There was no response, just a narrowed stare.
“Five . . . four . . .” He prayed that by working together, with two halves of one mind trying to cast opposite spells, that a break in the stalemate would be achieved. “. . . three . . . two . . .” But what would be the result? He feared there was as much chance of making things worse as better. But he had no choice. “. . . one . . .”
He pointed his hand at the statue.
For a moment, nothing changed. The stone figure stood dead still.
Then a tremble began at the fingers and toes, a palsy that spread up the arms and legs and struck the torso with a shock like a bolt of lightning. The body spasmed, rocking. The head was thrown back. The mouth stretched open in a silent scream.
The fae-nee fled from the display, retreating to the walls. They couldn’t leave, but they didn’t want to stay.
Tyrus suspected a similar war going on in the stone figure before him, locked in a posture of pure agony and torment.
A gasp escaped the throat. “Run . . . Tyrus, run . . .”
For the first time, he knew he was hearing the true voice of the man who had once lived here: the healer. Whirling about, he dashed to the door and fled blindly through the dark halls.
A scream burst behind him; then the ground shook. An acrid wafting of sulfur flew up from behind him. And still, he ran . . .
Tyrus spotted the exit ahead, a square of gloom set in a world of shadow. He raced to it and dove out into the open air. He didn’t stop. Some instinct, a quivering of tiny hairs on his body, made him fly down the last of the slope. He reached the sickly stream and leaped with all the strength in his legs.
As he flew, he glanced behind him and saw a horrifying sight. A gray wave of petrifaction spread out from the slope, changing grass to stone, bush to granite. It spread out in all directions.
Then Tyrus hit the opposite bank of the stream. He took the brunt on his shoulder and rolled. Crying out in panic, he flung himself up and away, sure the magick would overwhelm him in a heartbeat.
But it didn’t.
He turned and saw that the explosion of petrifying magick had halted at the stream, dying away.
Panting, he stared without blinking. The convulsion of energies had subsided. Beyond the stagnant green stream, the landscape was a sculpture of stone. He had not expected such a backwash of magick.
He cupped his mouth and called across the stream. “Magus! Raal!”
There was no answer. Chewing his lip, he debated his choices here. Nothing now blocked him from leaving. The spell was gone from his body; he was flesh and blood again. But what of the others? What of the d’warf army?
He grabbed up a handful of muddy reeds from the bank and tossed them over the stream. They landed on the stone soil, but remained green. Whatever magick had been spent here, it had ended.
Using some stepping stones in the brook, Tyrus crossed the waters and carefully tested the flinty soil himself. Nothing happened. Satisfied, he crept back to the shattered doorway. He called again, but still there was no answer. He listened for any telltale scrape or patter of feet. Were the fae-nee still about?
Not a single sound echoed out to him. He balked at what he had to do, but he gathered his resolve. The sun was almost gone, and he’d rather discover what lay within while there was at least some daylight. He reentered the home.
Straining his senses, he retraced his steps to the hearth room. Stopping outside, he saw that the torch had blown out. The only light came from the broken window.
He slid forward, creeping on his toes. Tyrus found himself trembling, worn from the panic and terror of the last half day. He stepped into the room.
What he found there stunned him. The fae-nee were still there, but now they were all stone again, frozen in place like some macabre tableau.
But the stone figure was gone. In its place, curled on the floor, was a man, as much flesh and blood as himself. He was blond like any Northerner, with a shadow of beard. A young man.
Tyrus hurried forward. To his surprise, he found the fellow still breathing. He knelt and touched his shoulder. “Magus?”
The man’s eyes were open, but he didn’t seem to see. His lips moved and slowly sounds emerged. “I . . . I killed them.”
Tyrus glanced to the stone figures. “Maybe it’s best.”
“No, not these stillborn monsters. Before . . .” The eyes closed with unspoken pain. “I was dying, suffocating in ash and smoke. I panicked . . . called my children to me . . .” There was a long silence, then a whisper. “They came because they were scared, frightened like any child seeking the consolation of a father. Blind to their love and trust, I ripped the very life from them in my fear . . . in my fight for life. The last was poor Raal. He saw me devour the others to keep myself alive, and still he didn’t leave. He came into my arms without protest. He leaned his cheek against mine. And I stole the life from him.”
