The doors boomed closed.
“Throw the bars!” DoHurley yelled as he strode toward his injured guard. Irielnea was helping the dwarf to sit while she gently held what was left of his arm. A blackened and withered stump of flesh protruded from a singed linen sleeve, both looking as if they had been incinerated. Only the arm of his chainmail remained whole, the metal blackened but still solid.
“So it takes out wood an’ cloth an’ flesh, but not metal so much,” DoHurley muttered as he looked toward the iron doors and nodded. “Nor stone.” He placed his hand against the wall beside the door, hissed in shock, and pulled back. “It certainly cools it down, though.” Hoarfrost was already forming on the doors and the stone casement around them.
"We’re evacuatin’ this level!" he called to his men. "Ye fellers do a quick search ta make sure we don’t leave anyone behind, then meet us at the stair. Now off wi' ye!"
As the guards scurried off into the gloom, DoHurley turned to help Irielnea with his injured kinsman.
“Here’s one o’ UrMae's special 'lixers, DorFeenen. I been bunged up pretty bad, an’ they always put me right as rain.” He pulled a little vial from his pocket and held it to the dwarf’s pale lips, made him drink its contents down. DorFeenen’s face flushed with color, his breathing eased, and his eyes cleared. But the flesh of his withered arm remained blackened. DoHurley frowned in dismay, but he gave his voice a hearty air. "We'll have ye standin' post by mornin'."
“We had best leave so we can get him warmed by a fire,” Irielnea suggested. They helped the wounded dwarf to stand and ushered him down the corridor. At the stairs to the lower levels, they handed off their charge to two stout guards.
DoHurley looked around hesitantly, postponing the moment when he’d be forced to retreat down the stairs. He couldn’t wait long; the air temperature was dropping steadily. Normally the thick, insulating stone of the mountain maintained a pleasant temperature in the keep, summer or winter. But now the air was already frigid, as was the rock around them.
"Well, I guess there's no puttin' it off any longer," he said, grinding his teeth in frustration.
"It feels like the mountain is freezing right down to its roots," Irielnea said, the first hint of worry tingeing her voice.
"Not to worry, lass. The deepest caverns always stay warm. It’s the heat o’ the volcanic vents, though I prefer ta think o’ it as the warmth o’ the Earth Mother’s womb," he chuckled in an attempt to lighten the mood. It pleased him when Irielnea smiled her thanks.
"We best seal these doors quick, before we freeze solid. If anythin'll keep this storm out, these doors oughta do it."
Irielnea ran her slim fingers over the rune-etched metal of the doors. "Will there be any magic in the doors without the cornerstones to empower the spells?" She had heard all the stories of the door and its cornerstones.
DoHurley patted the doors affectionately. The black metal was cool, but far from freezing.
"Our priests've been workin' on that very thing fer near a year, lass. Some o' the mountain's own strength is channeled inta these doors now. No need fer the cornerstones, jist the activatin’ words, known only to meself and a few others." He gazed at the doors, thinking back to the last time they were locked shut. Hopefully, this time they would not stay closed for quite so long.
"Come on, lads, down the stairs wi’ ye! Ye two, close them doors first!" As the two guardsmen closed the doors, DoHurley marveled at the dwarven craftsmanship that allowed the doors to move with surprising ease for their mass. The guards tromped down the stairs, and only DoHurley and Irielnea remained. The king of Zellohar stepped up and placed his signet ring against the thin seam between the doors, then softly said the phrase to activate the magical barrier.
Crimson fire traced the runes, then died, leaving them in the sputtering light of a single torch.
"Well, that's it. We best git walkin'; it's a long ways down, and I don't want ta be late fer supper." Despite his jest, DoHurley shuddered with worry. It was one thing to lock oneself inside against an enemy attack, but quite another to lock oneself away against the end of the world.
CHAPTER 27
Calmarel stood just inside the archway that led out toward the shield wall. Not fifty paces away was the portal to Xerro Kensho. She glanced around and saw no one but the huge rock trolls standing in front of the portal; not surprising, since the portals to the cities were off-limits during the purge. Lysethra had explained it to her, and Calmarel now chided herself for not paying closer attention. Something about the instability of Void essence and fluctuations in magical energy.
