here was the true 
form of the silura. How he longed to melt himself and share with Mycelle. The 
man in him had responded to her naked form; now his siluran half rang out with 
desire. Mogweed could barely contain himself. Sweat pebbled over his skin. His 
blood rushed, his heartbeat thudding heavy in his chest. But he was not the one 
to share this moment.
The pakagolo, floating atop the gelatinous amber mass of Mycelle, now sank into 
her depths, swimming through her, inside her. Through the translucency, Mogweed 
watched the snake sweep and contort in S-shaped waves. Mycelles flesh seemed to 
ripple in response. Where the snake passed, the amber hues brightened. Soon her 
entire form glowed.
Once this was accomplished, the snake surfaced again, rising like a diver and 
floating atop Mycelles body. Slowly the rippling and churning calmed, and a 
form began to reshape itself out of chaos. In a matter of moments, limbs were 
sculpted again, and a body of smooth curves re-formed.
Mycelle was reborn again. Her lips parted, and she gasped her first breath. With 
her chest heaving, she remained upon her cloak, eyes still closed as the 
transformation wound to completion. The pakagolo again perched upon her upper 
arm, coiling into place.
Mogweed trembled at the sight of her. Then something cold touched the flushed 
skin of his cheek. Mogweed yelled and tumbled backward, his arm raised in 
protection.
A large dark shape loomed over him. It took him a shuddering heartbeat to 
recognize his brother. Fardale settled to his haunches, tongue hanging loosely 
in wolfish amusement.
Mogweed sat up and cuffed his brother, but his blow was shaky.
Whos out there? a rasped voice called. It was Mycelle.
Mogweed cringed a moment, then scrambled to his feet. It its just me! Ive 
found Fardale. He moved forward as if he had just arrived. I thought youd 
like to know.
Pushing aside a branch, he found Mycelle already dressed in her linen 
underclothes. She nodded to him, eyes exhausted, then turned to her piled 
garments. Its good to see you again, Fardale.
The treewolf growled in acknowledgment, then crossed to the stream and drank 
heartily.
Mycelle and Mogweed shared a glance. Both had noted Fardales or mental 
greetings. He did not even try to communicate in the siluran way any longer.
Muzzle still dripping, Fardale crossed to a bush and raised his leg. His hot 
stream steamed in the evenings cold.
Again Mycelle glanced to Mogweed, an eyebrow raised. Mogweed stared in shock at 
his brothers casual action. Once done, Fardale lifted his nose, sniffed the 
air, then loped toward camp, clearly drawn by the scent of the nights stew pot.
Mycelle tugged on her leggings. Fardale is close to full wolf. Are you sure you 
still have another moons time before you both settle? Mogweed remembered his 
own response to Mycelles naked form. He had wanted so desperately to take her 
like a man. Even now, he was glad his own cloak hid how much he still felt that 
way. I I dont know. No ones been cursed like us before.
Mycelle touched his shoulder, and Mogweed had to fight down a shudder of desire. 
If there is a way to stop this, well find it.
Mogweed nodded and stepped away. He glanced at her snake as she retrieved her 
jerkin. His eyes narrowed as a sudden flare of frustrated anger burned through 
his desires. It was not fair that Mycelle had been given back her shape-shifting 
gifts by the serpent. She had voluntarily settled into her human form but was 
still given this second chance.
The snake seemed to sense his gaze and lifted its tiny head. Their eyes met. A 
tongue flickered out at him, tasting the air between them.
Mogweeds eyes narrowed, remembering the flow of Mycelles flesh. For the 
thousandth time, he wondered if some clue to his own problem was not hidden 
under his own nose. The old healer, Mama Freda, had claimed that the snake was 
tied to Mycelle since her resurrection, and its magick was linked solely to her 
spirit. But what if that link were somehow broken? What if a new link could be 
forged ?
Mycelle straightened and pulled into her jerkin. We should get back to camp.
Mogweed nodded. He waited until she was fully dressed, then followed her down, 
watching her back.
As he strode, a new desire took hold of his heart: not the lusts of a man, but 
something darker. What if the link could be broken?
Perched in the limbs of a massive redwood, Meric counted the dwarves passing 
below. Ten. It was the second patrol the party had come upon as they neared Tor 
Amon. And like the other, this group had its guard down. The patrols guttural 
laughter and loud voices had carried down the mountain pass, giving plenty of 
warning to Merics group. Up here, the dwarves had grown lax. Then again, why 
shouldnt they? Between the Grim of the Fell and their own entrenched armies at 
Castle Mryl, what did they need to fear out here? Who could threaten them?
Meric lifted a hand and cupped his lips. He let out a piercing cry of an ice 
eagle. In response, Fardale burst from behind a holly bush and rushed the last 
dwarf in the party. He slashed the warriors hamstring and was gone in a blur 
of shadowed fur. The wounded dwarf yelled and tumbled to his face. His fellow 
soldiers swung around.
With their attention diverted, Meric leaped from his perch and touched just 
enough of his wind magick to slow his fall to a graceful swoop. In his hands, a 
pair of crossbows hummed as their bolts shot free. One struck the eye of a 
dwarf; the other ripped through anothers throat. Meric landed lightly in a 
pile of pine needles, tossing aside his bows and sweeping out his thin sword. He 
stabbed the closest dwarf, moving faster than an eye could follow.
Behind the party, Krai and Tyrus suddenly appearedone dark as the forests 
gloom, the other bright as a morning sun. The men rushed the unprotected rear 
guard with ax and sword. As they struck, Mycelle stepped from the trails side 
to slice into the patrols flank with her twin swords.
Caught by surprise, most fell with their weapons still sheathed. The slaughter 
was quick and savage. Krai cleaved through with his dire ax, blood and gore 
fountaining around him as he waded through the shattered patrol. Mycelle and 
Tyrus danced behind him, finishing off what the mountain man left in his wake.
Meric saw a dwarf break from the pack. This one was slimmer and longer legged 
than his companions. A runner, no more than a youngster. Eyes wild with terror, 
he raced back up the trail, clearly hoping to raise the alarm, hoping to live. 
Meric lowered his blade and shook his head.
As the dwarf fled up the deer trail, roots rose to tangle his feet. He crashed 
to his face, but to his credit, he rolled quickly back to his feet. But it was 
already too late. Fardale leaped silently out of the brush and tore out the 
young dwarfs throat.
Meric turned away as the wolf dispatched the runner. Around him, the dwarf 
patrol lay torn upon the woodland trail, blood steaming in the cold morning air. 
A dwarf slowly tried to crawl away, moaning, his right arm cleaved off at the 
elbow. Tyrus stepped behind him and removed his head with a double-fisted blow 
of his sword. The Mrylian prince remained expressionless.
Neelahn stepped from the cover of a hawthorn bush, the babe in her arms. 
Mogweed came with her. Neelahn lifted an arm, and the roots that had tripped 
the dwarf runner sank back into the loamy soil. She stared at the slaughter 
with numb eyes. Finally, she turned away. Its not right, she mumbled.
Krai searched through the dead, recovering satchels of foodstuffs, checking 
weapons. He straightened. His beard was soaked with blood, dripping. Meric 
winced. Neelahn had spoken truthfully: this was not right. He remembered the 
dwarf party accompanying Elena to Gulgotha, the prisoners who had been freed 
of the Dark Lords reign by the sight of the Trysil hammer. This same party was 
no less tainted, bent to the will of the Black Beast of Gulgotha. Was it right 
to kill themhe stared at the light in Krais eyesand to take so much pleasure 
from it?
Meric sighed and sheathed his weapon. What choice did they have? The Weirgate 
hidden at the Citadel had to be destroyed.
After hiding the bodies, the group gathered and continued up the trail. Fardale, 
tail in the air, swept ahead to scent out any further dangers.
The day stretched forever in the endless climb upward, but as the sun sank 
toward the shadowed western peaks, the party finally reached the height of the 
pass.
Meric was one of the first to reach the vantage point. A huge open valley 
stretched ahead, so wide the far peaks were barely discernable. Heavy mists hung 
in tattered shreds, bits of white against the dark pines. But all this was just 
a frame for the true wonder of the highland basin.
Below, all but filling the valleys bowl, was a gigantic mountain lake, midnight 
blue and as glassy as a mirrorTor Amon. Mogweed gasped as he stepped forward. 
Sweet Mother.
JAMES LIEMEKS
Meric understood his surprise. Spanning the great lake of Tor Amon was a massive 
arch of granite. It crested over the waters, its legs rising from the waters 
themselves, its surfaces wind-scoured smooth. But its uppermost heights, its 
pinnacle, had been carved into a great castle of turrets, balustrades, and 
sweeping walls. Throughout the structure, torches glowed from windows and walls.
The ancient home of the mountain folk, Krai said, his voice cracking, his 
eyes fixed on the high castle. The Citadel of the Ice Throne.
Its wondrous, Neelahn said, climbing off her scrawny pony.
The arch and castle not only climbed the skies, but were also reflected in the 
still waters of the lake below, creating the illusion of a continuous circle. It 
was indeed a wondrous sightbut not without a certain starkness. Below the arch, 
under the castles battlements, hung massive icicles, formed from centuries of 
mists dripping from the stone and freezing in the thin, frigid air. They 
stretched toward the waters far below, their surfaces glinting in the last rays 
of sun like the icy fangs of some mountain beast.
Meric shivered, sensing the dark hunger flowing out from the place.
And he was not the only one. Tyrus scowled at the high castle. Its out there. 
I can smell it.
What? Mycelle asked at his side.
The griffin, the prince answered. The Weirgate. Cant you feel it? A 
throbbing sickness, like a festering, feverish wound.
Meric nodded. I sense it, too. A black hunger drawing off all life here. A hole 
in the fabric of the universe.
I dont feel anything but the cold, Mogweed said, his teeth chattering.
Neither do I, Mycelle said. Are you sure?
A small muffled wail startled them all. They swung around. The babe in 
Neelahns arms cried, and its tiny limbs fought and kicked at its buntings. 
The seed child feels it, too. As do I. She slipped back and sought to quiet 
the child.
Mycelle turned questioning eyes to Krai.
He nodded. An evil worse than any dwarf has possessed the castle.
Mycelle glanced around the group. But only the elementals feel it.
WIT C H
What do you mean? Meric asked.
Mogweed and I sense nothing out of sorts. But all of you do. Her eyes narrowed 
as she returned to her study of the valley.
Meric pondered her words, then spoke? Elena did mention that the Weirgates were 
tuned to magick and those who bore it. It has the capability of not only sucking 
magickal energies into its dark heart, but even people, if they are strongly 
enough imbued with magick.
Like those with elemental gifts.
He nodded. Erril was taken. Tyrus, too, briefly. And if we are to believe what 
was learned back at Aloa Glen, even the spirit of Chi himself is trapped 
inside.
Then youre all the most at risk, Mycelle said. If we are to destroy this 
gate, then only Mogweed, Fardale, and I can approach the griffin safely.
But how will any of us destroy it? Meric said, voicing a concern that had been 
nagging at him since the journey had begun. If it can simply absorb our magick, 
how can we hope to fight it?
Krai stepped forward as the sun finally sank away, a dark figure against the 
gloom. He hefted his ax in his hand. All this chattering is not getting us a 
step closer. No matter what happens, I will find a way to carve this evil from 
the Citadels heart. The Ice Throne will belong to the mountain folk again.
Mycelle sighed. Krai is right. Nothing can be accomplished from here. We have 
no choice but to go on.
With the matter settled, the party headed down the trail leading into the 
valley. With the way downhill from here, Neelahn freed her pony, fearing it 
might be more a burden than an asset, and continued on foot. Meric helped her, 
taking her lute wrapped in its protective furs over his own shoulder.
After a bit, Mogweed slipped up to the head of the line, holding his cloak tight 
around his thin figure. He nodded ahead. And has anyone considered how were 
going to reach the castle? If its guarded by dwarves and atop a peak of arched 
stone
There is a way inside, Krai answered.
What way? Mogweed asked.
The path by which my people fled the castle, five centuries ago.
Snow again came with the night, blowing and gusting in swirls around the party 
as they huddled in their cloaks and moved silently along the rocky beach. They 
hid in the shadows of the overhanging trees.
Krai led the way, his eyes narrowed, his beastly senses stretching outward. Full 
night had descended, and the lake waters were as black as oil. Krai stared at 
the white snow sweeping across the dark face of Tor Amon. Pausing, he sniffed 
the breeze. A storm was cominga true blizzard.
We must increase our pace, he hissed to Mycelle behind him. She grimaced. 
Its more important to be cautious. Krai stared out into the deeper forest 
that covered the valley floor. On the way to Tor Amon, they had come upon 
several dwarf encampments, but with their campfires, they were easy to spot and 
avoid. Even the occasional patrol was easily sidestepped, due to the dwarves 
continued lax guard. Presently, the woods remained dark and silent.
I suspect all our hens are nested for the night, he answered. Dwarves dont 
like the cold. Theyll have their heads tucked tight tonight.
Still, it pays to be cautious, Meric said, overhearing them. We dont want to 
wake the whole henhouse.
A storm is coming, Krai growled, angry. A mountain killer.
Meric glanced across the lake to the north. I sense it, too, but the blizzard 
might cover our approach.
Krai shook his head, icicles clinking in his frozen beard. You might know the 
skies, elvin. But you know nothing of the mountains. What comes this night will 
freeze you where you stand. We must be off the lake before it strikes.
How much longer?
Krai cocked his head. Already the winds were beginning to howl.
Not long.
Mycelle nodded forward. Set the pace. Well keep up. As they continued, 
Mycelle drifted back to alert the others. Meric kept pace with Krai. After 
another league had passed under their feet, the snow began to fall thicker, now 
sticking in heavy flakes to the shoreline and tree limbs, accumulating quickly.
Meric spoke up, shaking snow from his cloak like a bird ruffling
Wit c h (j ate its feathers. How much farther to this secret path into your 
mountain Citadel?
We near it now, Krai grumbled, not wishing to talk. With nightfall, the beast 
inside him grew in strerfgth. It was difficult to ignore and harder to keep in 
check, especially with the dark magicks swirling throughout the valley.
Where? Meric persisted.
Krai pointed out into the water, to where the nearest leg of the arch swept out 
of the lake and climbed high into the sky. The base was as thick around as most 
castles. From here, a stout wooden bridge could be seen linking the shore to the 
archs leg. Torches lit an iron door in a sheltered alcove. Krai knew it led to 
a long stair that wound up inside the stone arch to the distant castle above.
The bridge is unguarded, Meric noted with surprise.
The Citadel protects itself. It takes a strong man a half day to climb to the 
castle heights. None can sneak upon it unawares. Krai pointed to the tiny 
lights that dotted the sweeping leg of the arch. Lookouts and guard posts line 
the stairs all the way to the top. What is the need to watch a single door?
Meric nodded, but his eyes remained narrowed with worry.
As they continued, Krai stared out at the giant granite arch. Now so close, Krai 
could sense both powers herenot only the dark power that thrilled through him, 
but also a deeper, more sonorous beat. Krai knew this voice. It was the call of 
the mountain roots, the deep vastness of stone. It vibrated up from below, 
chiming through the arch.
It was this same call that had first summoned the nomadic clans of the northern 
mountains, gathering the myriad Flames, the clans, to this place. It had taken 
his people a full century to mine out the tunnel that led to the archs heights. 
The upper arch had originally been used as an ancient lookout for guarding the 
entire valley, a mutual means of defense when the lands were wild and wars 
frequent. But eventually the lookouts roost grew into a full castle and the 
many clans became one, united under the Senta Flame, Krais own family clan.
But that was no more. Krai gripped his ax in an iron hold.
Five centuries ago, the dwarves had come, armed with dark magicks and 
accompanied by monsters of the foulest ilk. The clans had no defenses against 
such forces. His people were shattered into indi-vidual families and scattered 
throughout the mountains, nomads again.
Krai listened again to the deep call of the Citadel. The pain was almost too 
much to bear. Even the beast inside him cowered from it, retreating deep into 
his heart.
How are we going to get up to the top without being seen?
Meric asked.
By not going up^ Krai answered, and turned to the dark waters of Tor Amon. The 
group gathered behind him. He tossed aside his winter cloak. From here, I must 
go alone to see if the old path remains open.
Go where? Mycelle asked, joining them again. Krai stripped out of his 
outerwear until he stood only in his linen underclothes. He ignored the cold 
breezes across his naked flesh. He held his ax for a moment, then reluctantly 
added it to his pile of discarded clothes. Someone gather up my gear. Take it 
with you.
Where? Mycelle asked again, growing angry now. Enough of these half answers. 
Speak straight.
Krai turned to her. You and the others go ahead. Cross the wood bridge to the 
archs iron entry. Hide in the doors shadows until I come for you.
And where are you going? Mogweed asked, shivering. Krai turned again to the 
lake and pointed to the archs reflection in the dark waters, lit by moonglow 
through the thickening clouds and the torchlight of the castles heights. I go 
to claim my birthright. He glanced back to Lord Tyrus. As the Land gave your 
family the gift to melt stone into water and swim through it, so the Land had 
given my family the mirror to your magick: to turn water back to stone.
I dont understand what
Krai ignored their confused expressions. It was simpler to show themthat is, if 
the Land still remembered his clan and the oaths spoken long ago. Before anyone 
else could speak, he dove into the frigid waters, diving for the reflection of 
the arch in the midnight waters, praying the Land had a long memory.
The waters cold struck him like a hammer to the chest. As his head crested back 
out of the water, he bit back a gasp and fought his muscles, which cramped from 
the waters icy grip. He kicked and swept his arms, swimming for the shimmering 
reflection of the archway.
He paused to glance behind him. The group stood stunned on the shoreline. He 
waved an arm angrily at them, and Mycelle quickly guided the others to gather 
his things and move toward the bridge farther down the shore.
Krai returned his attention back to his own responsibility. Kicking smoothly, he 
drove hard for the distant reflection, a fiery glinting on the waters from the 
Citadels torches far overhead. As the cold sank through to his bones and his 
limbs grew leaden, Krai worried that he was on a fools errand. This was surely 
madness.
But as he finally struggled into the fiery reflection of the castle, the waters 
grew warmer around him. At first, Krai thought it was merely his own exertion 
warming his muscles, but soon the waters grew much too warm to ignore.
Tears choked his throat. The Land remembered Fearing the miracle might 
disappear, Krai took a deep breath and dove into the depths. Under him, a glow 
spread deep into the water. Far below, he saw the fiery image of the Citadel 
reflected in the dark depths. He stared in wonder at the mirror image of his 
ancient homeland. Even a shimmering arch could be seen reflected in the watery 
depths, reaching up like welcoming stone arms. He remembered his first view of 
the valley: the archway spanning the lake, while at the same time, reflected in 
it, forming a complete circle. Half stone, half illusion.
Invigorated by the sight, Krai kicked and drove for the closest leg of the 
ghostly arch. As he neared it, a twinge of doubt again flared. What was this 
folly? What was he doing? Surely it was just old family stories, old clan tales
He reached a hand toward the shimmering reflectionand his fingers touched 
stone.
Mycelle led her party cautiously around a granite outcropping. The bridge lay 
ahead. It appeared unwatched, but she held up a hand for silence as she 
listened, then waved Fardale forward to check the fringe forest for spies. They 
all huddled in the lee of the boulder, out of the worst of the fierce wind. 
Mycelle glanced around her. The others were all shivering, cloaks dusted with 
clinging snow. Krai had been most correct in his assessment of the weather. They 
needed shelter from this storm as soon as possible.
She stepped back around the boulder into the teeth of the snowstorm and searched 
for Krai. There was no sign of him. The waters had grown still again. Where was 
he? What was he up to? Her earlier misgivings flared. Since entering the valley, 
the tiny snake on her arm would hiss and squeeze with his approach, clearly 
agitated, offering some strange warning. Could Krai be fully trusted? For the 
thousandth time, she wished she still retained the gift of seeking, the ability 
to sense the elemental energy in another, but it was gone with her rebirth. In 
such matters, she was as blind as any other. Still, gift or not, something had 
changed in him, of this she was certain. But had they not all changed on this 
long journey?
Lord Tyrus touched her shoulder. Fardales back from his search.
Putting aside her suspicions, she nodded and followed the man back to the 
others. Neelahn huddled over her baby, while Mogweed leaned near Fardale.
I cant understand you, Mogweed hissed at his brother.
Mycelle placed a hand on the thin mans shoulder. Let me try.
Both Fardale and Mogweed glanced up at her. The amber glow in their eyes, once 
so bright, was now the barest glimmer. They were both close to settling.
Mycelle knelt before Fardale, placing a hand on his shoulder. What did you 
find?
A kaleidoscope of images swept across her minds eye.
Concentrate, Fardale.
A deep whine flowed from his throat, but the images slowed their spin: Two 
dwarvish guards hidden in a smoky alcove in a tumble of rocks crouched around 
a small brazier of glowing coals.
Mycelle straightened. Spies watch the bridge from forests edge. She turned 
back to the wolf. Can you take us there?
Fardale didnt bother to answer, just spun on a paw, ready to lead the way. 
Mycelle quickly nodded to Tyrus. You come with me. Meric, you nock up a 
crossbow and watch over the others.
The elvin nodded. Tyrus stepped to her side, his hand resting on his swords 
hilt.
With a wave, Mycelle sent Fardale off, then she and Tyrus followed. They were 
all skilled at moving unseen, unheard. In a short time, Mycelle made out the 
weak glow of the makeshift camp shining from a tumble of boulders. It was a good 
vantage point: high enough to watch the bridge, but sheltered to keep the 
lookouts hidden.
With silent hand gestures, Mycelle passed instructions. Fardale flashed across 
the caves entrance, making sure he was spotted, then dashed off again. A 
startled grumble erupted from the cave. One of the pair of dwarves bumbled to 
the entrance, weaving a bit on his feet, a wine flask gripped by its leather 
neck in his hand. It seemed the glowing coals were not enough to keep this bored 
pair warm.
The dwarf stumbled another step out to make sure the wolf was gone. Fardale had 
vanished, but not Tyrus. The tall prince stepped before the dwarf and drove his 
sword through the startled guards neck. Blood sprayed across the white snow, 
matching the sloshing wine that flowed from the flask he dropped. Tyrus snatched 
the dwarfs cloak and tumbled him away from the alcoves opening. His crash was 
not silent.
Did ye get the furry beast? his companion called out, slurring in his 
dwarvish tongue. I could use me some hot, bloody meat.
Mycelle kept her post on the opposite side of the shelters opening. When the 
second dwarf stepped free, she drove both her swords through his chest, 
piercing his twin hearts. He fell back into the alcove, landing on his brazier 
and scattering coals around the rank space.
Tyrus stepped to her side, wiping his sword clean on a cloak stolen from the 
dead dwarf. He offered an edge to Mycelle so she could clean her own weapons. 
Once she was done, he handed the cloak to her. Mayhap it would be best if you 
resumed your disguise as a dwarf. We may run into others.
Mycelle hesitated. She was more comfortable wearing her own form. Still, it was 
a wise precaution if they were entering a dwarf stronghold. As she slipped out 
of her own clothes, she likewise slipped out of her familiar form. She changed 
again into the dwarf huntress that she had imitated at Castle Mryl. Her body 
remembered the previous transformation and flowed easily into it. Legs bowed out 
and grew thick. Hair became ratted, and her face flattened and widened into the 
thick-browed visage of a dwarf. Once complete, she stole the outerwear of the 
dwarves and wrapped herself in the black cloak of the Gulgothal soldiers.
Tyrus eyed her up and down, an amused expression on his face. It had been a long 
time since she had seen the man smile. She had forgotten how handsome he looked 
with that spark in his eye.
What? she asked.
He sheathed his sword and turned away. You look better as a woman. Still, I was 
just wondering what it would be like to bed you that flowing flesh and all. Im 
sure it would be an interesting time.
Mycelles eyes widened; a blush crept over the wide cheeks. Prince or not, it 
seemed there was still a bit of the pirate in him. She trudged after him in her 
new body, shocked at his words, yet oddly pleased at the same time.
When they reached the camp, Meric came close to peppering her with his crossbows 
until Tyrus waved him away. Its Mycelle, he said. We figured a bit of 
subterfuge may come in handy.
Meric lowered his bows. If nothing else, its certainly convincing.
Mycelle shoved forward in her bulky form and led the others around the boulder. 
It should be safe to reach the arch now. She lumbered out to the bare stretch 
of rocky beach and leaned into the storm. The winds blowing off the lake had 
grown fiercer, howling now. The drifting snow sped almost horizontal to the 
ground. The party fought the storm and hurried to the bridge.
Across the wooden span, a single torch still glowed in the doorway alcove. The 
other had sputtered out, stanched by the wet winds. As a group, they hurried 
across and gathered in the cramped alcove. The single torch did little to warm 
the small space. Whirlwinds of snow continually swept into the tiny cubby.
Mycelle tested the iron door. It was locked and latched.
What are we going to do? Mogweed asked, eyes wide with fear.
Meric leaned against a wall. Krai said to wait here for him, so we wait. ,
Mycelle had none of the elvins stoic patience. She drew out her sword and 
pounded its hilt on the door. Iron rang like a struck bell. Stand back, she 
ordered. If theres a dwarf guard, let him only see a dwarf at his door. 
And
The door crashed open. Mycelle fell backward.
A dark form filled the threshold, and a harsh voice barked out at them. What 
are you all gawking at? Get your arses in here. The figure stepped forward into 
the torchlight. It was Krai, soaking wet and dripping. His sodden beard hung to 
the middle of his chest. What took you so long?
They all hurried inside. Krai, his teeth chattering from the cold, eyed 
Mycelles new form as he dressed back into his own warmer clothes. Tyrus 
explained about the hidden spies in the rocks. A good precaution, Krai said, 
nodding approvingly.
Mycelle searched around the entrance to the arch. A wide stairway carved from 
the stone itself wound upward. On its lowest step, a dead dwarf lay sprawled 
facedown upon the stair. Blood still flowed and dripped down the steps.
Krai noticed her attention. It seems you were not the only ones to come upon a 
hidden watcher.
She nodded and turned away. But the tiny hairs at the back of her neck quivered 
with warning. She tried to keep her stance and manner calm and disinterested. 
Something did not add up. Before Tyrus had spoken, Krai had recognized Mycelle 
in her dwarvish form. She had recognized the knowledge in his eyes and noticed 
the way he had sniffed at her like some woodland animal. And now the dead 
dwarf. How had Krai killed him? The guards throat had been ripped out, sliced 
from ear to ear. But Krai had no weapon.
She studied him from the corner of her eye as he finished dressing and hitched 
his ax back to his belt. What unspoken game was being played here?
At her side, Mogweed craned his neck and searched the space. He asked the other 
concern in Mycelles mind. How did you get inside?
The mountain man straightened, shoving his foot into his boot. Let me show 
you. He pointed an arm. Everyone on the stone stairs.
They obeyed, careful of the slick blood and dead body. Krai joined them on the 
lowest step. Mycelle watched him. His eyelids lowered, and his lips moved 
silently.
After a moment, he leaned closer, studying the stone floor. Whatever he saw 
seemed to satisfy him. He turned to the group. Link hands, flesh to flesh. No 
one let go, no matter what happens.
Mycelle took Krais hand herself, then reached to Tyrus. Neelahn bared her 
breast and tucked the child inside, skin to skin, then offered her free hand. 
The rest linked up.
At the lines end, Mogweed grabbed his brothers tail. Ready, he squeaked out.
| A M E S LLF.MINS
T
Then let us go. The first step is dizzying, so hold tight. Krai made the last 
step, but never reached the floor. He seemed to fall, head over heel, tumbling, 
tugging Mycelle after him. Mycelles first instinct was to let go, but she held 
firm, committed to this venture. She fell after him, feeling her stomach lurch 
sickeningly.
Then she found the floor back under her feet. She turned and saw the others 
gathered behind her. They were simply in the anteroom again. Nothing 
hadchanged.
You can let go now, Krai said. Weve passed the threshold.
Menc touched his forehead, his face somewhat green. What just happened?
Were right where we started from, Mogweed said.
No. The mountain man pointed back to the staircase. Were in the nether 
arch. Krai remounted the stairs. We should hurry before a patrol finds the 
dead body of the guard.
Mycelle looked to the stair. The dwarfs body was gone. The stairs were clean 
of any blood. What is going on? she asked. Where are we?
Krai sighed. I will explain as we climb. He started up the stairs. Once under 
way, Krai spoke. We now walk in the reflection of the true archthe mirror 
image that is cast upon the waters of Tor Amon. When walked by one of the royal 
family, illusion becomes substance.
Water becomes stone, Tyrus muttered, repeating the mountain mans earlier 
words.
Krai nodded. Lord Tyrus, the Land has granted my family a secret means of 
moving unseen through our arched home. We now walk behind the mirror of what is 
real.
Mycelle glanced out a passing arrow slit. The white snowstorm was gone. Only 
darkness lay beyond. Pausing, she reached a hand through the window and touched 
water.
The lake, Krai explained, staring back at her. As we climb these stairs, we 
are actually climbing into the depths of Tor Amon, following the reflection down 
into the waters. He pointed to a wider window up ahead, a lookout post. The 
windowsill and wall were wet, as were the steps. I climbed from the lake 
through there, then came and fetched you.
But why climb down or up or whatever to this watery castle? To what end? 
Mycelle asked, wiping her damp hand.
None will see us on this path. It is a way known only to the clans a way that 
can only be opened by one of the Senta Flame. We are safe, and once we reach the 
castle, we can pass through the mirror and back into the true worldback into 
the castlewith no one the wiser.
Mycelle pondered his plan. If he spoke truthfully, it would certainly give them 
an advantage. Can you move easily between the two planesreal and reflection?
Krai growled his assent.
Mycelle nodded and waved him onward. Suspicions still rang in her bones, but 
what choice did they have? The Griffin Weirgate had to be challenged. She 
followed after the mountain man leading their party.
The climb grew into an endless trek. The stairs seemed to flow forever. Several 
times along the way, they came upon old bones tumbled in a landings corner or 
sprawled across the steps. Krais voice was a hoarse rasp. The bones of the 
wounded. Many were too weak and died on the steps as the last survivors of the 
bloody war fled down this secret path, led by my ancestor. Here they remain 
forever, the last guardians of the Citadel.
In silence, as if walking a graveyard, the group continued up and up. Finally, 
exhausted and bone-tired, they reached the top of the stairs. A set of stone 
gates lay open. A wide echoing hall lay beyond, lit by netherlights, shimmering 
fiery glows.
Reflections of the halls torches in the true world, Krai explained, and led 
them through the wide gates.
Mycelle stepped forward. The hall was strangely empty, hollow, their steps 
echoing off the phantom walls. But at the same time, Mycelle seemed to sense the 
presence of others nearby. And she was not the only one to feel this way. The 
others darted glances around, as if spotting movement from the corner of an eye 
or hearing a whisper near an ear.
Holding back a shudder, Mycelle followed after Krai. Where are we going? she 
said in a hushed voice, afraid of being overheard by the ghosts in the hall.
To the throne room, Krai said. If we are to start our search anywhere, it 
should be there.
Mycelle nodded. The mountain man increased his pace in his excitement. They left 
the entrance hall, climbed more stairs, and passed through a maze of tunneled 
corridors. Mycelle concentrated on remembering the way lest they get separated.
At last, they reached a wide hallway that ended at a towering, carved granite 
door. It stretched to the height of six mountain men and stood slightly ajar. 
Krai hurried forward.
Wait! Mycelle called, nerves jangling with warning.
But the mountain man was deaf to her. He slipped through the door and into the 
room beyond. Mycelle raced after him. Keep up! Hes our only way out of this 
stony reflection!
Mycelle dashed through the door and into the cavernous chamber beyond. Here, 
too, strange fiery netherlights lit the expansive floor of polished granite and 
vaulted ceilings. But in the rooms center, an oily darkness stood, eating any 
light that reached it, a black whirlpool tipped on end. Its hungry eye stared 
back at them. Screams wailed up from its pit.
Krai! Tyrus yelled.
The mountain man knelt before the darknessnot in allegiance, but in terror. His 
hands and feet scrabbled for purchase, but it was clear he was being drawn, 
sucked toward the darkness. I cant stop it! he yelled. Its drawing me out 
of the reflection and back to the real world!
The group rushed forward, grabbing Krais arms. But it was like trying to stop a 
ship from sinking. Krais body dragged forward, hauling them all along like 
fishes on a line.
Were not strong enough! Tyrus said.
But we cant lose him either! Mycelle spat back. Hes the only one that can 
get us safely through the threshold and back to the real world!
Krais feet vanished into the oily whirlpool. Its too late! he cried.
Mycelle glanced to the others. There is only one way to go from here. We stick 
together. Where Krai goes, we go!
She reached a free hand to Neelahn. The nyphai took it. The others joined the 
link. Mogweed hesitated, glancing around the ghostly hall, then took Tyrus 
hand. Neelahn grabbed Fardales tail.
Be ready! Mycelle yelled.
As a group, they were tugged forward, tumbling into the dark void. Again there 
was the queer lurch. The world spun toe over heel, and then they were through.
Mycelle stared around her. The hall was the same as the one they had been in a 
moment before. But now instead of a whirling pool of darkness, she found them 
all collapsed before a monstrous stone statue of a winged black lion, its talons 
dug deep into the polished floor of the chamber, its fanged mouth open in a 
silent roar. It was the Griffin Weirgate.
Beside it stood a tall, plain throne of silver granite: the Ice Throne. Seated 
upon the chair was a massive dwarf, white-haired and so wrinkled with age that 
it was difficult to make out his features.
The ancient ones hoary eyes stared down at Krai. Ah, Brother, the ancient 
figure croaked, his dry lips cracking into a wide smile. Be welcomed home. The 
Dark Master has missed you.
Kral gained his feet, trembling with rage. To either side, a mass of armored 
dwarves closed in on his stunned companions as they lay sprawled on the granite 
floor. From galleries high on the walls, archers bristled with arrows. It was an 
ambush, and he had led their group into it.
But guilt had no grip on his heart. Fury and rage burned out all other emotions. 
To see a dwarf seated on his family throne was too much for Krais blood. He 
loosed the beast inside him, oblivious to all who witnessed it. He was past 
caring about secrets and allegiances. He had only one goal nowto destroy this 
dwarf king.
A roar burst from his throat as claws sprouted bloody from his fingertips. A 
snowy pelt shivered from his skin, and a muzzle of razored fangs grew forth from 
his face. Legion burst forth from the mountain mans clothes, shredding through 
the leathers, wearing the muscled and deadly form of the snow leopard.
With the heightened senses of the beast, he heard Mogweed gasp and scramble 
away.
Hes an illguard, Mycelle called out, tugging everyone back.
Deep inside, Kral registered the lack of surprise from the shape-shifter, but he 
ignored it for now. Instead, he turned his red eyes upon his true prey.
The ancient dwarf king also showed little surprise at Krais transformation. A 
thin smile cracked his features. So the kitten wants to play?
Dwarves closed ranks before the throne and attacked from all sides, cleaving 
down with axes and swords. But Krai moved with the speed and grace of the 
leopard, vanishing before any blade could touch him. He was a white blur against 
the black granite.
From the corner of his eye, he saw his companions pinned against the wall. Tyrus 
and Mycelle kept a wall of steel between the attacking dwarves and the others, 
while Fardale shored up any weak spots in their defense. Behind them, Merics 
form danced with blue energies, calling forth a flurry of winds to confound the 
aim of any arrows. Krai growled, acknowledging their fierce hearts. But he knew 
they were doomed. The number of dwarves was too great.
Dismissing them, he ripped out the throat of a dwarf in front of him, and with 
a kick of a hind paw, he tore open the stomach of another. Imbued with dark 
magicks and armed with the natural instincts of a forest cat, he was an 
unstoppable force. Slowly, he worked toward the dwarf king seated on the Ice 
Throne. He maintained a wary distance from the Weirgate. Krai knew it had been 
the ebonstone statue that had sucked him out of the reflectionknew to fear its 
powers. Still, Krai would not accept defeat, not until the last dwarf was slain 
in the Citadel.
With a wail, he dove into the line of dwarves before the throne, shredding 
through them with teeth and claw. At last, the way lay open to the king. Leopard 
muscles bunched under him, ready to leap and claim his familys throne.
Still, the king did not move. He simply continued to smile, meeting Krais feral 
gaze with amused disinterest.
Krais feline instincts thrilled with warning, suspicious. Why was his prey not 
running?
I know your secrets, Legion, the king said. The Nameless One has warned me of 
your special giftsgifts you use to betray him now. The ancient dwarf rubbed 
his crooked fingers along the chairs granite arms. Gifts to win back a 
throne.
A howl of red fury flowed from Krais throat. He leaped with all the muscles in 
his limbsand still the dwarf king did not flinch, but merely motioned with one 
hand.
Krai instantly knew his error. His body contorted in midair: claws sank away, 
fur vanished in a breath, sharp teeth blunted. Thrown off balance by the 
transformation, Krais leap fell short of his true target.

fie struck the steps that led to the Ice Throne, shattering his collarbone as 
his shoulder hit.
Gasping, Krai rolled to his feet naked, a man again. The leopard was gone. He 
tried to touch the beast within, but nothing was there. He swung around as 
swords encircled him.
A dwarf warrior stood in the center of the chamber. In one hand, he held Krais 
discarded axand in his other, the pelt of the snow leopard that had wrapped its 
iron head. He lifted the exposed weapon toward his king.
You need a pelt to transform, dont you? the dwarf king said behind him. 
Without an animals skin around your ax, youre nothing but a man.
The warrior tossed the leopard skin atop a torch borne by another dwarf. The 
fur caught flame. Clenching his fists, Krai watched any hope of winning here 
burn away. He fell to his knees on the granite floor, defeated, hopeless.
The dwarf king cackled on the throne. Do not despair, Brother. Youve brought 
a bevy of elementals to my doorstep, additional kindling for the Dark Masters 
flame. Where you have failed, these will be made into unbending instruments.
Krai turned to see the ancient king creak up from his seat and step over to the 
monstrous winged statue. A wrinkled hand ran along the black stone, tracing one 
of the silvery veins in the rock with a fingertip. Youre also in time to see 
the Masters ultimate victory. As youve lost hope, so will all.
