Tyrus smiled sadly. “Who said you were my friend?”
Blyth smiled back, a pirate’s smile, but also a man’s. He gave Tyrus’ fingers a final squeeze. Then the light faded from his eyes, his smile dimmed, and he was gone.
After a long moment, Tyrus sighed and stood. “Be at peace, my friend.” Mycelle’s words came back to him. For me, live like a prince. He made a promise. For her, for Blyth, he would try his best.
Sy-wen still knelt as the pirate’s blood seeped to her knees. She had seen Ragnar’k lunge and snap Blyth up, lifting him off his feet, then throwing him down.
But worst of all, the dragon’s savage delight had washed into her, and it had felt like her own. Her heart had beat harder, surging with lusts, as the man was dropped bloody to her feet. A gift.
She covered her face, sobbing. Then she had watched the dragon petrify into granite. Still tied to Ragnar’k, she had heard him fading away, falling down a well without bottom, dragging Kast with him to a stony grave.
She rocked in place, unable to fathom the tragedy. She had lost everything.
Then Lord Tyrus touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sy-wen.” he said. “Kast saved us all. The dragon would’ve consumed all in its path.”
She nodded. “I know.” She stared up at the dragon, not knowing whether to curse or mourn Ragnar’k. His great muzzle lay almost on the floor, as if he were just reclining toward slumber. His eyes stared at her, no longer afire, just plain granite. She knew the giant had been sorely used, but she had yet to find her way to forgive him. Her grief was too raw.
Wennar spoke from a few steps away. “What do you make of this?” The d’warf general stood at the edge of the hole. “The fire pit’s gone cold. The rock’s not even warm.”
Tyrus stood. “I think the flames and the demon dragon were connected, some volcanic magick.” He nodded to the stone giant and held out a palm. “Feel how he still burns like a coal. The fires must have been drawn into him. The heat is fading, though—cooling as the granite sets.”
Wennar eyed the dragon, then waved them over. “Come see this.”
Tyrus reached to help Sy-wen up, but she shook her head. She did not have the strength to care. Though she lived, her heart was as much stone as the dragon and man she loved. “Leave me be,” she moaned.
He tugged her to her feet. Anger flared. She had to restrain herself from striking him, but he pulled her around to face him. “You live,” he said fiercely. “Kast and Ragnar’k gave their lives so you might live—so we all might live. You must keep moving.”
A sob escaped her. “How? How is that possible?”
“It’s not. Such grief is beyond anyone to bear. For now, just survive. Move one foot in front of the other.”
She began to protest, but Tyrus took her by the shoulders and walked her toward the pit. Her legs were leaden from her grief. She felt truly of stone.
Wennar looked upon her with concern. She shook out of Tyrus’ embrace. She would stand on her own.
“What did you want us to see?” Tyrus asked.
Wennar nodded to the pit. “If the flames and the dragon were one, then both must have been posted here for a reason—a guard dog at the gates, so to speak.”
Sy-wen glanced down the hole. Far below, molten rock glowed ruddily.
“Do you see those steps?” Wennar said, sweeping his ax toward the walls of the pit.
She glanced to the sides, her eyes widening. Along the inside of the pit, a spiraling staircase wound down into the depths.
Wennar spoke. “If a demon as fierce as the dragon was set to guard this path, then it must be important.”
Tyrus nodded. “It must lead into the heart of the mountain itself.”
“Perhaps to the lair of the Dark Lord.” Wennar gripped his ax in both meaty fists.
Sy-wen’s grief flamed into anger. Her hand fell to her belt, to the line of stunners fastened there. If she had to live, then here she found a reason to act: revenge. “We must descend,” she said. She looked to Tyrus and Wennar. Their faces were hard, their eyes flinty.
“How could we not?” Tyrus said. “It cost us much blood to open this gate. We won’t let those deaths go to waste.”
Wennar quickly organized his forces, leaving some behind to tend the wounded. Sy-wen walked back to the dragon. It crouched, steaming slightly in the damp air.
Tyrus kept near her shoulder. She sensed the sliver of guilt in the prince. “Maybe once this is over,” he said softly, “I can try freeing the dragon.”
