Only during the night had he caught flickers of motion from deep in the wood, but they could easily have been ordinary woodland creatures. Still, Tyrus sensed that little was ordinary that moved through this forest at night.
The only other creature he had spotted in the woods was something large that had lumbered past along a hill’s ridge in the distance. It was like nothing Tyrus had ever seen. It was gray-skinned—or perhaps just ash-covered like himself—and moved on all fours. Its head was like a bull, but with a drape of tentacles hanging above its wide mouth. It marched along, gathering anything green from the forest floor with its tentacles and feeding its gullet.
Tyrus had given it a wide berth. Even granite could break if trampled under the bulk of such a gigantic creature.
But besides this lone beast, the woods appeared empty of life. It lay dead silent—no birdsong, not even a whisper of insects. Each step they took sounded loud and abrasive.
Tyrus was glad to have company on this journey, even the taciturn Magus. The Stone Forest was not a landscape to walk alone. It was a place of madness, where empty hills and vales drained one’s spirit, and loneliness was compounded.
Finally, the Magus broke the stony silence. “We near my old home.” His face swung like a plant seeking sunlight. “I would see it before we pass into the deeper wood.”
“Is that wise?” Tyrus asked. He feared that his companion might become mired in old memories and grief at the sight of his former homestead. “Perhaps we should go directly to Raal.”
“No,” the Magus droned, swinging in a westerly direction. “I would see my home again.”
Tyrus had no choice but to follow. The Magus led the way up a long slope and through a section of trees that grew more densely together. As Tyrus followed, he noted strange pocks on the tree trunks they passed. They appeared at first natural, but as more and more became apparent, he realized they were nooks and cubbies cut or chiseled from the trees.
He paused to examine one of these holes. It was about two handspans tall and one wide, crudely hacked.
The Magus noticed his attention. “Raw material from which the fae-nee were born.” He spoke as he marched up the hill. “I would take a chunk of wood from a tree and sit with it until it spoke to me.”
Tyrus closed the distance between them. “Spoke to you?”
“Each piece would eventually reveal its form to me, whether it be a man or woman, a child, an animal.” He shrugged. “Then I’d chip away the wood to free what was hidden inside.”
“Then you’d give it life,” Tyrus said.
The Magus’ voice dropped to a sad whisper. “My mother . . . She was always ailing, but she always had a smile for her only child. She taught me our family gift.”
An elemental lineage, Tyrus thought, passed from one generation to another. And now it’s passed to fae-nee creations.
“But Raal . . .” Bitterness lay thick on the Magus’ tongue. “He’s stolen my mother’s gift and fouled it.”
Tyrus sighed. He only hoped the little creature still bore this gift—then he might be able to free the d’warf army and his companions back at the village. It was a thin hope that drove the prince forward into this bleak wood.
The Magus reached the summit of the hill and gazed down. Tyrus joined him.
Below lay a small vale, set in stone—a glimpse from the time of Blackhall’s creation. A small section of forest had been cleared away. Stone fences marked boundaries of what must once have been a garden. There was even a tiny stone outbuilding, roofless now, its thatch long fallen away. It must have been a pen or small barn. The far slope of the vale was cleared of trees, an empty expanse of ash and rock. Open holes dotted the slope, some still glinting with shards of glass, like the icy teeth of some subterranean monster: windows into the Magus’ home. A larger hole, surrounded by slabs of broken rock, must be the entrance.
At the foot of the hill, a thin stream moved with a sluggish gurgle, its waters a sickly green. The place reeked of ash and brimstone.
“Home . . . ,” the Magus moaned, a sound full of heartbreak. Still, he started down the slope, determined to dredge up old pains.
Tyrus followed. He had no choice—he had opened this wound back among the field of d’warf statues and would have to see it through. They forded the small stream, not bothering with the broken remains of a narrow bridge. Both men were made of stone; even this sickly water could not taint them.
Once across, the Magus led the way to the entrance. “I’ve not been back here since I first fled in horror from the root cellar.”
“Five centuries?”