Tyrus now understood what had ripped the man’s mind in two: guilt.
“And for what?” the figure finished. “To be entombed in ash and walk the world. To turn all I touched to cold stone like my heart. It was too much.” His shoulders shook, but no tears flowed.
“Do not blame yourself. It was a monstrous time. The birth of Blackhall in your own domain would fray any man’s heart.”
A hand reached up and grasped his fingers. No words of thanks were uttered, but they were understood. The two of them remained like this for several breaths.
Then the light-haired man spoke again, faintly. “It is time to follow the path I was meant to journey long ago. And as I die, so do my spells.” His lips stopped moving. “But first . . .” Tyrus felt a jolt through his hand as the man’s life left him. “. . . a gift.”
He stared down at the pale face, still and quiet, but no longer a statue. In death, the Magus had found his way back to life.
Tyrus stood. With a sad shake of his head, he departed this tomb and sought the last sunshine left in the day.
Standing in the doorway, he watched the stony landscape melt back to grass, dirt, and scrabbly bushes. The Magus’ spell was indeed unraveling. As he stared at the hopeful sight, he prayed the same was true elsewhere. With the Magus gone, would his friends and the frozen d’warf army be freed?
There was only one way to find out.
Tyrus stepped through the rubble of an oaken door. As he did so, he spotted the small dandyflower growing amid the debris. Like the grass, it had also faded from stone back to green leaves and yellow petals. Tyrus reached down, plucking it free.
As he did so, the stem grew black, then the leaves, then the petals. In a heartbeat, he held only a granite replica of the flower. His eyes widened with horror.
Shocked, he dropped the flower. It shattered at his toes.
Only then did he remember the last words of the Magus.
But first . . . a gift.
Sy-wen swept through the foggy night atop Ragnar’k. She closed her eyes to savor the freedom of the open sky. Earlier, she had been dragged from belowdecks spitting and cursing, still possessed by the wickedness in her skull. But as before, Kast had called her forth enough to release the dragon.
Atop her mount, united by the bonded magick, she was her own self again. And Master Edyll had told her about the malignant boat they followed—the ship of bone.
The possessed, led by Hunt, raced the foul creation toward the fleet, intending to seed their evil among the ships. They had to be stopped.
She and Ragnar’k were to scout the ship and prepare a plan of attack, while the Ravenswing kept high among the clouds, awaiting her signal to dive down and attack. Both Bloodrider and elv’in warriors readied for the assault.
Ragnar’k banked on a wingtip and swept seaward.
Sy-wen opened her eyes. Below she spotted the pale ship sweeping through the waves. Distantly she swore she heard screams carried on the winds. It was the wake of fear left by the ship, a palpable evil. Muffled by the magick of her dragon, it was dulled and blunted. Still
, a small tremble passed over her skin.
Bad ship, Ragnar’k grumbled, sensing her heart.
Sy-wen didn’t argue. The foul craft, its crew, its cargo—all of it had to be destroyed before it reached the fleet. But she had friends aboard the ship, as innocent as she herself. She pictured Hunt, his broad, easy smile, his love and concern for Sheeshon.
A twinge of guilt traced through her. Why was she allowed to live while the others were sentenced to a watery grave?
The dragon swept over the boat and circled back. No alarm was raised. The ebony scales of Ragnar’k blended with the dark night. Sy-wen studied the empty deck. There was not even a steersman. It was ominous to see a ship in full sail without a single sailor on deck—especially in these treacherous seas.
Around the ship, mountains of ice rode the currents, while other sections of the sea boiled and spat with searing steam. To sail such waters blindly was to invite certain death. But still the ship sped on, leaving a wake of screams.
Spied upon this close, the leathery sails were clearly skin, stretched and stitched with sinew. The rigging appeared damp with blood and gore. The skeleton at the prow held up bony arms toward the skies, pleading. The skull’s mouth was frozen open in a silent wail.