Sy-wen took a long moment. How she wanted to latch onto this one hope. But she had seen the flames glowing from their eyes. Ragnar’k was too strong. And even if they could bring him back to flesh, Ragnar’k was an ill’guard. It would be near to impossible to reverse the corruption. And how many more deaths would it take for even the attempt?
“No,” she said, her voice cracking. “Ragnar’k arose from stone; let him return to his stony slumber. That’s where he belongs.”
“But Kast . . . he doesn’t belong in there.”
Sy-wen crossed to stand near the muzzle of the giant. She reached out with a hand. Was her love in there? Did he sense her? The heat from the granite was rapidly fading. She touched the scaled cheek of the dragon. It remained warm, as if he were still alive. As she drew her hand back, a burn suddenly flamed her fingers. She yanked her arm back, startled.
“What’s wrong?” Tyrus asked.
She leaned closer, examining the dragon. From both his wide nostrils, thin streams of steam wafted out, hard to discern against the black granite. She had accidentally scalded her fingers. She shook her head and straightened. “It’s just the last traces of the volcanic heat, steaming away.”
Tyrus nodded. “We should ready ourselves for the descent.”
Sy-wen turned to go, shaking her stinging fingers. She had scalded the same hand when she bathed Rodricko’s flower in the smoke of the volcanic crevice. That one act had ultimately led to this tragedy, but it had also unlocked the gate here. She glanced back to the dragon. All because of a child’s prophecy—Sheeshon’s dream had led them all here.
She pictured the young girl’s face, so bright with hope in this dark time. Even her simple love for the boy Rodricko was a beacon of the future, of lives to come. She touched the pocket of her sharkskin suit, where she still carried the bud from the boy’s bloom. She pulled the flower free. Its purple petals were still closed in a tight bud. She wondered when it would open; it had taken the volcanic smoke from the crevice to fully bloom Rodricko’s flower . . .
It had taken smoke! She whirled around.
Tyrus noted her sudden movement. “Sy-wen . . . ?”
She remembered the prince’s own words. Kast . . . he doesn’t belong in there. She strode back to the dragon. Was she too late?
“What are you doing?” Tyrus asked.
“Trusting in a child’s gift,” she answered. She thrust the bud into the smoky flow of steam from the dragon’s nostrils. Sy-wen ignored the burn. With the touch of petal to smoke, Sy-wen felt a jolt of energy rock through her. She gasped.
In her fingers, the bud bloomed, petals curling back, revealing a fiery heart.
Tyrus stood behind her. “What is this you attempt?”
Sy-wen trembled, suddenly less sure. She slowly pulled the flower from the stream, stepping back. As she withdrew, the smoke seemed to follow her, drawn to the bloom. She continued to retreat. Fingers of smoke clutched the bloom along with her, flowing back into a misty arm.
Tears flowed down her cheeks. Afraid to speak, she stepped back farther. With each step, she drew a figure from the smoke. She went slowly, allowing time for the form to take shape. But the stream from the dragon’s nostrils was rapidly diminishing. She sensed that if she didn’t pull the figure free before the smoke ceased, all would be lost. In her fear and hope, she stumbled.
The fragile figure dispersed, shaken by her bobbled arm.
“Careful,” Tyrus said at her back, now supporting her shoulder.
She held the flower steady, and the form grew sharper again. Tyrus walked her back, holding her. Before them, the clear shape of a man took form. She could not mistake the shadow. “Kast,” she moaned.
“A little farther,” Tyrus urged. “Hurry. The dragon goes cold.”
Sy-wen took another step, and suddenly the figure coalesced into perfect symmetry—a sculpture of Kast in smoke. Together they clutched the single bud between them. Sy-wen could not stop her legs from trembling. The beautiful sight was blurred by tears. “My love . . .”
He remained silent, a shadow.
She knew what she had to do. With her free hand, she reached to his smoky cheek. “I have need of you.” She poured all her love into those few words.
Magick ignited between them, but instead of calling forth a dragon, smoke turned to flesh under her touch. It spread out from her fingers, bringing substance and life out of nothingness. In moments, Kast stood before her, pale but whole.