The Magus nodded and bent to enter his old home. “I would go alone from here.”
Tyrus thought to object. Whatever the fellow found in there would likely send him into a pit of depression from which he might never climb free. But there was no use in arguing. Once set rolling, a boulder could not be easily stopped.
The Magus climbed over the tumble of rocks and disappeared inside. Tyrus noted that the slabs of rock here were petrified wood, too—what was left of the door, once stout oak, was now broken stone.
Tyrus stepped back from the threshold with distaste. A thin wind howled through the spindly branches of the surrounding trees—they appeared like bony fingers scratching at the smoky, soot-filled skies. This was the domain of the Dark Lord, a small peek into the world he would create.
Despair settled like ice around the prince’s granite heart.
He turned from the skies. Off to the left, a bit of color drew his eye. It stood out against the ash-gray of the landscape: a small dandyflower, a weed growing from between two slabs of the entryway door. It was a sickly specimen: a bit of green, a feeble curl of yellow petals no larger than a thumbnail. But it pushed from the rock and brightened the world for its short life.
Tyrus smiled. He had never seen anything more beautiful. The sight fired a fierce determination in his heart.
Even here life fought against the Dark Lord’s corruption. With renewed hope, Tyrus faced the dread forest and skies.
Then a scream burst behind him, echoing up from the bowels of the underground home, ripe with pain, horror, and outrage.
Tyrus swung around, sweeping out his sword, a sliver of polished granite. “Magus!”
The wail fled into the woods, fading away.
“Magus!” he bellowed again. “Answer me!” He held his breath, but there was no answer. The silence pressed down on his ears, squeezing his throat. Even the winds had quieted, as if shocked by the scream.
He faced the dark threshold to the subterranean abode. After another long moment, he took a single step toward the entrance. He had no idea what lay below, but he also knew he had no choice but to go see. The Magus was the only one who knew where Raal hid in the Stone Forest. If there was to be any hope for the others, Tyrus would have to brave the darkness below.
Gripping his sword hilt tighter, the prince picked his way over the rocky rubble and ducked through the entrance. The hall beyond was murky, and the passages extending out were even darker. He had no torch. But the Magus had found his way down without light. Hopefully the broken windows would offer some illumination.
With his sword held before him, he moved toward the passage he had seen the Magus take. The darkness closed around him immediately. He crept one step at a time, sweeping out with his sword, seeking obstacles. Slowly he shuffled down the hall. His eyes quickly grew strained. His ears sought any sound that might lead him to his quarry.
The hall ended at a cross passage. Tyrus paused. To the left, the way seemed fractionally brighter. A window must light that direction. But which way did the Magus go—toward the light or away? Tyrus scrunched his brows. He had an inkling of where his companion would head. The Magus had come back here to face his past, back to his roots, back to where he was born into this stone-cold world—the cellar to this haunted home.
Tyrus sensed the best course was to the right; the floor seemed to slope slightly downward that way. Taking a deep b
reath, he headed into the darkness. He was rewarded soon thereafter by discovering a set of stairs on the left. As he stood on the top stair, he heard a slight tinkle from a bit of rock bouncing down the steps. Someone had passed recently this way, loosening what had been untouched for ages.
Had the Magus braved the dark stair? Maybe the scream was from a fall. Could the Magus have hit his stone head and blacked out?
No, the scream had been full of anger and horror. Tyrus took a step down the well. Then another. The way was narrow and steep, stair edges crumbling underfoot—a tricky climb even with light. In darkness, it was pure treachery. His eyes sought any light.
More pebbles tumbled, dislodged by his own feet. The narrow stairway spiraled, tight and confining. As he rounded another turn, he began to make out his sword arm, a darker shadow cutting through the gloom. Light! There was light seeping from down below!
His pace increased. With each step, details emerged: the stone walls, the worn steps, the turn of the stairwell. The light took on a richer cast, a reddish glow. Fire.
Who could have set a flame down here? He reached the end of the stairs and stopped. A short passage stretched to an open doorway. Lights flickered up ahead, clearly a fire or torch.