But merging with The Void strengthened the outer shield... “So why in the hells wouldn’t these portals work?” she mused as she chewed her lip.
The portal’s mirror-like surface rippled suddenly as if a stone had been cast into still water. That certainly didn’t look right. Calmarel sighed; she had to reach Xerro Kensho, and the portal was the only way. She dared not approach the mediator. As for Lysethra...once Calmarel would have immediately confided in her sister, but Lysethra would want to know what she had to do in Xerro Kensho, and Calmarel wasn’t prepared to tell her.
She growled in frustration. The portals were powered by wizard’s magic, about which she knew little beyond what she had seen her brother, Iveron, do. She started in realization. Iveron... Calmarel put her hand into a pocket of her robe and pulled out a ruby large enough to cover her palm. Iveron had used these gems to augment his magic; that much she knew from spying on him all those months ago. Whether it would help her pass through the portal, she didn’t know, but she had to try.
Straightening her back and raising her head high, she strode out of the archway and toward the portal. She swung her flail nonchalantly with her right hand; her left clutched the ruby close to her side. The rock trolls shifted as if they might try to stop her. Her face felt hot and her heart fluttered, but she maintained her course, glaring at the guards. The trolls looked at one another and backed away; they recognized Calmarel and, like most denizens of Xerro Kensho, took pains to stay out of her way. The portal’s surface was now smooth; timing was critical. She reflexively began to mutter a prayer to Xakra, then bit her lip and pushed herself on...
...and was in Xerro Kensho.
The hall in which the portal stood was empty and dark, the braziers unlit. She wanted to cry out in relief, but stifled her voice; she wanted no witnesses to her trespass. Tucking the gem back into her robes, she steeled herself to the task ahead and hastened toward Castle Darkmist.
“I am so sick of waiting for everyone!” Avari said between gritted teeth as she paced along the lake shore.
“I would not be wanting to be the one of telling it to be hurrying up,” said Hufferrrerrr as he jerked his head toward the dragon, which was leisurely consuming a great elk it had hunted down earlier.
Avari snorted and strode down the beach away from her companions. Hufferrrerrr was right, of course; anyone interrupting the dragon’s meal was likely to be dessert. Phlegothax had insisted on feasting before they left for Pytt, saying that it hadn’t had a meal in several days. Avari thought it was just being petty after hearing their plan, which included it carrying them on its back.
“It’s not like we want to be carried by something that could turn around and eat us,” she grumbled, although, truth be told, she was secretly thrilled. Riding a dragon was beyond anything she had ever considered. In her musing, she didn’t hear the footsteps following her along the rocky shore, so she started when a hand touched her shoulder.
“Yen!” she snapped, sheathing the dagger that she had nearly put in his eye. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“You must have been deep in thought. I was whistling so I wouldn't startle you.” He chuckled. “I guess it didn’t work.”
She turned and stared out on the lake for few minutes before Yen broke the silence. “So, do you think Phlegothax will respond to heel commands?”
Avari barked a laugh. “Go ahead and try! It’s bee
n good knowing you.”
“It’s been wonderful knowing you,” Yen said wistfully. “I...miss you, Avari.”
“Right!” Avari sneered. “Whenever Lady Fluff isn’t around to keep your attention?” She had accepted that she and Yen would have to work together, and she had been trying to avoid speaking with him. But whenever he was close, like now, she was undone by his familiar scent—leather with a bite of spice—and the way his voice caressed her... So once again she forced down her longing and dredged up the memories of her last day in Fengotherond, letting the heartache wash away her desire.
It had been a crisp afternoon in early spring, and she had run all the way home from the garrison, excited to tell Yen of her meeting with Stablemaster Arryx. To her delight, he had readily agreed to take her on as a trainer, thereby resolving the question she had been deliberating for weeks: what to do with her life. Now she could remain in Fengotherond with Yen while still working with horses, and warhorses to boot! And working at the garrison, she would be able to keep her other skills honed. It was perfect! At least, until she told Yen...