“Sy-wen,” he mumbled, almost in disbelief.
She lowered her fingers, barely noting that his dragon tattoo was once again a plain seahawk. Ragnar’k was gone. She hugged the man who held her heart. “Don’t ever leave me.”
“Never again.” Her touch clearly assured him all was real. He wrapped her in his arms, lifting her high. They kissed, melting one into the other. They were only two now, but that was enough for anyone.
Kast followed Tyrus down the winding stairs. His hand remained firmly in Sy-wen’s. The steps were wide enough for four to walk abreast, but the heat and the sheer drop to the molten rock far below kept them walking in pairs, sticking close to the walls of the pit.
Ahead, Tyrus consulted in quiet tones with Wennar. Behind them marched a pair of pirates, one bright, the other dark, a North Coaster and a Steppeman. They had outfitted Kast with rough-fitting gear and a long sword. “Was my father’s,” Hurl had said with a wink. “Or someone’s father, at least.”
Beyond them stretched a long line of d’warf soldiers, fifty strong, winding back toward the distant rim of the pit.
Craning his neck, Kast could make out the stone form of Ragnar’k. During his time with the dragon, the border between them had burned away. He could remember the monster’s ravings as if they were his own. Still, Kast had also been able to sense the dragon’s true heart. For brief moments, he recognized the brightness under siege—the torment and the struggle. And now Ragnar’k was stone, frozen forever.
He turned away with a sigh. He remembered Sy-wen’s words as they set off down the stairs, tears in her eyes: We found Ragnar’k sleeping in stone. Perhaps it was his fate to return.
Kast took a deep breath, praying the dragon found peace.
Tyrus spoke from below, drawing him out of his thoughts. “A tunnel,” he called, pointing down.
Kast stepped nearer the lip. Heat seared his face as he searched the place where Tyrus pointed. Below, after another three turns around the pit, the stairs seemed to end at the mouth of a tunnel. He pulled back, sweat hot on his brow. So there was indeed an end to this stair. They had all feared it would simply wind down into the molten rock.
With a goal in sight, they increased their pace. The heat grew more intense with each step. The air seared the lungs, while the smell of sulfurous brimstone gagged the throat. They were all gasping and sweating as they made the final turn. Their march became a rush toward the tunnel—anything to escape the choking depths of the pit.
Kast supported Sy-wen under one arm. As a mer’ai, a creature of the cool sea, she wilted like kelp on a blistering beach. He hurried her toward the shelter of the tunnel, pressing Tyrus and Wennar onward. By the time they reached the tunnel’s mouth, he was carrying Sy-wen, her toes dragging across the stone.
They all tumbled into the dark depths of the passage, moving forward half blindly to make room for the others behind them. Vaguely Kast could make out Wennar struggling to free an oiled brand from his pack. Tyrus was already striking his flint, casting sparks in the gloom.
Still they moved into the darkness, miraculously cool after the intense heat. Sy-wen gasped, able to get her legs under her, though they still trembled.
Kast held her.
Light flared as the torch took the spark. Wennar lifted his brand high and marched on so the entire d’warf legion could push into the coolness.
Kast stared ahead. The tunnel seemed to stretch forever, a slightly curving, bored-out passage.
“A lava flow tube,” Wennar said. “I’ve seen its like before.” He continued deeper.
They followed, gaining strength from the cool interior. Even the air seemed less clogged with sulfurs and noxious fumes, almost freshening, though the tunnel headed downward, spiraling tighter, deeper under the mountain. By now they had to be below the level of the sea. This thought did not give him any comfort.
As they continued down the passage, Kast caught the wink of reflection ahead. Tyrus noted it, too. “Something sparks brightly.”
They marched forward, drawing closer. The reflected torchlight came from small cubbies, the size of ripe pumpkins, dug out of the walls. Inside were shallow stone basins, and each held a single small orb of red crystal.
“Heartstone,” Sy-wen said with amazement. As they stared, a drop fell from the roof of the cubby and struck the stone before them, giving off a tiny chime.
“Blood,” Kast said in horror.
Sy-wen leaned closer, then shook her head. “No, not blood. At least not blood like we know it. It’s liquid heartstone.” She reached to the stone.