As dwarves ringed the group with ax and sword, Meric watched the game play out 
by the throne. He leaned closer to Lord Tyrus and Mycelle, who stood with their 
own weapons drawn. Both sustained bloody wounds from the recent skirmish. We 
must not be captured, he said. Ive withstood one assault by the Dark Lords 
twisting flame. I doubt I could withstand it again.
Neelahn agreed, clutching the babe tighter to her breast. Ill not become like 
Cecelia. Neither will I allow the child to be taken.
What are you saying? Mycelle asked.
Tyrus answered. The elvin is right. All the elementals, myself included, must 
be slain. We cannot risk becoming tools of the Dark Lord. *
Mycelle hissed back at them. In my lifetime, Ive poisoned scores of elementals 
to keep them from the Dark Lord and called it a kindness. I understand your 
sentiment but but Meric recognized the pain and guilt in her eyes. We cant 
lose hope. Not yet, she insisted. Turning, she muttered pained words only meant 
for herself, but Merics sharp ears heard her. Sweet Mother, dont ask me to do 
this. My hands are stained with enough blood.
Meric stepped back to Neelahn. If she cant do this, we must. Neelahn 
nodded.
Meric stared across the room crowded with dwarves. Overshadowed by the 
monstrous Weirgate, Krai was being trussed in iron shackles. What hope was 
there?
Neelahn touched his arm. Hand me my lute. Meric still had her instrument 
slung over his shoulder. He shrugged it off and peeled back its wrappings. What 
are you planning?
The only thing I can to protect the baby. She pulled aside a bit of blanket 
from her seed child and exposed his small arm. In her other hand, a dagger 
appeared. Before Meric could stop her, she sliced the little ones palm.
The babes scream echoed off the walls, drawing all eyes in their direction. 
Neelahn smeared her fingertips in the childs blood, then took the lute from 
Merics stunned arms. Without pausing, as the child continued to wail, she 
strummed the lutes strings with her bloody fingers. Music and wailing wafted 
throughout the room, sailing out high windows and through open doorways. What 
are you doing? Mycelle hissed back at her. Calling for those who would protect 
the childcalling to the one who would recognize his cries. Neelahn met 
Merics gaze. Im calling for his mother.
Merics eyes flew wide. She was summoning the Grim.
Neelahn played her lute with all the energy in her body, weav-ing the babes 
sobs with chords of woodsong, striving to open a path to her sisters of the 
forest. Come to me! she sang in the ancient tongue. Protect the child.
Tied to her music, she felt the song swell out and beyond. As she plied her 
strings, the lines of force in the room became apparent, scintillating in the 
air. Near the Griffin Weirgate, strains of magickal energy swirled in a tight 
vortex around the statue, unable to escape, eddying down into the black well. 
Neelahn sensed its sucking hunger, and for a moment, she sensed the malevolence 
at the heart of the griffin.
Reeling back in horror, she glided her music away from the Weirgate, but found 
she was unable. Hooked like a fish, she was trapped. Her music jarred -to a 
stop, but it was too late. Lines of force now connected her to the Weirgate. She 
sensed that all that was elemental in her heart was being drawn into the statue.
Neelahn, Meric said at her shoulder. Whats wrong?
The Weirgate, she gasped, weakening on her feet. The lute fell from her 
trembling fingers, but Meric caught it. I touched it with my magick. I I cant 
break free.
Meric caught her under the arms. What can I do? She shook her head. The room 
began to grow dark. I Im lost. Save the child
A darker shadow swept across her vision. Neelahn thought she was fading 
awayuntil a sibilant voice pierced through to her. Is this how you protect my 
baby? Meric yanked her away.
The dark mist coalesced into the figure of Cecelia, the wraith illguard. I 
will not let them harm my childnot even to avenge the Lands cruelty. Her 
words balanced between madness and grief. Sisters, join me!
From the chambers shadowed corners, wraiths unfolded into the room, drawn forth 
upon the strands of Neelahns music. The bits of darkness sailed free, flitting 
and flapping on unseen winds. Where they passed, screams arose. Dwarves fell 
dead to the floor. Bodies tumbled from the galleries, crushing others.
And still the darkness continued to flow into the chamber. More and more of the 
Grim fell upon their prey. Dwarves twisted and writhed on the floor. Across the 
hall, guards circled the throne, protecting their king.
Mycelle and Tyrus pulled closer to the others, backing from the wraith Cecelia.
Neelahn suddenly swooned to her knees, dragging Meric down with her.
Whats wrong? Mycelle asked.
Shes dying, Meric answered, then faced Cecelia. Can you stop this?
Cecelia swung on Meric. Why should I?
Meric stood up and pointed to the griffin. The statue is drawing Neelahns 
power from her body, from her lute, from her spirit. Not only will she die, so 
will the last spirit of your trees. And with both gone, the babe will surely 
perish. If you love your child, if you love the future of your people, then stop 
what is happening to her.
Cecelias darkness swelled out like a foul cloak. Her voice rose to a tortured 
scream. I I dont know if I can.
Just try!
Neelahn reached a hand and touched the babys head, which peeked from his 
blankets. Please
Cecelia stared down at her. A dark arm reached out. Neelahn was too weak to 
move away. An icy coldness brushed across her cheek. Youre so beautiful, the 
wraith whispered. I ache to look upon you.
Neelahn had no words left. She pleaded with her eyes. Cecelia turned away. No 
matter the cost, I would rather my child grow as bright as you, than as dark as 
his mother.
The wraith swirled back into a dark cloud and shot up toward the vaulted 
ceiling, wailing the cry of the Grim. Around the chamber, the myriad shadows 
froze for a breath, ignoring their sprawled and twisted prey. As a group, they 
swept up to join their leader. The billowing darkness grew to fill the arched 
ceiling.
Throughout the room, dwarves cowered near the floor. From the darkness, words 
sailed forth. Sisters, it is time to end our suffering. We are not meant for 
this world.
Neelahn, tied to her sisters by bonds as old as her tree, understood what was 
about to happen. No! she struggled to yell, but her voice was a weak whisper. 
Her dry lips cracked, and blood dribbled down her chin. She was almost spent.
Ride with me into the flames, Sisters! Allow us this one act of penance for all 
weve become, for all the sins of our past. A howl rose from the gathered Grim.
Around Neelahn, her companions fell to their knees, palms pressed to their ears 
against the crushing noise. Even the dwarf king collapsed by his throne.
Despite the cries, Neelahn heard Cecelias voice. For the sake of 
Lokaiherafor the sake of the last seed childfollow me!
A bit of shadow broke from the flock and shot toward the statue. It hovered a 
moment. Neelahn sensed a gaze falling upon her from the dank mist. Words 
whispered in her ear. Protect my child, little one. Then the shred of shadow 
shot at the statue, diving through the open jaws of the griffin with a scream. 
Follow me!
This final corrtmand of the last keeper of Lokaihera could not be ignored by 
the Grim. A flow of shadows swept down from above in a continuous black 
waterfall.
No! the king of the dwarves yelled, gaining his feet. Stop them! But who 
could stop a shadow? The Grim swept down the black maw of the beast. Its hungry 
throat swallowed them all, feeding, slaking upon their elemental energies, 
consuming them entirely. Stop! the king yelled again.
Neelahn sensed the thin cord of power that linked her to the statue begin to 
burn away as the surge of energy swept through the Weirgate. As more Grim fled, 
wailing, into the griffins maw, their flow of power sliced her free, tossing 
her back against the wall as the tether snapped. Gasping, she rolled to her 
knees. Theyre sacrificing themselves! she yelled as the last of the wraiths 
were swallowed away. Theyre burning themselves away so I might live. All my 
sisters gone
Meric touched her shoulder and whispered, I think its what they ultimately 
wanted: an end to their pain and a chance to secure a hope for the future.
Neelahn stood up, determined to honor their sacrifice. Across the hall, the 
dwarf king glowered at the gathered party. An unearthly fire shone in his eyes. 
You thought to destroy the griffin. But your efforts have only made the Weir 
stronger. I will burn you all upon the Masters altar and see the Land 
destroyed!
Neelahns eyes narrowed. The dwarf king had no understanding of the battle 
that had been won here. Beware the Gate, she warned her companions. Do not 
let your magick touch it.
One of the kings guards blew a horn, and the scattered dwarf forces slowly 
edged back into the throne room, wary of the dead bodies scattered across the 
floor.
Mycelle stepped forward, still in her dwarf form. Well only have this one 
chance. We attack now or be overwhelmed.
Tyrus stepped to her side. Whats your plan?
You all lead the attack against the dwarves. Leave the gate to me.
What are you going to do? Mogweed asked.
Mycelles gaze fixed on the chained and defeated mountain man. I have a plan. 
She turned to Lord Tyrus and spoke rapidly. But Ill need Krais ax. She 
pointed to where the weapon lay, clutched in the hands of a dead dwarf.
He nodded. Ill fetch it. He set off across the floor, running low, sword at 
ready. But so far the dwarves were slow to regroup and offered little 
challenge.
As Meric stepped to Mycelles side, a flash of movement caught Neelahns eye. 
Meric! she yelled in warning.
The elvin swung around, lifting an arm crackling with energy. But he was too 
slow to stop the arrows flight.
The barb flew true, ripping through Mycelles throat. Blood gouted from the 
wound as the swordswoman fell backward. She hit the floor, sliding, her blades 
clattering away.
Neelahn dove to her side, while Fardale joined Meric in raising a defense. 
Fierce winds blew a warding around them as the elvin danced within the gale, 
sword in hand. At his side, Fardale ripped into any who drew too near. Even 
Mogweed recovered one of Mycelles swords and knelt on the other side of the 
wounded woman. How is she? Mogweed asked.
Mycelle struggled to sit up, but Neelahn held her down. Dont move.
Mycelle opened her mouth to speak, but only blood flowed out. Mycelle clutched 
Neelahns arm frantically, tugging her closer.
Neelahn leaned down.
Mycelle coughed to clear her throat, spraying Neelahn with gore, and managed to 
choke out a few hoarse words, waving toward the statue. A sacrifice like your 
sisters. Blood again filled her throat, but she coughed. The ax!
Neelahn turned and saw Tyrus had recovered the mountain mans weapon. He was 
returning with it in hand. It comes, Neelahn said. But I dont understand 
what good it will do us.
Mycelle scrabbled with her other hand and slipped out a dagger. She pressed its 
hilt into Neelahns hand and squeezed, struggling to get her to understand. 
Neelahn stared into the womans pained and sorrowful eyes. Mycelles lips 
moved, but no sound came out.
Still, Neelahn recognized the word she struggled to speak.
Shape-shifter
Neelahns brow crinkled for a heartbeat. She stared at the dagger in her hand. 
Then her eyes widened with understanding and horror.
Oh, Sweet Mother no!
Meric heard Neelahns outburst. How fares Mycelle? he called back as he 
lashed out with a gale of winds, blowing away any who neared.
Her wounds are mortal, Neelahn answered. She dies.
Meric held his sword out in front of him. It was his fault. He had let his guard 
down, let the deadly arrow through. What can we do to help her?
Neelahn did not answer. He risked a glance over a shoulder. The nyphai held a 
dagger in her hand. He recognized it as Mycelles. Neelahn leaned over the 
shape-shifter.
A growl drew his attention back around. Fardale pointed. Lord Tyrus returned, 
hacking through any who stood in his path. The mans eyes were lit with 
wildfire, the pirate shining through the prince.
Meric did what he could to help, blowing away any arrows aimed in the Mrylian 
lords direction while maintaining the whirlwind around the others. Tyrus fought 
through the last of the dwarves, then dove forward.
Meric lowered his winds to allow the man inside, then cast them back up.
How are you all doing? Tyrus asked.
Meric opened his mouth to answerthen Tyrus saw Mycelle and dashed to her side, 
dropping Krais ax.
Mycelle! He took her hand.
Backing a step, Meric closed his winds tighter. His magick was not infinite. 
Eventually it would ebb away, and the winds with it. The dwarves must have 
sensed his already-weakening state and held back, waiting like wolves upon a 
wounded deer.
Mother above! Tyrus yelled. What have you done?
Meric turned as Tyrus elbowed Neelahn aside.
Meric now saw what the nyphai had been doing with Mycelles dagger. Shocked, his 
winds whirled wildly.
Mycelle lay on her back, her belly and chest bare. Her chest still moved, and 
blood bubbled from her lips and nose. But from her rib cage down to her navel, 
her skin had been flayed loose by the dagger wielded by Neelahn. To Merics 
horror, he realized the nyphai had been skinning the shape-shifter as he had 
guarded over them.
Knocked away, Neelahn still held the bloody dagger. Its what she wanted, the 
nyphai mumbled. Only now did Meric see the tears running down Neelahns face. 
We cant win here on our own.
Mycelle reached out to the nyphai and nodded, her face a mask of agony. She was 
too weak to speak.
I dont understand, Tyrus said. What is going on? Neelahn pointed to the 
mountain mans ax. She wants us to free Krai with her own skin.
With dawning horror, Meric now understood. He had heard the dwarf kings 
revelation of Krais illguard nature. The mountain mans form was bent with a 
black magick that allowed him to assume the form of whatever beasts pelt 
wrapped his ax. Mycelle wanted to use her own skin to grant the mountain man the 
full gifts of the silura, the shape-shifters.
But hes an illguard, Tyrus argued.
And one who hates the dwarves purpose here as much as we do, Meric said, 
gleaning Mycelles goal. Free him and hell destroy all in his way.
Including us, Tyrus said.
Mycelle motioned the Mrylian closer. He leaned his ear to her lips, then 
straightened, paler than a moment before.
What did she say? Mogweed asked on the far side, clutching one of Mycelles 
swords.
Prophecy, Tyrus said.  She who would give her blood to save the Western 
Reaches. 
What does that mean? Meric asked.
It is what I told her back in Port Rawl. I was sent there by my fathers 
prophecies, to bring you all here: three shape-shifters and the woman who was 
both Dro and not Dro.
Mycelle, Meric mumbled.
Tyrus took the shape-shifters hand. My father said her blood would be the key 
to saving the lands from corruption. She means to see this foretelling come 
true.
Everyone grew silent.
Tyrus held out his hand to Neelahn. She knew what he was asking for and placed 
the daggers hilt in his palm.
He bent over Mycelle. It was my fathers prophecy.
Mycelle sighed. She was finally understood.
As blood choked her throat, she closed her eyes, readying herself for the pain 
to come. It would only be a short time more. She prayed for forgiveness in these 
final moments. She had slain so many in the name of preserving Alasea. The faces 
of the hundreds of elementals murdered with her poisonsome willingly, some 
without their knowledgepassed before her minds eye: children, women, elders. 
So many. Tears flowed down her cheeknot from pain of her wounds, but from the 
hollowness of her heart.
Mycelle Her name was whispered in her ear. She was too tired to open her 
eyes. She knew the voice. It was Lord Tyrus.
Are you ready?
She nodded, beyond worry of the daggers bite.
Mycelle
Be done with it already, she thought, flickering open her eyes.
Tyrus face hovered over hers. He stared into her eyes. She was surprised to see 
the tears in his eyes. He was a hard man, a pirate who had slain thousands. His 
tears fell upon her face. I release you from your duty. Youve served our 
family well and long.
She felt a small bit of comfort from his words and smiled, closing her eyes 
again.
A flare of pain burned up from her belly as he worked the blade. She bit back a 
gasp, but found the princes lips suddenly upon hers, pressing hard, holding 
back the pain with his touch. Time stopped for just that brief moment, stretched 
beyond the pain and blood. She found herself sobbing.
I love you, he whispered between their lips.
And in that final moment, she knew he spoke truly. The hollow-ness in her heart 
filled with warmth and love. Then, with the sweetest pang, the world let her 
free.
Neelahn watched Tyrus rise from his embrace of Mycelle. Her form had 
transformed while they had kissed, changing from the dwarfish figure back to 
the familiar long-limbed Dro. He pushed up, crying, and silently turned with a 
large swath of flayed skin in his hand.
Tyrus half crawled to Krais discarded ax and cradled it in his lap. With his 
head hung, he wrapped the skin around the iron head of the weapon. Im sorry 
he muttered to no one.
Neelahn stood, giving him a moment of privacy.
I think its working, Meric said, staring across the throne hall.
Neelahn stared past the whirling wind and prayed Mycelles sacrifice had not 
been in vain.
Kral slouched naked in his chains, blind to all around him, deaf to the yelled 
orders. Some part of him knew the dwarves were grouping for a final assault on 
his old companions. But he found no part of him that cared. Any hope for freeing 
his ancestral home from the corruption here had died.
Then slowly, through the fog of his despair, he sensed a surge of energy, like a 
spark on dry tinder. Kral recognized this feeling. He rose with a growl to his 
feet while reaching outward to his ax.
Yes!
He felt the font of power, a new skin upon which to define the beast inside him. 
He touched the dark magickand instantly recognized the skin that fueled the 
fire. Siluran shape-shifter. He glanced across the hall and saw his companions 
grouped together. Tyrus held his ax and stared back at him. The princes eyes 
were bright with tears.
Mycelle, he muttered to himself, understanding.
He stared down at the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles. With a flow of 
flesh, he stepped free. Iron chains clattered to the ground.
The noise drew the eyes of the dwarf king, standing before the white granite 
throne. The squat creatures eyes grew wide as Kral stepped away from the 
chains.
Ill have my throne now, Kral said coldly. He willed his body back to the 
shape of a snow leopard, fur spreading in a tingling
James Clem i: ns
wave, claws sprouting, injuries healing, muscles bunching into the lean and 
powerful form of a forest cat. He chose this form in honor of Mycelle. She had 
been Dro, and the leopard was their heraldic symbol. It was only fitting that 
the mountain cat of the deep north rip the evil from this place.
Before the kings guards could react, he leaped upon the old dwarf, tearing 
away an arm that was lifted in defense. The dwarf bellowed in pain and shock, 
tumbling back into the seat of the Ice Throne. No! We serve the same master!
Krais lips pulled back in a feral grin, displaying long fangs.
No! the king cried.
Kral leaped again with a scream that roared throughout the hall and landed atop 
the dwarf, digging in his claws. The king cowered. Kral could smell his fear, 
hear the fluttering beat of his preys twin hearts.
Please
Snarling his victory, Kral ripped out the throat of the dwarf king. Hot blood 
sprayed the white granite. He tasted it on his tongue. His preys mouth opened 
and closed as if drowning; then the light of life faded from his eyes.
Satisfied at last, Kral kicked aside the dead body and mounted his throne, 
crouched, muzzle bloodied. He stared around the hall, roaring again, claiming 
the Ice Throne for himself.
The remaining dwarves froze; then in a rush many fled, heartless with the loss 
of their king. Others, mostly the royal bodyguards, rushed forward with bloody 
vengeance in their eyes.
Kral met their charge, leaping and flying into their ranks. He used the full 
magick of the shape-shifter, flowing from one shape to another as he rolled 
through the axes and swords. He left a trail of broken and twitching bodies in 
his wake. He raced from one end of the hall to the other, no longer just 
satisfied with attacking those who threatened. He chased down fleeing dwarves, 
ripped out their hamstrings, then circled back to feed on their hearts.
Soon the granite floors were slick with blood. Nothing moved except the beast 
who stalked among the dead around the lone island of the living. A raging 
whirlwind protected these few. He lifted his muzzle and sniffed. The winds even 
kept their smells from him.
He edged toward these others, low to the ground, a growl flowing from his 
throat.
Once he neared, the winds died down. He found himself facing Tyrus. The Mrylian 
lord was flanked by Meric on one side and Neelahn on the other. Fardale and 
Mogweed hung back, near the sprawled body of Mycelle. ,
But Krais eyes ignored them all. His eyes were focused on the ax.
Tyrus ignored his challenging growl and tore the shape-shifter skin from his ax. 
Once again, Krai felt the magick ripped from his control. Flesh flowed back to 
that of a man again. Krai pushed up and stood naked before them. He held out his 
arm. My ax.
Tyrus lifted his sword between them. First a promise, mountain man.
Krai lowered his arm. He knew he could not defeat Tyrus barehanded against 
steel. What?
Tyrus swung his sword to encompass the room. Weve helped you win back your 
ancient throne and lands.
Krai stared to Mycelles body. I recognize your role. Illguard or not, I know 
the price in blood paid here. Youre all free to leave. Ill not harm any of 
you.
It is not our lives that we bargain for.
Mogweed squeaked behind him. Not all we bargain for, that is. Tyrus ignored 
the thin man. Ill return the ax only if you swear to use it first on the 
griffin.
Krai glanced behind him. The monstrous black Weirgate still stood beside the Ice 
Throne. Its wings were spread wide, its jaw stretched in a silent howl of rage, 
revealing the black fangs. Krai stared at its red eyes. He could almost sense 
the Dark Lord staring back at him, raging at his betrayal, but he could not back 
down now. The Citadel would never be truly free, never be open to his peoples 
clans until this monstrous statue was destroyed. Ill do as you ask, he said, 
turning back.
Neelahn stepped forward. Be warned, Krai. Do not touch the statue yourself. It 
can tap into your elemental energy, draw the energy from your body.
I understand. Again he held out his hand. Tyrus still hesitated. Swear it.
Krai sighed. I swear on the Ice Throne and on my blood as a member of the Senta 
Flame.
Grudgingly satisfied, Tyrus dropped the ax and slid it across the bloody granite 
to Krais feet.
Relieved, Krai bent and retrieved his weapon. He gripped the hickory handle. 
What makes you believe I can succeed?
Tyrus glanced to Mycelle, then back to Krai. Prophecy.
Krais eyes narrowed. He remembered the prophetic words of the princes dead 
father. Mycelle was to give her blood, and he was to win back the crown of his 
people. Together, they held the key to true victory. He nodded and turned toward 
the waiting griffin.
Let this end now.
Mogweed watched the naked man stalk across the hall, holding the ax in his arms. 
All eyes were on what was to happen next. But Mogweed had his own concerns. He 
cared not about Weirgates and old thrones. He had started on this long road to 
find a cure to the curse that bound him and Fardale.
Prophecy.
It seemed that old King Rys auguries were focused on this single night. Mycelle 
had died. Krai had won back his throne. But what of the prophecies surrounding 
the twin shape-shifters?
Two will come frozen; one will leave whole.
As the group watched Krai cross the throne hall, Mogweed turned his attention to 
Mycelles body. He touched the edge of her cloak, pulling it back. Clearly 
Mycelles prophecies had twined into Krais future. So it made sense that the 
same might be true for the predictions about Mogweed and Fardale. The three 
predictions twining togetherlike a twisting snake.
Mogweed tugged the cloak from the dead womans shoulders, revealing the tiny 
striped viper. The pakagolo still lay snugged around her upper arm.
Here was the source of Mycelles shape-shifting, and she had no further use for 
it. Why not make it his own?
Cautiously, he reached for the small viper. A tiny tongue flickered in his 
direction. He let the snake taste the tip of a finger with its tiny fork, then 
slowly drew back his hand. The pakagolo followed, uncoiling from its perch, 
stretching toward Mogweeds heat and scent.
It must know its prior master was dead.
The snake unwound and slid forward. Mogweed lowered his hand and shifted 
slightly forward, offering his palm.
The vipers belly touched his skin, sending a shiver over Mogweeds

flesh. But he kept his arm still. The pakagolo slid up his palm, tongue 
flickering at the strange landscape. At last, its .tail dropped from Mycelles 
cooling flesh. With a tickling slither, it moved farther up Mogweeds arm. The 
tail wrapped itself around his fingers.
Mogweed allowed himself a thrill of excitement. It was accepting him.
He glanced up and found Fardale staring at him. The wolfs eyes glowed with the 
barest flicker of amber.
Sorry, Brother, Mogweed thought.
Then a sting like no other jerked Mogweed back. It was as if his hand had been 
thrust into the hottest flame. He opened his mouth but had no breath to scream. 
His chest was locked in pain. He stared down at his arm.
The open jaws of the pakagolo were locked onto his wrist. He watched its body 
spasm as it pumped its toxin into his veins.
Mogweed fell backward, shaking his arm. But the snake was latched by fangs and 
coiled around his wrist. The fiery burn spread up his arm.
Fardale leaped over Mycelles body, coming to his aid.
Begging with his eyes, Mogweed held out his arm toward Fardale. Then the flesh 
of his limb began to melt. The pain was still there, but Mogweed stared in shock 
as the frozen flesh began to flow again like a true siluran. He remembered 
spying upon Mycelle in the grove.
Sweet Mother, its wording!
Then Fardale was there, lunging and snapping at the snake with a flash of teeth. 
He managed to grab it by its tail.
No! Mogweed gasped out past the pain.
The snakes fangs released. It coiled around and struck Fardale on the tender 
flesh of his nose. The wolf howled.
Mogweed tried to grab up the pakagolo, but his flowing flesh would not obey. He 
struck Fardale in the nose as the wolfs muzzle melted with the magickal poison. 
Their two fleshes mixed.
Frightened, Mogweed tugged, but he found himself unable to free himself. The 
transforming poison continued to spread through both their bodies, both figures 
melding together.
Mogweed suddenly heard his brothers voice in his head, not in the wolfish 
images but plain words. Brother, what have you done?
He had no idea. He found himself dissolving away. The world grew dark around 
him, fading. He sensed he was not alone as he sank into the burning darkness. He 
had no mouth with which to speak. Fardale, can you hear me?
There was no answer. The darkness grew complete. Mogweed cried out with his 
mind, pleading for salvation. Then he heard voices in the distance, sounding as 
if they arose from down a hole.
Whats happened to them?
I dont know. It looks like they melted.
Isnt that Mycelles snake?
Its dead.
What about Mogweed and Fardale?
During this discourse, Mogweed tried to yell, struggling to let someone know he 
was alive. But was he? This last thought terrified him. He stretched toward the 
voices as they continued to speak, using them like a hook with which to draw 
himself out of the darkness.
We have more important concerns, a stern voice said. Mogweed recognized Tyrus. 
With each word, the voices grew louder and the darkness lighter. Mogweed 
continued to focus. Krais almost reached the griffin, Tyrus continued. But 
we cant just leave them like this, Neelahn said. Wait, Meric interrupted. 
Somethings happening. The darkness fell back away. Light flared again. 
Torchlight. Mogweed opened his eyes. He had eyes! Hands rose to feel his face. 
He sat up and stared down at himself. He was back in his same body. He patted 
his form to make sure. Though he was naked and seated atop the clothes he had 
been wearing a moment ago, he was whole.
Conscious of the others attention, Mogweed stood up, covering himself with his 
hands.
What happened to your brother? Neelahn asked. Mogweed stared around him. 
Fardale was nowhere in sight. I watched you two melt together, Neelahn said. 
One mass of flowing flesh.
Two will become one, Mogweed whispered. He turned to the others. The 
prophecy. He lifted an arm and concentrated. He felt the bone inside turn to 
warmed butter. He willed brownish fur to sprout along its length. I can 
shape-shift again! Im free of the curse!
And Fardale? Meric asked.
Witc11 Gate
Mogweed glanced around one more time. His brother was surely gone. He bit back a 
smile of triumph. At last. He was free of his brother.
Tyrus spoke from a few steps away. His eyes were on the far side of the hall. 
Krai is ready.
Meric and Neelahn swung around.
Alone, Mogweed studied the small twisted snake lying on the floor.
Two will come frozen; one will leave whole.
Mogweed smiled. He was that one.
Kral stood before the griffin. The towering Weirgate loomed over him, wings 
spread wide. The lions muzzle curled back from its curved fangs. Attuned to the 
dark magick, he felt the monstrous chunk of ebonstone pulse with energy. He 
found his own heartbeat struggling to match. And deeper than his own heart, he 
felt the Dark Lords brand upon him burn brighter, a black rune charred into the 
rock of his elemental spirit.
Kral hesitated, arms trembling. He tore his eyes from the griffins ruby gaze 
and glanced to the white granite throne of his people. The blood of the dwarf 
king stained its pristine surface. Kral tightened his hold on the ax handle. He 
could not let this chance pass by. The Citadel, the ancestral home of his 
people, the throne of his own clanit must be cleansed!
Stepping back, Kral raised the ax above him in a double-fisted grip. He knew his 
actions defied the very master who had granted him the power to win here, but he 
could not stop. He had crossed the line already, and there was no turning back. 
He made a silent prayer to himself. Once he was done here, he would do the 
bidding of the Dark Master. He would hunt down the witch and burn her heart 
upon the Gulgothal altar. He would pay back his debts in blood.
Kral turned once again to the griffin. He had been taught by his clans elders: 
Look a victim in the eye. If you are strong enough to take his life, then do not 
shirk from seeing him. Kral did this now. He stared into the fiery gaze of the 
griffin and slammed his ax down between those ruby eyes with all the force and 
energy in his body.
His arms jarred with the impact, shattering a small bone in his
]ames Clemens right hand. The crystal ring of iron on stone echoed throughout 
the hall.
Kral cried out, falling back, not from the pain of his injured hand, but as 
something vital was ripped from the marrow of his bones. He lifted the ax, but 
all that lay in his grip was its hickory handle. The iron blade had split into 
shards upon impact with the Weirgate, while the ebonstone statue remained 
unharmed.
Behind him, he heard Tyrus. He failed. The mountain man failed.
Gasping, Kral stumbled another step back. The broken pieces of his ax head lay 
on the dark granite. He felt as shattered inside, but at the same time strangely 
free, as if rusted chains had fallen from his heart. He stared at the remains of 
his ax. The hidden fist of ebonstone was nowhere to be seen.
What had happened?
Kral searched inside him. The black rune that had been forged upon his spirit 
was gone. He fell to his knees. Im free truly free.
Where normally these words should have been shouted with joy, tears flowed down 
his face. The black rune was gone because the stone upon which it had been 
branded had vanished, too. He was empty. The Rock of his spirit had been sucked 
away, its elemental energy drawn fully into the Weir.
Kral knew from his battles with other illguard that without the fuel of an 
elemental fire, the dark magicks could not sustain. He touched his chestboth 
his elemental magick and the Dark Lords taint were goneleaving only this 
hollow husk behind. He covered his face and began to weep, unashamed of who 
might see. He had won his freedom but lost his heritage.
And to what end?
He stared back up at the statue. It was unharmed.
A shout rose behind him. Kral! Beware the statue!
Through the tears of despair, Kral watched the griffin lean toward him, wings 
spreading wider, black lips pulling back to further bare its fangs. He knew now 
what his efforts had succeeded in doing.
He had awoken the Black Beast of Gulgotha.
RUINS OF TULAR

JOACH WALKED TO WHERE THE SANDS ENDED AND THE DESERT LAKE BE-
gan. He stared across the strange landscape. Though small boats sailed across 
its smooth surface, it was like no lake hed ever seen before. Instead of blue 
waters, an endless sea of black glass spread to all horizons. Joach tapped his 
toe on the hard surface to make sure it was real. The lake was named Ashan by 
the tribes of the Southern Waste, the Deserts Tears in the common tongue. It 
stood between them and Tular.
Its like a frozen sea, Sy-wen said behind him. Kast stood at her side. The 
pair wore desert robes and cloaks, hiding their outlander features.
Nearby, a small skiff loaded with bales and crates glided past with its sails 
full of the afternoons breezes. It ran across the glass sea on a pair of 
sharpened steel runners, whisking past them with the slithery sound of its 
blades. In the distance, other ships could be seen plying the lake, crossing 
from village to village.
Kesla stepped up to Joach at the lakes edge. We should continue on, if we are 
to reach Dallinskree by nightfall. The tithing caravan will leave at sunset.
He nodded, rubbing the stump of his right wrist against his hip. Phantom pains 
still plagued him. Though his hand had been bitten off by the foul creature of 
Greshym, Joach still felt an itching and burning in his lost fingers.
Behind them, Hunt stood beside one of the giant desert malluks. His ward, the 
child Sheeshon, sat perched on the shaggy beasts neck, vv IT CH Ij ATE
one hand tugging on her mounts ear. Klup, klup! she called out, trying to 
imitate the drovers nickering call to get a stubborn malluk to move. The beast 
simply ignored her, huffing out its blubbery lips in an expression of 
exasperation. *
Hunt patted her leg. Leave the poor creature be, Sheeshon. Its tired.
As were they all, Joach thought. They had traveled the entire night to reach 
Ashan by morning and were still running short of time. The assembled children 
for this moons blood tithing were due to depart from the town of Dallinskree 
that night, and they still had to cross the lake.
*&#9632;
Atop the malluk, Sheeshon gave her mounts tufted ear a final tug, then settled 
back to her seat.
On the beasts other side, Richald hobbled forward, leaning on a wooden crutch. 
The elvins leg had healed rapidly. The recuperative powers of the elvin, 
along with the medicinal magick of the desert healers, had mended the broken 
femur in less than half a moon. Still, Joach had tried convincing Richald to 
stay behind at the oasis of Ooshal to attend his fellow elvin, injured during 
the attack at Alcazar. But the prince had insisted on joining Joach on the 
journey to the Southwall. I gave my word to see this through, he had said. I 
will not dishonor it. Whatever strength or magick I possess, I will use to aid 
you in the battle to come.
Joach crossed to meet the elvin now.
Richald wore a slightly pained expression. Innsu returns, he said, and pointed 
an arm to the west.
In the distance, a small plume of sandy dust marked the approach of a malluk 
running at full speed. It was followed by another.
Hes not alone, Richald added needlessly.
The group gathered around, waiting to discover what Innsu had learned in the 
small lakeside village of Cassus. They had been traveling overland for the past 
half moon and had had little contact with any but a few nomadic tribesmen. They 
were anxious for news.
Joach stared at the stretch of dunes and endless sand. Kesla moved beside him. 
He heard her breathing, the rustle of her cloak. Again he found it hard to 
believe the old shamans revelation that Kesla was no more than the Lands dream 
given shape and life, brought into being to draw him to the desert sands.
From the corner of his eye, Joach studied Kesla: her hair shining like beaten 
gold in the bright sunlight, the deep bronze of her smooth skin, the twilight 
blue of her eyes. Even she did not know her true self. She thought herself as 
human as any otherand most times, he had the same problem himself.
Dream or not, he could not ignore or dismiss how his heart ached with the sight 
of her. Even now, he remembered the brief brush of her lips on his cheek as they 
fled Alcazars keep. How he longed to explore that unspoken promise to its end. 
But he clenched his fist against such foolishness. She was not real.
At last, the clopping tread of the approaching malluks drew his, attention 
forward. Innsu and the stranger drew their lumbering mounts up the low dune. 
Both beasts frothed and were damp with sweat. Innsu slid off his perch and 
landed lightly on his feet. The journeyman assassin shoved aside his cloaks 
cowl, his face tight with concern.
Kesla stepped up to him. Whats wrong?
Disaster, Innsu said, running a hand over his shaved head. Word in Callus is 
that winged demons arrived this past night, pale, vicious creatures who scoured 
Dallinskree for every child. Any who resisted were slain.
And the children?
They were taken, along with the tithing already gathered from the neighboring 
tribes.
But why? Kesla asked, her eyes wide with shock. The pact
Innsu shook his head. I dont know the full story. Only that every child was 
taken this morning, emptying the city. A caravan set out upon the point of a 
whip, heeled by demons.
Joach cleared his throat with a scowl. For them to take so many young ones, 
something new must be afoot in Tular.
But what? Kesla asked.
If only Shaman Parthus were here, Joach mumbled.
The elder of the desert tribes had remained at the oasis of Ooshal, insisting 
that his presence was needed to help heal Alcazar and Guildmaster Belgan from 
the taint of the darkmages occupation. But on the evening the group had set off 
into the desert, Parthus had pulled Joach aside. I will watch for you in the 
dreaming sands. I will do what I can to help. And he had proved as good as his 
word.
Every other night, the shaman had met Joach in the dream desert instructing him 
in the art of sculpting dreams into reality.
Joach wished he could share the shamans wisdom now. They had left the oasis so 
many days ago with a single plan in mind: to infiltrate this moons tithing by 
posing Sheeshon as one of the sacrifices. Under cover of the tithing caravan, 
the group could have snuck to the very steps of Tular without raising suspicion. 
But with the children already under way
What are we to do now? Kast asked. Sy-wen hung on his arm. Innsu waved to the 
stranger, still seated on his malluk. This is Fess aKalar, pilot of a 
skateboat in Cassus. Hes willing to take us to the far side of Ashan. We 
might be able to intercept the caravan, overtake them as they travel the sands 
around the lake.
For a price, the man said from his saddle, his voice dark. Innsu nodded.
Whats this price? Joach asked with suspicion. The man shook back his hood. 
His black hair was cropped close to his head except for two locks hanging in 
front of his ears. His eyes were as black and hard as the lake at his back. I 
will take you all to the far side of Ashan, but you must swear to bring back 
my young daughter.
Innsu explained. His child was tithed this past moon. The pilot turned away, 
but not before Joach saw the pain in his eyes.
Joach spoke up. Well do our best to free all the children.
No, Fess aKalar said, turning back, his eyes sparking. Innsu has already 
explained your plan to me: to hide under the cloaks of the children so you might 
sneak upon the ghouls unseen. I will not have my little Misha be a shield for 
your foolish attack.
We will not risk the children, Joach said. Their safety will be our foremost 
priority. This I swear.
Besides, Innsu added, the children are already doomed. Our presence will not 
add to their danger, but offer a chance of salvation. Once we reach the 
Southwall, we will send them fleeing under the protection of Hunt and the desert 
warriors.
The skateboat pilot appeared little swayed.
Kesla stepped forward. Already a full legion of desert warriors is en route 
along Ashans other shore. Once weve entered Tular,
James Llemp.ns theyll lead a feinting attack on the Ruins. The ghouls will be 
too distracted to be concerned with the fleeing children.
Fess pulled his hood back up. Misha is all that is left of my wife. She died 
three winters ago. I cannot lose Misha, too. He swung his malluk around. I 
cannot.
Innsu turned to Joach and Kesla. He was the only pilot willing to travel to 
Ashans far side. It lies in the shadow of the Southwall. None will sail their 
boats so close to Tular.
Joach sighed and stepped forward to block the pilots beast. What would you 
have of us then? he called up to the mounted rider.
The mans eyes almost glowed from inside his hood. I would travel with you to 
meet the caravan. Once youve commandeered it, I want Misha freed before you 
continue on. With so many taken from Dalhnskree, they will not miss one small 
child.
Joach considered the mans request. He glanced to Kesla. She gave him a barely 
perceptible nod. Joach returned his attention to Fess aKalar. Joach hated to be 
coerced in this matter when so much was at stake, but at the same time, he saw 
no harm in granting this man his demands. It was his child. It was his boat.