Sy-wen felt bile rising in her throat at the sight of it. It seemed mad to board such a craft, but they must. This den of evil had to be destroyed.
“Circle back to the Ravenswing,” she whispered, sending her desire through her thoughts as much as her words. “We’ll attack when the moon is fully risen.”
Ragnar’k beat his wings to spiral back up toward the waiting ship. Movement below drew her attention. She focused back on the dread craft, where a hatch opened and someone stepped to the deck, face raised, searching.
Hide, she urged her mount.
Ragnar’k swept into one of the steamy fog banks, vanishing inside. All sign of the ship was lost below. The world itself vanished in a cloud of warm haze. Water beaded her skin, smelling of brimstone.
Sy-wen shivered despite the warmth and prayed they hadn’t been spotted. For that brief moment, as the sentinel below had raised his face to the skies, she had recognized Hunt.
Catching an updraft, Ragnar’k flew high and cleared the fog bank. Starlight and moonlight shone brighter. The dragon’s wings glistened with jeweled droplets. With a final shudder, she left the terror of the ghost ship behind and turned her face to the open skies.
Half a league away, she spotted the Ravenswing, its iron keel ruddy in the night. She directed Ragnar’k back home. They dared not wait any longer before waging their assault. Whether Hunt had spotted them or not, he was clearly wary.
Ragnar’k swept over to the elv’in ship, drawing abreast. He swept along as Sy-wen called to the ship’s captain and pointed toward the seas below. “Now! As we planned, but we must go now!”
Captain Lisla acknowledged her with a wave. Other elv’in stood behind her, along with a tight group of Bloodriders. All were armed.
The captain yelled to her crew. Foresails were reefed, and lines were hauled with practiced precision. Lisla stood midship, her figure limned in energy. She cast her arms skyward, then swept them apart and down.
The Ravenswing, an extension of her body and spirit, bucked up, then dove steeply toward the fog-shrouded ocean. Its keel shone brighter as it dropped away.
Ragnar’k tucked his wings and followed, dropping like a stone from the skies. Sy-wen leaned against the dragon’s hot neck, her feet clamped tight in the flaps on either side. Wind ripped at her, threatening to tear her from her perch. Despite the danger, delight surged through her. In her heart, a dragon roared a matching pleasure. The sensations blurred, and it became impossible to tell where dragon ended and rider began.
Ragnar’k passed the diving ship, and the pair broke through the clouds, the ocean spreading before them. Blue ice glinted against the black sea. Plumes of steam rose like ghostly towers of some lost city. And amid the wild ocean, a single ship scudded over the waves.
Go! she urged. Do not let them escape.
Never, my bonded . . . never!
Behind the sending of the dragon, she felt the heart of another. She touched that smaller heart and felt a pride and fierceness that matched a hundred dragons. Sy-wen smiled into the winds. Whatever came of this night, for this moment they were all together.
Sy-wen sensed the Ravenswing sweeping in behind her. She did not slow or glance over a shoulder. It was now or never.
Ragnar’k dove toward the pale ship. Whether screams still filled its sail, Sy-wen could not say. Winds howled around her, blanketing her. The sails of the other ship swelled as the dragon swooped down; its bone deck grew wide.
It was not empty.
As she had feared, Hunt had roused the ship. But it was too late to turn back.
“Take them down!” she shouted into the wind.
Ragnar’k was an arrow pointed at the center of the deck. Sy-wen ducked lower. The dragon’s scales were a hearth burning under her. At the last moment, his wings shot out, cupping the wind. Clawed legs swung forward to land.
Men on deck fled from the onslaught, lest they be crushed.
Ragnar’k roared as he smote the deck, scattering all from his path. Claws dug into the bony planks. Sy-wen was thrown forward by the impact, but she was held fast by her mount. She crouched up as one wing lashed out and snapped the bone of the foremast, toppling it seaward.
As the possessed fled the dragon, she glanced back and saw the Ravenswing sweep over the boat. Ropes dropped from hatches in the bow and stern. Ladders unfurled, thrown over the rails.