With the tumble of stones from the stairs and his own echoing footsteps, there was no need to pretend secrecy. “Magus!” he called out. “Are you all right?”
There was a long hollow silence—then a whisper of laughter.
“Magus?”
The laughter swelled, full of depths that spoke of madness and malice. It echoed up the stairway.
But as Tyrus stood on the step, he knew he was mistaken. The sniggering behind him was not echoes. A pebble bounced down from above. The stairway behind him was no longer empty.
A voice, brittle enough to shatter glass, called out from the cellar room. “Come, Prince of Pirates, join us where it all began.”
There was no doubt who spoke ahead. It wasn’t the Magus, but his creation—Raal.
Tyrus moved forward. He had come to meet this creature; he wouldn’t balk now. And from the sounds behind him, he doubted he would be allowed to leave.
Crossing to the doorway, he stepped into the cellar. The room was shallow but wide; a single torch was jammed into a hole in one wall. Its light revealed old, crumbled shelves, and sacks of burlap huddled in the corner. Ash and dust covered all.
In the center of the cellar stood the Stone Magus, his back to Tyrus. He seemed frozen in place, a true statue again.
Laughter crackled from beyond the figure. “Welcome, Prince of Granite!”
Tyrus edged around the walls, circling the frozen Magus to get a clear view of Raal, his adversary here.
As he crept around, he found the space in front of the Magus empty. Tyrus frowned. Had Raal circled in step with him, keeping the statue always between them, staying hidden?
Tyrus suspected a trap and stopped, sword ready. “Who speaks?” he said. “Show yourself.”
“You know who I am!” the other said gleefully. The Stone Magus turned his head and stared at Tyrus. Laughter flowed from his flinty lips. “I’m Raal, lord and king of the fae-nee!”
Kast leaned over the rail of the Ravenswing and studied the strange sea passing under the keel of the ship. As a Bloodrider, he had sailed many treacherous waters: the maze of the Archipelago, the squall-ridden Blasted Shoals, the haunted channels of Kree-kree, the fog-bound shores of the Breshen Jungle. But he had never seen anything like these northern waters that surrounded Blackhall.
It was an ocean of ice and fire.
Throughout the Bay of T’lek, mountains of ice rode the waves like blue-humped seabeasts. Other areas of the sea roiled with steam, boiling like a kettle atop a flame. Steam and fog misted into a storm on the sea’s surface. The currents of the bay were as tangled as any knotted rope. Its seabed was a trap of volcanic reefs and jagged atolls that seemed to appear and disappear at whim.
Nothing was constant about this sea. Not the winds, not the weather.
Master Edyll stood beside him, a companion in this vigil. The silver-haired elder of the mer’ai shook his head with resignation. “These waters will be a difficult field from which to wage a war.”
Kast didn’t bother with false cheer. He kept his face grim.
“We should reach the fleet by dawn,” the elder said.
“If the captain can manage these temperamental winds.”
“She’s a strong lass. She’ll manage.”
Kast nodded at this. Over the past two days, he had learned to respect the lithe captain of the Ravenswing. Lisla ran a tight ship, kept all in order, and seemed tireless despite the malaise that affected her powers. The elv’in craft had swept over the oceans like a leaf in a storm. She had three skilled windblowers, elementals to conjure winds, on hand day and night. They shuffled one man out to rest a quarter of the day. Otherwise, the pair on duty were ceaseless in the aid of their captain.
Kast glanced back to where Lisla stood by the rudder of her ship. Her coppery hair billowed with winds as she manned her post. Her skin was as pale as the scudding clouds overheard. And though the blue of her eyes was as sharp as when they first took flight two days back, he was not sure she had slept.
He admired her. The trip would normally have taken five to six days; she had cut the time in half. With such folk at their side, Kast could almost foresee victory in the war ahead.
“I spoke to Xin earlier,” Edyll continued. “He still can’t clearly reach Lord Tyrus. The prince lives, but the details are scant.”