Joach answered the silent plea in the desert mans eyes. So be it. We will free 
your daughter.
Fess bowed his head. Wordsa prayer of thanksflowed from the mans hood. 
Reliqai dou aan.
Joach turned to the lake of black glass. The sun had climbed the sky to turn the 
lakes surface into a blinding glare. It was as if the world ended here. But 
Joach knew it did not. Beyond its far shore, the Basilisk Weirgate awaited them 
all. Standing on this shore, Joach could almost sense its baleful gaze. Even in 
the sweltering heat, Joach shivered under his cloak.
So be it, he mumbled to himself.
As THE SUN SANK TOWARD THE HORIZON, GrESHYM CROUCHED WITHIN
the shadow of the Southwall. He stared into the small pool of quicksilver and 
waved his hand over its mirrored surface, erasing the image of Joach and his 
allies. He used his staff to pull himself up. So, boy, you still intend to put 
your head into the beasts jaws, do you?
For the past few days, Greshym had been monitoring Joachs progress, plotting 
and planning. It was a simplething to spy on the boy since the bonds between 
them went deeper than any suspected The blood spell to open a window on Joachs 
doings was a simple thingno more effort than reaching out and shaking a hand.
Which is just as well. Greshym glanced up to the Southwall towering behind 
him. He cared not to draw the attention of what lurked inside Tular. He had made 
sure his hiding place was many leagues from the crumbled ruins and that any 
spells he cast were minor ones.
With the final pieces satisfactorily falling into place, Greshym allowed a small 
smile to crack his dry lips. Though he had been thwarted in Alcazar, the 
information he had gained was worth the loss. The boy is a sculptor. The shock 
of that revelation, more than any magickal assault, had sent him fleeing.
Greshym was well familiar with the magick of the dream. Long ago, he himself had 
been a member of the Hifai sect, a group devoted to studying prophecy and 
gleaning glimpses of the future through the art of dreaming. But since Ragnark, 
the stone dragon, had awoken and taken flesh, joining the witchs fight, 
Greshym had considered the boys elemental gift to be no threat. Now all that 
had changed.
Greshym turned his back on the black sea of glass and stumbled toward the wall 
of sandstone nearby. The revelation of Joachs true ability made a certain 
sense. Without a doubt, there was balance and symmetry in this.
But more than thatit was also a chance like no other.
Greshym approached the wall and heard telltale scrabbling and scraping coming 
from a narrow hole in the sandstone surface. He tapped his staff against the lip 
of the cave. The sounds stopped and a bulky shape backed out of the cubby. Its 
curled tail and hoofed hind feet came first, followed by its squat body and 
porcine head. Peaked ears swiveled in agitation and fear. Mmmasster.
Out of the way, Rukh. Greshym leaned down to peer into the hollow the animal 
had been digging. He frowned. It ended just a short way in.
The stump gnome must have smelled his displeasure. A stream of urine sprinkled 
into the desert as the creature groveled. Stone hard, it pleaded and held up 
its gnarled hands. Its claws had been
JAMES LLIMENS
ground to nubs from digging at the sandstone. Blood dripped from the fingertips.
Greshym sighed and straightened. Why was he always plagued by beasts of such ill 
use? Greshym waved Rukh away. Night comes. Ill be hungry with the moons rise. 
Fetch something to eat.
Yes, mmmaster. Rukh scurried out of his way.
Greshym bent to the hole, then turned and called back to the gnome. And no more 
desert rats! Something with a bit of meat and blood!
Yes, mmmaster.
Greshym ducked and pushed into the sandstone cave. As soon as his head passed 
the threshold, Greshym could feel the power flowing through the Southwall. He 
had chosen this spot since it was upriver from Tular. Here, the Lands vein of 
power ran clean and untainted. Below Tular, the feeble, corrupted current would 
do him little goodnot if he was to succeed in this first step.
Greshym reached the end of the excavated hole and slowly sat down, crossing his 
crooked legs in front of him and resting his staff on his knees. So near the 
heart of the true desert, the air almost glowed with energy, but Greshym knew it 
was just the sun setting, painting the desert in countless hues.
Settled, Greshym closed his eyes, waiting, patient. He touched the elemental 
gifts in his own body; they were long unused, almost forgotten, but still there. 
For any member of the Hifai sect, the dreaming was always just a breath away. 
Greshym sank into his trance, exhaling out the real world and willing himself 
into the dream desert.
Time drifted forward.
From a distance away, he sensed as stars began to shine and the moons full glow 
climbed the skies. And still he waited.
Finally, Greshym felt a familiar tug and allowed himself to be drawn away from 
stars and moon. Night had come to the Wastes. The path to the dream desert 
opened, and Greshym flowed into it, ripe with power. He had tested entering the 
dream desert over the past several nights. From a long distance, he had spied 
upon Joach in the glowing sand, watching the boy practice his new talent.
But this night was different. He had no intention of merely spying from a 
distance. This night he would take his first step on the path to ridding himself 
of this decrepit husk of a body, returning youth to his bent bones and ravaged 
flesh. And to take this step, he needed power.
Greshym opened his eyes. The cave had vanished around him. He now sat in the 
sands beside a bright silver river. He climbed slowly to his feet. The skies 
overhead were as blank as an empty slate, while around him the desert shone with 
a soft light. Greshym glanced back to the flat river. In its bright surface, he 
saw the Southwall reflected. He could even see the small cubby bored into its 
surface, so close he could reach out and touch it.
Smiling, Greshym leaned a hand over the great expanse of silver. The power here 
flowed like a raging river, but its surface was as still as a quiet pond. He 
passed his arm over the Southwalls reflection, resting his hand over the 
entrance to the tiny cave.
Come to me, he whispered in the old desert tongue. As a member of the Hifai, 
Greshym had long ago studied the dreaming arts of the desert shamans. He knew 
their ancient tongue. He knew secrets lost to the ages. Return to your master.
Slowly, a long thin object rose from the silver river. Once it was within reach, 
Greshym closed his fingers around his familiar staff. As flesh met petrified 
wood, the silver river turned momentarily black. As if sickened by its foul 
touch, the river shot the staff out with a blast. Greshym was knocked back by 
the force of the expulsion, landing hard in the soft sand, but he managed to 
maintain his grip on his prize. Relieved, Greshym hugged his staff to his chest 
for a few breaths before moving.
Finally, he rolled around and shoved to his legs. He still had one more chore to 
complete this night. Turning his back on the river, Greshym set out into the 
desert. He moved swiftly, casting out his elemental senses, honing in on a 
single target in this vast desert. So far, there was no sign. But after spying 
here these many nights, Greshym knew where to go.
With the boy taking sail this evening across the dead glass sea, Joach would be 
unable to enter the dream desert. Greshym could not pass up this chance. Leagues 
of sand vanished under him. In the distance, vague shapes arose from the sand as 
sleepers throughout the Wastes accidentally slipped into this plane. Greshym 
ignored them all. He knew it would only sap his energy to give them attention. 
So he continued on toward the rendezvous.
(At his own dream ttemp ted to ofthe dream with a sigh.
Behind him, the blackened bit of sand faded away, erased by the endless desert 
sands. But he knew that in the middle of the oasis of Ooshal, someone would 
soon discover the burned remains of Shaman Parthus, melted into a patch of black 
glasswhat the tribesmen of the desert called nightglass, a miniature version of 
that great barren lake of Ashan.
As Greshym headed back over the sands to return to the silver river, he wondered 
if Joach was already sailing atop Ashans midnight surface.
He smiled and glanced down at the form he had stolen from Shaman Parthus and 
laughed. No matter where Joach traveled now, when it was most important, he and 
Joach would meet again.
Kesla walked up to Joach as he sat on a crate and stared out at the black lake 
of Ashan. She stepped to the rail. The night sky was clear, and stars shone 
both overhead and in the glassy surface of the surrounding sea. The wind 
remained swift over the smooth, hard surface, filling the sails of the skateboat 
and speeding them toward the rising full moon.
How much longer? Joach asked, not turning.
The pilot says well reach the far side before the moon reaches its zenith. 
She glanced behind her. Fess aKalar stood by the tiller, face bare to the 
winds, his eyes on the stars and his sails. Up and down the boat, his four-man 
crew worked lines and cranked winches at his command.
Joach nodded. Is everything prepared?
Kast and Sy-wen are ready to take flight as soon as we dock. Innsu and the 
tribesmen have their weapons sharpened, arrows fletched, and they are dressed in 
sand gear. Hunt and Richald oversee Sheeshon, who rests belowdecks. Kesla could 
not help but smile, even with the tension. Hunt truly has a sweet voice when he 
sings her to sleep.
Joach glanced at her, a shadow of a smile on his face. She settled beside him, 
sharing his crate. He made a motion to stand and move away, but she gripped his 
arm. Stay please. After a pause, he sank back to his seat with a sigh. Kesla 
remained silent, just appreciating this quiet moment. Fi-nally, she felt Joach 
relax beside her, leaning ever so slightly against her. She slid an arm smoothly 
around his back. Neither spoke; neither acknowledged the simple gesture.
As the boat glided across the lake, the whisper of its steel runners on the 
glass surface created a continual haunted music, echoing eerily across the 
night.
Finally Joach spoke. Tell me about Ashan.
What do you want to know?
Earlier you mentioned that the lake was formed during the ancient battle that 
first drove the ghouls from Tular, some magickal cataclysm that melted the sands 
to this black glass.
Nightglass, she whispered, like the dagger.
Tell me more about this legend.
Its not legend, but history. Ive read books in Master Belgans librarytexts 
and scrolls stretching into the distant past of the Southern Wastes.
Joach glanced at her, their faces only a handspan apart. You read ?
Do you want to be pushed off this scow? She smiled at him and stared into his 
eyes a moment. It was good to hear him tease. But there was a sadness in his 
gaze that she could not touch. It had been there since they had escaped Alcazar. 
He turned away. So tell me about this place.
She sighed. This region was once just desert, except for Kaaloo at the foot of 
the Southwall, a sprawling trading port beside the deserts largest oasis. Silk 
merchants, spice traders, and dealers in wares would come from all over. Their 
tents would stretch for leagues into the sands around Kaaloo.
So what happened?
As the ghouls grew in power and perversity, fewer and fewer would make the 
trek, fearing for their lives. Tales began to spread of children disappearing, 
of strange cries echoing over the sands from Tular, of beasts that would come 
with the night to attack and pillage. So the flow of riches trickled away. This 
did not please the ghouls. They had grown to enjoy the varieties of wines, 
spices, and out-lander wares at their doorstep. An order was sent out, demanding 
a certain tithe of goods be delivered to their representatives in Kaaloo.
The beginning of the tithing?
Kesla nodded. And as the ghouls grew ever more bold, so did their demands. Soon 
a tithing of blood was being demanded: cattle, malluks, goats and and 
eventually
Children, Joach finished.
Upon reaching manhood or with the first bleed of womanhood, the firstborn of 
every family was required to serve two winters in Tular. Most never returned. 
Those that did were crippled in the mind, unable to speak. Many had turned 
savage, more beast than man.
Why did the tribes submit to them?
If a village or tribe refused, the basilisk was sent to them in the night and 
all were killed. Nothing could slay the beast. So as winters passed, slowly the 
tithing grew to be a custom of the Wastes, another harshness of the unforgiving 
desert.
How horrible.
Kesla stared out at the glass sea. Such was life under the ghouls.
So what happened?
Occasionally there were assaults upon Tular, uprisings, but they were all 
beaten down and swallowed by the sands. None could resist the ghouls. Then one 
winter, a child was born whose eyes glowed with the shine of the dream desert. 
Kesla glanced to Joach to see if he understood.
He nodded.
He was named Shiron, after the first star to rise each night. His family lived 
alone in the desert and immediately knew him to be special. It was said that 
hundreds of stars fell from the skies on the night he was born. Since the 
parents were isolated nomads and called no place home, they decided to risk 
defying the ghouls and keep their child hidden. It was only their own lives at 
risk. But soon, other tribes heard of the child and took up the familys cause. 
The family was spirited from tribe to tribe, from village to village. The child 
grew up to know the entire breadth and spread of the desert. All who laid eyes 
upon him knew he was the one to free them from the tyranny of the ghouls. Rumors 
spread of his ability to call water from the sands, to tame a sandstorm with the 
wave of his hand. All declared Shiron to be the chosen one, the child of the 
desert itself. Some questioned whether he had even been born of man and woman, 
but born out of the desert itself.
J A M K S SIEMENS
T
Joach suddenly stiffened beside her. She glanced to him, but he waved for her to 
continue, his expression slightly pained.
So when he grew to manhood at the age of thirteen, no one in the desert wanted 
him tithed to Tular. Everyone whispered his name. But little happened in the 
desert of the Wastes that did not reach the ears of the ghouls. On the night of 
his passage from boy to man, the basilisk itself appeared in the sands outside 
the village where he was staying. It did not attack, but simply took up silent 
watch, warning all that the child must be taken to Tular. That night plans were 
made to whisk Shiron away, but the boy refused. Instead, after the celebrations 
of his passage to manhood, Shiron left the village and walked to where the 
basilisk was rooted. It is said that Shiron spoke to the ghouls through the 
beast and swore to bring himself to the Southwall.
Why?
Thats what the villagers asked him. They tried to convince him to flee, but 
Shiron left with the mornings light and made the long trek to the Wall. Each 
night of the journey, the basilisk would come to make sure he kept his promise, 
its baleful eye watching over the boy. But he did not try to run. He reached 
Kaaloo in less than a quarter moon. There, with the moon shining as bright as 
it does this night, he found a ghoul named Ashmara waiting for him.
Ashmara?
Every desert childs nightmare. It was said his skin was as pale as milk and 
his eyes glowed with red fires. He was the most corrupt of the ghouls, sick in 
his depravity and wild in his blood lusts. Some said his wickedness came with 
his birth. Born with skin that could not tolerate the suns touch, eyes that 
could not withstand its brightness, he grew to hate the desert, only coming out 
at night to wreak his terror upon those that could walk the day.
And this Shiron did Ashmara take him to Tular?
No, in the center square of Kaaloo, beside the pool of the oasis, Shiron 
finally refused and spat at the toes of the leader of Tular. He told Ashmara 
that from this day forward the reign of the ghouls would end, that his own blood 
would slay them all.
What happened?
Kesla turned from her study of the lake back to Joach. Here is where texts vary 
on what happened. Some say Ashmara drew a dagger and attacked Shiron, while 
others say Shiron pulled a magickal sword from the sand and drove it through the 
ghoul but failed to kill him. But no matter the story, a great battle was fought 
between them. Dire magicks lit the night skies. Those in Kaaloo fled into the 
desert with only the cloaks on their backs. The battle raged between Shiron and 
Ashmara throughout the entire night, and by sunrise those that had returned 
found only a lake of steaming and running glass. Ashan, it was namedthe 
Deserts Tears. It took a full moons time for the lake to cool.
And what of Shiron and Ashmara?
Kesla shook her head. Both were gone, consumed by their own magicks.
Joach stared at the smooth, dark lake. And Tular?
Once word spread of Shiron, the tribes rose up once again. Not just a handful, 
as in the past, but the entire desert. Tular, though leaderless now, was not 
defenseless. The basilisk still lived, as did hordes of other wicked beasts. But 
Ashmara had been the strongest of Southwalls ghouls. With his loss, the others 
barely resisted the attack of the deserts tribes. A siege began that stretched 
for two winters. Kesla faced Joach. Until one day, a woman came and instructed 
the artisans of the desert to sculpt a dagger from the glass of the lake.
Sisakofa?
She nodded. The Witch of Spirit and Stone. She spilled her own blood upon the 
blade, and on the night of the full moon, she walked naked into Tular and slew 
the basilisk. With the death of the ghouls monster, the tide was turned. In 
less than a moon, Tular fell, the walls were pulled down, and the place was 
scoured of all living things. It became a cursed place avoided by all.
Joach sighed. Until it all started over again.
Behind them, Fess aKalar called from the tiller. We near the South wall! Ready 
yourselves!
Joach and Kesla both stood. Squinting her eyes, Kesla spotted where the gleam of 
the glass lake ended and the sands began once again. Beyond the sand, the far 
horizon lost its gentle curve as the stars of the night sky were sliced away by 
a straight, unyielding line. Though it was unseen, Kesla recognized the 
silhouette of the South-wall, dark and imposing.
Around her, the crew of the skateboat began to scurry in prepara-
JAM
tion of beaching on the sands. Despite the activity, Kesla found her eyes fixed 
on the Wall. For a moment, two images lay atop each other. Ghostly in the 
moonlight, glimpses of pavilions and trees and a pool of midnight blue appeared 
around her.
Kaaloo, she mumbled.
What was that? Joach asked.
As the images faded away she shook her head and touched the nightglass dagger 
hidden under her cloak, seeking reassurance. It was just her imagination, the 
old stories come to life in her minds eye. She turned her back on the lake, but 
she could not escape the feeling that for that brief moment she had been staring 
through Shi-rons eyes, seeing ancient Kaaloo as the boy must have seen it.
Joach touched her arm. Is something wrong?
She reached to his fingers and simply clutched them, fighting the sense of doom. 
Lets get everyone ready. Weve much to do before the dawn comes.
Joach waited for the signal. He and Richald leaned their backs against the 
outcropping of sandstone. Both of them were covered in cloaks that matched the 
sand and stone. Neither of them breathed. Across the shallow valley, Innsu hid 
with his ten warriors among the scrabble of rock. Between them, in the valleys 
center, Hunt and Kesla sat around a fire, with Sheeshon sleeping in a bedroll 
near the flames.
Bait for those that approached.
After disembarking from the skateboat, it had been difficult in the flat sands 
to find an adequate place to ambush the childrens caravan without being seen. 
Even at night, the stars and setting moon were enough to cast the landscape in 
silver. But as much as it made their task difficult, it also made the 
approaching caravan easy to spot.
Even before the skateboat had beached, Kast had found the caravan with a 
spyglass. The long train trundled with wagons and mewling malluks, winding along 
the shores of Ashan as it headed toward Tular. Lamps swung from poles on both 
beast and wagon, a glowing snake splayed across the dark desert landscape. Kast 
had lowered his spyglass with a worried look. I count six skaltum stalking 
around the edges of the caravan.
With this dire news, they needed as much time as possible to ready the trap.
Fess aKalar had proven his skill as a pilot, gliding his ship well ahead of the 
caravan and finding a shelter in which to keep his boat hidden. Once landed, 
they had quickly set out and chosen this point along the shore road in which to 
set up their ambush. Framed by sandstone boulders, it offered plenty of shelter 
and deep shadows. Here comes the scout, Richald said, ducking down. The heavy 
tread of an approaching malluk grew closer, coming from just over the next dune. 
Joach lay unmoving as the great beast shambled by. The musky scent of its 
passage swept over him. Once it was past, he shifted enough to watch the malluk 
crest the dune and head down the far side.
The rider called to those gathered around the fire. Ho! Kesla acted surprised 
by the appearance of the scout. She stood quickly and spoke in the desert 
tongue. Joach did not understand it. The man was clearly questioning her, and 
she pointed an arm at Sheeshon bundled in her blankets. Joach knew what she was 
explaining to the man. She and her uncle were heading to Dallinskree with her 
niece, a tribute for this moons tithing.
The scout stared around the small camp, clearly suspicious. Sheeshon awoke from 
all the noise and rubbed her eyes. Sleepy, she leaned closer to Hunt. He 
comforted her while motioning her to stay silent. It would ruin the ruse if 
Sheeshon should speak. Her Drerendi accent would certainly mark her as an 
outlander.
From his perch, the scout eyed the child. Joach prayed for him to rise to the 
bait. He seemed to sniff the air. The campsite had been ringed with malluk 
urine, a common warding against the sand sharks and other burrowing predators. 
Its strong musk also helped mask the presence of the hidden men. Fess aKalar 
had warned them that the guards for the caravan were desert outlaws who had been 
bought with gold for this foul duty. They were as cunning as they were savage.
Finally, the scout lifted a horn from his saddle and blew a long slow note, a 
signal that it was safe for the caravan to come forward.
The signal given, Hunt whipped back his cloak and swung his hidden club. The man 
turned in time to take the brunt of the blow to the side of his face. He tumbled 
from his perch and struck the sand hard. Kesla flew to the malluks side to keep 
it calm. Silently, Innsu slid from his hiding spot and raced to the mount and up 
into the high saddle.
Without a word, Innsu ambled the malluk to the crest of the hill, back in direct 
sight of the caravan. He lifted an arm and waved for the wagons to continue 
forward along the shore road. In the meantime, Kesla quickly bound and gagged 
the limp guard, then she and Hunt dragged him to where the desert warriors still 
lay hidden.
The plan was to allow the caravan to swing into the valley before beginning 
their attack. With the caravans attention on the small roadside camp, Joach and 
his group would attack the flanks.
In the shallow valley, Kesla and Hunt returned to their positions around the 
campfire. Joach bit his lip against the tension. What occurred next depended on 
perfect timing and expert execution.
In short order, the forefront of the caravan wound over the rise and down into 
the valley. Malluks with solitary riders led the way; behind them came open 
wagons hauled by pairs of malluks. The wagon beds were loaded with baled hay and 
crates of goods sacked from Dallinskree. Behind them came cart after cart of 
barred cages. Inside, lit by torches, the scared, pale faces of children stared 
out at The surrounding sands. Their cries and sobbing echoed over the dunes. 
Flanking the childrens wagons were outriders, scouts on leaner malluks.
But as Joach watched, the worst was yet to come. He saw the first skaltum climb 
over the rise. Framed in firelight, it stood as tall as any malluk, and the 
folded wings on its back twitched as its black eyes stared across the valley. 
Joach prayed that the musk would continue to mask the hidden party. As the 
creature descended into the valley, its white flesh stood out starkly against 
the shadowed sands, like a corpse floating on a dark sea.
Joach held his breath as another of the beasts appeared, this time closer. It 
crawled along the sands on his side of the caravan, low, claws scrabbling on the 
rocks. It paused, perched like some winged carrion hunter atop a large boulder, 
no more than a stones throw from Joachs position. It lifted its head and drank 
in the nights scents. Joach watched pale lips curl back, exposing its sharp 
fangs. Eyes, so dark that they appeared holes in a skull, gazed at the tiny camp 
below. A long, forked tongue slithered from its throat and tasted the air.
Muscles tensing, Joach studied the dark rocks on the valleys far side. The 
noises of the trundling caravan grew deafening to those who had been hiding in 
silence for so long. What was Innsu waiting for?
More of the caravan rode into the valley. Another two skaltum appeared, one 
riding atop a cage of children who whimpered in mindless terror.
Below, a pair of outriders swept over to Keslas campsite and slid from their 
saddles. The glint of ankle irons flashed in their hands. Sweet Mother, what is 
taking them so long? Joachs fingers wrapped around the sword hilt in his hand. 
Finally a flicker of silver flashed from the dark rocks. At lastthe signal!
Joach tossed aside his cloak and burst into the open with Richald. The skaltum 
perched on the rock swung toward them and hissed, clearly surprised. Joach 
lifted his sword, and Richald raised his arms, shining bright with elemental 
power.
High-pitched laughter flowed from the skaltums throat. Ssso the desert hides 
some ratsss. It wheezed, snapping its skeletal wings open. Clawed legs tensed 
as it prepared to leap. What did the monster have to fear? At night, the 
skaltum were protected by dark magicks that made them impervious to swords and 
blades. In a burst, it hurled itself at them.
Joach rolled backward, and Richald scrambled to the side. As it flew at them, a 
larger, darker shape flashed overhead, snatching the skaltum in midair, like an 
eagle upon a sparrow. Then it was gone, leaving behind it a roar that deafened 
the entire valley. Ragnark had drawn first blood this night. The broken body of 
the skaltum tumbled from the skies to crash atop a wagon, shattering its wheels 
with the impact.
The dragons roar could strip the dark protections from the skaltum, making 
them vulnerable. With the way clear, Joach hurried down the hill.
Below, a battle raged. Innsu and the desert warriors attacked the riders and 
drovers of the caravan with arrows and long, curved swords. Some outlaws, though 
caught by surprise, were quick to regroup, while others raced past Joach and 
offered no challenge. It seemed gold did not buy the most stalwart hearts.
Unimpeded, Joach ran down the slope to the campfire. Kesla and
JAM E S l.LfiMtNS
Hunt had already dispatched the two scouts and now guarded Sheeshon.
What took you so long? Hunt asked as Joach skidded to a stop.
Richald answered. We were blocked by one of the Dark Lords monsters.
Ragnark killed it, Joach added, then scooped Sheeshon up under his free arm. 
He was no skilled swordsman, especially with his left arm. He had one duty this 
night: to whisk Sheeshon away from the fighting with Kesla. Hunt and Richald 
would join the battle.
Kesla led the way toward the rocks, while Richald and Hunt headed into the 
fighting. Joach glanced behind him. Across the way, he saw an outlaw lay a torch 
to one of the childrens cages, clearly trying to divert the ambushers into 
rescuing the children. But before the wood could take the flame, the man 
collapsed, his back feathered with arrows. His torch fell to the sand and went 
dark.
Closer, a skaltum fell from the sky to land, broken and bleeding, among the 
rocks. Joach glanced up. Ragnark continued to pick off the monsters while 
ensuring none escaped by wing to alert Tular.
Kesla suddenly tugged on his elbow. Run!
Joach swung around. A pair of wild-eyed malluks thundered toward them, dragging 
a smashed wagon behind. Joach ran with Sheeshon in his arms and managed by a 
single step to escape being trampled. They reached the rocks and climbed into 
their safe embrace to sit out the bloody storm.
In a shallow cave, they found Fess aKalar waiting. He sprang to his feet. Did 
you find Misha? he asked hopefully, looking to the bundled form in Joachs 
arms.
Not yet, Kesla said. We must first rid the caravan of outlaws and monsters; 
then well search for your daughter.
The skateboat pilots face was pale with worry. I saw those monsters. He hid 
his face in his hands. My little Misha
Joach settled Sheeshon down. She sucked her thumb and stared wide-eyed at all 
around her. Joach placed a hand on the pilots shoulder. Well get your 
daughter safely back into your arms.
Fess turned his face to hide his tears, then moved away. I cannot sit idle and 
wait. I must offer what help I can. Fess stumbled away, a dagger in his hands.
Dont. Joach stepped after him. You dont have to fight.
The man stared at Joach, an incredulous look on his face. It is my daughter out 
there.
Joach opened his mouth to argue, but found no words. He watched Fess disappear 
into the shadows. Joach turned away with a shake of his head. Fess is no 
warrior.
Kesla nodded. But he is a father. She pulled Sheeshon into her lap and gently 
cradled her, rocking ever so slightly.
Joach took up watch with his sword. Among the rocks, the sounds of battle were 
muted, but he could still hear the screams of terrified children. It was an 
awful sound. He could only imagine how much worse it must sound to the father of 
one of these children.
Kesla sighed behind him. We might rescue the children from what awaits them in 
Tular, but we cant ever rescue them from this night.
Joach understood and remained silent. The horrors here would last a lifetime. 
Even Sheeshon stared wide-eyed into the night, cringing whenever the sounds of 
battle grew closer. Kesla met his gaze over her head.
Joach sought some way to distract the child. He ran a finger over his sword, 
slicing a tiny cut. He leaned over the floor of their little cave and squeezed a 
thick drop from his finger into the sand.
What are you doing? Kesla asked.
Shhh Joach sat back and sighed out his breath, extending his senses. On the 
long trek to Ashan, Shaman Parthus had taught Joach how to pierce through the 
veil between the real and the dream desert by focusing on the magick in his 
blood.
Joach stared at the red drop resting atop the sand. As he watched, it slowly 
sank between the grains. Joach allowed his thoughts and a bit of his spirit to 
follow the blood down into the sand. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the 
rocks vanish and the dream desert open up around him, glowing softly into the 
distance. As he stared, the drop of blood grew brighter, becoming more real. 
Shaman Parthus had told him how ones attention could give substance to what was 
figment. Joach did that now, feeding a small bit of himself into the drop of 
blood and willing it to change.
Distantly he heard a small gasp from Kesla. Joach continued to work in silence, 
concentrating. Once done, Joach pulled himself back to the world of rocks and 
wind. At the entrance of the cave, a rose of sculpted sandstone stood mute 
watch. Joach waved a hand over it, touching the threads of power that still 
linked him to the dream desert. The roses petals slowly bloomed open in the 
moonlight.
Joach heard Sheeshon giggle. He turned and saw her eyes bright upon his 
creation. Pretty, she whispered, and reached out to it.
Careful, honey, Kesla warned.
Joach waved to Sheeshon. Its all right.
Sheeshon reached and plucked the rose from the sand. As the stem broke, the rose 
fell back to sand, falling away. She stared wide-eyed at the trick, then looked 
up at Joach with a twinge of guilt.
He patted her hand, dusting the silt from her fingers, then kissed their tips. 
Dont worry, Sheeshon. Dreams arent supposed to last forever.
She grinned at him, then snuggled against Kesla, who wrapped her arms around the 
girl.
Joach met Keslas soft smile of appreciation. Maybe dreams arent supposed to 
last forever, he thought as he stared at her, but while theyre here, maybe you 
should appreciate and cherish them.
Slowly he sank back and joined Kesla. Together they watched over Sheeshon. And 
sometime during that long night, Joach found his fingers wrapped in Keslas, the 
child guarded between them.
Finally, the scrape of heel on rock sounded. Joach jerked up, sword in hand. 
Hunt pushed forward. His cloak was stained in blood. He leaned on a rock. 
Sheeshon?
She sleeps, Kesla said.
Have we won? Joach asked.
Hunt nodded. The caravan is ours.
Joach and Kesla walked back out of the rocks, while Hunt picked up Sheeshon. She 
woke sleepily, smiled at Hunt, and hugged him tight around the neck. Joach 
noticed the hard man soften, saw the pain in his eyes mute. As a group, they 
continued back to the sand.
Joach stared at the carnage below. Both men and beasts lay bleeding in the sand. 
Across the valley, Ragnark landed and perched on the ridge. The moans and sobs 
filled the valley.
The children are free, Hunt said.
Joach shook his head. These children would never be truly free after this night. 
He stared at a group of them cowering beside a broken wagon, bleeding, crying, 
and terrified.
^ i u WlTCHCJATE
What about Misha, the pilots daughter? Kesla asked. Was she found safe?
Yes, Hunt said.
Joach recognized the pang of sorrow in the Drerendis voice and turned to face 
him.
Hunt hung his head. Her father was killed. Fess attacked one of the skaltum as 
it tore into a cartload of children. He died before Ragnark could come to his 
aid, but his death was not in vain. His attack managed to delay the monster long 
enough for the dragon to save the children.
Kesla turned away, a hand over her mouth.
Hunt continued. One of the skateboats crew has promised to take the child to 
her aunt and uncle.
Joach closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He pictured the mans haunted face 
as he strode into the darkness.
Innsu strode up to them. The outlaws have been either slain or driven into the 
sands. Once we regroup the caravan, we should be under way for Tular by 
daybreak.
Joach sheathed his sword. No.
Eyes swung in his direction.
He faced them with a deep frown. These children have suffered enough. He 
turned to Hunt. I want you and the warriors to take all the children away from 
here. Now. Keep them safe.
Innsu protested. But well need the caravan to hide our approach
No. I wont hide behind these children. Fess aKalar spoke truly. We have no 
right to do this.
But we saved them, Innsu continued to argue.
Joach laughed, but it was a pained sound even to his own ears. We saved no one 
here. He moved away. Hunt, gather the men and head out as soon as the sun 
rises.
It will be done, Hunt said.
Then what are we going to do when we reach Tular? Innsu asked angrily.
Kesla answered. Well find a way inside without being seen. Were assassins, 
are we not?
Her words shamed Innsu into silence.
Kesla strode to Joachs side.
He turned and stared into her twilight eyes and knew his decision was the right 
onenot because she represented the dream of the desert, but because her eyes 
glowed with the simple compassion and concern of a woman.
Joach bent down and kissed her deeply. He felt her flinch in surprise for a 
moment, then wilt into his embrace. They clung to each other, a simple 
acknowledgment of lifeand maybe even of love.
As TWILIGHT SPREAD OVER THE DESERT, Sy-WEN RODE ATOP HER DRAGON, sweeping along 
the deep shadows of the Southwall. The immense sandstone structure stretched 
higher than Ragnark could fly, but its surface was far from smooth. Sections 
lay crumbled into a rocky scarp at the base, while countless sandstorms had 
pitted its face. In addition, old scars from ancient wars had burned the red 
rock black for large swaths. These signs of old battle grew in number as they 
swept toward the ruins of Tular.
We come to city, my bonded, Ragnark sent to her. The dragons vision was keener 
than hers. But she closed her eyes and shared his sight.
Ahead, it looked as if some giant had taken a hammer and struck the Southwall a 
great blow. Boulders and huge chunks of sandstone lay jumbled at the base of the 
wall. The pile climbed halfway up the immense wall. Only as they swept closer 
did it become clear that the tumbled boulders were in fact once a great city. 
The remains of a half-circle curtain wall enclosed the debris. One watchtower 
still stood near the front, but its crenellated top had been worn by winds into 
a rough nub, and its base had been burned as black as the A-shan sea. Within 
the walls, the remains of immense buildings and spires could be seen poking from 
the sandy dunes that had blown into the ruined city. It was as if the desert 
were trying to erase these scoured ruins.
Keep to shadows, Ragnark, Sy-wen whispered into the wind, but she knew the 
dragon heard her thoughts. We dont want to stir this nest.
Sy-wen studied the ruins of Tular. She saw no sign of movement, no sign that 
anything still occupied the city. But she also spotted the worn wagon trails 
that led through the broken gates and wound through the city. The trail of the 
old caravans crossed the city and disappeared into the yawning maw of a tunnel 
in the wall itself. From this height, Sy-wen could make out the carved figures 
of a man and a woman, done in relief at the tunnels entrance, arms linked over 
the entrance in a clear gesture of welcome. Sy-wen imagined it was one of the 
last gentle images the children of the deserts ever saw before being swallowed 
away into the darkness.
She leaned closer to Ragnark to share the heat of the dragon, but still could 
not suppress a shudder.
The desert squirms, Ragnark said. He directed their shared sight below.
At first, Sy-wen did not understand what he meantthen she saw it, too. Around 
the base of the outer wall and stretching a good quarter league into the 
surrounding desert, the sands churned and roiled like living flesh. She silently 
urged the dragon to circle lower.
Tilting on a wing, Ragnark angled in a steep glide that swept them lower, 
almost to the heights of the tumbled ruins. As they coursed by, the source of 
the strange phenomenon became clear. The sands around Tular churned with the 
thrashing bodies of hundreds no, thousandsof desert sharks. Sy-wen remembered 
the small school that had attacked them near the crash site of the Eagles Fury 
and felt her limbs go cold.
There were so many. How could anyone hope to cross this treacherous moat?
She guided Ragnark up into the sky. No wonder there were no eyes on the walls. 
The sands themselves would shear the flesh from your bones if you dared approach 
without permission.
Hurry. We must complete our duty and return.
Ragnark grunted his understanding and climbed higher and away. The two had been 
sent forth with the suns setting to spy upon the ruins, to gain as much insight 
as possible into its defenses. Meanwhile, the others rested amid a crumbled 
section of the wall about three leagues from Tular.
vv i l c h UATE
But the reconnaissance of Tular was not her only duty. After sending Hunt off 
with the children at dawn, the group had set a hard pace around the shores of 
Ashan, reaching the Southwall as the sun set. The plan was to enter Tular at 
midnightbut once inside, a distraction would be needed to buy them time to find 
the Basilisk Gate and destroy it.
The original plan had been to coordinate a simultaneous attack on Tular. Desert 
warriors, numbering over a thousand, marched around the far side of Ashan, 
approaching Tular from the opposite direction. Their forces would attack when 
the moon reached the highest point in the sky. It was Sy-wens duty to play 
pigeon this night and deliver the detailed plan to the commander of the desert 
warriors. Fires in the desert, Ragnark sent to her.
She turned her attention back outward. Far ahead, in the shadow of the 
Southwall, a hundred fires could be seen, spreading out as far as the shore of 
Ashan. It had to be the encamped desert forces. Ragnark sensed her urgency 
and swept more swiftly toward the gathered men.
But as they neared the site, what had appeared to be campfires were in fact 
massive bonfires. With Ragnarks keen vision, she could make out men staked 
within the flames, bodies contorted by the searing heat. By the glow of the 
bonfires, she spotted pale, winged creaturesskaltumand other strange beasts 
crawling among the dead. Desert scorpions the size of small dogs skittered atop 
the corpses. From the sands, snakes as thick around as her waist writhed up, 
bellies bulging with their swallowed prey. And here, too, sand sharks dove and 
gnashed in the blood-soaked sands. Throughout the carnage, rats and carrion 
birds feasted on all that was left, covering bodies from head to foot, fighting 
for a bite of flesh.
Without being told, Ragnark swung away and swept far out over Ashan on the 
way back to join their party. There would be no other attack on Tular. They were 
on their own this night. Wordlessly, Ragnark glided back in a wide circle as 
tears clouded Sy-wens eyes. The image of the slaughter would live long in her 
heart, but she allowed it to steel her, too. The horror that roosted in Tular 
had to be destroyed.
In silence, they flew the final leagues and dove to land in the sands near where 
the group was hidden. Innsu rose from his hiding place, bow in hand. He whistled 
to the others.
From the rocks, Joach, Kesla, and Richald appeared. Sy-wen stared at their 
numbers. Six. How could so few win where a thousand warriors had failed?
Sometimes the smallest fish escapes between the teeth of the sharks
Sy-wen patted the neck of her large companion, hoping he was right.
Kesla must have sensed her despondency. Whats wrong? Youre back much earlier 
than we expected you.
Sy-wen climbed from the dragons neck. She sent her love to the great heart 
inside, then lifted her hand away. The magick reversed itself amid a flurry of 
scale and cloud, and Kast stood beside her once again. He stepped and wrapped an 
arm around her, pulling her tight.
Im sorry, he whispered in her ear.
She sank against him, needing his warmth and touch.
Kast faced the group. The desert legion has been destroyed. Carrion eaters and 
worse feed upon the remains.
Innsu moved nearer with a cloak for Kast. How could that be? They were a 
thousand of our fiercest warriors.