"You want to do what?" had been his astonished response. "You can't be serious! You're a warrior, Avari, not a dung-kicking stable hand!" The conversation had escalated into a fight, and they had spent that night in separate bedrooms. Avari had left before dawn.
Avari felt her face flush with the memory and she turned away.
“Avari, please!” Yen grabbed her arm, then quickly let go as she rounded on him. “Please, I want to talk with you. You didn’t answer any of my letters.”
“Why would I read your letters?” she asked wildly. She had read the first one and nearly fled back to Fengotherond; she hadn’t trusted herself to read another, and instructed Hufferrrerrr to throw out any more that arrived. But now...Yen’s proximity made him maddeningly hard to ignore.
“I want to apologize,” he insisted. “What I said was...”
The ground thundered beneath their feet, and Phlegothax landed on the beach in front of them. Their companions were already moving to mount the beast’s great back.
“It is time to go,” she said, turning away to join the others.
Calmarel stared at the great door to the Darkmist clan catacombs. The engraved images of the Dark Gods, once comforting, now seemed to leer hungrily. Her stomach clenched until she thought she might be sick. You can turn back, whispered that dreadful voice in her head. Just go back and complete the sacrifices, and the power is yours. The voice used to whisper of inevitable failure; now, it encouraged her to commit inconceivable deeds.
With sudden movement—if she hesitated now, she would never be able to undertake this task—she pressed her hand to the door, and it opened. She breathed a sigh of relief; the door’s magic was keyed to open to any Darkmist, so her lack of divine power didn’t affect her access. The torch, however, was a different matter. Always she had used her gods-given powers to produce a flame, so she hadn’t even considered bringing a source of fire with her. Well, she would do without.
Squinting into the darkness that shrouded the catacombs and the bodies of her ancestors, she called out.
“Xerryll, attend me!” Her voice quavered to her ears. I cannot—must not—show weakness! To ease her trembling, she swung her heavy flail slowly back and forth, soothed as she watched the deadly chains writhe like tentacles about the head of the weapon.
A rustle, a slow dragging step, signaled the arrival of the ichtholl, and the stench of rotting flesh preceded it. Calmarel swallowed her nausea; the putrid creature had always disgusted her as a portrayal of failure, but now failure was far too close. She could feel the sting of air against exposed flesh, the grinding of broken bones, the itch of worms crawling under the skin. She gagged, and concealed the act by whirling and cracking her flail against the nearest catacomb, raising dust that slowly fell to the ground between her and her father.
"That's far enough!"
The ichtholl stopped, regarded her with glazed, rotting eyes.
“I’ve birthed a child,” she declared, edging her voice with all the pride and arrogance she could muster. “A daughter of strong blood who’ll grow into powers you cannot even imagine.” She thought of her beautiful, blue-eyed baby and nearly smiled, but caught herself and maintained her grim expression. “I’ve also begun the Rite of Ascension. And...I must ask you a question. What—” her voice cracked, and she caught her breath in horror at her misstep.
The ichtholl smiled as if it detected her weakness and took a step forward. Panicked, Calmarel lashed out with her flail, knocking the ichtholl to the ground. It mewed pitifully, then growled and bared its black teeth at her.
“F...f...father,” she stuttered, and it stopped snarling to stare at her.
“The Dark Gods...” she whispered. “The Dark Gods ask me to sacrifice my child, but I think they’re wrong!” Finally, she had said it aloud. Calmarel wondered if the Dark Gods would avenge themselves on her right now, but no lightening struck, no banshees howled, so she continued, and her voice grew stronger.
“They must be wrong, to disdain such a gift! She is the heir of our ancient house! She is far too valuable to be sacrificed!” Calmarel felt the strength of her conviction flow through her, felt as alive and formidable now as ever she had felt with her gods-given powers.
With that rush of confidence, wild hope flooded her mind. “This is the test! The Dark Gods would never sacrifice a child destined for such greatness. They’re testing my resolve! They want to see if I recognize the true significance of my daughter, if I have the strength to defy them despite the possible consequences.” It all seemed so clear now.