Kast heard the concern in the mer’ai elder’s voice. He also noticed the way his companion rubbed at the fleshy web between his thumb and forefinger. “What worries you about this? It is probably just due to the waning elemental energies.”
“No, Xin spoke to Joach this morning. He says Joach sounded crisp and hale, though that distance is even greater than to Lord Tyrus.”
Kast’s brow crinkled. “So you think the prince is in trouble?”
“And what of the d’warf army? Where have they gone? Lord Tyrus goes in search of them along the coast, and now he’s mysteriously out of communication. I don’t like it. The Dark Lord has already attacked A’loa Glen with that sick clutch of evil, and he now threatens to seed the fleet with the eggs. Who’s to say what evil he aims toward our land armies?”
Edyll pointed an arm over the rail toward the roiling sea of ice and fire and continued. “It is not the condition of the battlefield that concerns me, but the state of our own forces. The full moon is due in another five days, and we are far from ready for a full-scale assault.”
“War never picks a convenient time,” Kast said. “You must simply grab your sword and either defend or attack.”
The older man shook his head and mumbled, “Spoken like a true Bloodrider.”
Kast sighed. “We will win this war.”
“Why do you think that?”
He turned to the misty seas and the northern horizons. “Because we must. There is no future without victory.”
A long silence stretched; then Edyll spoke softly. “And no hope for Sy-wen?”
Kast gripped the rail, his head bowed. “I love my niece,” the elder said. “But the battle ahead is larger than any one individual. Hard sacrifices will need to be made. Remember that you are the Dragonkin reborn.”
Kast scowled, but his hand rose to touch the tattoo of a black dragon on his cheek and neck. He recalled the picture of the forefather of both their peoples: Dre’rendi and mer’ai. The figure in the ancient painting had been riding a white dragon and bore the same dark tattoo. The past had come full circle back to the present, like the curled dragon on his cheek, its tail touching its nose.
“The Dragonkin made difficult choices during his time, and I suspect you’ll face decisions even harder.”
Kast remained silent. A question already weighed heavy on his heart, something he had discussed with no others. Sheeshon’s words echoed in his heart: Papa says you have to kill
the dragon.
“You’ll have to put the good of the world above your own heart,” Master Edyll finished. “Can you do this?”
Kast clenched a fist atop the rail. “It seems I must.”
Edyll nodded. “You are truly the Dragonkin reborn.” He patted him on the shoulder, then headed for the shelter of the lower decks.
Kast remained on deck, alone, his thoughts lost to the winds. He remembered the painting of his forefather on his great white seadragon. What would the Dragonkin have done if faced with the same dilemma? Could he have slain his own mount? Was he that hard? Could anyone be that hard?
Over the winters of their union, the walls between dragon and man had worn thinner. Kast knew the dragon’s heart as certainly as his own. There was a wildness to Ragnar’k, but also a well of loyalty and love for Sy-wen that was as bottomless as his own. In this love, the man and dragon were bonded in ways more intimate than any rider and his mount. He had no idea how to slay Ragnar’k, and if he knew, would he have the heart?
Words echoed with warning in his head: The dragon will eat the world. Sheeshon’s gift of the rajor maga was unquestioned, but she was only a child. Could she have misinterpreted the meaning of her prophetic dreams? Dare he place such important decisions into her hands?
And then there was Sy-wen to consider. Only the magick of Ragnar’k could break the spell of the tentacled beast in her head. If he killed the dragon, would he be slaying all hope for her freedom?
Kast stood under the snapping sails as the Ravenswing swung slightly to port, ever chasing the swifter winds. He raced toward a fate that even prophecy could not penetrate. But as he stood there, he trusted his heart. He could not dismiss the certainty he had seen in Sheeshon’s eyes. He had sensed the truth the moment it had been spoken. He remained facing north, letting the cold winds wipe the tears from his cheek.
Ragnar’k must die.
A tremble passed over his form, terror and despair. At first, he thought it was just the emotions of his decision, but the sense of menace grew around him like the clutching arms of a demon. Then a scream arose from below, echoing through the planks.
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