Sy-wen answered. The evil here has grown stronger, fed on the blood of your own 
children. She explained in detail what she had seen, including the sharks 
encircling Tular. It was as if the desert had turned against them.
Keslas face paled in the rising moonlight. Then how can we hope to succeed? If 
the desert is already corrupted, weve lost before weve even begun.
Sy-wen pushed out of Kasts arms. No, if we lose heart, we give the evil power 
over us. We must not give up hope.
Joach stepped forward and touched Keslas arm. Sy-wen is right. Well find a 
way.
Kesla knelt in the sand, unmoving. The ruins of Tular lay a half league away, 
but it seemed much closer. The tumbled pile of sandstone filled the world ahead 
of her. With the moon full overhead, it was nearly as bright as day.
Kesla squinted and made out the line where the sharks roiled in the sand. She 
had spent half the night searching for some break in the ring of death, circling 
the entire curtain wall. It seemed impossible.
They had considered having Ragnark ferry them over to the city, but judged this 
option only as a last choice, since the presence of a dragon flapping back and 
forth over the walls might draw more attention than they wanted.
Then, a short time ago, from out of the desert, a possible answer had appeared. 
Innsu had spied a single rider, racing atop a frothing malluk. From the black 
sash across his red desert robes, it was clearly an outlaw, most likely one of 
the cowards who had fled the caravan. Innsu had strung an arrow on his bow, 
meaning to take him out before he alerted Tular, but Joach had pushed his arm 
down.
If hes heading to Tular, Joach had argued, perhaps he can show us a way 
through the sharks.
They had all agreed it was worth the risk and had sent Kesla to spy upon him. 
She had sped after the rider on her lithe legs, sliding from shadow to shadow 
with her assassin-trained stealth.
She now knelt beside a boulder, no more than the length of five malluks from the 
rider. He had slowed his mount at the edge of the roiling sands. The road to the 
open gates ahead was blocked.
As Kesla spied, the outlaw tossed back his hood. His dark hair was unkempt, and 
a pale scar shaped like a spider blazed on his left cheek. From his cloak, he 
tugged out a small object. It hung from a braided cord around his neck. He 
slipped it over his head and held it at arms length ahead of him. Kesla 
squinted but could not make out what swayed at the end of the cord. But whatever 
it was, it cast off a poisonous greenish light.
The rider lifted his object higher. Was it some signal to unseen eyes? But Kesla 
noticed his attention was not on the crumbled watchtowers flanking the city 
gates, but upon the sands ahead.
She heard him mumble a prayer of protection under his breath. But it was no 
spell, only a simple desert supplication taught all children.
The outlaw urged his mount another step forward, but it balked at the churning 
sands, its nostrils scenting the danger there. The rider took a whip to his 
mount and got it to take a small step forward. He again lifted his glowing 
talisman.
As the sick light spread over the deadly sands, the sharks fled from it, diving 
away with a frantic flip of their leathery tails. A path opened.
Encouraged and clearly relieved, the rider whipped the malluk

again and slowly drove the beast forward. Ahead, the sharks fled from the glow 
of his talisman and extended a safe passage toward the waiting gates. The gait 
of the malluk increased as it sensed the sharks to either side. The lumbering 
beast shuffled forward while the sand sharks swept up behind it, closing in once 
again after the green light had passed.
Kesla squinted at the phenomenon. The outlaws pendant must act as some 
protective ward, aglow with black magicks.
In his small island of safety, the outlaw continued to work his way toward 
Tular.
Kesla rose from her hiding spot and hurried forward. She knew she would have 
only this single chance. With a flick of her wrist, she loosed her climbing line 
and spun the trio of trisling hooks at the end of the braided silk rope.
She took careful aim, adding her own silent prayer, then cast out her line. The 
hooks flew as swift as any arrow, flying past the rump of the malluk. Once they 
reached her target, Kesla snapped her wrist. The hooks latched onto the cord 
from which the glowing talisman hung and snatched it from the outlaws surprised 
fingers.
With her catch hooked, Kesla flung her arm backward and cartwheeled away, 
dragging the line back over her in a smooth arch. Rolling to her feet, she 
lifted a hand and caught the flying talisman in her palm. She shook free the 
trisling hooks and clutched the prize in her fingers.
Across the way, she saw the outlaw swing around in his saddle, a curse on his 
lips. Outlaw and assassin stared across at each other. Then the realization of 
the danger struck the rider as his mount suddenly reared, its neck stretched in 
a silent bellow of agony.
With the glowing protection gone, the sharks swamped back over the little island 
of security. The malluks hind legs began to sink into the sand, devoured from 
below. The outlaw pulled his feet higher up in the saddle and scrambled away 
from the bloody sands. He crouched atop his mounts shoulder, his eyes wide with 
terror, his face pale.
At the last moment, he leaped from the beasts shoulder, aiming back for the 
road. But the malluk spasmed in death, throwing his balance. The man tumbled 
into the sands. Without a pause, he shot back to his feet, trying to spring away 
once again in a mad leap. But as he sailed upward, a monstrous bull shark shot 
out from the sand and caught him in midair, clamping his midsection and snapping 
him in half. Blood fountained as his severed torso flew. Other sharks burst up, 
snatching, biting, ripping. By the time his carcass landed, it was 
unrecognizable as a man. Behind him, his mount fared no better.
Kesla turned away, remembering the caravan of terrified children. She felt 
sorrow for the death of the poor, mindless malluk behind her; but for the 
outlaw, she felt nothing.
Kesla glanced down and stared at her glowing prize.
From the cord hung a large, serrated tooth of a sand shark.
Joach followed Kesla through the gates of Tular, crouching in a watchtowers 
shadow. Joach studied the arrow slits and parapets for any sign of movement. 
Nothing. It was as if the city were as empty as it appeared. He squinted beyond 
the gates. The moon shone directly overhead, full and bright. The ruins of the 
ancient castle ahead were a mix of silver and shadow.
Behind him, the others hurried past the threshold, panting. Richald was last, 
leaning on his crutch. He glanced with a scowl as the sharks ate away the path 
behind them. Joach followed his gaze. The way back was again a sea of churning 
sand. What now? the elvin asked.
We forge on, Kesla said. She lowered her arm from which the stolen talisman 
hung and hid it back under her cloak.
Though the night was cool, everyones faces shone with nervous sweat. The path 
through the sharks had frayed at their nerves especially with the stripped 
bones of the malluk poking up from the sand. Innsu took the lead from here, 
running lightly on his toes as he guided them to the deeper shadows.
Weapons appeared in everyones hands. Last night, the blades and arrowheads had 
been dipped in the blood of the skaltum killed by Ragnark. By fouling their 
weapons, they had given the edges the ability to slice through the dark 
protections of the skaltum, offering some defense against the monstrous beasts.
As they worked through the ruins, Kesla kept to Joachs side, while Kast and 
Sy-wen flanked Richald behind them. They all moved silently, watching for hand 
signals from Innsu to move from shelter to shelter.
Joach stared at the toppled spires and scorched walls. He could only imagine the 
old war that had wrested Tular from the ghouls. In his head, the boom of 
catapults and the strident wail of battle horns echoed. He pictured the flaming 
arcs of dire magicks, the screams of the dying. For a moment, he could almost 
smell the balefire in the air. Joachs fingers tightened on his swords grip, 
remembering the thrill of magick coursing out from him, tied to his spirit and 
focused through a poiwood staff. The stump of his wrist suddenly itched with 
the phantom memory of gripping Greshyms staff. He rubbed the smooth wrist on 
his hip with a pained expression, trying to erase the flare of desire.
Kesla glanced at his movement, her eyes asking if he was all right. He waved his 
sword tip forward.
With a worried nod, Kesla crept around the broken bust of a huge statue, lying 
on its side in the sand, half buried. Joach hurried under the gaze of its 
sand-scoured eye, unable to escape the feeling of being watched, studied like a 
scurrying bug. But as much as he searched, nothing threatened.
Slowly, as the moon crossed above them, they worked through the ruins without 
incident, aiming in a zigzagging pattern toward the opening in the Southwall 
that led into the inner chambers and tunnels. At last they found Innsu crouched 
on his ankles beside a low wall, his back against the stone.
He waited until they were all lined up beside him, then motioned around the 
corner of the wall. His voice was the whisper of sand over rock. The way lies 
unguarded.
They all readied themselves, steeling their resolves.
An open yard lies between us and the opening. We must move swiftly. I spy 
several openings in the walls face.
Watchers? Kesla asked.
Innsu shrugged.
Richald half crawled toward them. I can help. Sand lies thick all around. A 
slight breeze should cough up a bit of dusty cover.
Could the magick alert those within? Joach asked.
Not if I ply the winds with care. The night winds are already sharp and gusty. 
It would not take much to guide its flow here for a brief moment.
Innsu shrugged again. Its worth trying.
Joach nodded.
Richald leaned back against the sandstone wall, his eyelids lower-
WlTCH (j ATE
ing as he touched his power. A bit of elemental fire danced along his 
fingertips, but it was a weak trickle. Be ready, Richald said. On my word.
Kesla leaned a moment against Joach, a silent gesture of support. She raised her 
desert scarf across her mouth and nose. The others followed suit, waiting, 
tense.
Now! Richald whispered.
As a group, they rushed around the corner as a sudden gust raced through the 
ruins, coughing up a small sandstorm before it. Joach and the others disappeared 
within it. They ran toward the black tunnel entrance, sand stinging their eyes 
and winds whipping their cloaks.
Kast half carried the limping Richald with him.
Joach glanced up at the Southwall. Lost in the sandstorm, its heights were 
barely discernable. Ahead, a slightly darker shadow in the blank wall of 
swirling sand marked their goal. Innsu was first through, followed closely by 
Kesla.
At the entrance, Kesla spun around to urge the party forward, waving an arm. 
Joach urged his legs to move faster, his vision blurred by stinging tears. But 
he was not too blind to miss a pale shadow burst from deeper in the tunnel.
Innsu suddenly flew backward into the sandy yard, his curved sword sailing away. 
As the man landed on his back, Joach saw the bloody claw marks strafed across 
his chest.
Kesla dove out of the tunnel after him, moving with an assassins speed.
Behind her, on her heels, skaltum boiled out of the tunnel. The lead beast 
snatched at her but only caught her cloak. Kesla fought to shed her garment.
In the yard, Innsu rolled to his feet in the face of the onslaught. Daggers 
appeared in both hands, but he was too late to save himself. His body spasmed as 
the poison in the claw wounds struck his heart. His arms jerked as he fell. The 
daggers flew from the dead mans hands and buried themselves in the eyes of the 
skaltum that clutched Kesla. The beast fell backward with a wail.
Kesla rolled free and raced to join Joach and the others gathered in the yard. 
Innsu. She sobbed. But now was not the time for mourning.
From the tunnel, more skaltum poured into the yard, while underfoot, monstrous 
scorpions shook free of their subterranean nests and danced toward the group, 
poisoned tails raised in threat.
Behind! Kast yelled.
Joach glanced over a shoulder and saw the sands roil and churn, driving toward 
them. It was the sand sharks again, closing off any retreat, driven to a 
thrashing fury.
A trap.
Sy-wen moved closer to Kast. We can flee with Ragnark. Carry everyone away.
Joach backed away. What choice did they have? He began to nod when Richald threw 
down his crutch.
No! he said coldly, and shoved back the sleeves of the robe. Flee now, and 
all is lost. I wont allow it. He jammed both arms toward the rushing monsters. 
Back arching, he drew upon all the energy in his body.
Energy cascaded brightly along his bared forearms, and a fierce gale slammed 
into the yard. Sand blew up with a scream of winds and struck the skaltum with 
the force of a hammer. Beasts tumbled against the wall. Scorpions flew in the 
grip of whirlwinds and cracked against the unyielding stone.
Run! Richald said, driving his arms apart and blowing a way clear to the 
tunnel. I cant hold this wind for long.
Richald Joach began to argue, but he knew the elvin was right. If any chance 
to destroy the Weirgate existed, it had to be now. Whatever evil had rooted here 
was already close to consuming the desert. He remembered his journey to the 
silver stream in the dream desert and the sight of the black whorl of disease 
consuming and spreading.
Richald met his eyes. The elvin princes face was hard and proud, but behind 
the sharp features, Joach saw the trembling strain as he reined the winds, and 
also a twinge of fear: a brave man who knew his death had come. Go, Richald 
said between tight lips.  As long as we live, theres always hope. 
Joach recognized his own words, spoken to Richald as the elvin fought to hold 
his burning ship together. He understood the unspoken acknowledgment behind the 
princes words. Richald would not lose heart this time. Thank you, Richald.
WIT C H liATE
The prince nodded, then turned his full attention forward, shoulders hunching as 
he fed all his power into a final gale of sandy winds Hurry!
Joach led the way, bent against the winds that tugged at his cloak like a 
maddened dog. He rushed down the narrow path as scorpions and winged monsters 
fought the full assault of the wind. The tunnel ahead lay empty.
He dove into it and was followed quickly by the others. He stopped at the 
entrance and turned to face Richald. The elvins arms trembled. He stumbled 
backward.
Kesla grabbed Joachs sleeve and tugged out the shark tooth pendant to light the 
dark tunnel behind him. We must be off, lose ourselves in these tunnels before 
they break free.
Joach frowned. Her plan was shortsighted. As soon as Richald was overwhelmed, 
the skaltum would hunt them, scour the tunnels for their blood. Another plan 
was needed.
Joach shook free of Kesla and bared his forearm. He drew his sword across the 
flesh of his arm.
What are you doing? Kast asked, sheltering Sy-wen behind him.
Wincing at the sharp pain, Joach held out his arm and dribbled a solid trail of 
blood across the entrance. He intoned words to draw himself away, slipping into 
the dream desert, drawn easily by the amount of spilled blood.
As he concentrated on the red line in the sand, focusing his attention, a 
scorpion pounced to the tunnels entrance. He barely saw it, lost between the 
dreaming and the real. The poisoned creature raced toward his leg, but before it 
could strike, a dagger impaled it between its stalked eyes, pinning it to the 
sand.
Kesla retrieved her weapon from its twitching body, then kicked it aside. 
Hurry, Joach. Richald weakens.
Ahead, Joach saw a skaltum scrabble out of the sandy gale, crouching. But its 
prey was not Joach.
Its going for Richald! Kast said.
Joach fought to keep his attention focused. A moment more. Then new movement 
caught his eyenot out in the courtyard of Tular, but in the dream desert 
itself. Someone rose from the sands off to his left. The visitor had been 
sitting near where the bright silver river wound through the empty sands. Even 
from the distance, Joach recognized the familiar figure. It was Shaman Parthus.

Let me help you, Parthus said. The shaman stepped forward with the unnatural 
speed of this landscape, closing in swiftly, but Joach knew he had no more time.
Even as Parthus reached his side, Kesla cried out, Richald! Beyond the 
tunnels entrance, the screaming winds died.
Joach snatched at the lines of power between the two worlds and fed his spirit 
into the dream sands. Do my will! he urged, and flung his arm high.
At his command, a wave of sand swept up to fill the tunnels entrance, closing 
off the yard.
Though he had willed it, Joach still stumbled backward, stunned as he snapped 
back into the real world. Kast caught him, but Joach struggled back up. We must 
hurry, he said, eyeing the sculpted structure. I dont know how long this pile 
of sand will hold them back.
Kast touched the wall as Kesla held her glowing talisman higher. Its not 
sand, the large man said. Its rock.
Sy-wen ran her fingers along its surface. Sandstone.
Joach felt the wall himself. It was solid. Must be the flow of power here, he 
mumbled, remembering how the energy of Greshyms staff had transformed his first 
dream sculpture into rockbut he was not entirely convinced. He recalled the 
figure that had shared the dream desert and frowned. Or maybe it was something 
Shaman Parthus did? He said he could help.
Shaman Parthus? Kesla glanced at him.
Joach shook his head. Its not important. Lets find where they hid this cursed 
basilisk and end this horror.
Kesla nodded and turned with her talisman toward the dark tunnel, her face cast 
in a sickly green glow. But where do we begin to search?
Greshym kicked Rukh out of his way as he stalked from his lit-tle cave out into 
the moonlight desert. Curse that boys rashness! He thumped his staff into the 
sand. Hes going to get himself turned into fodder for those bloody beasts 
before hes served his purpose.
Leaning on his staff, Greshym sighed and shook his head. Deep inside, though, he 
was impressed with Joachs abilities. The boy grew quickly in skill. It had 
taken only a little of Greshyms dark
Witch Uate magick to fortify Joachs sandstone wall. He would make a great 
sculptor one daythat is, if he lived long enough.
Mmmaster, Rukh grumbled, nose close to the ground. I kill meat.
Turning, Greshym eyed the gutted trio of burrow dogs. Rodents. Im burning away 
my energies waiting for that boy only to have him slip out of my grasp, and the 
gnome brings me burrow dogs. Rolling his eyes, Greshym held out his palm.
Rukh, ever obedient, rushed to fill his hand with one of the carcasses. Greshym 
sniffed at the bloody and raw meat, then glanced back to his tunneled cave. It 
seems we are what we eat. He used the few teeth still rooted in his gums to 
tear the flesh from the tiny bones, chewing thoughtfully.
But at least the boys here, so close, Greshym said, wiping his lips on his 
sleeve. And we know where hes heading. Filling his stomach with more meat, 
Greshym felt fueled enough for the final battle. The time of waiting and 
planning was over.
Tossing aside the bones, he swung back to the cave. This time Ill be ready.
Kesla crept down the corridor, ears pricked for any noises. With her assassin 
training, she could identify a mouses pittering footfalls and tell you if it 
was a male or a female. But with the furtive whispers and sudden scrape of a 
boot heel on rock echoing from the others behind her, it was hard to 
concentrate. She cringed at their noises, sure it would attract whatever other 
monsters lurked in the darkness.
She held her shark tooth talisman higher, but it shed little light to guide 
their way from here. Three paths branched out from this hall. But which to take? 
Since entering the tunnels, the way had been a straight shot into the heart of 
the Southwall, but now a decision had to be made.
Kesla turned with her pendant in hand. I dont know, she whispered. I could 
explore each on my own and try to determine the best path.
And how would you know? Kast asked. I doubt youll come upon a sign with an 
arrow, saying Basilisk^ lies this way
Kesla opened her mouth to argue, but Joach gripped her wrist and turned her to 
face him. We stay together, he insisted. His eyes seemed to grow brighter in 
the gloom.
Wait! Sy-wen pointed to the sharks tooth.
Kesla glanced at it, not understanding.
Sy-wen took it from her, then quickly marched to each tunnel and held up the 
talisman. Upon reaching the third tunnel, it flared brighter. I noticed it, 
Sy-wen explained, when Joach turned Kesla around. For some reason, its light 
shines more boldly when pointed this way. This must be the correct path.
Kast frowned. But the path to what? More sharks?
If its somehow attuned to the monsters here, Kesla said, Kast may be right.
No, Joach said, it grows in power as it nears the source of its energythe 
Weirgate.
How can you be so sure? Kast asked.
I cant, but what other choice do we have? We have one out of three odds of 
choosing the correct tunnel. I say we follow the magick.
Kast shrugged. So lets follow the magick.
Kesla retrieved the pendant and set out down the side tunnel. The path from here 
was as convoluted as a fire ants nest: tunnels twisting and turning, crossing 
and undercutting, passing through chambers both small and large. At one point, 
they were even forced to crawl. By now they were thoroughly lost. Kesla insisted 
she could find the way back, but when Kast kept asking, her answers became less 
and less assured.
Follow the magick, Kast grumbled. We might as well follow a blind rat.
Theres a light ahead, Sy-wen whispered, drawing them all to a halt.
Kesla closed her fist around the talisman. With the glow so close to her own 
eyes, she had missed it. She lowered the shark tooth into her cloaks pocket. 
Far ahead, past a turn in the tunnel, a fiery light flickered, casting a bloody 
tinge on the sandstone walls. As she stared, Kesla realized the glow was not 
flickering, but rather pulsing, like the beat of some massive heart.
The four glanced at each other. Then Joach moved forward, taking the lead. They 
proceeded slowly, stopping often to listen. Not a sound whispered. It was as if 
they had the entire Southwall to themselves.
Joach crept along the wall, sword pointed forward, until they reached the curve. 
He paused and motioned f6r the group to hang back while he went ahead to 
investigate. Once they had gathered, Joach took a deep breath, regripped his 
sword, and slipped around the corner.
Kesla leaned against the sandstone wall, biting her lip against the tension, 
imagining the horrors ahead.
Joach reappeared almost instantly. The tunnel dead-ends into a chamber. Its 
empty. Relief was thick in his voice. The Weirgate? Kast asked.
Its there. The Basilisk Gate stands in the rooms center. Joach swung around. 
Lets go.
As a group, they hurried around the tunnels turn and indeed a room lay at the 
passages end. It was circular in shape, with four torches hanging on the wall. 
The flames seemed to ebb and flow, causing the pulsing glow.
Joach noticed her attention as they approached the room. It must have something 
to do with the Weirgate.
Kesla nodded. His answer did not calm the tiny hairs on her arm from quivering. 
She had the oddest sensation of having walked this path before. It was as if an 
old memory were trying to surface with each step she took. She had a sudden urge 
to flee. Something waited for them in thereand it wasnt just the Weirgate.
Kesla reached the rooms threshold and held back. She could not bear to move 
inside. She studied the chamber from her vantage.
In the rooms center, a monstrous black sculpture rested atop the sandy floor. 
Its surface, rather than reflecting the firelight, seemed to eat the torches 
glow. Even the room held a chill so unlike the desert, as if the black stone had 
sucked all the warmth from the space.
Kesla stared at the beast that had plagued their people both now and in ages 
past. It had the front parts of some foul carrion bird: sharp black beak, a 
ruffle of ebony feathers, and talons dug deep into the sand. But the rest of its 
body was that of a serpent, scaled and coiled behind it. It appeared bunched, as 
if it were poised and about to strike. Its ruby eyes glowed with a baleful 
light, seeming to stare only at her.
Joach turned from where he stood. The nightglass dagger, he hissed. Let us be 
done with this.
She swallowed hard, dreading to enter the room, but she knew

JAMES Ll.F.MF.NS
she had no choice. It was a path she was born to walk. And as she stepped into 
the room, an old memory buried deep inside her swelled. She stumbled as images 
spun across her vision: swaying trees in the evenings breeze, the reflection of 
the moon on still water, a tumble of sandstone homes stacked like a childs toy 
blocksand something else, something wrapped in a dark cloak moving toward her. 
She closed her eyes, gasping, suddenly dizzy. She never felt herself swoon, but 
found her knees striking the sand.
Joach was already at her side. Kesla!
She stared around her. Only a few spans from her knees, below the hooked beak of 
the basilisk, she spotted something she had missed. A pool of black glass, as if 
the monstrous beast had drooled blood into the sand at its feet. It was 
nightglass like her dagger, like the lake of Ashan. She felt herself grow weak 
at the sight of it. The small pool seemed more terrible than the beast that 
towered over it.
The nightglass dagger, Joach urged.
She nodded, too weak to stand, and slipped the shard of glass from its sheath. 
She held it out to Joach. Do it. I cannot Something something She shook her 
head and could not make eye contact with Joach.
Its all right, Joach said, taking the dagger.
Hurry, Kast said somewhere behind her. We dont know how long well be alone 
here.
Kesla knew the Drerendi warrior was mistaken. They were not alone now. She knew 
eyes spied on them, laughing eyes, the same eyes that had glowed from the 
dark-cloaked figure from her dream.
But Joach was not deterred by her misgivings. He rushed the statue with the 
dagger, aiming for its heart with the blade. With the weapon raised high, the 
vein of witch blood glowed brightly through the dark glass.
Hurry, Joach, she silently prayed. End this horror.
Joach drew back with all the strength in his shoulder, then plunged the dagger 
into the beast with a shout of triumph.
Kesla heard a bright shattering sound, followed by a gasp from Joach.
He stepped away, glancing to her, then back to the basilisk. It was unharmed. 
The nightglass dagger lay in a thousand brilliant shards in the sand, half its 
length shattered. Joach held the jagged hilt in his hand, stunned.
Shock drove Kesla to her feet. It failed!
Joach stumbled away. I dont understand.
As they all stared in silence, a tinkle of dark laughter rose from the basilisk. 
The torches dimmed, then blew brighter, flickering toward the ceiling.
We must flee! Kesla yelled, sensing the approach of the lurker. They all raced 
for the door, but the sand would not let them escape. Sandstone claws grew out 
of the floor and grabbed their ankles, holding them tight.
Kast hacked at the stone with his sword, but the cleaved wounds healed as fast 
as they formed. Finally, another clawed hand rose from the sand and slapped the 
blade from his hand. Still, Kast was not to be beaten. He swung to his mate. 
Sy-wen, the dragon.
She reached for him, fingers spreading to touch his seahawk tattoo. I have 
need
Before she could make contact, her legs were yanked out from under her by the 
claws. She struck the sand hard and was dragged away by her ankles to the far 
side of the room. Once well out of reach, she was allowed to stand again. Kast 
yelled to her. Sy-wen!
Im all right, she called back.
All the while, the laughter grew in volume, as if that which opposed them was 
amused by their efforts. Their attentions returned to focus on the basilisk. 
Kesla, closer than any of the others, realized the true source of the sick 
laughter. It was not the basilisk. The laughter rose from the small pool of 
nightglass at its feet.
Again a swirl of images rushed around her, dizzying her. Words now rose from the 
black pool. It struggles to remember. Her vision blurred. It seemed as if a 
dark cloud were rising from the pool, mists on the water. But gasps behind her 
helped her focus. It was not an illusory figment. Something was rising from the 
pool in a haze of smoky mistssomething cloaked, something dark.
Kesla remembered the brief image from a moment ago. Moonlight on water, trees, 
and a blacky cloaked figure coming toward her.
Before her now, the cloaked figure grew more solid as it pulled fully into this 
world. She knew it was the same as in the dream.
He spoke from beneath his cowl, bending toward her, his deep voice full of 
mischief. A girl, this time. How amusing. No wonder you hid from me for so 
long.
J AM
Kesla found herself answering. I I dont know what youre talking about.
The cloaked figure straightened. Of course you dont. That is the way of the 
desert. It likes its little secrets.
Who are you?
The stranger shook back his dark hood to reveal a surprisingly handsome face. It 
was as if white ice had been carved by the most skilled artisan, framed by hair 
as white as newly fallen snow. Only his eyes burned with the fiercest red 
fireand Kesla knew it was a fire more likely to burn with frost than with the 
heat of a true flame.
Have you forgotten your old friend? he offered gently. Do you not know me?
Kesla did indeed recognize the face, both from ancient texts and old stories. 
But it could not be. He was long dead.
Come. Enough with these games. Name me as I name you.
Ashmara, she whispered with a numb tongue. The ghoul.
His bloodless lips smiled. Now, Shiron, was that so hard?
Joach recognized the two names from Keslas tale of Ashan, Shiron and Ashmara: 
the two combatants whose magickal battle had melted the sands below the 
Southwall into black glass.
Kesla stared in horror at the pale figure wrapped in a dark cloak of mists. 
How ?
The figure waved a hand. After our battle so long ago, my bones rested deep 
under the lake youve named Ashan, frozen in black glass. But when Tular was 
taken by the Burning Master, my shade was drawn back here, to guard over the new 
basilisk. He brushed his white fingers across the dark feathers of the 
monstrous statue, then turned to Kesla. But it appears the desert sensed I had 
escaped its glass prison. It birthed another dream, breathing life again into 
another of its creationsanother scion to bring its battle to Tular.
I dont know what youre talking about.
Ashmara beckoned with a hand, and the sands under Kesla flowed, drawing her 
closer to him. Joach tried to grab her, reaching out instinctively with his 
right hand, but only a stump touched her cloak. Unable to escape, Kesla was 
dragged before the small black pool upon which Ashmara stood.
The shade bent and stared at her face. You really dont know what you are, do 
you? He straightened, laughing deep and long.
Kesla stared boldly at Ashmara, but Joach saw her shoulders tremble. Was she 
more scared of the ghoul or of what the monster was about to reveal? He longed 
to protect herbut how? She had a right to know. His only regret was not telling 
her earlier. Maybe he could have spared her this pain, a pain Ashmara was 
clearly enjoying.
The shade smiled. You are the deserts child, my dear. This ages Shiron, born 
again from the sands. Nothing more than a dream given substance. A clever desert 
mirage. He pointed to the sandy hands that gripped her ankles. In truth, you 
have no more life than one of my creations.
Kesla shook her head. It cannot be.
Come now. In your heart, you know I speak truly. I can hear it in your voice.
Kesla swung away. No She stared back at Joach for help.
He glanced down to the sand. What he says is true, Kess. Shaman Parthus knew 
the truth from reading his bones. He glanced back up and saw the hurt and fear 
in her eyes.
Wh-why?
Joach knew there were so many questions behind that single choked word: Why had 
he not told her? Why had he kept this secret? Why had he made motions as if he 
loved her, a woman who was not real? Joach had no answers.
She covered her face and turned away.
A cruel laugh flowed from the shade of Ashmara. It seems the desert never 
changes. Sending a child to do its battle. A sand-sculpted hand rose from the 
sand, picking up a shard of the shattered dagger in its fingers. And it seems 
the desert never learns any new tricks. This stone basilisk is stronger than my 
old sand-sculpted original. Nightglass has no power over it.
Kesla lowered her hands, half sobbing. If if you are truly Ashmara, why are 
you doing this? How can you help poison the desert? As wicked as you were, these 
are still your lands.
Ashmara cocked his head. There must be an echo in this room. You spoke the same 
words when we met last, attempting to appeal to my heart. He laughed again, a 
darkly cruel sound. My bones are forever frozen in glass, put there by the 
desert itself when last we battled. Why should I care if its destroyed?
Because its still your home! Kesla lunged out with a hidden dagger, moving as 
swift as a desert snake, stretching out from where she was heldbut the blade 
merely passed harmlessly through the misty shade.
Ashmara simply smiled. You dont seem to be having much luck with daggers this 
night. A spear of sand jutted out and knocked the blade from her hands. The 
dagger flew and buried itself in the sands. Now lets end this once and for 
all. If you are so in love with your desert, then let me help you return to it. 
Ashmara waved a hand.
The sandy fists that held Kesla sank down into the floor, dragging her down with 
them.
You buried me once, Ashmara said. Now its my turn to return the favor.
Kesla struggled to free herself, but to no avail. Her legs disappeared into the 
sand.
We have to help her, Kast hissed, fighting to pry his own bonds with his 
sword.
But Joach did not move. He knew another course was necessary. He remembered the 
words of Shaman Parthus, that Keslas mission to Aloa Glen may not have been 
solely to wet the nightglass dagger in his sisters blood, but also to draw 
himanother sculptorto the desert. And now Joach knew why: he was brought here 
to fight Ashmara. One sculptor against another. But how could he hope to win 
herea novice against a master? It was futile.
Still, Joach watched Kesla sink slowly into the sand and brought the jagged edge 
of the broken nightglass dagger to the stump of his right arm. He dug its tip 
deep, and blood flowed heavily into the sand at his feet. Joach winced, eyes 
closing, and sank with his blood into the dream desert.
The chamber walls around him grew misty. The glowing sands of the dream desert 
shone through them now. The two worlds merged, one atop the other. His blood 
flowed into both, bright as spilled wine. Joach stared around at the dream 
landscape. Though the dunes in the distance glowed brightly, the sands under his 
feet were stained dark. He turned, and with his vision split between the real 
and the dream, he saw the basilisk statue perched atop the silver river, its 
talons dug deep into its substance.
In the dream desert, he watched the Lands energies slowly churn, sucked away 
into the whirling pit known as the Weir, the darkness feeding on this vein of 
power like some monstrous black leech. But that was not all he saw. He watched 
as the dark stain spread out from here into the desert, corrupting all it 
touched.
Joach suddenly understood the Dark Lords goal here. The GuP-gothal monster must 
have grown tired of twisting the little bits of
J A M I.
Lt Mt
.-S
elemental power found in the Lands people. In the past, the Black Heart had 
used shards of ebonstone as a focus in which to twist an elementals energy, 
forging each one into an illguard. Now he plied the same dark magick on a much 
larger scale. Using the giant statues, he sought to corrupt the worlds energy 
directly, to forge the very Land into an illguard creationand he was close to 
succeeding!
A cry drew Joachs attention back to the real world. Kesla was waist-deep in the 
sand, fighting to hold herself up with her hands. But new pincers had risen from 
the sand, clamping on her wrists. Kesla writhed in their grip.
Again, with the two worlds merged, Joach was able to see the dark strands of 
power that linked Ashmaras sculpted creations to the dream desert: a tangled 
black web. Instead of a link by blood, Joach realized the power came from the 
Weir itself, arising from the black stain.
Joach cringed from the power here but knew their only chance to fight it lay in 
his own elemental blood. He concentrated on the spilled pool at his feet, 
touching the dreaming magick there. He lashed out with his own energy, slashing 
at the threads of power, severing them instantly.
In the real world, Joach watched with satisfaction as the sandy fists created by 
Ashmara fell away to plain sand. Kesla broke free and pushed from the sands. 
Ashmara grabbed for her, but his fingers had no substance. She rolled away from 
him.
Kast also broke free, rushing up to Sy-wen, who immediately placed her palm on 
his cheek. I have need of you!
Ashmara, initially startled by Joachs assault, was quick to realize the source 
of the new magick. His red eyes flared with anger as he swung to face Joach. A 
sculptor! The ghouls arm shot up, and new sandy creations grew into 
existencenot only clawed hands, but also monstrous beasts, climbing right out 
of the sands.
Joach gasped at the play of power in the dream desert. Black threads twined and 
raced, feeding the new creations. Joach slashed at these, too, but he no longer 
had the advantage of surprise. Threads re-formed as quickly as he hacked at 
them. Still, Joach continued his assault. He had no choice.
In the chafnber, Kesla dodged the sculpted creatures, moving across the sandy 
floor with the skill of an assassin.
Behind the basilisk, Ragnark had appeared with Sy-wen perched on his shoulder. 
The dragon ripped into the sandy beasts and hopped about the sand, making a 
difficult target.
Ashmara, his eyes glowing like two coals, crouched atop his black pool and cast 
out his attacks. He pointed to Joach. Kill him! he directed his new creations.
A beast, a muscled cross of a lion and a bear, scrabbled across the sands toward 
him.
Joach stepped back, but he had no way to defend himself, not while concentrating 
on fighting in the dream plane. He attempted to raise his own sculpted creature 
to battle the beast, but Ashmaras beast tore through his creation with no more 
effort than Sheeshon had used on his tiny rose. He was too untrained, his 
efforts too divided.
Kesla appeared at his side. Give me the dagger, she said breathlessly.
What? he managed to squeak out.
She took the broken mghtglass dagger from his fingers and swung around just as 
the lion creature leaped with a silent snarl. Kesla sliced through its throat as 
it lunged past. Its form dissolved back to sand, washing harmlessly over Joach.
Half crouched, Kesla lifted the nightglass dagger. It might not work against 
the basilisk, but as in the past, it can slay dream beasts.
Understanding dawned in Joach. The basilisk of old had been a dream-sculpted 
creature, slain by the same dagger. So the dagger must, of course, work against 
any dream creation. It did not matter its shape.
Kesla slashed through a hand that tried to grab her. The sandy fingers crumbled 
away as she straightened.
In the dream desert, Joach watched the dark connection that linked the sculpture 
explode away with a flash of bright light. Joach remembered a similar sight, 
long ago, when Elena had tried to grab his poiwood staff aboard Flints ship. 
She had been thrown back with a similar blinding flash of light. The two magicks 
were deadly to each other: dark and light.
Kesla spun and planted the dagger into the eye of a monstrous snake. It fell 
away to sand. Your sisters blood has proven as potent as Sisakofas. She 
glanced over her shoulder. Ill protect you. Do what you can to fight Ashmara.
r
|AM1S UHMENS
He nodded.
Before she turned away, her eyes met his. You should have told me.
He swallowed, knowing what she meant. I I couldnt.
Why? She stared hard at him, not allowing him to turn away from this question 
a second time.
He faced her and spoke rapidly lest he lose heart. Were all just dust and 
ashes. What difference does it make if you come from sand? To me, youll always 
be a woman. He turned away. A woman I love.
Joach looked back to her, his heart in his throat. Tears welled in Keslas eyes. 
Without a word, she whirled away and slashed the head off some twisted beast.
Joach returned to his own battle, leaving her to defend him. What had finally 
been admitted between them could never be acted upon unless they first won here. 
From the dream plane, Joach slashed the ghouls cords of power. But even aided 
by Keslas attacks, no real gains were made.
Ragnark tried to attack Ashmara, but the dragon had no more luck than Keslas 
dagger. How could you kill a ghost?
As Joach continued his attack, he knew that this stalemate would end in their 
defeat. Even now, he felt himself weakening. His spirit was not endless. The 
nightglass dagger would also eventually exhaust its small supply of witch 
blood. So while Ashmara tapped the bottomless well of the Weir, their energies 
were limited.
Unless some change tilted the balance, they would be defeated. A voice spoke at 
Joachs shouldernot in the real world but in the dream. Maybe I can help.
Joach glanced behind him in surprise. The figure seemed to float within the 
stone of the Southwall, as the real world overlapped the dreamscape. His 
features were vague as Joach stood twixt the two planes, but he would know the 
thin man anywhere. Shaman Parthus!
Leaning on his old crutch, the elder smiled at Joach. It seems you could use an 
extra hand.
Greshym allowed a true smile to shine. Joach showed no sign of suspecting the 
darkmage hidden behind the sun-bronzed face of the old shaman. He had hurried 
here once hed felt the boy pierce the veil between the two planes. Timing was 
critical.He could not risk the ghoul killing the boy, at least not until he was 
done with Joach.
While crossing here, Greshym had used his dark arts to spy upon the first 
skirmishes of the two sculptors. Joach had some innate skill, but he was no 
match for a fiend with Ashmaras cunning. He now wished Shorkan had not been so 
skilled at drawing the shade here. Ashmara was a deadly warden, and one who 
might vanquish Greshyms one chance at regaining his youth.
How can you help me? the boy asked. I thought you had no skill at sculpting.
Joachs form was misty and insubstantial, like the shimmers of heat seen 
floating above the desert at a distance.
You are most correct, Greshym said, speaking with the voice of the shaman. 