“Sy-wen . . . no!”
She touched the seemingly bloody orb, then showed her finger. “These orbs are chunks of heartstone formed from the drips of the Land’s own blood.”
Tyrus spoke a few steps away, “No, they’re not orbs.” He pointed into the cubby before him.
Kast joined him. In this cubby, the orb had grown large enough that a certain shape was clear: oval, pointed more at the top where the drips fell atop it, wider at the base, taking the bowled shape of the basin. The shape was unmistakable.
“Eggs,” Sy-wen said, covering her mouth.
Kast nodded. “Harlequin Quail said he saw a hall full of such eggs. Here is where they must be formed, awaiting the Dark Lord’s touch to fill them with corruption and transform heartstone into ebon’stone.”
“But why hide this tunnel so diligently, guard it with the dragon?” Tyrus asked.
Kast pondered this question, glancing down the length of tunnel and its hundreds of cubbies. He turned to Wennar. “I need your men to gather all their weapons . . . everything . . . hammers, swords, axes, even arrowheads.”
“Why?” the d’warf general asked.
From farther down the tunnel, one of the d’warf scouts came running back. “There’s light ahead! The tunnel ends in another half league!”
Wennar turned to Kast, eyes questioning what to do.
Kast told him. And after a moment of arguing, Wennar grumbled about the needless delay but ordered his men to obey, stretching them along the length of the passages, positioning them before each cubby.
“Why are you doing this?” Sy-wen asked.
“Because it’s always been about heartstone.”
Once they were finished, Kast led them down the passage, which wound tighter and tighter. The cubbies disappeared, and plain rock covered the walls again. Soon a strong light appeared ahead, shining silver, down the tunnel.
Kast held everyone back while he crept ahead on his own. What lies beyond? He took a deep breath, readied himself, then shoved forward.
Standing stark in the light, sword in hand, he stared out into the chamber beyond. His eyes shot wide, and he bit back a gasp. Sweet Mother!
28
Elena knelt in the eye of a tempest as savage war raged around her. The bone army had risen again, battled back by Tol’chuk and Magnam, while Joach spun his staff, casting forth fonts of balefire.
“Hurry, Elena,” Er’ril urged. He crouched over her, sword at th
e ready. Harlequin guarded her other side, daggers glinting.
From the corner of an eye, she saw Thorn, in wolf form, snatched by dark tendrils writhing down from above. But Fardale leaped upward, sword in hand, a howl on his lips. He cut her free with a double-fisted swipe. They tumbled to the silver floor, where Mogweed helped them up, glancing warily around.
Behind her, she felt the backwash of Meric’s winds. The elv’in battered any skal’tum who tried to take wing, driving each back against the wall. Once there, Nee’lahn tangled legs and wings in a fist of roots, trapping them to the wall. Here on the lake of pure elemental energy, their powers remained strong.
But despite their best efforts, the group was near to being overwhelmed. They could not maintain this defense for long. In the center of the room, the blackguard figure of Ly’chuk loomed—and they had no hope of defeating the Dark Lord. They were unprepared for such a battle. He should not have been here. He was supposed to have been half a world away in the volcanic crèches of Blackhall.
Elena’s mind spun with terror. Their only hope now was to retreat to the tunnels and regroup. But to achieve even that, they needed her magick. And the Dark Lord stood square in the single spear of moonlight in the room.
Another way was needed.
Her pale hands shook as she struggled the Blood Diary from out of her cloak and placed the tome on the shiny floor. Its gilt rose shone with blinding radiance, reflecting the brightness of the midsummer full moon.
“We haven’t much time,” Er’ril urged her again.
Taking a deep breath, she flung open the book. The pages inside vanished, opening a window into a night sky of dense stars and billowing radiant gases: the Void. From this otherworldly landscape, a river of brilliance shot forth, pouring onto this world. A form took shape, hovering before her.
Er’ril helped Elena to her feet.
Moonstone sculpted into a woman, wispy with swirls of light. She was as bright as the Dark Lord was black. Eyes glanced to Elena, glowing with the same starlight as the Void.
“Cho,” Elena said.
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