From the hatches, elv’in dropped headfirst down the ropes with one leg twisted in the lengths as support. They looked to be plunging to their deaths, but at the last moment they slowed, then flipped to land catlike on the deck, swords ready.
Following them down the ladders, the Bloodriders clambered and slid with equal alacrity. They leaped to the deck, bellowing war cries, armed with axes and swords.
Then the two forces met. The possessed fought like wild beasts. Once Dre’rendi themselves, they were skilled fighters; now, directed by the creatures inside them, they used tooth and nail as readily as their blades.
Screams rose all around. Sails snapped as if in a tempest.
By the stern, a line of archers dropped to their knees and shot flaming arrows skyward, peppering the underside the Ravenswing. Fires ignited, but buckets of water were cast upon the small blazes before they could spread.
Around the dragon, the fighting grew fierce. Sy-wen sat in the eye of the storm. The dragon’s wings protected her, while Ragnar’k snatched any of the enemy who came too near. Their broken bodies were tossed overboard.
Across the deck, blood washed over bone.
From her perch, Sy-wen was the only one to notice the transformation. The bloody bones of the deck rippled. Leathery flesh grew as if fed by the blood and gore. Gasping, she realized the fight was feeding the foul creation, bringing it from bone to life.
She yelled across the deck. “Beware! The ship comes alive!”
But the sounds of battle muffled her warning. She watched an elv’in step on a patch of transformed deck. Under his feet, a maw opened, lined by sharp teeth. Caught by surprise, he fell into the waiting jaws, arms flailing. As he slid down, the teeth clamped shut, biting through his chest with a crunch of bone. He didn’t even have time to scream. Few noted his fate.
The others must be warned! she cried to her dragon. Already the spread of flesh swept over the decks.
Be ready! Ragnar’k answered.
The dragon’s chest swelled under her; then he stretched his neck and roared with all his might. The cry split the sounds of battle.
Sy-wen did not wait. In the moment of stunned silence that followed, she screamed to be heard. “Beware the ship! It comes to life under you!”
Several of the combatants stared down at the decks. Others retreated from the flow of flesh.
Then the fighting resumed. Th
e tides of battle turned against them. The possessed fought with renewed vigor, aided now by the ship itself. Jagged mouths appeared everywhere, snaking out with fleshy tongues to drag attackers to their doom.
A horn sounded from above, the call to retreat.
Men leaped to ropes and ladders. The possessed attempted to follow but were kicked off or cut free. The Ravenswing lurched away.
Ragnar’k spread his wings and leaped skyward to follow. But the blood-fed ship was not ready to let them escape. The transformation swept up the mast, changing bone into a clawed limb.
Without momentum or the speed to escape, Ragnar’k was snatched from the skies, gripped by a hind leg. Sy-wen was jarred from her seat and flung sideways. But before she could fall to the monstrous deck below, her left leg was wrenched, twisting her knee savagely. Crying out, she hung by one ankle from the dragon, her foot still locked in one flap.
Ragnar’k snaked his neck around and bit into the clawed grip that held him. Bone broke. Spouts of black blood ran down the mast, but still the claw held, dragging them back to the deck.
Then a bloom of flame exploded from the ship below, shooting high into the sky.
Sy-wen was baffled by the fire until she saw a pair of barrels topple past her. They struck the deck and burst with fiery blasts. She craned up and saw the Ravenswing above them. More barrels were being shoved out hatches to bombard the monstrous ship.
Attacked anew, the claw weakened enough for Ragnar’k to break free. But the dragon was off-kilter, too close to the deck. He fell before he could get his wings out to catch himself. He struck the deck hard, managing at the last moment to roll and swing Sy-wen above him to keep from crushing her under his own weight.
Bonded!
“I’m safe,” she gasped out, swinging to resume her seat. Then an arrow struck her shoulder. The impact more than the pain surprised her. She sprawled across the dragon’s neck.
Ragnar’k, sharing her senses, roared in fury.
Sy-wen turned to see Hunt toss aside his bow and leap atop the dragon’s back, his sword raised above his head.
She tried to raise an arm in defense, but pain from the arrow dimmed her vision. The sword plunged toward her.
Wit'ch Star (v5) Page 37
