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 d’warf; the other ripped through another’s throat. Meric landed lightly in a pile of pine needles, tossing aside his bows and sweeping out his thin sword. He stabbed the closest d’warf, moving faster than an eye could follow.
Behind the party, Kral and Tyrus suddenly appeared—one dark as the forest’s 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 trail’s side to slice into the patrol’s flank with her twin swords.
Caught by surprise, most fell with their weapons still sheathed. The slaughter was quick and savage. Kral 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 d’warf 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 d’warf 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 d’warf’s throat.
Meric turned away as the wolf dispatched the runner.
Around him, the d’warf patrol lay torn upon the woodland trail, blood steaming in the cold morning air. A d’warf 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.
Nee’lahn stepped from the cover of a hawthorn bush, the babe in her arms. Mogweed came with her. Nee’lahn lifted an arm, and the roots that had tripped the d’warf runner sank back into the loamy soil. She stared at the slaughter with numb eyes. Finally, she turned away. “It’s not right,” she mumbled.
Kral searched through the dead, recovering satchels of foodstuffs, checking weapons. He straightened. His beard was soaked with blood, dripping. Meric winced. Nee’lahn had spoken truthfully: this was not right. He remembered the d’warf party accompanying Elena to Gul’gotha, the prisoners who had been freed of the Dark Lord’s reign by the sight of the Try’sil hammer. This same party was no less tainted, bent to the will of the Black Beast of Gul’gotha. Was it right to kill them—he stared at the light in Kral’s eyes—and 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 valley’s bowl, was a gigantic mountain lake, midnight blue and as glassy as a mirror—Tor Amon.
Mogweed gasped as he stepped forward. “Sweet Mother.”
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,” Kral said, his voice cracking, his eyes fixed on the high castle. “The Citadel of the Ice Throne.”
“It’s wondrous,” Nee’lahn 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 sight—but not without a certain starkness. Below the arch, under the castle’s 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. “It’s out there. I can smell it.”
“What?” Mycelle asked at his side.
“The griffin,” the prince answered. “The Weirgate. Can’t 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 don’t 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 Nee’lahn’s 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 Kral.
He nodded. “An evil worse than any d’warf has possessed the castle.”
Mycelle glanced around the group. “But only the elementals feel it.”
“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. “Er’ril was taken. Tyrus, too, briefly. And if we are to believe what was learned back at A’loa Glen, even the spirit of Chi himself is trapped inside.”
“Then you’re 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?”
Kral 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 Citadel’s heart. The Ice Throne will belong to the mountain folk again.”
Mycelle sighed. “Kral 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, Nee’lahn 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 we’re going to reach the castle? If it’s guarded by d’warves and atop a peak of arched stone . . .”
“There is a way inside,” Kral 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 gustin
g 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.
Kral led the way, his eyes narrowed, his beastly senses stretching outward. Full night had descended, and the lake waters were as black as oil. Kral stared at the white snow sweeping across the dark face of Tor Amon. Pausing, he sniffed the breeze. A storm was coming—a true blizzard.
“We must increase our pace,” he hissed to Mycelle behind him.
She grimaced. “It’s more important to be cautious.”
Kral stared out into the deeper forest that covered the valley floor. On the way to Tor Amon, they had come upon several d’warf encampments, but with their campfires, they were easy to spot and avoid. Even the occasional patrol was easily sidestepped, due to the d’warves’ continued lax guard. Presently, the woods remained dark and silent.
“I suspect all our hens are nested for the night,” he answered. “D’warves don’t like the cold. They’ll have their heads tucked tight tonight.”
“Still, it pays to be cautious,” Meric said, overhearing them. “We don’t want to wake the whole henhouse.”
“A storm is coming,” Kral growled, angry. “A mountain killer.”
Meric glanced across the lake to the north. “I sense it, too, but the blizzard might cover our approach.”
Kral shook his head, icicles clinking in his frozen beard. “You might know the skies, elv’in. 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?”
Kral cocked his head. Already the winds were beginning to howl. “Not long.”
Mycelle nodded forward. “Set the pace. We’ll keep up.”
As they continued, Mycelle drifted back to alert the others. Meric kept pace with Kral. 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 its feathers. “How much farther to this secret path into your mountain Citadel?”
“We near it now,” Kral grumbled, not wishing to talk. With nightfall, the beast inside him grew in strength. It was difficult to ignore and harder to keep in check, especially with the dark magicks swirling throughout the valley.
“Where?” Meric persisted.
Kral 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 arch’s leg. Torches lit an iron door in a sheltered alcove. Kral 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.” Kral 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, Kral stared out at the giant granite arch. Now so close, Kral could sense both powers here—not only the dark power that thrilled through him, but also a deeper, more sonorous beat. Kral 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 arch’s 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 lookout’s roost grew into a full castle and the many clans became one, united under the Senta Flame, Kral’s own family clan.
But that was no more. Kral gripped his ax in an iron hold.
Five centuries ago, the d’warves 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 individual families and scattered throughout the mountains, nomads again.
Kral 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,” Kral 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.
Kral 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.”
Kral turned to her. “You and the others go ahead. Cross the wood bridge to the arch’s iron entry. Hide in the door’s shadows until I come for you.”
“And where are you going?” Mogweed asked, shivering.
Kral turned again to the lake and pointed to the arch’s reflection in the dark waters, lit by moonglow through the thickening clouds and the torchlight of the castle’s 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 don’t understand what—”
Kral ignored their confused expressions. It was simpler to show them—that 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 water’s 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 water’s 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.
Kral 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 Citadel’s torches far overhead. As the cold sank through to his bones and his limbs grew leaden, Kral worried that he was on a fool’s 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, Kral 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, Kral 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, Kral 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 reflection—and 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. Kral 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 Kral. 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 Kral 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. “Fardale’s back from his search.”
Putting aside her suspicions, she nodded and followed the man back to the others. Nee’lahn huddled over her baby, while Mogweed leaned near Fardale.
“I can’t understand you,” Mogweed hissed at his brother.
Mycelle placed a hand on the thin man’s 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?”
Wit'ch Gate (v5) Page 40