Calmarel gazed down at her father and, for the first time ever, felt pity. He had failed, but she would not. He had displeased the gods, but she would not. It was with a merciful heart that she finally asked what she had come to ask.
“Father, what task did the Dark Gods command of you?”
At first, she thought that it was the dust of the floor that choked the ichtholl’s breath. Only after a long moment did she realized that it was laughing. She looked at it first quizzically, then with irritation as it continued to wheeze and gurgle. Finally, it looked up at her and curled its rotted lips back from its teeth in a smile.
“Kill...you,” it said.
Calmarel’s blood ran cold. “Kill me?” Memories flashed unbidden through her mind. Her father’s proud smile when she accomplished a task that the older children had failed. His hand on her head, ruffling her hair. His whispers that she was his true heir, even if Lysethra was the eldest. Watching him complete his devotions to the Dark Gods—the Dark Gods who then deformed him and condemned him to eternal torment because he refused to kill his daughter...refused to kill her.
“No,” Calmarel whispered in despair. Would she fail her rites to save her child, as her father had failed his rite to save her? She looked at the ichtholl, still on the ground, still grinning up at her. Her despair bloomed into anger...anger at herself, at her father, at the Dark Gods.
“No.” Calmarel swung the flail with all her strength, and watched the ichtholl’s grin disintegrate in a wash of bone and putrid flesh.
“No!” Calmarel swung again and again, until the creature was no longer recognizable as anything that once had lived. Gasping for breath, she backed away, horrified by what she had done. Then the pulped flesh...twitched. A shattered hand reached out, and one dangling eye stared at her, the glint of life still evident. Even now, the curse of the Dark Gods kept her father's soul tethered to this rotting mass of meat.
Calmarel fell back against the rough wall of the catacomb, her strength spent, her mind awhirl. This is what she could become...if she failed.
“I will not end up like you for the sake of a brat and a slave!” she swore. “I will not fail!”
She slammed the door of the catacombs behind her and ran back toward the portal to the citadel.
Lysethra hammered on the door to Calmarel’s quarters. Her sister hadn’t answered any of her messa
ges, and she was getting anxious. Calmarel had rushed out so quickly after the rite, Lysethra had no time to hear of her experience. Her heart twinged with jealousy; what she wouldn’t give to actually meet the Dark Gods! But she foresaw no chance of that. Although she was high priestess and matriarch of Clan Darkmist, she had no special blessings that might afford her that privilege. She must be content with communing with Xakra from the sanctity of the temple.
“Calmarel!” she called impatiently. She tried the door, but it was locked. She murmured an invocation, and the lock clicked. Flinging open the door, she strode in and looked around, but there was no sign of her sister. Only that damned pet slave of hers, standing in front of the crib.
“Where is your mistress?” she demanded of him as she approached. She noticed him tense and slowed her pace. Would he attack her? Then she remembered the compulsion Calmarel had put on him to protect the child; he was just doing his duty. She wasn’t going to hurt the child, so she had no reason to fear him. More slowly, she moved toward the crib and peeked inside.
The baby lay awake. When she saw Lysethra, she began gurgling and waving her arms and legs. Lysethra smiled; it was good that that child already recognized her authority. But those eyes... She shook her head; who could comprehend how the Dark Gods chose to bestow their blessings. That was something else she’d have to ask Calmarel about her encounter; were the gods especially pleased with her heir? Cal had been so sure of it. She turned back to the slave and repeated her question.
“Where is your—" She stopped, flustered. The slave—Jundag was his name—was staring at her intently. His muscles were bunched, as if he was ready to reach out and grab her. He glanced toward the child as if to ensure that she was unharmed, then relaxed his stance and lowered his eyes. Funny, she thought slowly, as if her mind was caught up in a whirlpool of mud, how slaves go unnoticed. Cal had been playing with this one for more than a year, and Lysethra had never realized...how blue his eyes were. Lysethra backed away and ran her gaze up and down his strong, muscular body. Despite the scars, he was quite attractive, if you liked that type...Calmarel’s type.
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