You hover between the dream desert and the world of substance and life. Only a 
true sculptor can travel that path.
Then how can you help?
I can lend you my strength. Two are stronger than one. Joach hesitated. Im 
not sure strength is the problem when fighting the shade of a dead man.
Greshym shook his head. Ashmara can be defeated. He coaxed. There are secrets 
I can teach you, from the old texts. Ways to defeat the ghoul.
Joachs form became more substantial as his interest grew, drawing nearer to 
Greshym in the dream desert. What old ways?
Greshym took a step back. For his spell to work, he needed the boys spirit to 
enter the dream plane fully. Being no sculptor himself, even he could not reach 
Joach where he was now. Greshym beckoned with a wave. It is not something that 
can be spoken in words. I must teach you, show you.
Joachs form grew crisper. Then show me.
I need you to pull yourself fully into the dream plane, where I can share with 
you. Greshym took another step back, invitingly.
Joach began to step toward him, then paused, almost taunting.
What are you waiting for? Come to me, boy.
Youd like that, wouldnt you, Greshym} Joachs mask of naive openness fell 
away. Under it was a face hard with suspicion.
Greshym frowned in surprise. He opened his mouth to argue, but the boys eyes 
shone slyly. Joach would not be so easily tricked.
J A M
Show yourself, Joach said. Enough with these false faces. You tricked me once 
with Elenas form and now think to do so again?
With an exasperated sigh, Greshym cast away the illusion of Shaman Parthus, 
returning to his own age-worn body. The small brown cane transformed into his 
gray stone staff. Is this better?
Joach scowled. What did you do to Shaman Parthus?
I needed a new cloak to wear.
So you killed him?
Greshym shrugged. But how did you know it was me?
You mentioned Ashmara. Shaman Parthus knew nothing of the ghouls shade. He 
could not even see into the dream-sculpting plane. Your knowledge gave you 
away. Joach began to grow more insubstantial. Now that youve been caught, 
begone with your tricks.
Wait!
Joach turned away. We have nothing else to discuss.
Greshym knew he was about to lose the boy completely. If Joach returned to his 
battle, he was surely doomed. Ashmara would eventually wear the boy down and 
slay him. That must not happen. I can tell you how to defeat him.
Joach glanced back, eyes narrowed. And trust you?
It is not my trust that will matter, but yours.
Joach turned around. How is that?
I offer you a trade. Ill give you the secret to defeating Ashmara, in exchange 
for your promise to return here to the dream desert.
Why do you want me there?
Greshym smiled slyly. Im only selling one secret here. But I promise you this: 
if you honor your word, I will not kill you, trap you, or darken your spirit in 
any manner. This I swear.
As if your word has any value, Joach mumbled, but he did not turn away.
Take my offer or leave it. Greshym gripped his staff tighter. Save your 
friends or die here. Its no matter to me.
Joach hesitated. His one hand formed a fist. Tell me, he said with a tight 
voice.
First swear on your sisters life that youll return here to me.
Joach bit his lip, then reluctantly nodded. I so swear. But only if your secret 
truly helps us in defeating Ashmara.
Greshym grinned, relaxing. Oh, dont worry. If Im wrong, Ashmara will kill you 
all.
James Llemens
Tell me, Joach snapped. Whats the ghouls secret?
Shrugging, Greshym used his staff to draw a circle in the dark sand around his 
feet. Have you not noticed how Ashmara never steps from his little black glass 
island?
Joachs eyes glinted. What of it?
It is his physical link to this plane. Greshym smudged out the scrawled line 
with the staffs butt end. Shatter it, and the shade will again be imprisoned 
with his bones under Ashan.
Joachs surprise dissolved the veil between them. He almost snapped fully into 
the dreamscape, but at the last moment, he drew away again. It is that simple?
Most magick is, Greshym said with a disappointed sneer.
Youd better not be lying. Joach turned and grew misty again.
Greshym leaned heavily on his staff and called out to Joach. Be careful, boy. 
Dont get yourself killed.
Spinning, Kesla jabbed the jagged end of the nightglass dagger into the back of 
a sand-sculpted scorpion, then whirled on her heel to slice the throat of a 
clawed salamander. Forms blew away into puffs of sand around her. She leaped and 
rolled as a spike of sandstone shot upward under her.
Gasping, she crouched. She had been trained to run for leagues through a midday 
desert, but this constant assault wore on her. She had to protect both herself 
and Joach.
Her only allies were Sy-wen and her dragon. Ragnark roared through the chamber, 
keeping Ashmara busy. Its wings shattered creatures on all sides, while 
silver-clawed talons ripped through the sand.
But still, the pale ghoul stood on his little pool of nightglass, wrapped in his 
cloak of dark mists. He seemed little worn by the battle here. In fact, his 
amusement had grown and he laughed often as he forced Kesla through her paces.
Hes playing with us, Kesla realized, ht$e a cat with a mouse. She was sure the 
ghoul could call all manner of real beasts to harry them: the skaltum, the 
burrowing black scorpions, sand sharks. But he didnt. He continued to chase 
them with his dream-sculpted creations, enjoying the challenge, amused by their 
efforts, immune to any direct assault himself.

Kesla, Joach said behind her.
She spun and raked a sand serpents belly. What?
He spoke rapidly, while motioning her closer. I know a way to destroy Ashmara.
How?
The pool of glass under his feet. Destroy it, and his shade will be drawn back 
to Ashan.
Are you sure?
He hesitated, then spoke. No, but its worth attempting.
How do we destroy it?
I dont know. Joach frowned. Try using the nightglass dagger.
She nodded. It made a certain sense. The ghoul had remained atop the circle of 
dark glass. He seemed unable to leave it. Ill try. But youll have to defend 
yourself from here.
Dont worry about me. Ive sent a message to Ragnark. He and Sy-wen will keep 
guard. Just shatter the pool.
Kesla glanced to his face. Their eyes met briefly. So much was still unspoken 
between them. She spun away before anything else could be said. She slashed and 
hacked her way through the sand beasts, dropping, rolling, whirling on hand or 
foot.
She noted Ashmaras attention turn toward her. His red eyes glowed in his pale 
face. The attacks on her grew fiercer. Her momentum forward slowed. She was 
fought to a standstill. Did the ghoul sense her new knowledge?
You move well, Ashmara said from a few paces away. Much better than that 
sallow-limbed thing that met me in Kaaloo.
Kesla kicked out, bouncing off one sand-sculpted creature and impaling another. 
The creatures attacked from all sides, a blur of claws and teeth. It was Shiron 
that killed you last time, ghoul! Kesla called back at him.
No, he answered, his voice bitter. It was my own foolishness and desire that 
doomed me. Shiron claimed his blood could cleanse Tularand I believed him. I 
could not let the boy escape. I cast out my magick recklessly, drawing off the 
shared energy of the other sculptors in Tular. But the desert protected the boy. 
Instead of harming Shiron, our magicks washed over and through him, burning the 
desert around us, melting it to glass. Only when it was too late did I realize 
my mistake. I had cast my magick so far and wide that I
could not escape the molten desert. My physical form sank into the glass, while 
my spirit was held tight by Shiron in the dream desert. I could not escape.
Kesla continued to slash and jab with her broken dagger.
All amusement had seeped out of the ghoul with the telling of his tale. But I 
will have my victory, my revenge. He glanced over his shoulder at the looming 
basilisk. I will see the entire Southern Wastes destroyed.
With the attention of the ghoul momentarily distracted, Kesla leaped atop the 
back of a scorpion, dodged its sandstone tail, and dove at Ashmara.
He swung around, instinctively lifting an arm in warning, but Kesla flew through 
his form as if it were air and crashed to the hard nightglass surface.
Ashmara laughed, lowering his arm with a shake of his head. Still trying to 
slay the dead?
Reaching out, Kesla lifted her arm and slammed her dagger into the center of the 
black pool. Glass fractured in a loud tinkling shatter. Pain flared in her hand. 
She stared down. The nightglass dagger had shattered completely away. The black 
pool beneath remained unharmed, not even scratched.
A sinking feeling of despair welled in her chest. No. She moaned. Not only had 
she failed, but she had destroyed their only means of slaying the ghouls dream 
beasts. Laughter wafted down from atop her.
Kesla lifted her hand. A chunk of broken nightglass was pierced through her 
right palm. She yanked it out, and blood flowed freely from the wound. Though 
hopeless, she pushed off the hard glass surface, ready to fight with the last 
breath in her body.
The ghouls taunting voice seemed to whisper at her ear. Ive enough of this 
game-playing. It is time to end this. Triumphant laughter flowed.
Kesla shoved up, ready to spring away, but her balance was thrown off as her 
left hand sank into the loose sand.
The ghouls laughter cut off abruptly with a sharp cry.
Staring down, Kesla saw that her left hand had melted through the black glass to 
the soft sand beneath. She lifted and studied her wounded palm. Blood flowed 
thickly down her wrist. She remembered Ashmaras story: Shiron claimed his blood 
could cleanse Tular.
Understanding dawned in her. Again whispery images of swaying palms and blue 
waters grew around her. She glanced up and saw the look of horror in Ashmaras 
red eyes.
Please dont
Kesla leaned back to the nightglass pool and swept her bloody hand over its 
surface. Where her blood touched, the hard glass slowly dissolved back to plain 
sand.
A howl of agony and terror rose from Ashmara. No, dont send me back!
Kesla ignored his screams as surely as he had ignored the terrified cries of all 
the children bloodied at his feet. She scrubbed her blood across the entire 
surface. Once the entire pool was covered, she rolled away. Her blood bubbled on 
the hard surface, transforming glass back to sand.
Standing, Kesla stepped away. Like the glass, the pale face of Ashmara was eaten 
away. He had no mouth with which to scream, but his eyes shone with agony and 
despair; then those, too, were consumed by the magick in Keslas blood.
Soon only empty sand lay before her.
Kesla clenched her bloody fist. Magict of the desert. She could no longer hide 
from the truth spoken from the lips of the ghoul. She was not a woman, only some 
construct of the desert, a magickal tool used to stab at the evil in Tular.
Though victorious, tears rose in her eyes.
JOACH HURRIED TO KeSLas SIDE. He DID NOT NEED THE TEARS TO
recognize the grief in her eyes. Whats wrong? he asked.
She shook her head and stepped away from him.
Before he could question her further, Sy-wen called to them. She hopped from her 
dragons neck, and Ragnark roiled back down into the naked figure of Kast. 
What happened? Sy-wen asked. How were you able to drive off the ghouls 
shade?
Kast pulled the shreds of his cloak from the sand and joined them.
Joach explained about his visit with Greshym in the dream desert and about the 
darkmages revelation.
Why was the fiend so helpful? Kast asked with clear suspicion.
I made a pact with him, Joach said. I promised Id return to the dream 
desert.
. n vjt A 1 t.
Its surely a trap, Sy-wen said.
Joach nodded. No doubt.
And what of your promise? Kast asked.
Ill honor my word, Joach said. Ill return to the dream desert, but I never 
promised when Id return. Certainly not today, certainly not tomorrow, maybe not 
for many, many winters.
Kast grinned. The darkmage will be waiting a long time.
Joach shrugged. Hes lived five centuries. Whats a few more decades?
Sy-wen glanced over to Kesla, who still stood near where the black glass pool 
had been. But what of her trick? Did Greshym reveal that, too?
No. Joach stepped toward Kesla and touched her shoulder gently. What happened 
here?
She finally turned, wiping at her eyes. Her voice was as shattered as the 
nightglass dagger. The ghoul and Shaman Parthus were right. Im not real. She 
shrugged away from his hand. Like Shi-ron, my blood contains the magick of the 
desert, potent enough to heal whats corrupted.
But you are real, Joach said, reaching out and clutching her arm. He squeezed 
her wrist. Youre flesh and blood. What does it matter if you werent born of a 
man and a woman?
She stared up at him, fresh tears in her eyes. It matters to me. She reached 
down and peeled away his fingers. And it will to you eventually.
Never, he said. He sought some way to ease the despair in her voice.
But she had already moved away, stepping toward the basilisk. I now know how to 
destroy the Weirgate. My blood will rid the sands of its evil. She stood before 
the large carved stone, staring up at its baleful red eyes. I know my role 
here.
Joach hurried toward her. Kesla, dont. The Weirgates
She lifted her bloody hand and placed it against the feathered stone breast of 
the basilisk. Her hand sank into its form as if it were only shadow, not solid 
rock.
Kesla!
She glanced over her shoulder, her face a mix of shock and horror. Joach!
He leaped at her, grabbing for her cloak. His fingers twisted in the heavy 
cloth. But Kesla fell forward anyway, as if yanked by the arm. She tumbled into 
the Weirgate and was gone. Her scream trailed back out, fading farther and 
farther away, as if sailing down some bottomless well.
Joach still held her cloak in his grip. The rest of her clothes lay in a 
crumpled pile at the bottom of the statue. He threw aside her cloak and reached 
to the stone, ready to go after her. But his palm found only cold stone. He ran 
his fingers over it, searching for a way inside.
The basilisk just stared down at him, cold and menacing.
She was gone.
Joach sank to his knees in the sand. Kesla!
A slithering sound of shifting sands drew his attention back up. Sy-wen gasped. 
Joach watched the ebonstone serpent slowly begin to uncoil, stretching and 
curling in the sand. Ruby eyes fueled by darkfire turned in Joachs direction.
The basilisk of Tular lived again.
Book Seven

With the sun setting at his back, Erril stood at an outcropping overlooking the 
gorge. Deep below, molten rock flowed like a river. Even from this height, 
Errils face grew hot as he glanced north and south. The gorge extended leagues 
in both directions. The dwarf kingdom lay only a short distance ahead, but 
there was no way forward from here.
Scouts had been sent in both directions, searching for some way across. While 
waiting for their return, the group had set up a night camp.
Erril frowned and headed down the short slope, fleeing from the heat of the 
gorge. Since beaching the elvin skiff in these lands six days ago, the overland 
trek had been arduous and fraught with pitfalls: poisonous rivers, winds tainted 
by deadly smokes, barren stretches without a single blade of grass. And now this 
impassable molten valley. Erril stared around him. Mountains spread in all 
directions, jagged peaks and clefted gorges. It was as if they camped inside the 
fanged mouth of some monstrous beast.
As Erril approached the camp, he saw Elena kneeling with Tolchuk and Mama 
Freda. The elder was busy changing the dressings on the elvin captains leg, 
while Tolchuk held the feverish man in place. Elena hovered over them both, 
worried. Two days ago, Jer-rick had stumbled too near a tigersfang bush. It had 
lashed out at him with its vines, lancing his leg with its finger-length thorns. 
Wen-nar had axed the trapped man free, but his wounds had continued to fester.
Hows Jerrick? Erril asked as he stepped into camp.
Mama Freda wiped her forehead. The willow bark tea is not strong enough to 
break through the poisons hold. She placed her fingers on the elvins wrist 
and shook her head. I dont think hell last till morning. Her voice quavered 
at this last pronouncement, and her fingers lingered on the captains hand. Mama 
Freda and Jerrick, both gray-haired elders, had grown closer on the long march 
here.
Erril frowned. So much death. If Jerrick died this night, he would be the third 
member of the party to fall on the six-day trek to reach this point. They had 
lost a dwarf scout to a fireworm and another who had stepped on a horned toad 
buried in the red dirt. The first had died immediately, but the other had 
screamed for half a day before succumbing to the poisons in the toad.
And now Jerrick
Maybe my magick can help? Elena asked for the hundredth time, hands wringing 
together.
No, Erril said sternly, joining them. We know this land is attuned to 
magick. Its dangerous enough without awakening it further.
But
Mama Freda interrupted. Erril is right. Your magick couldnt save him anyway. 
It would only prolong his suffering. Finished with his wraps, she sat back on 
her heels, frustrated and worried.
Jerricks writhing slowed.
Tolchuk mopped the elvins brow with a damp cloth.
The old healer sighed. Tikal, perched on her shoulder, pressed against her 
cheek. The pet only left her side to relieve itself. Otherwise, it seemed 
unwilling even to touch this poisoned land. If only I knew these lands better, 
Mama Freda said quietly, I might be able to find a local cure. But Ive never 
seen such a variety of sick creatures and plants.
Wennar spoke as he approached out of the twilight gloom. None of these ill 
creatures existed until the Nameless One stepped out of our ancient mines. He 
glanced around him. These very mountains were once covered in pine and 
redwoods; their bowers were full of deer, rabbits, foxes, and badgers.
Erril stared at the surrounding landscape as night descended. It was hard to 
believe Wennar. How could this land have grown so corrupted ?
JAMES CLEMENS
Elena sat atop a smooth stone by the campfire. If we dont stop these 
Weirgates, the entire world could become like this.
But how do we continue from here? Erril glanced over his shoulder. The 
eastern skies glowed from the fires of the nearby molten gorge.
Well have to hope my scouts find some answer, Wennar said. Pairs had been 
sent out, two in each direction, armed with spyglasses. They were to climb the 
neighboring peaks to look for some end to the gorge, some way around it.
Erril glanced around the campfire. With the scouts gone, there were just Wennar 
and another six dwarvestoo few to thwart any real danger. He did not like the 
odds here. Besides their dwindling numbers, the entire party had grown 
bone-tired. Many had developed illnesses from the sick air and tainted waters: 
coughs, fevers, and stomach cramps. But the dwarves seemed to fare the worst: 
not just from illness, but also from their despairing hearts. They spoke little, 
just staring numbly at their ravaged homelands.
Elena cleared her throat and pointed up. A full moon rises this night.
Erril turned his attention back to her. He saw the light in her eyes and could 
guess the intent behind her comment. You want to risk opening the Blood Diary?
If were to succeed, she said softly, well need every resource available to 
us.
But your magick? Erril started.
I need cast no magick to bring the spirit of Cho out of the book. The power is 
inherent in the book, wrapped in the ancient spell your brother cast. It should 
do nothing to alert whatever wards lie here.
We dont know that. Perhaps it would be best if we wait until the scouts 
return.
As if hearing him, a scuffle of rocks sounded. Everyone was immediately on their 
feet. One of the camps sentries called out into the darkness and was answered 
in the dwarvish tongue.
Soon a pair of ragged dwarves stumbled into camp. But they were not alone. 
Trussed up in ropes and slung between them was a strange purple-skinned creature 
with bright yellow eyes. It looked somewhat like a frog, especially with its 
splayed fingers and toes, each digit ending in a little muscular sucker. What 
is that? Elena asked, bending closer.
Erril pushed her slightly back, wary of this creature.
One of the scouts shook his head. We climbed a ridge and were searching the 
gorge to the north. It stretches and curves all the way to the horizon. There is 
no way across in that direction.
Erril suppressed a groan.
But what be this creature? Tolchuk asked, pushing up into the firelight. Can 
we eat it?
The purple creature spotted the large ogre and began to tremble all over, its 
yellow eyes wild. It tried to squirm away. No, it suddenly squeaked from its 
wide, blubbery lips. Please, no eat poor Greegrell.
It talks! Elena said.
One of its captors shook it. Quiet down, you stinkin pile of horse dung.
The creature cowered and whined; its trembling grew more violent.
Elena frowned and moved forward, pushing aside Errils hand. She knelt by the 
trussed-up creature and placed a palm on its arm. Shh, its all right. Were 
not going to hurt you.
We caught him trying to steal our spyglass. I set it down on a rock for a 
moment, but when I turned around, this little bugger was hopping away with it in 
his grubby little paws.
It nice thing shiny, the creature whined.
We only caught it by a well-aimed throw of a stone, the scout finished.
Erril rolled his eyes. What is it?
Wennar answered. Its a vorg. Ive heard of their foul ilk. They have a crude 
intelligence, a half notch above goblins. The creatures used to plague miners: 
stealing tools, defiling shafts with their droppings, even bringing down 
rockfalls to trap dwarves.
Behind them, Jerrick groaned, thrashing again.
Mama Freda backed to his side. Ill heat up some more willow bark tea.
The vorg stretched its neck high, attempting to peer over Elenas head. Large 
yellow eyes blinked at the elvin. Its slitted nostrils twitched. Bad pointy 
poke, he said, following with a slight roaring sound deep in his throat, 
mimicking the sound of a striking tigers-fang bush.
Elena met Errils startled gaze.
Erril lowered himself next to the beast. How do you know what happened to 
him? he asked sternly, pointing to Jerrick.
The vorg cringed back from his tone.
Mama Freda spoke up. If this creature knows about the tigers-fang, maybe he 
knows a cure.
Elena edged Erril back, then faced the creature. Greegrell, she said softly 
and patted the vorgs hand, do you know how to help this man? She nodded back 
to the elvin captain.
The vorg relaxed, leaning slightly nearer to Elena. Greegrell knows.
Youll show me?
The toadish creature nodded.
Elena waved for the two scouts to free the vorgs rope.
Wennar stepped forward and kept the scouts from obeying. My lady, do not trust 
a vorg. Theyre full of mischief.
Sighing, Elena stood up. If we dont try, were certain to lose Jerrick. Keep a 
lead on the vorg if you like, but lets see what it knows.
Wennar nodded and secured a loop of rope around the vorgs scrawny neck, then 
allowed its limbs to be untied. Show us, Wennar said, motioning as if he was 
going to kick the creature.
Elena frowned at him. Let me take him.
Before she could reach the lead, Erril took the rope. You mind the vorg. Ill 
mind the tether.
She nodded and touched Greegrells shoulder. Go on, little one. Show us what 
can help him.
The vorg whined and hopped forward on its muscular hindlegs; its small forelimbs 
never touched the ground. Come, come, come, it mumbled with each leap. It 
headed away from the camp and out into the cooling night.
The vorg would leap, sniff with his nose up in the air, then move farther. Elena 
kept to its side, while Erril followed, flanked by Wennar and followed by 
Tolchuk and Mama Freda. The creature worked his way down a short, scrubby 
slope, slipping from rock to rock, stopping at last by a pool of brackish water, 
thick with a greenish-glowing algae.
Greegrell bent down, leaning on one splayed hand.
Will this help? Elena asked.
Mama Freda hobbled up and peered at the pool. Different algae do have 
remarkable healing properties.
Elena glanced to the vorg, who still leaned beside the pool. Can this cure?
Suddenly the vorg twisted, and the rock under its hand shot out and cracked 
Erril in the knuckles. The rope dropped from his jarred fingers, and the vorg 
was off. It bounced into Elena, then away, leaping and careening from rock to 
rock and up a cliff face. Its suckered feet gave it amazing agility.
Caught by surprise, none were able to snag the rope or the vorg. It clambered to 
the top of the cliff, then turned back to them. Its dark form was limned against 
the rising full moon. Sorry. Greegrell sorry, it called back to them. Green 
good. Green good for bad poke. It waved its arm, something glinting in its 
grip, and vanished. Elena patted her waist, then swore loudly. What? Erril 
asked.
It stole my dagger. She turned to him, cheeks reddening both from anger and 
embarrassment. My witch dagger.
Curse the little thief, Wennar grumbled.
No. Mama Freda straightened by the pool, straining a fistful of the brackish 
algae. It was a trade. His secret in exchange for Elenas dagger.
Elena shook her head. I guess if the algae can truly cure Jerrick, then it was 
a cheap price.
Mama Freda smiled gratefully.
They all stood for a moment more, feeling foolish, outwitted by the 
purple-skinned vorg, then headed back to camp. There they found the second pair 
of scouts talking around the fire.
What did you find? Wennar asked them.
Their report was just as grim as the first teams. The gorge spread with no end 
and with no way to bridge it.
Erril turned to Elena. Maybe you had better consult the Blood Diary.
Elena sat alone on a rock, the Blood Diary open on her lap. The full moon 
floated high in the hazy night sky, while around her spread the red, craggy 
mountains of central Gulgotha. A short distance behind her, the others were 
gathered at the campfire, but Elena could feel the plainsmans eye on her, ever 
watchful, but keeping a respectful distance.
She tugged her jacket, lined warmly with rabbit fur, tighter around her body and 
scowled as the apparition of Aunt Fila floated before her. They had been 
conversing for some time: Elena detailing the story of their journey here while 
Fila interrupted with questions. The course of the conversation was not going as 
Elena had hoped. So youre married? Aunt Fila asked with a laugh. To Erril? 
Blushing, Elena stared down into the book, now an open window into the starry 
Void. Im married in the eyes of the elvin only she explained again. It 
wasnt exactly a mutual exchange of vows.
Well, with that royal blood in your veins, youre certainly part elvin. So I 
guess that makes you at least half married. Aunt Fila smiled warmly, taking the 
sting from her teasing.
The subject was a tender one. While traveling here, Erril had been overly 
formal with her, unusually awkward. Whenever she had tried to glancingly broach 
the subject or make some light remark about it, he would find some other task to 
occupy his time: building a fire, hunting for grouse, or checking with the 
dwarf scouts who watched the trails ahead.
Enough about my marital status, Elena said, exasperated by the focus of her 
aunts attention. I need your counsel on more important concerns.
Aunt Fila smiled. Fine, my dear. What is it? Elena sighed. Weve almost 
reached the valley of the dwarves, but we cant find a way past a deep gorge. A 
molten river flows through it with no way across.
Aunt Filas shimmering face grew more sober. What about the elvins skiff?
Elena glanced down to the camp. We considered going back for it. But we came 
close to crashing the boat to get as close to here as we did. Besides, the 
captain is gravely ill, poisoned by one of the foul plants here. We need some 
other answer.
So you want to know if Cho has some magick to carry you all over to the other 
side. Elena nodded.
Ill allow her through, but I suspect shell not be much help.
Well take whatever help she can supply. Aunt Fila smiled, then closed her 
eyes. When next she opened them, Elena knew she was gone. Though the face was 
the same, the warmth had vanished from the figure, and in her aunts eyes now 
shone the Void of the book: cold, distant, dispassionate.
Cho, we seek your guidance, Elena said softly.
The figure seemed not to hear her, glancing over a shoulder. / sense Chi is 
near. The voice was as icy as her eyes.
Elena followed Chos gaze. It aimed toward the dwarf kingdoms beyond the gorge. 
We believe in that direction lies one of the Weirgatesone of the black 
shackles that holds your brother trapped. It must be destroyed if
The pain, Cho interrupted. / can sense his agony. The figure turned back, 
and Elena recognized a bit of human warmth in her sorrowful expression.
We will find a way to help him, to free him, Elena said. This I swear, but 
first we must find a way across the flaming gorge. She explained quickly about 
what blocked their path.
Fire can be fought with ice, Cho said. Thus it has always been. Stars burn 
and the Void freezes.
Elena frowned. She needed clearer answers. Surely there is a bit of magick you 
can teach me to bring us past this gorge.
Come to me, Cho said, and waved a moonstone hand in her direction.
Elena hesitated, then stood, carrying the book.
You have tnown me, touched me, shared my spirit. I am the ice of the Void, the 
flame of the Star, and the storm that rages between. Cho stared hard at Elena 
as she approached. But I am also the Spirit that walks unseen.
Elena knew she was referring to the various aspects of her magick: coldfire, 
witch fire, stormfire, and ghostfire. I understand.
Cho held out her arms. Understand more.
Elenas hands, bright with ruby magick, rose toward the figure, unbidden, 
uncontrolled. It was as if some unseen force had gripped her wrists. The Blood 
Diary slipped from her hands. Gasping, she tried to resist the pull, but failed.
Her hands drew into and through the ghostly figure of Cho, passing as far as her 
upper arms. Elena gasped as she felt the familiar surge of renewing. But she was 
already ripe with power. Frightened by the strangeness, Elena dug her heels into 
the rock and leaned against the tidal pull coming from Cho. What was happening?
Elena fell back as the control of her limbs returned to her.
She fell hard on her backside, wisps of smoke trailing around her. She coughed 
and lifted her arms. The sleeves of her jacket had been burned away; the edges 
still glowed and smoked in the cooling evening. But it wasnt the state of her 
jacket that made Elena cry out. Both arms, from her shoulders on down, whorled 
with blood magicks.
Elena scrambled to her feet. What have you done?
She heard footsteps behind her. Whats wrong? It was Erril.
Instinctively, Elena tried to hide her transformation, lowering her arms out of 
sight. But her smoking jacket drew Errils eyes. He came around and saw her 
arms, his eyes wide with shock. Elena ?
I dont know what just happened, she mumbled, eyes turning accusingly toward 
the apparition of Cho.
The bridge is open, Cho said, as if this were explanation enough.
Erril moved to Elenas side. Why have you done this? he asked.
Fire can be fought with ice. Cho glanced over again to the glowing eastern 
skies.
Elenas shock had faded enough for her to sense the magick in her arms. Its 
coldfire, she mumbled. Its all coldfire. Both arms.
Erril glanced up to her as he retrieved the Blood Diary from the dusty ground. 
What do you mean?
My right fist was renewed by the sun. Ripe with witchfire. Not only has the 
amount of magick more than trebled, but Cho has transformed my fistful of sun 
magick back to the moon. Elena stared at Cho. I dont understand.
Maybe we should talk to your aunt, Erril said. She may be able to translate 
the spirits meaning for us.
Elena nodded. Cho, Id like to speak to Aunt Fila again.
The figure turned back and nodded. The one called Fila waits.
The transformation was immediate, as if a flame had swept into the moonstone 
sculpture. Elena, Im sorry. I didnt know Cho would do that.
Elena lifted her arms. What did she do?
The bridge is open, Fila said, repeating Chos earlier words. In the past, 
Sisakofa could only link a small part of her body, her hands, through the 
meager connection of refracted lightbut now the Blood Diary exists. Its a 
portal to Cho, a direct well to the source of its nearly infinite power. When 
Cho chose you, a descendant of
Sisakofa, she attuned herself to your spirit as surely as she is tuned to mine 
now. As she shares with me, so she can with you.
Elena rubbed her wrists, remembering the lack of control. It was as if something 
had taken control of her. This thought frightened her more than the well of 
power coursing through her veins.
Aunt Fila must have sensed her distress. I know this is disconcerting. It was 
the same for me when I first merged with Cho in the spirit plane, opening the 
bridge to the book. But it is not without its advantages. When the moon is full 
and the diary open, all Chos magicks are availableall forms, all depths. 
During these times, there are almost no restrictions to your magick. You become, 
in fact, Cho.
Elenas eyes grew wide. She knew that her aunt was trying to comfort her, but 
this revelation terrified her. She began to shiver uncontrollably, as if the 
coldfire in her limbs chilled her.
Erril was suddenly there, putting his arm around her and pulling her tight 
against him. She melted into his warmth, needing his touch. This much power 
he said. It risks burning her spirit away.
Indeed it does, Fila said. But I trust both Elenas heart and your strength, 
plainsman. She stared at them with an amused glint in her eyes. And I dont 
think it was just chance that the elvin people joined you two in marriage. I 
believe there was more significance in that gesture than either of you 
understandor are willing to admit.
Erril stiffened beside Elena. He gave her a final squeeze, then awkwardly 
extracted himself, clearing his throat. About about this coldfire business, 
he said, changing the subject. How can this help us cross the river of molten 
rock?
Aunt Fila frowned. Im not entirely sure. Cho sees things on a larger scale 
than you or I. She moves between worlds. Its hard for her, I think, to fully 
understand details. To her, it is fire that blocks you, so she grants Elena 
ice.
Elena rubbed her arms, sensing the coldfire beneath the ruby flesh. Lots of 
ice.
Aunt Fila shrugged. If there is an answer to crossing this gorge, Id say to 
attempt it this very night. You only have another two evenings when the moon 
will be full enough to open the Blood Diary. Dont waste them sitting here.
Elena nodded. Ill try.
Then Cho and I should return to the book. We must ration this moons magick so 
it lasts all three nights.
Elena bit her lip. She did not want Aunt Fila to leave.
The apparition drew nearer to her. Her words were whispered for Elena only. 
Youll be fine, my dear. But remember what I said. Share your burden. Youve a 
figure of Standish iron at your back. Lean on his support.
With these final words, Aunt Fila swirled away, returning to the open book held 
by Erril. With the glowing apparition gone and the book closed, the night 
seemed darker, more empty. Just Erril and Elena.
What did Aunt Fila say at the end? Erril asked, holding out the diary.
Elena accepted the book, her fingers brushing his. Just to keep warm.
On watch, Tolchuk crouched at the edge of the gorge, staring across the molten 
valley. The heat from below wafted like the breath of a fiery beast, but 
Tolchuk did not seek the shelter of the cooler shadows. Beyond the lava river 
was the dwarf kingdom, and though he did not have the Heart of his people to 
guide him, Tolchuk knew his goal lay out there. After hearing the tale of 
Mimbly wad Treedle and the mines of Gyhallmanti, Tolchuk knew he had to reach 
those ancient tunnels. He had to honor the final plea from his father: to return 
the Heart to where it had been first mined.
But why? What was so important? How could any of this help rid the Banes curse 
from his people? And what did any of this have to do with his ancestor, the 
Oathbreaker, the great betrayer of the Land?
A rattle of rock alerted Tolchuk to someone approaching. He glanced to the 
moon. It was too soon to be relieved. Maybe Elena had finished speaking to the 
spirits in the book. He prayed she had learned some way to cross this gorge. All 
his hopes depended on it.
Out of the darkness, a small shape hobbled forward, breathing hard. A voice 
called out to him. Lord Boulder, I see youve found a warm spot to wile away 
the night. Who needs a campfire when we have this impassable hearth to keep the 
chill from our bones?
U I! VT A
Tolchuk sighed. It was Magnam, the smallest of the dwarf party. What be 
wrong?
Magnam shuffled up to join him, scowling at the gorge. For once in this cursed 
land, nothing. As a matter of fact, that little frog-faced vorg was as good as 
his trade. The old healer says the captain rests well after applying that smelly 
poultice, and his fever seems to have broken, too. Shes drying the remainder of 
that green pond scum by the hearth.
It be good to hear Jerrick fares better.
Yes, I can tell from that grumbled tone that inside, youre cartwheeling with 
delight.
Tolchuk turned his back on the dwarf. What do you want?
Magnam passed over a satchel. A bit of warm meat and scrawny turnips.
Tolchuk grunted.
Youre welcome, Magnam said, settling beside him uninvited.
Tolchuk ignored the food and his guest and continued his study of the gorge.
So do you want to talk about it? Magnam asked.
About what? Tolchuk grumbled.
Ever since weve set up camp, youve been as antsy as a pig in a field of 
nettles, he said. I came out here to make sure you werent trying to swim 
across the river by yourself.
Tolchuk scowled at the annoying little dwarf.
Magnam shrugged and leaned back on his hands. Ive been studying the maps. Its 
just over yonder, if you want to know.
What?
Gyhallmanti. Old Mad Mimblywads mountain.
Tolchuk sat up straighter. Where?
Do you promise not to go leaping off this cliff and wading through that fiery 
river?
Where? he asked again.
Magnam sighed and lifted an arm. Just beyond that jagged point. Do you see that 
mountain shaped like a crooked fang?
Tolchuk peered past the glare of the gorge. It was hard to miss. It was one of 
the tallest peaks, stretching high into the sky. The moon seemed to teeter atop 
its pointed summit. At last, there stood Gyhallmanti, the Peak of the Sorrowed 
Heart, the birthplace of
I A M E S ULEMINS
both heartstone and ebonstone, and the cradle from which the Dark Lord first 
walked these lands.
Tolchuk stepped toward the cliffs edge.
Magnam frowned. Remember your promise. No leaping to a fiery death.
Before Tolchuk could respond, voices arose behind themmany voices, excited and 
talking rapidly. He turned and saw most of their party hiking up the slope 
toward them. In the lead were Elena and Ernl.
I think you should consider this more fully, Erril said. The moon is near 
setting for the night, Elena answered. Weve argued long enough. I say we 
attempt this now.
But its untested magick. Youve never tried to harness this much energy. Maybe 
you should start a little slower.
The pair climbed up to Tolchuks watchpost, followed by Wen-nar and four other 
dwarves. Tolchuk imagined Mama Freda was still overseeing Jerrick.
As Elena stepped fully into view, Tolchuk immediately saw the change.
Magnam did, too. The dwarf gasped. Sweet Mother, the lass is red all the way 
up to her pretty little chin.
What happened? Tolchuk asked as the party drew abreast. Coldfire, Erril 
said with a scowl. Enough, Elena believes, to freeze a path across the river.
Why else would Cho grant me such a font of power, Elena said, unless it was 
to use the coldfire against the molten rock? You heard what Cho said: ice 
against fire.
Tolchuk sensed this argument had been going on for quite some time.
Magnam grumbled under his breath and shook his head. Thats why I never got 
married.
Elena stepped to the cliffs edge. Power is power. Ill unleash enough as a 
test. If it appears to be working, Ill freeze as much of the river as I can 
until the magick ebbs, then renew while the moon is still up.
Erril shook his head, clearly accepting her judgment under protest.
Elena nodded, as if satisfied, and turned back to the gorge. She reached to her 
belt and found her scabbard empty, clearly forgetting the vorgs theft. Sighing, 
she turned to Erril. Slice my palms.
The plainsmans eyes grew round. He backed a step.
Magnam stepped forward, offering his own dagger, hilt first. My lady.
She accepted the weapon. Thank you.
As the others looked on, Elena closed her eyes and took a deep breath, obviously 
centering herself. Her hands began to glow, rising quickly to a blinding hue.
Careful, Erril said.
Elena took another breath.
Sharing the cliffs edge, Tolchuk saw her lips tighten as she forced the 
brightness back to a deep, rich glow. Once ready, she took the blades edge to 
her palms, slicing one, then the other. Wincing, she reached both hands over the 
yawning gorge. Slowly, the red glow of her hands developed an azure hue. Blood 
dribbled from her palms and fell down into the gorge.
ToPchuks sharp eyes followed the rain of drops until they disappeared into the 
fiery abyss. The reaction was almost immediate. The molten river exploded upward 
in a crown of fire, as if a boulder had crashed down from the cliffs. Near the 
edge, Tolchuk suddenly remembered the attack on Stormhaven, how this corrupt 
land reacted to the touch of magicks. Stop! he yelled, and moved toward Elena.
But it was already too late.
From the molten river, a mighty bird shot forth, formed of molten rock and 
trailing flames. As it flew upward, its wings snapped wide, stretching from one 
side of the river to the other. Bits of molten rock were thrown from its fiery 
pinions, raining all around them.
One of the dwarves screamed as he was struck in the face by a gob of lava. He 
fell backward, his hair on fire, and was dead before he hit the ground. Mayhem 
ensued as everyone sought cover. Both Tolchuk and Erril dove for Elena, who 
still stood at the cliffs edge.
But neither reached her side. Elenas arms shot upward, and both defenders were 
blown backward on icy gusts. Tolchuk rolled to his feet, his skin half frozen.
Nearby, Erril screamed, Elena!
The firebird climbed above the canyons rim. Tolchuk watched as a fiery talon 
snatched Elena from the cliffs edge and flew into the air.
Elenas form rang with power. The heat of the firebirds talons could not 
penetrate her cocoon of coldfire. The ice spell had snapped around her 
spontaneously, the witch power instinctively protecting its host. Not even 
Elenas clothes were singed by the molten talons grip.
A trace of fear edged through Elenas heart, but her wild magick thrummed in her 
veins, singing with immense energy. She stared up as the bird arced into the 
night sky. It was a dread sight: a molten statue flowing with the fire of the 
worlds core.
The creatures head cocked backward to study its captured prey. Flaming eyes 
stared down at her, clearly wondering why she had not been burned to a cinder in 
its grip. Its beak opened, and a gale of fire erupted. Elenas arms sprang up 
and cast a shield of pure ice magick before her, blocking the fire from ever 
reaching her.
Again it was an instinctive response, the witch reacting without forethought. 
With so much magick flowing inside her, Elena had little control. She was but 
the tiller of a boat in a raging sea. This, more than anything, scared her. She 
had never felt so helpless. She fought against this chorus of the wild magick, 
this call of the witch. But it was too strong. She was losing herself inside 
the magick. She began to fall away.
Erril, she moaned, knowing how much she would lose if she succumbed. Memories 
filled her: their single dance atop the tower at midnight, his strong arms 
holding her safe, the scent of his neck as she leaned against him. The woman 
inside her grew in strength with these thoughts and helped define her as a 
creature of flesh, blood, and human desire. She was not just a vessel of wild 
magicks and otherworldly senses, but a woman with a heart and a will. Elena 
fought for her spirit, shoving back the witch in her.
As she did so, a realization struck her. She suddenly knew the true name of the 
witch inside her. With this font of power instilled in her, Elena saw more 
clearly what had been sharing her body. Aunt Fila had all but told her. You 
become Cho.
Elena now understood. It wasnt just wild magick and her own baser desires that 
had sought to overwhelm her, but also a sliver of Chos spirit, the spirit of a 
creature from the Void who had never walked a world, never worn flesh, never 
shared her heart with another.
Knowing this, Elena found it easier to draw herself out of the Void. She 
concentrated on her own body, her own flesh, her own blood: the beat of her 
heart, the ache in her legs, the hunger in her belly. But she reached even 
deeper. She remembered how this same body, a form aged by magick into the 
fullness of womanhood, reacted to Erril. She used this power now, a magick all 
its own, remembering how her skin flushed when Erril glanced at her, the surge 
of heat through her core when he was near, and the longing ache deep inside 
whenever he brushed against her.
She wrapped all these sensations around her. As the ice shell protected her from 
the firebirds talons, so too did these sensual feelings insulate her from the 
witch. She found a way back into her own body, back to the fight.
And as she did so, the world shattered with a scream.
Elena glanced up. The firebird had abandoned its attempt to burn through her 
shield and now roared in frustration. It swooped over the river now, wings 
spread from one side to the other. Elena felt the talons loosening, meaning to 
drop her into the river below.
Elena tensed and reached out. She was done reacting with just a witchs 
instinct. She took both hands, flaming with coldfire, and grabbed the claw that 
was holding her, refusing to be dropped into the river. She fed ice into the 
talon, and molten rock froze into solid stone.
The firebird screeched and attempted to shake Elena free, but she was now locked 
in stone, and though jarred and tossed, she remained secure in its rocky grip.
Screaming again, the gigantic creature turned on a wing and swept back toward 
the gorge, gliding lower. The river swelled below them as the firebird aimed for 
it. The desire of the creature was obvious: it intended to dive back into its 
molten den.
Elena studied the landscape below as a plan came to mind. She had to time this 
perfectly. She raised her arms and surged all the energy in her body up into her 
clenched fists, stanching the flow from escaping, building it to a raging force. 
Her hands grew as bright as cold suns. Her arms trembled with the pent energy, 
and the witch in her screamed for release, but Elena held back, waiting until 
the right moment.
i l r. mt it :
The firebird swept lower, almost to the rim of the gorge. Elena tensed. She 
felt, more than saw, the beast begin to tuck its wings for the final dive into 
the river below.
Now!
With a gasp, she opened her fists and released the twin fonts of pure coldfire. 
Her body arched backward in the birds stone grip as the magick ripped from her 
spirit. The backlash of hoarfrost blinded her, but she did not pause. She cast 
every bit of energy out of her body and thrust it at the firebird. Long ago, in 
the mountains of the Teeth, she had frozen an entire forest with only a fistful 
of coldfire. Now a greater miracle was needed.
A twinge of doubt grew as the last bit of magick escaped her bodythen Elena was 
slammed forward. Her head struck the stone edge of the firebirds claw. Her arms 
fell limp, and darkness swept over her.
Erril ran along the gorges edge. A moment ago, the firebird had disappeared 
into a cloud of ice. Its piercing scream had shattered the night. When next he 
had seen it, the firebird had plunged out of the cloud, its flames doused and no 
longer molten. The bird was a plummeting sculpture of frozen rock. With stone 
wings spread wide, it crashed at a gliding angle into the gorge. But rather than 
plunging into the molten river, it was stopped by its own monstrous wingspan. 
The stone bird had jammed itself into the gorge only a few spans down from the 
rim of the molten canyon, imbedding itself in place, becoming a stone bridge 
across the gorge.
Erril stumbled to a stop at the cliffs edge, staring down at the crashed bird. 
Elena! He fell to his knees, searching. Then he spotted movement from under the 
bird: a pale arm moving weakly. Elena hung limply in one of the stone talonsbut 
she was alive!
Tolchuk appeared behind him, as did Wennar.
Erril turned. Get the climbing ropes.
In short order, dwarves were scrambling down the slope and atop the stone wing 
of the bird. Erril was lowered to the talon in a rope sling. The heat rising 
from below made it hard to breathe, searing his lungs. He swung to where Elena 
slouched in the claws grip. Once there, he anchored his legs against a stone 
claw and waved a pinch of herbs supplied by Mama Freda under Elenas nose.
Her head jerked back from the smell, and her eyes blinked open. She startled for 
a moment and struggled away frdm him.
He grabbed her arm.
Elenas eyes widened as full consciousness returned. Erril?
He smiled at her. Next time, lets practice that maneuver first.
She stared up at the stone bird, then back at him. Suddenly she leaned forward 
and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Thinking her frightened, he tried to console her. Dont fear, Elena. Ill get 
you out of here safely.
She tightened her grip and whispered in his ear. Youve already saved me.
Carrying the dwarf hammer on his shoulder, Tolchuk trudged up the face of the 
high ridge with Magnam at his side. The mountains on this side of the gorge were 
even more desolate, covered in scrub bushes and twisted trees, red rocks and 
yellow lichen. Around them, hundreds of steaming vents cast noxious gases into 
the midday sky. Overhead, the sun was a pale shadow in the greenish haze.
But at least they were past the gorge.
In the early morning light, scouts had cautiously traversed the stone bird, 
reaching the far side safely. The others had quickly followed, not trusting the 
bridges stability. As they crossed, little rocks had fallen from the cliff 
faces to rattle across the stone surface, making them all cringe and sweat. But 
they had made it safely and had rested briefly before setting out into the 
mountains again.
Even Jerrick fared better today. His fever had broken overnight, and he had 
refused to ride the makeshift sling this morning. He hobbled ahead of Tolchuk 
with the use of a staff hewn from one of the stunted trees. The party was spread 
out up the slope of the steep ridge, moving slowly along a thin, zigzagging 
trail. Tolchuk and Magnam were the last in line.
Dragonback, Magnam mumbled.
Tolchuk glanced questioningly at him.
The small dwarf swept an arm before him. Its named Dragon-back Ridge. Beyond 
here lies the dwarf kingdom. It is said the ridge circles all our lands, a 
jagged crown of rock.
Tolchuk glanced up. The ridges heights were indeed jagged, but rather than a 
crown or a dragons back, they reminded the ogre of the fangs of some beast.
As he craned his neck up, Tolchuks nose caught a familiar scent. In the dark 
caves of his homelands, the sense of smell was sharp in all ogres. He sniffed, 
then spun around, catching a brief glimpse of something darting behind a 
boulder.
Show yourself! Tolchuk bellowed, lifting his hammer.
Magnam stopped, as did Jernck. Farther up the slope, faces turned in his 
direction.
What is it? Magnam asked.
Tolchuk held up a clawed hand for silence.
Slowly, from behind the boulder, a small face peered out: bulbous yellow eyes; 
flat-splayed nose; and wide, blubbery lips. The purple creature edged from its 
hiding place, hands held up, offering the stolen silver dagger. Shiny. 
Greegrell give shiny back.
Magnam scowled. The vorg again. Great. As if our ancient homelands werent 
fouled enough.
It edged up the slope, head low to the ground, bent in a clear posture of 
someone waiting to be beaten. Give shiny back, it mumbled, sinking lower and 
lower as it crept forward.
Dont trust that purple-skinned imp, Magnam said.
Jerrick slipped beside them, leaning heavily on his staff. Is this the creature 
that saved my life?
Yes, Tolchuk said, not moving his eyes from the quivering vorg.
Jerrick bowed deeply before the creature. Thank you for your help. I am in your 
debt.
Greegrell did not seem to understand. Its trembling grew worse. It set down the 
dagger and scrambled back a few steps.
Do not fear, Jerrick said, moving nearer and retrieving the knife. He slipped 
it into his belt, then offered his open palm to the vorg. What do you ask of 
us? I will see if it can be granted.
The vorgs yellow eyes shifted from Jerrick to Tolchuk, then higher up the 
slope. From the scuff of boots on rock, the group was hurrying down here; the 
purple vorg scooted back. Greegrell no mean bad. I give shiny back. It pointed 
behind him. You make good rock over over It made a sound like the sizzle and 
pop of the molten river. Greegrell now go home.
JAMtS
By now, the others were gathered at Tolchuks back.
Mama Freda spoke. Hes trading back the knife for the use of the bridge we 
built.
Elena moved forward. But what does it mean about going home?
The vorg must have heard her. It patted the ground with its hand. Greegrell 
home.
But how could that be? Erril asked.
Elena moved slowly toward the beast, bent low. Greegrell, how could this be 
your home? You were on the far side of the fire river.
The vorg edged into her shadow, still cowering. I go hunt. Leave caves. Go far 
for snipsnip leaves. It shifted and revealed a flapped pouch on its belly, 
exposing a handful of leaves edged with red. Make better bad belly. Many sick, 
sick, sick.
He was hunting for medicinal herbs, Mama Freda said with shock in her voice. 
He must be his tribes healer.
Elena frowned back at them, then knelt on the rock. What happened?
The vorg shook his head, cringing lower. Then bad, bad, booming bad. It made 
sounds of whistling explosions. Sky angry. Boom. Trees fall from sky, burn, 
burn, burn.
The attack on Stormhaven, Jerrick mumbled.
Greegrell hide. It covered its head with its hands. Bad booming stop and 
Greegrell go look. It mimicked peeking from under its arms. Greegrell run 
home, fast, fast, fast. Then find It glanced to Elena. fire river. Bad 
burning bad. No go home.
Elena straightened. So the gorge formed when the Land attacked Stormhaven, and 
it kept him from returning home.
A second level of defense, Erril said. It means to protect what is hidden 
here.
The Weirgate, Elena mumbled, and turned back. Maybe the vorg knows something 
about the manticore.
Ask it. Erril leaned nearer.
Elena nodded. Greegrell, do you know of a great black stone? It has a body 
like like She pointed to Tolchuk. Like an ogre but with the tail of a 
scorpion.
The vorg scrunched up its face, clearly not understanding.
Elena sat back on her heels and sighed.
Wennar spoke behind them. Vorgs only have a small intelligence, just enough for 
mischief.
Tolchuk turned to the dwarf leader. Scorpions be they native to these 
lands?
Now it was Wennars turn to squint his eyes. No, now that you mention it. I 
dont believe so.
Then how can this creature know what Elena asks? Tolchuk stepped forward, 
reaching to his thigh pouch. He pulled out his chunk of heartstone. It glinted 
dully in the weak light.
The vorgs eyes grew huge at the sight of the jewel.
Leaning on the dwarf hammer, Tolchuk bent down beside the vorg. He held the 
jewel up to the sun and pointed at it. Greegrell, have you seen something that 
looks like the black creature inside the stone?
Greegrell did not seem to hear him. Splayed hands drifted up toward the bright 
jewel. Pretty, shiny, pretty.
Tolchuk shifted the stone higher, beyond the reach of the vorgs sucker-tipped 
fingers. No. Look inside the crystal.
Reluctantly, the vorg lowered its hands and stretched its long neck, cocking its 
toadish head and peering at the heartstone. Shiny, pretty, it continued to 
whine.
Then the vorg froze, and a choking sound strangled out.
Its eyes twitched between Tolchuk and the stone. A flash of recognition flared. 
Then it cringed, scuttling backward. Its eyes were wide with terror. It made a 
warding gesture with both hands. Bad, bad, nasty bad.
Elena turned to Tolchuk. It knows.
He nodded and stared hard at the cowering vorg. Where, Greegrell? Where is 
nasty bad place?
The vorg covered its head with both arms and pressed its face against the rocky 
ground. No, no, no. Bad no go. Nasty black darkness bad.
Elena slid closer and gently touched its trembling skin. Please, Greegrell, 
tell us.
The vorg pointed a purple arm. Tolchuk turned to see where he pointed. It was 
the same peak Magnam had mentioned in his stories. Gyhallmanti, Tolchuk 
mumbled.
The vorg jerked with the mention of the name and ducked farther down.
Magnam frowned at Tolchuks side. It recognizes the ancient name of our mine.
Tolchuk gripped his heartstone harder. Great evil has a way of surviving 
through the ages.
Erril turned to stare at the dread peak. At least it confirms that the 
Manticore Gate is here.
Can you take us there? Elena asked the vorg.
It squeaked. No go. Bad nasty.
Please, Elena whispered.
Greegrell just quaked and quivered.
Mama Freda hobbled next to Tolchuk. Maybe a trade, she suggested. The vorg 
seems to like to barter.
Elena turned to Jerrick. My dagger.
The elvin nodded and handed back the blade. Elena held the knife toward the 
creature. She turned it back and forth so it reflected the sunlight. 
Greegrell
The vorg glanced up, drawn by the flashing blade. It sat up straighten Shiny 
good. A finger raised toward the dagger.
Yes. It can be yours if you take us to the bad nasty place. Show us where the 
night stone lies.
Greegrells hand snapped away. No go.
The daggers not tempting enough, Erril said. He palmed the hilt of his 
sheathed sword. But Ive a span of steel that might goad him to cooperate.
Well not force him, Elena said. We have no right. She sighed and wrinkled 
her brow.
Tolchuk had an idea. He joined Elena and held out the Heart of his people. The 
stone glowed ruby in the light, refracting the suns brilliance. Greegrell. 
Show us to the bad dark place. You dont have to go there yourself. Show us and 
Ill give you this stone.
The vorg raised its head. Yellow eyes fixed on the chunk of heartstone. A tongue 
came out to lick its thick lips. Shiny bright Fetch many mates.
Ah, Magnam said, no wonder he wants our shiny things.
Greegrell stared at the heartstone, then squinted at Tolchuk. Show? No go.
You need only take us to where it lies.
The vorg leaned toward the heartstone, sniffing at it. One eye narrowed. It 
seemed unable to decide.
Tolchuk started to shove the heartstone back in its pouch, but Greegrells arm 
sprang out. The suckered tips of its fingers clung to the stone surface.
It seems the vorgs not done bargaining yet, Magnam scoffed. Greegrell looked 
up at Tolchuk. I take you. Quick, fast, fast, fast.
Tolchuk extracted his stone back from the vorg. Only once you take us.
The vorg sagged, but bobbed its head.
With the matter decided, the party took off once again, climbing the switchbacks 
toward the heights of Dragonback Ridge. Greegrell led the way, scampering and 
hopping up the slope, impatient with their pace. The vorg also proved skilled at 
ferreting out hidden dangers along their paths. Even Wennar stopped complaining 
after Greegrell blocked the dwarf from stepping into the subterranean burrow of 
a spiderwasp.
Still, even with the vorgs help, it took until the sun was low in the sky to 
reach the top of the ridge. The party stared at the wasteland ahead.
Magnam wiped at his eyes.
Spreading to the horizon were barren peaks and valleys. A few small hollows 
showed signs of green life, but the remainder of the landscape was pitted red 
rock and wind-blasted stone. The ancient mines could be seen from here, 
countless black holes riddling the bare mountains, making their slopes appear 
pocked with disease. Dry streambeds crisscrossed the region like old battle 
scars, and the peaks themselves, bare of any vegetation, had been eroded by 
storms and scoured by winds into twisted shapes. It was as if the entire kingdom 
had been reduced to its bones and left to the elements. Tolchuk had never seen 
a more desolate place.
I can smell the disease here, Mama Freda said, her pet tamrink cowering on her 
shoulder. Its as if all the living energy of this place has been drained 
away.
Welcome to our home, Wennar said sourly, turning away. Elena moved to his side 
and placed a hand on his shoulder. This is the Dark Lords doing. His touch has 
poisoned your land, but it can be brought back to life. As long as there is 
blood in your veins, you can heal your kingdom.
Wennar nodded, but his eyes appeared hopeless. After a short rest, the party 
moved on, led by the vorg. It hurried them down a steep slope of loose stone. 
Jerrick took a tumble on the sliding shale. Erril caught him and helped the 
captain down the remainder of the slope. The elvin was weakening from the long 
day of hiking, but he refused to return to his sling and slow them down. Mama 
Freda hovered alongside him.
Luckily, once into the valley, their way became mostly flat, the going easier 
for all. They followed a dry streambed past steep cliffs and broken scree. 
Around them, nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Their footsteps sounded loud 
to Tolchuks ears. He sniffed. Even the air was dead here.
By now, the deep gloom of twilight had set in. Maybe we should stop for the 
night, Elena said. The moon will rise soon.
Greegrell heard her. No, not far. The vorg pointed its arm frantically 
forward.
Hes been saying that, Jerrick complained, for the past two leagues.
Tolchuk grumbled deep in his throat. Perhaps we should heed the vorg. We be 
not alone out here. He nodded to where a few distant mines glowed with 
firelight. The sooner we be done here the better.
No one argued; the pace even increased.
The night slowly wore on, and the moon crept up from the horizon. This was the 
second night of its fullness, when the moon was most bright. Elena pulled out 
the Blood Diary, and the gilt rose on its cover glowed with a brilliant light.
Pretty, shiny, Greegrell said, mesmerized by the book. How much farther? 
Erril asked, redirecting the vorgs attention. Greegrell pointed forward as the 
streambed rounded a short peak. Ahead, no more than a league, the mountain 
climbed into the sky. It towered higher than any of the nearby peaks, a black 
shadow against the stars. Even its silhouette stirred dread in Tolchuks heart. 
Here was where the Heart of his people had been mined, and from whose dark 
throat the Black Heart had entered this world. Gyhallmanti, Magnam mumbled. 
The vorg urged them along. Quick, fast, fast.
Erril kept to Elenas side, while Wennar maintained her flank.
The party continued onward, following the riverbed as it wound through an 
ever-narrowing defile. Soon sheer cliff faces rose on both sides. Tolchuk began 
to grow uneasy. His eyes studied the ridges for movement. His skin began to itch 
with warningbut nothing moved.
The party closed ranks and proceeded more cautiously.
Ahead, the dark shape of Gyhallmanti filled the sky, a monstrous black hole. 
The moon climbed toward its highest point, but still failed to shine upon the 
peaks dark slopes. Tolchuk understood how the mountain had gained its 
reputation. It was all shadow, no substance.
Tolchuk tore his eyes from the sight. It seemed to sap his will.
At last, after another tense quarter league, the cliffs fell away to either 
side. The roots to the great mountain lay before them, spread to either side, as 
if a dark-cloaked figure were kneeling before them. Tolchuk could almost feel 
the eyes of this black stranger staring down at him. He feared looking up, 
afraid of what he might see.
The dry streambed led between the roots of the mountain to a hole in its side. 
Long ago, a deep spring must have once fed this waterway, but now it was all 
dust and dry rock, as dead as the peak itself.
Does the Manticore Gate lie within? Elena asked with clear dread.
The vorg pointed not toward the opening from which the old river flowed, but up 
toward the face of the mountain.
Maybe he means one of the old mine shafts, Magnam said. The ancient peak is 
hollowed with old tunnels and pits.
If so, Erril said, we could spend an entire winter searching for where the 
manticore is hidden.
But the vorg pointed its arm more vigorously. Bad nasty dark!
Show us, Tolchuk said. Where?
Greegrell sighed and pointed both arms, spreading them wide.
Erril scowled. He must not know, or doesnt underst Then the plainsmans 
voice cut out. Sweet Mother above!
In the sky, the moon moved a fraction higher, now poised above the very tip of 
the jagged peak. Moonshine flowed down the face of the mountain like a rush of 
silver water, washing away the shadows to reveal the peak at lastor what had 
become of it.
This entire face of Gyhallmanti had been worked and carved, hollowed out and 
chipped, to form a towering granite figure. The detail must have been the work 
of countless masters slaving for decades: the strain in the figures face, the 
muscles bunching with both triumph and pain, the lines of anger around the eyes. 
It seemed as if the subject were climbing out of the bulk of the mountain, one 
arm stretched toward the sky, one leg still sunk in the rock. Behind its massive 
shoulders, its scorpion tail arched over its back, poised to strike.
The manticore, Elena gasped.
No one spoke for several heartbeats, too stunned by the sight.
But its carved of granite, Erril said. Not ebonstone.
No, youre wrong, Elena said, and pointed toward the outstretched arm of the 
figure. In its clawed grip lay a boulder as big as a small cottage. Its oily 
surfaces shunned even the moons brightness. It was as if the figure clutched 
living shadow, waiting to be molded into something sinister. Even looking at it 
chilled ones blood. There lies the true heart of this statueebonstone. The 
first of the four Weirgates.
As the others stared in awe, Tolchuk dropped the dwarf hammer into the dirt. 
He fumbled to his thigh pouch and removed the Heart of his people. His fingers 
ran over its surfaces, dreading what he would find, but already knowing the 
truth. He had carried the Heart across all the lands of Alasea. He knew every 
facet, every chink as if it were his own face.
Tolchuk stared up, unable now to turn away. He now knew the source of the dread 
that had clamped around his heart. Deep inside, a part of him must have known it 
all along.
Magnam spoke, pointing toward the sculpture. The depiction of the manticore 
climbing forth from Gyhallmanti. It must represent the Nameless Ones rise from 
the heart of the mountain. We may be the first in centuries to peer upon the 
face of the Nameless One.
Tolchuks legs weakened, and he fell to one knee. He held up the Heart of his 
people toward the ebonstone boulder, praying the two were not the same. His 
prayer was shattered as he lifted it high.
They were an exact match. But that was not the worstnot by far.
Nearby, the vorg was the first to realize the horrible truth. The
WIT C H bATE
toady creature stared at Tolchuk, then back up at the manticore statue. Its 
eyes flicked back and forth, then grew huge. It squeaked and backed away from 
him, trembling with terror; then it fled back down the narrow defile.
The others turned to see Greegrell scramble away.
Lowering his arm, Tolchuk slumped in despair. There had been so many hints: The 
Triad choosing him for this mission. The shape of the Bane in the stone. And 
deep in the cellars below Shadow-brook, the dwarf lord who had tortured Meric 
and Krai had fled from Tolchuk in terrorjust as the vorg did now. But it 
wasnt only fear in their eyes, but also something worse: recognition.
Tolchuk opened his eyes.
Slowly, one at a time, their faces paled with dawning realization. Heads turned 
to the manticore, then back to Tolchuk.
Elena was the first to state it aloud. The carving the face and body of the 
creature its Tolchuk.
Magnam backed a step. The Nameless One.
Dropping his heartstone, Tolchuk covered his face with his hands. Our people 
call him by a different name. Not Dark Lord, not Black Heart, not Black Beast
What name then? Magnam asked.
Tolchuk dropped his hands, hot tears flowing down his face. Oathbreaker. He 
sagged to the ground, crushed under the realization of his true heritage. He 
betrayed the trust of the Land and cursed my people. His blood runs in my 
veins.
Elena moved up to him. But he is not you.
It does not matter. Tolchuk glanced up to the statue. The stone does not 
lie. I am the last born of the Dark Lord.
Elena pushed aside her shock. She recognized the grief, guilt, and despair in 
Tolchuks face. She had felt similar emotions when confronted with her own 
heritage. She went to Tolchuk and gently touched the crown of his head. A 
heart is stronger than ones blood, and youve proven your heart in countless 
battles. Youre no monster.
Tolchuk would not look up, only mumble. He reached and squeezed the chunk of 
heartstone. Ive failed my people. The Heart died in my care. I be no better 
than the Oathbreaker.
Magnam moved closer and shrugged. Better or worse, what does
I
it matter? At least you scared the vorg off. He placed his fists on his hips 
and searched around. So were here Now what?
Elena knelt beside Tolchuk. We go on. We destroy the Gate as planned.
Erril stood behind her. We all go on. You were sent by your Triad, guided by 
the Heart of your people. Both elders and spirits judged you the best one to 
right the wrong of your ancestor. Whether you name him Oathbreaker or Dark Lord, 
you dont have to accept his name as your own. You can forge your own future.
Tolchuk finally lifted his head.
Elena stared him in the eye, urging him up. Well stand by your side.
Or at least behind your back, Magnam added with a snort.
Tolchuk pushed up, wiping his nose on his forearm.
Wennar moved forward and lifted the Trysil from the dirt. He offered Tolchuk 
the rune-carved handle.
Tolchuk shook his head. I be not worthy.
Wennar thrust the hammer farther forward. Long ago, the hammer was used to 
shape ebonstone and doomed our lands at the hands of the Nameless One. Use it 
now to free us. Destroy what has been wrought in his cursed name.
Tolchuk lifted his arm and gripped the handle. I will try.
Wennar nodded and stepped away.
Jerrick hobbled up to them. His face shone with a returning fever. The days 
exertion had worn the captains health. If we mean to continue this night, we 
should move on.
With the matter decided, Erril led the way with Wennar. Elena kept beside 
Tolchuk, sensing the ogre needed support. It seemed their two lives were 
intertwined by more than just a chance meeting long ago in the highland forests 
of Winters Eyrie. Their twin stories stretched back generationshers to the 
witch Sisakofa, and his to the Dark Lord himself.
Were not our pasts, she said softly to the night.
Tolchuk nodded. I know this in my head, but it be hard to convince my heart.
Then trust those around you, she said. Trust me.
The ogre turned in her direction.
She met his gaze. I know in my heart that you are a spirit of goodness and 
honor. I will never doubt otherwise.
He swallowed hard and turned away, his voice a whisper. Thank you.
The group continued in silence. Four dwarf scouts fanned out to survey the 
empty stretch of bare rock that led to the mountain. The party seemed small as 
it fell under the shadow of the manticore.
Elena craned her neck. The statue towered above them.
Jerrick spoke at her shoulder. Well need to find a way up onto that arm. I 
almost wish that sticky-fingered vorg were still here.
No need, Mama Freda said. Tikal is just as agile and has sharper eyes. He may 
be able to hunt a way to the top.
But as they neared the mountains base, they discovered neither of the 
creatures skills would be needed. Carved into the granite, a steep stair led up 
the mountains face toward the statue.
An old work trail, Wennar guessed. Crude, narrow, meant for the sculptors as 
they labored here.
A dwarf scout stood a few steps away, a spyglass fixed to his eye. Its too 
dark to say with good certainty, but the stairs do seem to climb all the way 
up.
Then lets go, Elena said.
Wennar led the way. The stairs were only wide enough for a single dwarf, but 
two people could walk abreast. Elena now marched with Erril, Tolchuk on the 
step behind them. Jerrick had attempted to keep up, but it was soon evident the 
elvin captain was too weak and worn from his recent fevers to continue. His 
pale face glistened with fever sweat, and his breath had grown ragged. A short 
way up the cliff face, they abandoned him on the steps in the care of Mama 
Freda.
Tikal and I will watch over him. You all continue on.
Elena was loath to leave the two elders alone and ordered three of the dwarves 
to watch over them. They can also guard our back trail, she added before Mama 
Freda could protest.
With their numbers lighter, they set a harder pace. Elenas last view of Mama 
Freda and Jerrick was of the old woman taking the captains hand. The sight 
buoyed her spirit. Even in this cursed land, a bit of love could grow.
With this thought held in her heart, she continued up the long staircase with 
Erril at her side. The dwarf scout had proven to have good eyes. The steps 
climbed to a tunnel near the base of the statue, where the leg of the ogre 
stretched out of the mountainside.
Elena tugged a glove from her right hand and nicked a fingertip with the tip of 
her witch dagger. They had no torches and had to risk a bit of magick to light 
their path. She cast free the tiniest thread of witch fire and wove it around 
and around like a skein of yarn, forming a ball of fire. It floated just above 
her fingers. Lifting it high, she stepped to the tunnel. The fiery light 
revealed a spiraling staircase leading up.
More steps. She glanced over a shoulder.
Wennar took the lead again. His long shadow, reflected in the firelight, 
stretched upward. They followed again.
Elena wove a spell to keep the ball of witch fire floating above her head, 
attached by the thinnest thread of magick to her right hand.
Erril marched beside her. Their climb slowed as side tunnels branched off 
periodically. The party approached each with caution, fearing attack from 
unknown monsters. But each passage proved empty, with only the wind moaning 
through the dark throats.
Where are the defenders? Elena finally asked.
In this desolate land, what is the need? Erril said. It seems this land 
protects itself with its fireballs, poisons, and ill creatures. Besides, 
considering the vorgs reaction to this place, I doubt any will near it. But 
even his own explanation did not seem to satisfy the plainsman. He kept a tight 
grip on his sword and studied every shadow ahead.
The others, too, grew more wary with each step. The climb seemed endless. But at 
last they reached a cavernous side tunnel. It gaped so wide that the entire 
party could have walked abreast.
Elena stared down the passage. Are we high enough to have reached the arm of 
the statue?
I think so, my lady, Wennar said. Ill go see.
Elena detached a thumb-sized ball of fire from her own sphere and sent it 
sailing down the tunnel. To light your way.
Wennar nodded, then departed with one of the dwarf scouts, disappearing into 
the darkness. The remainder of the party rested on the stair, the globe of fire 
floating above them all. Elena leaned against Erril. He put his arm around her.
How are you holding up? he asked, and nodded to the fireball. Is it sapping 
much of your strength?
She shook her head. Its but a drop. After the events at the gorge, Elena had 
renewed both fists: one in sunlight, one in moonlight. She rested her head on 
his shoulder and closed her eyes, sharing his warmth and breath.
For a moment, as they waited, exhausted and worn, Elena dozed off in his 
armsbut it was a short respite. A horrible scream shattered out from the 
cavernous tunnel. They all jerked to their feet, but the cry was sliced from the 
air. Distantly, the strike of iron on stone reached them.
It seems we arent the only ones here, Magnam said.
Elena stepped toward the tunnel, but Erril had a hand clamped on her shoulder. 
She turned to him. We have no choice but to go on. The fate of Alasea lies in 
destroying the Weirgate here. She fed more energy into the small fireball, no 
longer worrying about keeping her magick hidden. It swelled out and shone deep 
into the tunnel.
She cast the fireball ahead and followed it. We cannot turn back now.
A bellow of rage echoed down the hall toward them.
Its Wennar, Tolchuk said. Hes still alive.
But for how long? Elena asked.
They ran at a fast trot, the ball of fire rolling across the roof of the tunnel 
ahead of them. It lit the passage for some distance.
Up ahead! Erril warned.
Elena saw it, too. Moonlight flowed from around the curve ahead, signaling the 
end of the tunnel.
Their pace slowed to a more cautious approach. Erril led the way, flanked by a 
pair of dwarves on each side. Tolchuk kept near Elenas shoulder, the dwarf 
hammer ready for battle.
They rounded the corner and saw a sight born of nightmares. The tunnel did 
indeed end ahead, but it was not open. Something blocked the passage. At first 
Elena thought it was a huge spider crouched in a web across the opening, but as 
her ball of witch fire rolled forward, the true horror revealed itself.
It wasnt a monstrous spider, but something much worse.
Lodged in the opening and held in place by ten articulated legs was a single 
creature. Its main body hung in the opening, gray and glistening, like a 
netherworld slug, striped in slashes of black and red. But mostly it was all 
mouth: a black maw that writhed with poisoned tentacles. A tangle of stalked 
eyes as black as polished obsidian waved above the razor-lined mouth.
Elena knew this creature. She had battled one in the highland forests of her 
home after it had killed her Uncle Bol. It was a mulgothra, one of the birth 
queens of the skaltum. Elena watched its thick gray body convulse in a violent 
spasm, and something green and steaming squeezed from its lower belly and fell 
with a wet plop to the tunnels floor.
The queen was in the middle of birthing.
The object roiled on the stone, steaming a noxious green cloud; then damp wings 
unfolded and claws sprouted as it scrabbled to stand on its own. A new skaltum 
was born into the world.
Above its newborn, the creature hissed, belching out a flurry of suckered 
tentacles at the lone combatant before it.
Wennar.
But the dwarf ignored the looming creature. He was out of reach of its 
tentacles and had more immediate concerns as he danced with an ax in one hand 
and a sword in the other.
A pack of newborn skaltum surrounded him.
Dripping with fetid slime, the bony beasts raked at him with claws and hissed 
like a pit of snakes. His blades bounced off them harmlessly as dark magicks 
protected their flesh. All he could do was keep them at bay. Newborn skaltum 
were impervious to most harm until they had their first kill.
Behind Wennar, the mulgothra continued to push more of its abominable children 
into the world, its belly churning and spasming.
Free him, Elena said, waving an arm to Erril and the dwarves. Get him out 
of harms way. She pulled her dagger from its sheath.
Erril hesitated for a moment, met her eyes, then nodded. He and the remaining 
dwarves ran to Wennars rescue. Tolchuk kept to Elenas side, protecting her 
back.
Elena drew a line of fire across each palm with the sharp tip of her silver 
blade and rallied the magick in both fists. Across the way, the sudden 
appearance of new foes startled the immature skaltum. Most scurried away toward 
their mother, while the few that remained were beaten back by the larger force.
Free, Wennar sagged toward the ground, but he was caught by two of his fellow 
dwarves. He was dragged away as Erril and the others guarded their retreat.
Wennar gasped as they returned to Elenas side. I didnt see it until it was 
too late.
WIT C H V j ATE
Lost to her magicks, Elena barely heard him. Energy surged through her. She 
stepped forward and raised her arms. Lacing her fingers together, she merged 
fire and ice, building up the storm between her palms.
Across the way, the skaltum regrouped, gaining courage from their numbers. They 
hissed and clambered. Tiny wings snapped and beat at the air, but they were 
still too young to fly.
Elena stepped toward them. Stay back, she warned her companions.
Moving slowly, building her storm to a trembling that raged between her palms, 
Elena edged closer. Beyond the pregnant mulgothra, limned in moonlight, Elena 
saw the outstretched arm of the manti-core statue and the shadowy chunk of 
ebonstone.
She almost looked away, but a flash of movement caught her eye. Out on the 
granite arm, she spotted three other skaltum, newborns like those huddled under 
their mother, scrabbling toward the ebonstone boulder. Curious and concerned, 
she hesitated, watching.
The first newborn reached the stone. It appeared frightened, cowering back, but 
it seemed unable to stop its legs. It reached the stone and with a screech, fell 
into it, as if diving down a black well, and was gone. She heard its small cry 
of terror fade away. The others followed.
Elenas attention swung back to the mulgothra. She suddenly understood what the 
creature was doing here, what they had interrupted. The mulgothra, when ripe 
with offspring, must be drawn to this place like a moth to a black flame. They 
then used this high perch to hatch their foul offspring, feeding them through 
the Weir to be bent and enslaved to the Dark Lord. Here was the source of the 
Black Hearts endless winged armiesthe Manticore Gate.
More than ever, Elena knew it had to be destroyed.
What are you waiting for? Erril said behind her, stepping in her direction.
Stand back, she repeated, and pointed her arms at the gathered skaltum. She 
bloomed open her fingers and cast out a raging torrent of ice and fire. 
Lightning crackled, and winds screamed in fury. Elena swept her stormfire across 
the floor of the tunnel, keeping its focus tight to rip through the extra 
protections of these newborn demons.
Deep inside her, she felt her magick strike the gathered skaltum.
She sensed their sharp flames of life snuff out, one after the other, buffeted 
and blown away by the rage of her magick.
The witch in her sang with each death, much louder than usual, harder to 
resist, as if the veil had thinned between witch and woman. Elena fought to 
keep her focus, to maintain her control. But something had changed inside her, 
something following her intimate sharing with Cho last night. The witch in her 
had grown stronger, wailing its wild lusts, buffeting against her inner shields.
Standing in the eye of her raging magicks, Elena again sensed the tenuous 
connection of all life, especially the ties among those in the room. She felt 
the flickers of energy from her companions and tasted the raging fire of the 
mulgothra.
Across the tunnel, the witch continued to consume the tiny flames of the 
newbornsbut Elena knew, if left unchecked, the witch would never be satisfied 
with such a small feast. It wanted to burn all awaynot just the mulgothra, but 
also her companions. It did not discriminate. It wanted everything, even Elena 
herself.
Cringing against such lusts, Elena reined in her magick. Slowly the fire died in 
her hands. The mad chorus of the witch faded, replaced by the mewling cry of 
the mulgothra.
Elenas eyes refocused here. She saw the smoldering and burned bodies of the 
skaltum. Only a single newborn remained, cowering under the belly of its 
mother. Its sibilant hiss had turned to a plaintive wail. The mulgothra lowered 
itself over its last offspring, continuing a piping mewl of pain and sorrow. It 
drew its tentacles gently around the newborn and pulled it closer, protecting 
its child.
Erril stepped to Elenas side. Why did you stop? Finish it off.
Elena bit her lip, then spoke. I I cant. She had seen the tiny flames of the 
slain beasts. Life was lifeand this mother only wanted to protect its 
offspring. The mulgothra here was as much a slave as any other. It did not want 
to feed its offspring to the Weir-gate, but it had no other choice. Dark magick 
had bent its instincts to this unnatural purpose.
Stepping toward the monster, Elena waved her hand. Go! Take your child and 
leave!
The mulgothra hissed at her motions, cringing down over her child, but when 
Elena did not attack, it mewled again, frightened and confused.
Elena waved her arm. Begone!
WIT C H UATE
Thousands of orbed eyes watched her, studying herthen in a flurry of movement, 
its legs jerked, and the muFgothra shot out of the tunnel and into the air, 
carrying the child in its tentacles. Huge wings snapped open to catch the late 
nights breezes. It swung once in a tight circle, then shot out over the jagged 
mountains and was gone.
Why did you let it go? Erril asked.
Elena shook her head. I needed to. She moved ahead. Lets finish this.
As a group, they climbed through the burned remains of the skaltum and out into 
the night. Elena took a deep breath, clearing her lungs of the reek of charred 
flesh. The granite arm of the statue stretched ahead, a wide bridge that led to 
the massive chunk of ebonstone resting in its palm.
Tolchuk took the lead this time, the Trysil hammer in hand.
Elena followed with Erril.
She stared down. The arms upper surface was flat and easy to cross. She could 
only imagine the long litany of horrors that had transpired here. Ahead, 
Tolchuk reached the arms wrist and paused. Before him lay the stone hand. 
Clawed fingers circled the ebonstone like beastly pillars.
Elena stepped to Tolchuks side. You can do this.
He nodded. I can. Then he turned and climbed atop the stone palm, lifting the 
hammer high. This is for my fathers spirit! Tolchuk slammed the hammer down 
with all the strength in his ogre shoulders.
But the blow never struck. The iron head fell into the stone as if the boulder 
were merely cloud. Tolchuk, thrown off balance, fell forward and struck the 
side of the stone. On his knees, he twisted around and lifted his arm. He 
gripped only the rune-carved handle. The hammer itself was gone.
Behind her, Wennar fell to the stone and wailed. The Trysil!
Elena stared at the unharmed stone. What had just happened? The hammer had been 
used to sculpt the cursed stone. It had been destined to be returned here and 
free the dwarves from the Dark Lords yoke. Why had it failed?
For just a moment, Elena felt a twinge of suspicion of Tolchuk. But she forced 
such thoughts away. It was impossible. The ogre had saved her life many times, 
had served the Land with all his heart.
But Wennar did not know Tolchuk as well. The dwarf burst to his feet, pointing 
an arm. You! You did this! Youve doomed our people just like your cursed 
ancestor!
Tolchuk covered his face.
Elena raised an arm between them as Wennar made a lunge toward Tolchuk. No! 
Its not his fault!
Then whose? Wennar asked, his face almost purple.
Erril answered, moving to Tolchuks side. Were all at fault.
Wennar blustered, but Magnam placed a restraining hand on his leaders arm. 
Listen to him.
Erril turned to face them. We failed because were all victims of prophecy. We 
assumed we knew their import, but we were all obviously blinded by our own 
hopes. He glanced over his shoulder to the chunk of black rock. Ive traveled 
through the Weir before. Its a lodestone for elemental magick. Anythingobjects 
or people ripe enough in power will be drawn into its black heart.
The Trysil Wennar moaned.
It was rich with the wind magick of the elvin. We should have never let it 
near the Gate, but we were blinded by our faith in prophecy. And if there is one 
thing Ive learned from my brother, placing ones full faith in prophecy can be 
damning.
Tolchuk climbed to his feet. Then what can we do? How do we destroy it?
Elena spoke up, her voice full of dread. She glanced to the moon. It was low in 
the sky, close to setting. I must consult the Blood Diary. It was Chi who fell 
into the Weirgates long ago and fused the four into this well of dire magicks. 
Cho, his sister spirit, may have some answers.
Erril nodded. But back well away. I dont want you or that book near this 
stone.
Without arguing, Elena stepped farther down the wide arm.
Erril positioned a wall of dwarves between her and the ebonstone boulder. He 
then joined her as she pulled the book free. Glancing up, she found his eyes on 
hers. Erril reached and clasped his hands over hers as they held the book 
between them. Youre trembling, he whispered.
Just the cold. Elena turned away and tried to pull her hands free.
But she could not free her hand. The plainsman could turn to stubborn Standish 
iron when he wanted. I dont know what is troubling you, what happened back in 
that tunnel to frighten you, but
<- M VJ A 1 h know this, Elena. Im your liegeman. Ill always be at your side. 
My strength is yours to call upon.
She felt that strength now. The warmth of his palms calmed her trembling. She 
leaned toward him, and he drew her in, hugging her. I may not have faith in 
prophecy, he whispered into her hair. But I have faith in you.
She fought back tears and huddled in his embrace. After a moment more, she took 
a deep, centering breath and stood straighten He let her go, but she still felt 
his warmth wrapped around her. It was enough.
She turned away and opened the Blood Diary.
Erril watched Elena turn away and clenched a fist, worried for her. Though he 
did not see her open the book, he knew when its cover had been cracked. A blast 
of light exploded forth, and Elena flew backward into his arms.
He held her. Over her shoulder, he watched the flare of light empty out of the 
pages of the book and shoot skyward. He caught a peek into the Void: stars, and 
ribbons of glowing gases, and the edge of a blinding sun. Then a cry arose from 
the swirl of light overhead. It took on the form of a woman sailing high into 
the air.
Chi! The name was yelled like a striking bell, piercing the night and echoing 
off the surrounding peaks.
Holding the book, Elena stepped forward. Cho! Calm yourself. I hear him! Her 
voice became a wail. He cries and screams for me. The apparition swept down 
and along the arm, passing through the line of dwarves. It aimed for the 
ebonstone boulder. Tolchuk stood, raising to his full height, arms up, 
blocking Chos way. But like the dwarves, she swept through his body and into 
the stone. No! Elena gasped.
But the stone had no more effect on Cho than Tolchuks body had. The shining 
apparition shot out the other side, arced back around, then dove through again 
and again. He screams and screams. I must go to him!
Cho continued to dart back and forth through the stone, like a glowing 
will-o-the-wisp. / can hear him! He is so close.
Elena glanced at the sky. Erril knew what held her attention. The moon. It was 
near to setting. They were about to lose this night.
X
Cho! Elena called again. You cannot reach Chi. You have no substance here. 
Listen to me!
The sailing figure sobbed and slowed, hovering above the black stone. He needs 
me.
Elena passed the Blood Diary to Erril. I must calm her, she whispered to 
Erril. Guard the book.
Next, she raised her arms. I know, Cho. I once lost my brother. I understand 
the pain. But I need your guidance. I am your vessel in this world, your 
physical connection to this plane.
Cho drifted from the rock and settled to the stone palm. One hand reached back 
and touched the rock, passing through its substance. She was obviously loath to 
leave her brothers side. It is only together that we can free my brother.
Elena relaxed. Exactly. Together.
Cho turned in her direction. Eyes full of the Void stared back, cold and with an 
intelligence unlike any on this world. Then, for the briefest moment, Erril saw 
the flash of something human behind those eyes. It was Fila. The apparitions 
lips moved. No! Elena, no! You must not
Fila vanished, swept back into the Void. Only Cho was there.
Elena tensed, moving back into Errils shadow. She glanced at him, confused. 
What had Fila been warning? she seemed to ask.
Together Cho echoed.
Erril saw some seed of understandingand terrordawn in Elenas eyes. She swung 
back around as Cho dove forward, sweeping through Tolchuk, through the 
dwarves, too fast to follow, like a reflection of moonshine off water.
Break the bridge! Elena yelled. Close the book!
Erril attempted to obey, but he was too slow. The spirit struck Elena, folding 
in, around, and through her. Erril was blasted back in a searing explosion of 
magick. Flying, he landed on his back and slid along the arm, keeping his 
fingers locked on the Blood Diary.
He sat up, his eyebrows smoldering from the brush of witchfire.
Down the granite arm, he stared at what remained of Elena. She still stood where 
she had a moment ago, but all her clothes had been burned from her body. Even 
her hair had been singed away. She stood naked to the night. From toes to scalp, 
her skin whorled with crimson magick, a ruby statue sculpted in the shape of 
woman.
Slowly, she began to step forward, toward the ebonstone.
In her wake, a glowing mist formed, swirling down into the familiar form of the 
books spirit, but it was less distinct, blurring at the edges. Elena From 
the pain in the voice, Erril knew it was Fila rather than Cho.
Erril hurried forward.
The apparition lifted an arm. No, Erril, stay back. She raised her voice. 
All of you. Stand aside. Do not try and stop her! She can kill with a touch.
Though Erril could easily have walked through Filas ghostly image, he held 
back. What has happened to her?
Cho will not be stopped. She has heard her brothers tortured screams and must 
go to him.
And Elena?
The girl was right. The only way Cho can effect any change in this plane is 
through Elena. Cho has merged almost all her spirit into the girl.
Then shes taken over Elenas body?
No, Cho is in the Void. Elena still exists somewhere inside there, but the 
sudden surge of immense energies has unmoored her. She is lost to the desires of 
Cho, unable to break free, and her body responds. The only question is if 
Elenas strong enough to fight back to her own self.
Erril made a move forward, determined to help.
No, Erril. Any interference could doom her.
Ahead, Erril watched Elena pass Tolchuk and step up to the ebonstone boulder. 
She stopped before it, ruby against black stone. Her neck craned, studying the 
ebonstone as if she had never seen it before.
Elena, he prayed, move bact.
Cocking her head, she reached forward.
No! Erril yelled. Elena, stop!
Without a look back, she stepped through the Weirgate and vanished.

Still dazed by Chos assault, Elena found herself without any bearing. A part of 
her, as distant as an echo, felt her body carried forward and through the 
Weirgate. But it felt unnatural, like a dream after waking, hard to grasp and 
easily forgotten. Energy of unfathomable depths surged through her. The witch 
thrummed in every fiber of her body, singing, wailing, crying out. It was a 
chorus of wild power and passions.
Her own spirit was but a mote in this frenzied storm.
Elena resisted the raging current. / must not lose myself. She forced her mind 
to stop its panicked attempts to fight against the tidal forces inside her. 
Instead, she pulled herself inward, using the swirl of these foreign energies to 
draw herself down to a single flickering flame of intense brilliance, a beacon 
in the dark storm. From this island of security, she fortified herself.
Once steady, she slowly extended her perceptions outward, riding the currents of 
power this time, rather than fighting. She first became aware of her own 
heartbeat, slow and steady. This helped reassure her. She was still alive.
Reaching farther, she followed her blood as it fanned throughout her body. As 
she did so, the sense of her limbs returned: bone, muscle, sinew. It was as if 
she were rebuilding herself from the inside out, incorporating Chos power in 
each bit, redefining herself in this new context. With care, she stretched 
farther and steadily rediscovered her senses.
The witchs mad song dimmed as Elena now listened through her own ears. A great 
silence blanketed her. It was not so much an absence of sound as an unsettling 
pressurelike diving into a lake. Just the pressure and the quiet.
But Elena knew this was no mountain lake.
This was the Weir.
Floating in this strange otherworld, Elena kept her eyes closed, fearing what 
she might see. Cho, what have you done?
Tentatively, Elena reached out with her other senses. She smelled no scent, 
tasted nothing in the air. The only sensation she did discover was a tingling 
burn that seemed to paint her entire body. She willed her arms to move and was 
surprised to discover control had returned to her limbs. As she swept her arms, 
struggling for anything solid, the burning grew worse from hands to shoulder, 
almost painful.
Swallowing back her fear, Elena risked opening her eyesstaring for the first 
time into the strange landscape of the Weir.
Around her was a swirling dense darkness, like a midnight sea only this had the 
feel of something living. It caressed against her, but where it touched, her 
ruby skin flared brighter. As a matter of fact, her entire form burned like a 
tiny crimson flame in the darkness.
She studied herself and moved her arms through the substance of the Weir. Her 
skin flashed brighter. Elena understood. Chos magict is protecting me, suiting 
me in ruby armor against the touch of the Weir.
With this realization, Elena stared around her. She turned and caught a flicker 
of movement. With a kick of her legs, she moved nearer, cautiously. The darkness 
seemed to clear, and she saw a surprising tableau: Erril and the others stood a 
short distance away, staring back at her. It was as if she were staring at them 
through a dark glass. She swam closer, her hands reaching forward. But her 
fingers ran into a solid barrier. She pressed against it. The group did not seem 
to see her
Muffled words reached her. How do we know she still lives? Erril asked.
The ghostly form of Aunt Fila stood behind his shoulder. Because Im still 
here. If Elena dies, so does the magick of the book. I would not be here if the 
bridge were severed.
Erril glanced to the sky. But the moon is setting. What then?
Fila only shook her head.
Elena tried to beat against the barrier, but it did no good. She was locked into 
the ebonstone Weirgate. Erril!
No one heard her.
She tried louder. Erril!
Tolchuk jerked in her direction. He was closest to the stone.
Tolchukl Can you hear me?
He leaned closer, placing a hand on the rock. Elena?
Yes! She almost wept with relief.
The ogre glanced over his shoulder and bellowed, Its her! Elena!
Erril hurried forward and pressed his hands against the rock, trying to find a 
way through, risking the Weir to come to her aid. But he no longer had magick in 
his blood. The Gate would not open for him
Erril, Im safe! Chos magick is protecting me.
Then leave while you still can!
She beat a ruby fist against the barrier. I cant!
Erril shoved harder, shoulders bunching. But it did no good.
Elena reached up and placed her hand over his, their palms separated by the 
magick of the Weirgate. There must be another way out, she called. Or a clue 
to destroying the Gates. I must go look.
Elena! No! Well find a way to get you out.
Elena lifted her palm from his and drifted back. Im sorry. I must try. Too 
much depends on it. And she knew this was true. Whether it was her own 
intuition or something gifted from Cho, Elena sensed an urgency to move on.
She pushed from the glass wall. The dark sea of the Weir swept back over the 
glass and swallowed the view of the others. Elena twisted around and delved 
deeper into the heart of the Weir.
The living darkness again surrounded her, featureless and forever. As she swam, 
Elena worried she would not even be able to find her way back. What if she never 
escaped here? How long would the ruby magick protect her? Her heart began to 
grow louder in her ears. A twinge of panic set inbut as she continued forward, 
she realized the pounding in her ears was not her own heart, but something 
beyond herself.
She paused, hanging in the dark sea, and concentrated on the source. She did not 
know what lay ahead, but it was better than the endless blank expanse. It was 
something.
She slowly swam forward again, aiming for the source of the deep, sonorous beat. 
After what seemed an endless time, she noticed the darkness grew lighter ahead, 
almost as if she were coming to another window to the real world. She kicked her 
legs more vigorously, creating a burn along her skin as the ruby magick flared 
brighter. Ignoring the pain, Elena sped faster.
The darkness continued to part until a white flame appeared ahead, floating in 
the black ether. It flared and dimmed in step to the thunderous beat.
Elena swept to a stop before it.
She knew what she was looking at. Chi, she said aloud.
But speaking the name caused no change. The light continued to ebb and flow like 
a living heart of white flame. Elenas face, chest, and legs burned brighter 
with each beat, the two opposing magicks igniting against one another, like a 
match set to oil.
Elena finally understood. She swung around. The living sea through which she had 
swum and continued to float now it was all one entity. It was all Chi.
Spinning in place, Elena was overwhelmed by the immensity. If only she could 
speak to him, as she did to Cho. But she had no bridge to this spirit. She 
settled to a stop, drifting closer to the center of the Weir, the heart of Chi. 
How could she ever hope to free him? How did you destroy the Gates that bound 
him here, especially when the stone statues were tied to such a bottomless well 
of energy? It was a riddle she could not solve alone.
Cho, she silently prayed, if you know some way to communicate with your brother, 
help me.
Elena expected no answer. Cho was not truly inside her, just the spirits 
energy. In some ways, Elena was like the Weir herself: a vessel full of power 
and energy. But unlike the Weir, she did not hold Chos true heart inside her. 
It was still somewhere out in the Void.
Elena stared around her, wishing she had a better understanding of Cho and Chi, 
of the flows of power here. Then an idea formed. She did not know if it would 
help. A spellone of the first magicks she had ever learned, one born of her own 
blood.
Raising a hand, Elena placed her forefinger between her teeth and bit into the 
skin at its edge. She tasted blood on her tongue, and as she pulled her finger 
free, a ruby radiance flamed forth from its tip. Craning her neck back, she 
squeezed her injured hand and dribbled
JAMES LLEME N S
a drop of fiery blood into each eye. The pain was almost too much. She gasped 
and clamped a hand over her eyes. It had never stung like this in the past.
Slowly, the pain dulled to a scratchy burn, and Elena risked opening her 
eyelids. She held her breath, fearing she had blinded herself. But she was fine. 
The sting had just been the Weir reacting to her magick.
She stared around. A new landscape opened, revealed by the magi-ckal sight 
imbued in her blood. The sea of the Weir was still dark, but now it was veined 
with glowing lines of silver. Elena could not help but be struck by the 
similarity to ebonstone: a black rock streaked with silver.
But these veins were not silver ore. Elena recognized the sheen to this power. 
She had seen it in Mycelle, Krai, and many others. It was elemental energy. 
Elena gaped around her. There was so much of it. The lines flowed under, around, 
and over her.
As she stared, the silver lines grew more substantial. She began to see a 
pattern stretching away into the darkness of the Weir. A far way off, the veins 
seemed to fuse and join, forming ever-thicker arteries. It was as if she were 
deep underground, tangled in the roots of a silver tree and looking up toward 
where the rootlets became thicker roots, which in turn became the trunk itself.
She glanced around and realized there were four trees, one growing in each 
direction of the compass. Elena knew this had to be significant.
Four Weirgates, four ebonstones statues, four elemental fonts. She approached 
the nearest, the one heading in the direction from which she came. She reached 
to the nearest vein and touched the silvery sheen. But nothing happened. Her 
hand passed through it without harm to either.
Then Elena had another idea. Her blood had opened her special sight. Could it do 
more? She brought her bitten finger, still blazing with blood, to the same vein.
As her finger touched it, her mind was torn away. She found herself staring back 
at Erril and the others, as if she again hung before the dark glass window. 
There must be a way to free her, Erril said. Surprised, her finger broke 
contact. And she found herself back beside the flaming heart. It was a direct 
conduit to the Manticore Weirgate.
Elena glanced around her. She drifted around the giant flame to the neighboring 
trees roots and touched one of its rootlets.
Her mind again snapped away. She found herself staring at a dark room. A brazier 
of red coals lay open on the floor before her, covered with a grate ornamented 
with twisted beasts and fantastic creatures. The iron of the grate glowed a 
fiery red. Beyond the coals, she sensed tiers rising up the rooms walls: an 
amphitheater of some sort. She sensed eyes back there, spectators in the 
shadows.
Then movement drew her gaze closer. A cowled figure approached, guiding a naked, 
towheaded child of about four by one hand. The dark figure tossed aside his cowl 
to reveal a blasted and ruined face. It was as if someone had melted his 
features, then froze them in place. Elena gasped with recognition. It was 
Shorkan, leader of the Black Hearts darkmages, and Ernls brother.
Elena now knew she must be staring through the Wyvern Weir-gate, the statue 
whisked away by Shorkan as he fled Aloa Glen.
Shorkan moved nearer the brazier. On this black night, the Masters plan to 
break the Land upon his forge will come to fruition. As the moon sets, so will 
the hope of all the world. Let us praise the Black Heart!
Voices cried from the dark galleries. Praise the Black Heart!
Shorkan whipped up an arm, revealing a jagged, curved dagger. A sacrifice in 
his honor! An innocent heart cast upon his flames!
Elenas gaze swung back to the cowering little boy. No! she cried out.
Ahead, Shorkan paused, his head cocking with suspicion. He seemed to lean toward 
her, eyes narrowed.
Elena froze. Could he see her? Sense her?
After a moment, Shorkan shook his head and straightened. Clearing his throat, he 
lifted the blade high again. Praise the Black Heart! The dagger slashed down.
Elena jerked her hand away. She could not watch.
She glided away from this foul tree, less sure, fearing she might have given her 
trespass away. As she slid around the flaming heart of the Weir toward the next 
elemental tree, she pondered Shorkans words: to breat the hand upon his forge.
She stared around at the flows of elemental energy that led from the Gates to 
here and began to understand. These were not so much
trees of energy as rivers spilling through the gates and spreading into a 
thousand streams. The Gates were sucking vast fonts of energy into the Weir.
Her eyes grew wide. She now knew why the ebonstone statues had been placed so 
carefully. Across the lands, there were points where the Lands elemental powers 
flowed stronger. She had learned this from Cassa Dar in the swamps of the 
Drowned Lands. The Dark Lord had tried to destroy such an artery long ago, a 
silver river of the Lands energy under Castle Drakk. But there were many others 
throughout the world.
Clearly the Black Heart had not given up on his desire to harm the Land. He must 
have positioned the Weirgates at four of the worlds pulse points. But why? To 
tap the energy? Or was there a darker purpose?
Shorkans words echoed in her head: to breat the Land upon his 1 forge
Elena gasped with sudden insight and horror. The Dark Lord broke individual 
elementals by using slivers of ebonstone to draw off their energy and corrupt 
it, twisting the bearer in turn, too. This was also the Black Hearts plan 
herebut not just to corrupt a single person or even a single land.
He meant to corrupt the entire worldl By placing his monstrous Weirgates at key 
points around the globe and tapping into the planets energy, he was going to 
forge the world into one monstrous illguard.
And if Shorkan spoke truly, this transformation was to occur this very night. 
Elena swam forward toward the neighboring nexus of elemental energy. Whether the 
Gates could be broken or not, a more immediate danger faced them all. If the 
Dark Lord succeeded, then they were all doomed.
Elena brought her flaming finger to a silver rootlet and touched it. She found 
herself staring into a gray granite room covered with dead bodies. Dwarves, she 
realized, scores of them. The view shifted slightly, as if the window through 
which she peered were moving. It made no sense. Then the window turned, and she 
found herself staring at a familiar, shaggy, black-bearded face.
Krai! she yelled.
The mountain man fled backward in shock.
Behind him, Elena spotted other faces: Mogweed, Meric, and a sandy-haired man 
she did not know. And standing among them was a sight that made no sense: 
Neelahn.
Meric stepped up beside Krai, though a little warily. Elena? Are you inside the 
griffin?
Im in the Weir! We dont have much time! You must find a way to break the 
Gates connection to its elemental source! Can you do this?
Meric shook his head. Weve tried everything. The Griffin Gate now defends 
itself, coming to life, attacking any who near it.
Elena thought quickly. // must be nearing the time of transformation. Dont 
worry about destroying the griffin! Find a way to separate the stone beast from 
the elemental connection upon which its feeding! Now! This night! Before is all 
lost!
Meric frowned. We dont know how.
Krai elbowed Meric away. I do.
Meric tried to interrupt, but Krai faced Elena. I will do this. Trust me.
Elena sighed with relief. I must check the other Gates.
He nodded and lifted an arm. Im sorry, Elena.
Her finger lifted from the silver vein as these last words were spoken. She did 
not understand their exact import, but she did not have time to return and ask 
Krai. She didnt know how many of the Weirgates must be broken to thwart the 
Dark Lords ambition, but she knew the surest course was to eliminate as many as 
possible.
She kicked and paddled over to the last of the silver flows, calculating in her 
head. The only Weirgate left was the basilisk, somewhere in the Southern Wastes. 
She slid up to the nearest shining branch and touched her finger to it.
A new view opened before her minds eye: a sandy-floored chamber in a cavernous 
room. She almost cried in relief. Sy-wen sat atop Ragnark. At least some of the 
desert team had reached the Basilisk Weirgate. The view swung around. Clearly 
this Gate had come to life, too. A third combatant was revealed.
Joach! she shouted.
The call of his name startled her brother. Kesla? He stumbled back, falling on 
his backside.
No, its your sister!
Sy-wen shifted her dragon back into view. Elena?
I dont have much time! She rapidly repeated everything she had told Krai. 
Can you find a way to break the Weirgates connection to the Land?
I dont see how, Sy-wen answered. Not even Ragnark can near that monster.
Elena saw the long gash on the dragons chest, dripping with blood. She turned 
to the other party in the room. Joach, do you know some way? Even a dark spell 
learned from the time you had Greshyms staff.
Her brothers head had remained bowed during her explanation. He raised it now. 
His eyes held a lost, hopeless look. I think I do.
You must try, she urged. Or all the world is doomed.
Joach nodded, turning away, his voice pained. Go. I know my duty.
Elena longed to reach through to him, to hold and comfort her brother, but 
instead, she pulled her hand back, and the sight vanished. Comfort must come 
another day. Elena floated in place. She had done all she could here. The rest 
was up to the others.
Elena kicked and swam back to the original silver river, then followed its 
course home. She had no idea how to accomplish what she had asked of the others. 
The Manticore Gate seemed invincible. She pondered her options, but she still 
had no answer by the time she reached the black glass barrier. She had secretly 
hoped that a way would reopen for her now. But as she swam up and pressed her 
hands against its surface, it was as impervious as ever.
With her spellcast eyesight, she now saw the flow of elemental energy piping up 
from the mountain and through the arm to the ebon-stone boulder. It seemed 
hopeless. There was no way to move the ebonstone boulder or break the stone arm 
off. With so few here, it would take several moons to hack through this stone 
arm. If only she were free of the stone, she could attack with her magick.
Elena called to the othersthey were still gathered near the sftmeand told them 
all she had learned.
Aunt Fila drifted closer. So we must either break the Gate or sever its 
connection?
Elena nodded, then realized no one could see her. Yes. It must be done this 
night, or the entire world will be corrupted.
Erril shook his head, looking all around. I dont see how we can succeed.
What of your magick, my dear? Aunt Fila asked.
Elena had already tried freshening her finger wound and using the magick to 
shatter through, but this attempt had failed, too. The Weir was too large, and 
she was too small.
It wont damage the stone, she answered in a tired voice.
Thats not what I was asking, Fila said. I was talking about Chos magick 
thats protecting you. Its not inexhaustible.
Elena stared down at her limbs, noticing for the first time how much less her 
skin glowed. She lifted her arms. Her magickal armor was rapidly thinning. She 
stared out into the dark Weir.
She knew once her magick was gone, so was her life.
Wrapped only in a cloak, Kral stared at the circle of faces. They were fewer in 
number than when they had entered the throne room. Fardale had vanished, and 
Mycelle lay cold on the stone, covered in Tyrus cloak, the family sigil of a 
striking snow leopard blazed on top. As Kral stared, he could read the distrust 
in their eyes, and he had no answer to their silent accusations, no way to ask 
for their trust.
How do we know youre not still a pawn of the Dark Lord? Meric finally asked. 
He pointed to the griffin, poised by the Ice Throne, its ebonstone nails dug 
deep into the granite of the Citadels arch. Now wakened, there was no safe way 
to approach the beast. Any who neared was threatened with talons and fang. Meric 
continued. You attack the griffin, fail, and it comes to life. How do we know 
you didnt plan this?
Kral hung his head, his fingers in his beard. You cant.
Neelahn stepped to him, staring him hard in the face. She held her baby in her 
arms, rocking. I dont know, she said.
Mogweed hung back. I say we just leave. Strike out now while we still can.
Youre free to run, Tyrus said, nodding to the open door. Youve regained 
your shape-shifting abilities. Go. Take your chances with the dwarves out there 
waiting to avenge their slain king.
Mogweed scowled but did not take up the mans offer.
Tyrus held his familys sword pointed at Krais heart. I, for one, dont mean 
to leave until we do what your young witch asked of us. We need to break this 
griffins hold on the north. He glanced to
tv/
Meric. And I dont care a broken copper if this man is tainted or not. As a 
pirate of Port Rawl, Ive fought beside cutthroats and brigands, and if Ive 
learned one thing, its that as long as a mans goal is the same as yours, then 
welcome him to your side, noble or not, tainted or not.
Meric seemed about to object, but Tyrus held up his free hand and continued. I 
know Kral wants to rid the north of this evil as much as I. We are both men of 
stonetwo sides of the same coin. Im the granite wall. Hes the mountains 
root. If he says he can rid us of this cursed beast, then I say we give him our 
full support.
A silence descended after this speech. Then Neelahn finally nodded. I think 
Lord Tyrus speaks wisely.
Meric sighed and shrugged. I guess we dont have much choice. Sunrise is not 
far off, and hes the only one with a plan. Meric stepped forward, knocking 
aside Tyrus blade, and offered his hand to the mountain man.
Kral hesitated, then took it. Ill not betray anyone. Never again.
What is this plan of yours? Tyrus asked, his sword still unsheathed but no 
longer pointed at Krais chest.
The mountain man straightened and faced them. It was King Rys prophecy.
My father? Tyrus exclaimed.
Kral turned to the hall, his eyes on the Ice Throne. He predicted our victory 
in winning back my familys throne.
Yes, so?
But have you forgotten the other part of the prophecy, words you told me on the 
docks of Port Rawl?
Tyrus shook his head.
You said Id win back my throne, but Id wear a broken crown.
I still dont understand.
Kral held back the pain in his heart. He was free of the illguard curse, but 
not of his own guilt and shame. Losing his elemental powers was~a small price, 
hardly enough to wash away the deaths, the betrayals,and the countless lies 
upon his tongue. Though the Dark Lords taint was gone, Kral would be forever 
damned in his own eyes. He could still remember the rush of the chase, the taste 
of hot blood on his tongue, and the rip of life from a body. And free or not, a 
small part of him still thrilled to it.
Kral closed his eyes and swallowed. There is another prophecy among my own 
people. I told it to Erril when first we met in Winterfell.
I remember, Neelahn said. You told us that the appearance of Erril, the 
Wandering Knight of legends, would mark the doom of your clans.
Krai turned to Neelahn, tears in his eyes. Even then I was a coward. I didnt 
tell you all. My distress at that moment was not all for my peoples future, but 
also for myself. The prophecy predicted that whoever met the Wandering Knight 
would bring about this doom.
Tyrus frowned. I still dont understand the point. Broken crowns, prophecies of 
doom what does it mean?
Krai glanced one last time at his family throne. By my own hand, I must break 
the crown of our people.
What crown? Mogweed asked. Wheres it hidden?
Krai turned. Our kings have never worn a crown. We have only the Ice Throne. 
The true crown of our people is here. You are standing in it. It is the arch 
rising from the waters of Tor Amon and reflected back in ita circlet of granite 
and illusion. That is our crown.
And you can break it? Tyrus asked. Bring down this arch?
Krai nodded. There is only one way.
Neelahn spoke up. And if you succeed, then the Griffin Gate will be severed 
from the font of elemental energy rising here.
Krai bowed his head. So I pray. May this one act help in some small way in 
salvaging my familys honor.
Then lets do it, Tyrus said. How do we begin?
Krai searched their faces. We must first return to the archs reflection. He 
turned his back on the Ice Throne and stepped to the far wall. Here is where we 
came in; here is where we must leave.
Can you still open the way? Neelahn asked. If your elemental power is gone
It is the archs energy that drives the transition. It is only my royal blood 
that is the key. And elemental energy or not, I am still Krai aDarvun of the 
Senta Flame. He held out his hand for them to link up.
It gave him a small bit of solace when Neelahn took his hand without a second 
glance. The rest linked flesh to flesh.
Are you ready?
Get on with it, Mogweed snapped.
Krai nodded, then turned to the wall, closed his eyes, and took a step of faith. 
For a moment, he feared the arch would reject himfbut ever loyal to his family, 
it opened the way. Krai felt the familiar, head-over-toes disorientation; then 
they were through.
The same throne room lay before them again, but the bodies of the dead were 
gone. Shimmers marked the torches positions in the real world, creating a dim 
glow. Across the chamber, the mirror image of the Ice Throne stood tall, and 
beside it, the black whorling vortex that marked the griffins shadow. Only now 
the black well had grown larger.
What now? Tyrus asked. What do you want us to do?
Krai walked toward the Ice Throne, keeping a wary distance from the vortex even 
though he no longer was an elemental. I want you all to escape.
He reached the throne and sat down in it.
Tyrus stepped toward him. I dont understand.
Krai pointed to the stairs. Go down the way we came up. It should lead you back 
to the foot of the arch.
But we cant leave the reflection on our own, Neelahn said. Not without 
you.
Yes, you can. When the crown breaks, so will the magick. You may get your feet 
wet, but youll be free.
And you? Neelahn asked.
Tyrus answered instead. He will win his throne but wear a broken crown.
Krai nodded. Go while you still can. As they made to move away, Krai 
remembered one last thing. Ill need a blade something with a fine edge.
Neelahn slipped a dagger from her belt, but Tyrus stayed her hand and 
unsheathed his own family sword. He crossed with care and offered Krai the hilt.
I cant take your sword. Any blade will do.
Tyrus held the weapon at arms length. It is for the honor of my people. 
Theyre all gone. Mycelle was the last Dro warrior, and Im the last of my line. 
Take my sword and accept a promise from me. Though this act will doom your 
people from ever returning to their ancestral home, I promise to seek your 
scattered clans and offer Castle Mryl as their new home. One granite castle for 
another. He pushed the sword closer. A pact sworn in blood.
Krai did not wipe the tears that flowed down his cheek and into his beard. He 
simply took the length of fine Mry.lian steel in his palms. Thank you, King 
Tyrus. May I be the first of my people to swear allegiance to you.
I accept your word with honor. Tyrus bowed, then led the group toward the 
stairs.
Krai did not watch them leave. It was too painful. Instead, he stared at the 
handsome sword and closed his fingers around it, the ache in his heart suddenly 
lighter. He had a long wait in this cold seat.
He listened to the footsteps of his friends fade to echoes, then away. And still 
he waited. He needed to give the others as much time as possible to climb out of 
the depths of Tor Amon.
Yet he did not have forever. The edges of the black vortex continued to expand, 
stretching toward the neighboring throne. Krai knew he would have to act before 
that darkness reached the white granite. He could not risk losing this chance.
As he watched the shadows encroach, a frightening sight took shape in the center 
of the vortex. The griffin began to push out of the whorling eye of the pool, as 
if it were merging between the two planes. Krai knew this was a bad sign. The 
corruption was beginning to wear through the veil between reality and 
reflection.
He stared, mesmerized, as the griffin grew more solid in form: wings, claws, the 
bulk of the lion, and jaws that seemed ready to swallow the world.
Krai knew he could wait no longer. Godspeed, my friends. He grabbed the steel 
sword in his bare fingers and slid his hands down the blade, slicing palms and 
fingers to the bone, wetting the blade with his own blood.
Once done, Krai tilted his hands up and allowed his royal blood to pool in his 
palms. As he did so, he watched the griffins wings begin to spread. Centuries 
ago, Krais ancestor, defeated by the Dark Lords forces, had not been brave 
enough to destroy the Citadel. But where his ancestor had faltered, he would 
not. Ready, Krai slapped his bloody hands on the arms of the throne.
Immediately, the ground trembled. A great quake shook upward, seeming to rise 
from the throne itself. Krai held tight to the arms of his throne, bearing final 
witness to the end of the Citadel.
Off to the side, he noticed the strange change in the griffin, but he was beyond 
such mysteries any longer and entering a greater one.
He turned his gaze upward, toward the world. Tobatnorisullcoruml he called 
to his friends with all the breath in his lungs and closed his eyes at last.
Until the roads wind us bact home, youll always be in my heart.
Locked within the Southwall, Joach knew he had no other choice. He had to return 
to the dream desert.
But Greshym is waiting for you down there, Sy-wen argued. She stood beside her 
dragon, one hand touching his scaled flank to keep Ragnark from reverting back 
to Kast. They needed the dragons strength if any of the monsters attempted to 
attack from the tunnels beyond the basilisks chamber.
Joach stared at the ebonstone statue. No longer threatened, the basilisk had 
grown quiet again, coiled in place on the sand, content with its single meal. 
Joach turned away as tears threatened to rise. Kesla
What do you hope to accomplish? Sy-wen asked. Youve already tried attacking 
the Weirgate with your dream-sculpted creatures, but they just fell to sand with 
the basilisks touch. What more can you do?
Joach had indeed thrown all his raw skill and power into sculpting something 
with which to attack the ebonstone statue, but his forms were not strong 
enough. He needed to transform sand into stoneand he knew only one person with 
enough dark magick to accomplish this.
I must go to Greshym. He may hold the key to destroying the Weirgate.
But hes a creature of the Dark Lord. How can you trust him?
Because I have something he wants.
What?
Joach shook his head. Here was the crux of his own concern. What did the 
darkmage want with him in the desert? I dont know, he mumbled. But hes our 
only hope.
A very dark hope. Sy-wen sighed. In her eyes, he saw that she grew resigned to 
his plan. What other choice did they have? The night wore thin, and daybreak was 
not far off. If they were to save the deserts, the risk had to be taken.
Joach stepped into the open sand. Keep a watch on the basilisk.
Be careful, Sy-wen said. And wary!
Joach nodded and slipped a dagger from his belt. He slit his thumb, then held 
his wounded hand over the sand. Bright red drops fell and spattered into the 
sand. Joach closed his eyes, linking to the dreaming magick in his blood, and 
fell back away toward the dream desert.
Be careful and wary!
He would be both. Joach pulled up short from fully entering the glowing desert 
of the dream. He hovered in the shadow between the real and the dream, where 
only true sculptors could walk. He saw Greshym waiting in the sands, his arms 
crossed, leaning on his staff.
I see you, boy. Have you come to honor your word?
No, the bargaining is not yet finished.
Greshym unfolded his arms. What bargaining? You swore an oath.
I swore Id return to the desert, but I didnt say when.
Greshyms one good eye narrowed. It seems I taught you deceit too well. The 
darkmage leaned forward. What do you bargain for now? Ive watched your little 
battle with the basilisk. Now you seek more answers? Must I do all your work for 
you?
Joach clenched his single fist. All I ask is that you lend me your staff. Give 
me access to its dark magick so I might sculpt an arrow strong enough to shatter 
the basilisk.
You want this? Greshym held up his length of petrified wood.
Joach stared at it, sensing the flow of dark energies. Already attuned to that 
tempting song, Joach knew the staff was not just dream, but real. Greshym had 
somehow brought its physical form into the dream desert with him.
If you want my staff, Greshym said, stepping away, youre going to have to 
come get it.
Joach had expected nothing less of the darkmage. And if I do, youll allow me 
to leave with it.
I wouldnt have it any other way. The staff is yours.
Sighing, Joach closed his eyes. He knew it was a trap, but he would have to risk 
it. In his minds eye, the length of petrified wood shone as a bright beacon. He 
must have the staff. Ever since first laying eyes on it, Joach had been fighting 
his lust for its touch. Now he used that sickness to give him the courage to 
step through the veil and into the dream desert.

Joach shifted and felt sand under his feet. He opened his eyes and stared back 
at Greshym. Im here. I have met my end of the bargain.
I hear such anger in your voice, boy. Dont you trust me?
You swore to relinquish the staff.
It is yours. Greshym held up the magickal length of wood. The darkmages hoary 
eyes glinted with amusement and something darker, feral: a black hunger.
Joach knew this was the trap, but he could not help reaching for the staff. His 
arm rose, and his fingers reached. In his mind, he reconciled the decision as 
necessity, but in his heart, lusts and anger merged to a burning flame of 
desire. He had watched Kesla die, her tiny flame of magick swallowed into the 
bottomless well of the Weir. He would see the basilisk destroyed, no matter the 
cost!
His fingers wrapped around the petrified wood, and images flashed across his 
mind: Shaman Parthus grabbing the same staff, Greshyms form molding to mimic 
the elder.
Joach felt a jolt through his body. His vision grew dark. He felt the sands 
swirl around him in a whirling cyclone. His senses spun. Joach fought against a 
strange pull and dragged his awareness to the forefront. He and Greshym spun 
within a sandy cyclone, linked by the length of magickal woodGreshym at one 
end, Joach at the other. Flames of darkfire raged along the staffs length.
As the twister spun faster, the darkmages laugh grew stronger. Drawn out by the 
force of sandy cyclone, Joach felt something vital pull from his body. He 
gasped. Across the way, the form of Greshym blurred. They spun so fast now that 
Joachs image seemed to overlap Greshyms, the two blending together. As he 
watched in horror, a savage jolt suddenly ripped through Joachs body.
He screamedand it was over.
Joach stood again in the sand, holding the staff in his grip, weak and dizzy.
Greshym stood across from him, but the darkmage had changed. His skin was 
smooth; his brown eyes were bright and clear; and his haira thick, rich 
coppertrailed to his shoulders. The darkmage straightened, unbending the crook 
in his spine. A laugh, full of vigor and substance, flowed from him. Thank you, 
Joach. He released his grip on the petrified wood. As promised, the staffand 
all the magick in itis yours!
(.1-1 VT A
What? Joach lifted his prize. The wood was gripped by a hand he did not 
recognizea withered and bony thing lined by purplish vessels. He looked down at 
himself. His legs shook, thin as reeds now. He planted the staff into the sand 
to keep from falling over. What have you done? His voice cracked.
A small price to save your world, Greshym said. I have not slain you or 
corrupted you, just stolen your youth! The darkmage waved a hand, and the 
mirage of a mirror appeared. Joach found himself staring at a bent-backed elder 
leaning heavily on a staff, his white hair trailing to his waist, his face 
wrinkled and splotched. But Joach knew this was no stranger. Green eyeseyes he 
knew stared back at him from the mirror.
An illusion, Joach said, disbelieving. Like Shaman Parthus.
No, Im afraid the shaman was just an ordinary dreamer, dealing with illusion. 
But you are a sculptor. Changes wrought with your magick are real. The youth I 
stole from you is permanent.
Joach sensed the truth to Greshyms words. He pointed the staff at the darkmage. 
Undo it!
Greshym stepped back. He held a hand up, not to ward against Joachs threat, but 
to admire the beauty of his own youth. Its simply wonderful. Youth, more than 
gold or power, is the truest treasure in life.
Joach reached for the dark energies in the staff. Though he may have aged, he 
could still wield magick. He raised the weapon, but to his horror, he found the 
wood empty.
Greshym smiled sadly at him. I told you Id give you the staff, Joach, and any 
magick it contained, but Im afraid my little spell was quite a drain on energy. 
I needed all its magick to wreak this transformation.
You tricked me.
Greshym waved his hand dismissively. I played to your own base desires. You 
didnt come here to save your world. That was just an excuse. You came because 
you lusted for the staff and its dark magick.
Joachs legs trembled. He wanted to rail against Greshyms words, but he didnt 
have the strength to put up a false face. Deep in his heart, Joach knew the 
darkmage spoke truthfully. He hung his head.
Greshym sighed. I do feel like Ive sorely used you. So let me n &#9632; &#9632;
grant you this additional boonfor free, from the generosity of my youthful 
heart.
Joach glanced up.
Greshym waved an arm. The answer to your problem is here. It does not require 
black magick, only your own, Joach. Youve always been the answeryou and that 
bit of a dream shaped like a girl.
Joach closed his eyes. Kesla is gone, consumed by the Weir.
Oh, come now, since when can a dream be destroyed? Did the original Shiron die 
after the battle with Ashmara? As long as the desert lives, so does the dream.
Joach drew himself up on his staff, hope flaring.
Youre a sculptor. This is the dream desert. Draw this girl back to the sands.
Joach blinked. I can do that?
Greshym rolled his eye. Oh, how Id love to train you. Youre so unmolded. He 
then sighed and spoke more soberly. Of course you can resurrect her if you 
concentrate hard enough.
Joach remembered Shaman Parthus warning about the figments of the desert: if 
you stare too long, they can become real. He faced Greshym. But how can 
bringing Kesla back help? She failed last time.
Greshym stared at him for a long time. I think Ive told you enough. If you 
want to savor a victory here, then figure out the rest by yourself. The 
darkmage stepped away, lifting an arm, ready to depart.
Wait!
Look around you, Joach; look around you. Then he was gone.
Joach felt the ember of hope burn away. What good would resurrecting Kesla 
accomplish? She was dream. If the desert died, so did she, and Joach could not 
bear to watch her die a second time.
He leaned on his staff and searched the desert. Underfoot, the sands were black 
with the stain of the basilisk. He stared out and saw the darkness spreading 
farther and farther into the glowing desert. It was close to being entirely 
consumed. Joach turned away and stared at his toes, defeated.
Then realization dawned inside him, burning away all emotions, hollowing him 
out, leaving only cold horror. He fell to his knees. Somewhere far away, he 
heard harsh laughter.
Curse you, Greshym.
Joach now understood the role Kesla and he were meant to play. He dropped the 
staff across his knees and covered his face with one hand. What was asked was 
too hard. Not this price.
Rocking in the sand, Joach knew he had no choice, but he could not bring himself 
to start. He shut out everything and pictured Keslas violet eyesthe same shade 
as an oasis pool at midnightand imagined her skin, as soft as the finest sand 
and the color of burnt copper. He remembered her lips, so soft against his, her 
touch so gentle and warm, her curves so inviting to melt into. He touched the 
love in his own heart, still fresh, still raw from its recent loss. He knew his 
love had been shared.
Sir? a voice spoke before him.
Joach jerked back and saw a sight that quaked his being. Kesla stood before him, 
leaning over, an arm outstretched.
Can you tell me where I am? Kesla stared around the blackened landscape. Ive 
lost my friends. She touched her forehead. We were in the Southwall.
Joach used his staff to regain his feet. Kesla.
Her name spoken by a stranger clearly startled her. Sir, do I know you?
Joach smiled sadly at the wary glint to her eyes. No matter the circumstance, it 
was wonderful to see her again. He stared and willed all his love toward her.
Tate all my love from me, he prayed, or I wont have the strength to do what I 
must.
Concentrating with all his heart, he felt a part of his spirit drain out of him, 
giving substance to what his pained imaginings had wrought. He sent everything 
in him toward the figment of his love. As he did so, she seemed to grow more 
solid, more detailed. He saw the sweat that beaded her brow, the scared tension 
in her stance; then he saw a glint of recognition. She stepped nearer, staring 
back into his eyes.
Joach?
He closed his eyes to hold back the tears. No, he said with a hoarse choke. He 
did not want her to know him.
It is you! Kesla closed the space between them. He felt the warmth of her 
presence.
:
He opened his eyes, and tears flowed down his face, hot and burning. Kesla
She leaned into him, reaching her arms around him, pressing her soft cheek 
against his. Oh, Joach, I thought I had lost you!
Joach stared over her shoulder to the spreading black stain of corruption. Kesla 
loved the desert.
Still, Joach hesitated. He pulled back and stared into her eyes one last time. 
I love you, Kess. I always will.
She smiled and hugged him back to her, tight and forever. I love you, too.
Joach closed his eyes and willed the blade to appear in his hand: a long dagger, 
with an edge so fine it sliced without pain. In this dreamscape, anything was 
possible. Joach held Kesla tight, willing a lifetime of love into herthen drove 
the blade through her heart.
He felt a small gasp escape her, and her grip tightened on him. He held her 
tight. Blood poured over the blades hilt, over his hand, and drained into the 
black sand at their feet.
Joach ?
Shush, my love. Its only a dream.
Joach kept his eyes closed, holding her as she slowly sagged against him. Tears 
flowed until he felt her last breath on his cheek, and still he did not release 
her. He stood for an untold length of time, then finally opened his eyes.
The pool of blood at his feet had washed away the stain from the sands. Like the 
black pool upon which Ashmara had stood, the darkness here was vanquished by the 
purity of Keslas blood. Under him, the sands glowed bright again, and as he 
watched, the miracle spread, cleansing the sand in all directions, driving the 
basilisks touch from the elemental desert.
Joach, too heavy of heart to stand any longer, sagged to the ground, cradling 
Keslas limp form in his lap. He brushed back a strand of hair from her face and 
wept.
You did it, Kesla. You saved your desert.
Crouched on the stone arm of the manticore, Tolchuk stared at the skies. The 
moon had almost set; only its edge still gleamed above the jagged horizon. 
Closer, the ghostly apparition from the book had grown hazy, weakening with the 
moons departure.
We must hurry! Fila said.
Erril stood before the ebonstone boulder. His face was ruddy from exertion, 
his forehead slick with sweat. He raised the ax once more and drove it down upon 
the boulder. Iron rang brightly against the stone, but it did no harm. Erril 
hefted the ax again, its edge now chipped and dulled from his previous assaults.
Its no use, Wennar said. Only the Trysil could hope to shatter it. The 
dwarf glanced accusingly in Tolchuks direction.
Tolchuk looked down.
Elena! Erril called.
Im still here, she answered, her voice floating out of the stone. But I 
dont know for how much longer. The magickal protection wears thin. Already I 
feel the pull of the Weir. Once Chos magick dies, I wont be able to stop it 
from claiming me.
Tolchuk closed his eyes. There had to be an answer. Erril had spent his brute 
force, Fila had sought an answer in the spiritual plane, and Wennar had simply 
accepted defeat. What role did he play? The Heart of his people had guided him 
to the witch. His fathers shade had pointed him to Gulgotha, and the Bane had 
led him to the Manticore Weirgate.
And now Tolchuk sat on his haunchesuseless. What was he supposed to do? He had 
all these fragmented bits, and he knew some answer lay among them, but only if 
he could fit them into proper order.
He clenched a clawed fist in frustration. He wore the face of the Dark Lord, 
proof of his cursed lineage. This thought kept him from being able to think 
clearly. It blanketed him with a sense of doom. He thrust it back now. He would 
not accept such a fate.
Reaching to his thigh pouch, Tolchuk ripped it open and tore out the chunk of 
heartstone. He held it up to the moons light, staring at the black Bane hidden 
inside the ruby stone. What be the meaning? Why has the Land cursed my people? 
Why has it led me here?
Elenas voice called from the stone. Erril, I cant hold on Her voice faded.
Elena! Erril called.
Tolchuk turned, knowing all was about to be lost. He gripped the heartstone and 
stared at the boulder. A seed of realization struck him. The Heart of his people 
was a ruby stone holding something black at its heart, and the Weirgate, with 
Elena inside, was a black stone holding something ruby. The symmetry had to have 
meaning. But what? What was the Lands purpose in putting the Bane in the stone? 
Why have it feed on his peoples spirits and leave the stone dead and without 
magick?
Tolchuk blinked, then burst to his feet. Without magical he yelled.
Erril glanced over his shoulder.
Tolchuck lifted the Heart of his people. It be without magick! The Bane killed 
it!
Erril frowned, wiping his brow.
Tolchuk rushed forward. The Land did not curse our people! It gave us the tool 
to avenge my ancestors betrayal! He recalled the tale of Mad Mimbly, the miner 
who had first discovered heartstone. In his ramblings, the dwarf had claimed 
that only heartstone held the power to defeat the coming darkness.
Erril moved to block him, but Tolchuk let his sudden surety guide him. He 
knocked Erril aside.
Help me! Elena called, her voice a faint whisper trailing away.
Tolchuk raised his chunk of heartstone over his head. Without
Wit ch Gate magick, the Weir has no hold over the Heart! With all the strength 
in his ogre shoulders, Tolchuk slammed the heartstone into the black boulder.
The resulting explosion flung him back, slamming him into Erril and sending 
them both tumbling. A scream pierced the night, echoing out into the mountains.
Tolchuk sat up. Atop the stone palm, the boulder lay in a shattered ruin. But 
it was no longer ebonstone. Piled and broken atop the palm was pure heartstone.
Erril jumped to his feet and rushed to the piled debris, climbing and kicking 
his way through ruby rubble. Elena!
Tolchuk lifted his hand. The Heart was still gripped in his claws, unharmed. He 
lifted the jewel, and it burst into a blazing glow. Startled, Tolchuk almost 
bobbled it from his fingers, but then gripped tighter. It had been restored! He 
lifted it higher. Even the Bane had vanished!
Elena! Errils tortured scream drew him from the stone.
The plainsman crouched amid the ruby rubble. He bent and lifted a pale figure 
from out of the debris. It was Elena. Erril turned and faced them. She hung 
limp in his arms.
Shes dead!
Meric stood at the edge of Tor Amon. He had kept his vigil all night, searching 
the dark lake for any sign of Krai. Earlier, the snowstorm had blown itself out, 
except for occasional gusts that carried a few flakes. But he had refused to 
leave the lake until dawn. He had to be sure.
The lakes surface had settled back to its placid, glassy sheen, snow banked 
high along its sides. The only evidence of the great arch was a few shattered 
chunks of broken granite poking above the water.
The fall of the Citadel had been sudden and rapid.
After leaving Krais side, he and the others had fled down the stairs, just 
reaching the base when a violent quake shook the entire structure. Krais last 
words had proven true. With the shattering of the arch, the group had been 
tossed back to the real world. Free, they had raced across the narrow bridge to 
the forests beyond, fleeing the huge waves that washed the shores as massive 
chunks of granite crashed into the deep lake.
JAMES V, I. E M h N S
The othersMogweed, Neelahn, and Tyruswere hidden in a nearby cave, warming by 
a strong fire. Meric glanced over his shoulder and made out the small glow of 
their hearth. He also noticed the eastern skies had paled, stars vanishing with 
the approach of dawn.
The plan was to head out with the rising sun, to escape over the pass before 
another storm came and closed the upper mountains completely. Earlier, Tyrus had 
used his silver coin and contacted Xin aboard the Stormwing. The ship would meet 
them beyond the Northwall, though there seemed to be some problem with the 
Stormwing that Xin couldnt fully explainadding another reason not to delay 
here.
It left little time to mourn lost friends.
Sighing, Meric surveyed the lake one last time and headed back to the small 
camp. He trudged through the snow. At least there was no sign of dwarves. They 
must have all fled in a panic with the collapse of the Citadel.
Meric climbed up the icy slope to the cave, drawn to the warmth and light.
Tyrus stood guard near the entrance. He did not even bother asking if Meric had 
spotted any sign of Krai. It was a fools errand, the man had stated earlier. 
The mountain man is gone.
Meric could not fault Tyrus assessment, but the prince had not shared the 
cellar under Shadowbrook with the mountain man. Both Krai and Meric had been 
tortured by the dwarf lord Torwren. Krai had come to rescue Meric, but the 
mountain man had ended up paying the ultimate price, while Meric had escaped 
with nothing but burns and bad dreams. Meric owed Krai. Guilt had forced Meric 
to search for a sign of the man, for some slim chance.
But at the end, Tyrus was right. It was a fools errand.
Neelahn looked with sympathy upon him. I will write a song of him, she said 
softly. Of his sacrifice. Hell live on in my music.
Meric smiled weakly. Someday youll have to play it at Castle Mrylfor Krais 
people, when they return from their centuries of wandering.
She nodded. The babe in her arms slept soundly after the long, loud night.
Meric settled to a seat next to Mogweed. So I expect youll be returning to the 
forests of the Western Reaches.
Mogweed shrugged, staring sullenly into the flame.
Settling to a cup of weak tea, Meric warmed his chilled bones. Slowly the skies 
continued to brighten, and after a while, Tyrus called for them to prepare for 
the days march.
Meric stretched his legs and shouldered his pack. He stared as the suns first 
rays pierced the horizon. At his side, Mogweed suddenly collapsed, a fist 
clutched to his chest. Meric was closest and hurried to his aid.
Mogweed was down on his hands and knees.
Meric reached for him. Mogweed ?
A growl escaped the man, feral and wild. The man shoved back and rose. Im not 
Mogweed.
Then who?
The man turned to the rising sun. Fardale. Though the mans face was the same, 
there was no doubt a change had occurred. This man carried himself differently. 
His eyes were sharp and quick.
Neelahn and Tyrus joined him.
Fardale? How?
The man scowled. More of my brothers mischief. Mycelles snake. Its fused us 
in some strange manner.
And Mogweed?
Fardale wiped his hands on his shirt in disgust. Though I cant feel him, hes 
still in there, where I was a moment ago: locked in a prison without bars, 
watching all transpire while youre held helpless.
But what made the switch occur? Neelahn asked.
I had no control of it; neither did Mogweed.
Meric spoke up. Mycelles pakagolo was attuned to the moon. And you appeared 
with the first glint of the sun. Hmm I wonder
Fardale stared at him, clearly not understanding.
Meric glanced to the rising sun. I suspect that during the day youll control 
this body, but at night, Mogweed will take over again.
Fardales expression grew ill. If true, I must find a way to break this spell.
And Im sure Mogweed will feel the same way. Meric snorted. I guess youll 
both be staying with us a little longer.
Tyrus shook his head and stomped away. Then lets be off. Weve a long road 
ahead of us.
(AMES LLEMENS
JOACH STAYED WITH KeSLas BODY UNTIL THE SUN ROSE IN THE REAL
world and the dream desert dissolved around him, stealing Kesla from his lap. 
loach found himself back in the chamber of the basilisk.
Sy-wen crouched on one side of him, Kast on the other. His transformation must 
have frightened them into releasing Ragnark for the moment.
Are you all right, Joach? Sy-wen asked.
You aged a hundred winters right before our eyes. Kast stepped aside.
Joach caught his first sight of the basilisk. He frowned. It still bore the same 
shape: a feathered serpent with the head of some foul carrion bird. But it was 
no longer sculpted of black ebonstone. It now glowed with a soft ruby light, 
reflecting the torchlight.
Heartstone, Joach mumbled.
Kast straightened and glanced to the statue. It happened not long after you 
aged. He turned back to Joach. What happened?
Joach shook his head. He held an arm up for the Bloodriders help in climbing to 
his old legs. Bones creaked, and flares of pain lanced his joints; but he bit 
against the pain and stood. He took a step and tripped over something in the 
sand.
He glanced down.
Whats that? Sy-wen asked, and reached for it.
Dont! Joach snapped harshly, frightening her back with his tone. Assisted by 
Kast, he bent down and retrieved the length of wood. Its mine.
Joach had paid a high price for his prize. He was not about to give it up. He 
lifted the staff from the sand and leaned on it, not even hearing his own sigh 
of relief. With care, he hobbled toward the statue.
Be cautious, Sy-wen warned.
With his back toward them, Joach lifted a corner of his lip in a silent snarl. 
His fingers sensed the small amount of dark energy coursing through the wood. 
Empty before, the petrified wood must have absorbed the power from the black 
sands after hed tossed the staff aside. Joach lifted it now and pointed it at 
the statue.
Joach! Sy-wen called with warning.
He ignored her. He reached to the magick in the staff and spoke the spell of 
balefire, a spell as familiar as his own name. His lips grew n vjr a i ji cold, 
and the tip of the staff bloomed black. He finished the last words, and a spear 
of darkness shot out and struck the bright stone, shattering the basilisk and 
spraying the far wall with thousands of ruby shards.
Joach lowered his staff and leaned on it as he turned.
What happened to you? Kast asked again.
Joach simply nodded toward the tunnel leading out of the chamber. Im done with 
deserts.
Atop the palm of the manticore, Erril stumbled out of the shards of broken 
stone and carried Elena free. Weak with shock, he fell to his knees before the 
apparition of Fila, holding Elenas body in his arms. She doesnt breathe, he 
struggled out, his throat clamped tight. I feel no heartbeat.
Fila knelt in front of him. Her hands reached and passed through Elenas form. 
No, Erril, shes still alive, only weakly so. The Weir has touched her and 
driven her far.
Erril sagged with relief. Shell live. Shell recover. The healing properties 
of the Blood Diary
Fila frowned and glanced to where the book lay open on the granite arm. Im not 
so sure. This is no bleeding wound or sick bowel. Her injuries go much deeper. 
Displaced so recently by Chos merging, Elena was especially fragile, her ties 
to herself weak. The Weir may have permanently ripped her from her moorings.
Elenas strong, Erril began. Shell fight back.
I dont know if that is something she can do alone. Fila stared back at him. 
There are bonds between you two that go unspoken.
Erril closed his eyes, hiding his shame.
With her own tethers burst, she needs those bonds now. Your bonds. Something to 
help her find her way back.
I dont understand. Erril lifted his face.
Fila shook her head. Men, she sighed. You must
In a whisk of light, Fila vanished. Erril turned to the book. It was still 
open, but the Void was gone, replaced by plain, blank white pages. He glanced to 
the sky. The moon had set, ending the books magick for this night.
Erril was alone with Elena. He swung to Magnam. Go fetch Mama Freda.
J
The dwarf nodded and dashed away.
Tolchuk appeared at his shoulder. The healer will never arrive in time. The 
ogre knelt beside Erril. And what ails her wont be cured with herbs.
Erril did not answer Tolchuk. He knew the ogre spoke the truth. He simply 
nodded and waved the ogre away.
Erril bent over her body. There are bonds between you that go un-spoten. He 
touched her face, not caring who saw. Something deep inside him finally broke. 
The Standish iron in his heart melted, running hot through his blood. He could 
not hide his feelings any longer. He yielded to his grief. Tears flowed and fell 
from his cheek to hers. His throat choked as he leaned closer. If you can hear 
me, Elena, come to me.
He bent and allowed his lips to brush against hers. Hear me; come back to me. 
As he hovered over her, he felt the slightest brush of breath flow between her 
lips, the barest flutter.
She needs those bonds now. Your bonds.
He lifted Elena in his arms, wrapping her tight to him. He hesitated, then 
pressed his lips to hers. She was so cold, but he did not pull away. He warmed 
her with his breath, with his touch, with his tears. Come back to me, he 
whispered between their lips.
She hung in darkness, lolling, without a name, without sub-stance. She had no 
knowledge of a past or a future, just the endless moment of now, hanging in the 
cold abyss of nothingness.
Then a single word rang through to her. Elena.
It held no meaning.
She ignored it.
But soon a wave of warmth wafted through the darkness. And more meaningless 
words. Come to me.
She pushed these aside, still far from understanding, and followed the river of 
warmth. A basic instinct: to warm oneself. She swept along and found the cold 
fall away from her. It was good.
As she sailed toward this pleasure, additional feelings swelled into existence, 
substance forming out of darkness. She allowed these new sensations to wrap 
around her, to become her. She learned she had an outer being, defined 
spacesand she was rewarded. Warmth turned to heat, and it pressed against her, 
bright and hot.
-ro
Witch Gate
In this moment, one word crystallizednot a name, but a word she fought to 
understand.
Iron.
She wanted more of it. She wrapped it around herself. She pulled it closer and 
allowed it to move through her. With each touch, she understood more of herself: 
lips, skin, touch, moisture, breath, heat, and a scent that was musky and 
familiar.
Elena. That word again flowed to her.
She felt her newfound lips moving. Erril
The heat around her surged stronger, everywhere, all around her. Encouraged, she 
repeated the name. It was a namet Erril She wanted to say more but could 
find no other words. She needed words! Panic allowed the coldness to seep back 
inbut then he was there, calling to her, touching her, warming her.
Elena, come to me.
Yes. She spotted a brightness in the dark abyss and fled toward it. The voice 
came from there. Erril.
She dove into and through the light. Words and memories floodedtoo much, too 
bright, too fast. Darkness threatened at the corners.
Elena, come back to me.
And with a final spasm of light, sound, and memory, she did.
Elena opened her eyes, knowing who she was again. She found herself wrapped in 
strong arms, being kissed. Startled, she broke away.
Staring up, she found Erril, his eyes full of tears and something much deeper. 
I love you, Elena, he said, his voice hushed and pained.
Elena met his eyes and reached a trembling hand to touch her own lips.
The shine in Errils eyes dimmed. I Im sorry.
He moved to release her, but she placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned up to 
him. She kissed the lips that had saved her, tasting the salt of his tears. 
No, she whispered, and melted into him.
He closed his arms around her.
Here was where she belonged.
Elena hurried down the hall, the hem of her green dress sweep-ing through the 
rushes that lined the castles stone floor. She was late. The others should 
already be gathering in the Grand Courtyard.
She passed a mirror and brought a hand to her hair. After being burned away by 
Chos assault, her fiery curls had grown out to the length of four fingers. But 
they were still as short as a boys. She sighed. Mama Freda had done her best. 
Two combs of silver and pearl and her dresss high neckline detracted from her 
boyish hair. She looked at least presentable for the ceremony.
At last, she reached the restored glass-and-gilt doors that opened to the 
courtyard. Two dwarves armed with pikes stood sentry, but upon seeing her, they 
moved from their positions to open the tall double doors. Elena stared as 
morning sunlight poured through the panes depicting two roses twined together, 
the petals of heartstone, the leaves of emerald.
As the doors opened, the Grand Courtyard spread before her in all its spring 
beauty. While she had been away, the repairs on Aloa Glens castle had 
continued. In the yard, there was little evidence of the recent war.
Beds of roses and snow-white poppies filled the space, while rows of trimmed 
holly bushes lined paths of crushed white stone. Along the wall, saplings of 
dogwood were in bloom, their soft petals drifting on gentle sea breezes. Even 
the walls had been repaired, and veins of green ivy already climbed their 
surfaces. The only clear sign
CH VJ AT K
of the War of the Isles was the eastern tower called the Broken Spear. 
Scaffolding and piled bricks encircled its ruins as work continued.
Elena crossed through the doors to the steps. A small group gathered in the 
central circle of the courtyard. Erril noticed her and raised a hand in 
greeting, but she knew that exasperated set to his lips: she was late for the 
ceremony.
Hiding her smile, she climbed down the stairs, lifting the skirted edge of her 
dress, and headed across the crushed stone paths. This was the first time 
everyone had gathered in one place since Merics group had returned from the 
north. The party that had sought the Griffin Gate was the last to arrive back at 
Aloa Glen, coming almost two moons after Elena had returned and one moon since 
Joach had.
But everyone was here finally.
As Elena crossed toward them, she remembered her own journey back. She had left 
Aloa Glen in early winter and had returned with the first buds of spring. The 
return journey had been arduous. With the Manticore Gate destroyed, they had set 
off overland back to Jer-ricks skiff. The going was slowed by their injuries 
and their load of heartstone from the broken Gate. Tolchuk had insisted they 
haul it out with them. Mad Mimbly claimed it could destroy the darkness, he 
had said. Elena hadnt argued. The ogre and his heartstone had saved her.
Still, loaded or not, the true delay in reaching Aloa Glen had proven more 
ominous. Upon reaching Jerricks skiff, it was discovered that the elvin had a 
harder time controlling his small boat. They had to make short hops with rest 
breaks in between, slowing their progress. There was no way they could cross the 
Great Ocean in such a state, so they worked their way overland to the coastal 
township of Banal and hired an ordinary ship with a few pieces of heartstone.
At first, Elena had attributed Jerricks weakness to his recent poisoning, but 
upon reaching Aloa Glen, she had learned it was a generalized ailment. A good 
part of the remaining elvin fleet now rested atop the sea. And this malaise was 
not limited to the elvin. All those with elemental gifts found it harder to 
touch their inner magick and exhausted more quickly. It seemed that, though the 
destruction of the three Weirgates had managed to thwart the Dark Lords design, 
damage had still been done. The Land had been weakened by the near-fatal 
assault, crippling the magickal gifts of all elementals.
JJ1ME! V.LMtS Cjlg
Yet, despite this, one significant gain had been made.
As Elena reached the central circle of the courtyard, she spotted Wennar, 
outfitted in polished armor, with Magnam at his side. The breaking of the 
Manticore Gate had freed their people, shattering the Dark Lords yoke upon 
them. Meric had returned with several dwarves in tow. He had met these 
stragglers on his return journey, and he promised that legions more were already 
en route to help bolster Aloa Glen.
All in all, it was a bittersweet and costly victory. The Dark Lord had been 
thwarted, but Chi remained a prisoner, shackled by the last remaining Weirgate. 
And in addition, many good friends had given their blood to protect the Land: 
Mycelle, Krai, Richald, Queen Tratal. The list stretched even longer, with 
losses among the dwarves, the elvin, and the desert folk.
Then again, it seemed no one who had ventured out on these journeys had returned 
unscathed. She stared around the circle of friends gathered here.
Meric stood on the far side. His eyes were still haunted, grieving for the loss 
of his mother and brother. Each day he sent birds out, seeking some word of what 
had become of the refugees of his shattered home. But none ever returned. The 
fate of the denizens of Stormhaven remained unknown.
Beside the elvin stood Lord Tyrus, dressed in black finery, both prince and 
pirate. He had offered her his allegiance and had already succeeded in rallying 
a rather unsavory lot from Port Rawl. The prince refused to return to his empty 
castle in the Northwall until the Dark Lord was defeated. The Grim wraiths are 
gone from the Fell, but Mryl will never truly be secure until the Black Beast is 
driven from our shores, he had told Elena.
At the princes shoulder, Fardale wore Mogweeds face. Elena had learned of 
their strange transformation, two sharing one body. The pair made her 
uncomfortable. She always sensed the extra eyes staring out of the amber glow. 
Still, they had proven their loyalty. The two were simply wounded like so many 
others, and Elena would do her best to seek a cure. In turn, they had pledged 
their shape-shifting talents to her cause.
Crossing the stones, Elena stepped beside Erril. The back of her hand brushed 
his, and their fingers instinctively sought one another, wrapping and twining 
together. Erril squeezed her hand. On the long journey here, they had both 
decided to take their relationship slowly, one step at a time. They had not 
shared a be.d, but only tentatively sought to know each other in the quiet hours 
alone. And for now, that was enough.
Youre late, wife, he whispered teasingly.
And you dont have layers of petticoats and fancy dress to attend to, husband. 
Elena hid her smile while shifting an imaginary lock of hair from her face.
Erril nodded to a shaded corner of the courtyard. A figure sat upon a bench 
staring toward them. Its good to see Joach abandon his books and scrolls for a 
short time.
Elenas smile dimmed. Of all those who had returned from the various lands of 
Alasea, Joach was the most changednot just physically aged, but also harmed in 
unseen ways. She had heard the tale of Keslas death from Sy-wen. Deep inside, 
her brothers heart had been wounded past repair. Upon returning, Joach had been 
clearly happy and relieved to see his sister safe and alive, but otherwise he 
kept to himself, locked in the castles library, reading ancient texts for 
spells that might cure him. Some nights Elena had spied him in the training 
yards, practicing some arcane magick.
Erril scowled. I just wish hed left that cursed staff in his rooms. It 
shouldnt be here.
Elena agreed. The sight of it made her stomach churn: its petrified wood was the 
gray of a corpse, and the tiny green crystals imbedded along its length reminded 
her of pus from a festering wound. It was a corrupt instrument, and she wished 
Joach would simply destroy it. But she also understood her brothers obsession. 
The staff had stolen his youth, so it might still hold the answer to returning 
it. Erril sighed and returned his attention forward. The staff, the 
age-ravaged body, even the stumped wristits as if hes becoming the same 
darkmage he despises.
Despite the days warmth, Elena shivered.
Erril glanced to her. Im sorry. This is a joyous moment and shouldnt be 
marred by such dark thoughts. He pulled her closer to his side. Such matters 
can wait till another day.
She leaned against him. Wheres Neelahn anyway? I thought I was the late one.
Erril straightened. We were waiting on you. He raised his j Lt M 1*. IN h 
other arm, signaling Kast, who stood a few paces off with his mate Sy-wen.
The Bloodrider lifted a horn to his lips and blew a single long note. It was a 
bright and triumphant sound that echoed far out to sea and served to drive away 
the bit of melancholy from Elenas heart.
Rising on her toes, Elena craned for a better view as the small western gate of 
the courtyard swung open. Tolchuk stepped forth, leading the diminutive form of 
Neelahn.
The ogre wore a huge grin. It was one of Tolchuks last acts before leaving 
for his homelands in the mountains. He would be returning the Heart of his 
people and seeking the counsel of the Triad. There was a mystery yet to be 
solved: the strange connection between ebonstone and heartstone. The two 
crystalsone bright, one darkhad been mined from the same mountain. There was 
some dark link between the two, and even the spirits of the Blood Diary sensed 
an answer must be sought out. Tolchuk hoped his own tribal elders might hold 
some piece to this ancient puzzle.
But even this mystery could wait. Today, Tolchuk had been granted the honor to 
lead Neelahn forward, a giant leading a child.
Neelahn stepped to the crushed white stones, dressed in flowing silks that 
seemed to catch the breeze with each step, a petal in the wind.
As Tolchuk led her, so Neelahn led another small figure. Her fingers gripped 
the hand of a child. The boy appeared no older than three, but Elena knew that 
the nyphai did not age like humans. When his seed was still attached to his 
belly, dormant and waiting, he had appeared no more than a babe. But a moon ago, 
when Neelahn had first set foot upon the shores of Aloa Glen, the child had 
shed his seed. From that moment on, he had grown rapidly, from babe to toddling 
child in only a single moon.
Upon landing here, Neelahn had taken the dropping of the boys seed as a 
harbinger of hopeand on this spring day, she was responding in kind, taking a 
chance.
Neelahn led the boy to the circle of spectators. Once there, she took her place 
and guided the boy ahead of her. Go on, Rodricko. You know what to do.
He glanced up to the nyphais face. His eyes were the same violet as Neelahns, 
and his hair the same color of warm honey. Yes,
Witch G at e
Mama. He let go of her hand and ventured out into the center of the circle.
The boy glanced at those gathered around him. .He bit his lower lip, clearly shy 
of so many faces peering down at him. But he did not falter. He crossed to where 
stone ended and freshly turned loam began. Along with the repair of the 
courtyard, the blasted root of the old koakona tree had been dug up from the 
central yard, and clean soil had been hauled in to fill the space. Nothing had 
been sown here by the gardeners. It was as if they had innately known that only 
one thing could be planted in this particular place.
Another koakona.
Little Rodricko, named after the caretaker of Neelahns own tree, stepped from 
the stone to the soft loam with a large seed clutched in his tiny hand. It was 
the seed from which he had been born, and now he was returning it to the soil.
He dropped to his knees, put the seed aside, and began to dig a hole. Once it 
was as deep as his own elbow, he straightened and grabbed up his seed. He 
glanced over his shoulder to Neelahn, who smiled proudly at his efforts. She 
gave him a small nod.
The child dropped the seed into the hole and slowly pulled hand-fuls of soil 
over it. Elena heard him sniff and wipe at his eyes. After being joined for so 
longboy and seed togetherthis was certainly a difficult act, a rite of passage 
for the boy.
Once done, he climbed back to his feet. He stared down at his handiwork.
Neelahn coaxed him gently. Go on, Rodricko. Try.
The boy turned to his mother, tears glimmering in his eyes.
Go on, my love.
He nodded and swung back, lifting a hand over the newly filled hole.
Elena held her breath, as did everyone else. Neelahn clutched both her hands to 
her neck, clearly praying. The original koakona had died here, its roots 
drowned in saltwater when the island sank. Erril had warned Neelahn that this 
was not fit ground to plant the first new koakona. But Neelahn had been sure 
the boys seed-dropping on this shore was a sign. A male has never been born to 
my people, the nyphai had explained. The boy is special, so certainly his tree 
must be unique. Maybe it will thrive where another could not.
The boy continued to stand with his hand over his planted seed. Slowly, a slight 
greenish glow seemed to flow over the boy, as if the sunlight overhead were 
filtering through unseen leaves.
Neelahn made a small soundhalf sob, half sigh of joy.
From the soil between the boys toes, a small green shoot wriggled up and 
climbed into the sunshine. It was bright and healthy and pure.
Its rooting, Erril said, turning to her, his eyes huge with amazement.
She reached an arm around his waist and hugged him.
A cheer arose from the others. The little boy turned in a slow circle, a wide 
smile on his little face. Neelahn rushed forward and scooped him in her arms, 
kissing his cheek.
Elena watched Neelahn with the boy and sank deeper into Errils arms. She 
stared at the little green shoot poking from the dark soil. It stood for so 
much: life from death, a new cycle beginning. Tears rose to her eyes.
Whats wrong? Erril asked.
She could not answer. Her heart was too full. She glanced to the others, wounded 
but somehow surviving, celebrating. To her, to all of them, the green sprig 
represented one other thing.
Hope.
And here Ill end this section of Elenas tale, on a moment of hope, balanced on 
the tender leaves of new growth. All that remains is one last chapter, one last 
battle, one last chance. From here, all that has been hidden will be revealed. 
Truths will burn, lies will heal, and hearts will be broken upon a single word.
So enjoy this one scintillating moment in time. Savor it like the crystalline 
drop of the finest wine on the tongue. But know this: nothing lasts forever.
Not wine, not hope, not love not even a witch.