Her reflection shimmered and shifted until it was gone completely, leaving a deep, rolling view of a stormy sea in the glass. In fantastic fashion, the swells and windblown foam all sped in motion to an impossible rate, but they were moving backward. The foam streams blew into the wave tops, and the white caps rolled and faded into the cobalt mass.
Suddenly, a timber broke the surface. A heartbeat later, half a ship was jutting out of the sea. Beyond it, yellow lightning crackled in strobe-like fashion. Dark, swirling clouds churned and roiled with unnatural speed. The wrath of Nepton was great that night, and seeing it again made Aserica Rime shudder at his godly power.
A dark-haired man stood tall at the bow spirit, a finely carved giant’s head. Beneath the man, the word Foamfollower was carved in darkly scripted letters. Boats came bobbing up to the deck. They were hauled up to the racks and secured. Men crawled over the sides or shot up head first out of the water until the ship was finally righted.
Why had it gone down? What —
Pulling away from the vessel, just above the roaring waves, was a sleek, spade-shaped sea ray.
It was a giant storm devil. A spater-ray, she reckoned from her lore. It was attracted to the lightning and had leapt, crashing into the Foamfollower’s hull. As the ship traveled the sea backward, eating its own wake, Aserica Rime wondered what one of her sons had done to earn such a pointless ending.
The ship leaned as it tacked up and over more slowly rolling swells through much more favorable weather. The sun rose and fell, and then rose and fell again. Other smaller storms came and went. She was prepared to watch all of her child’s life as it peeled away from his death in her reflecting glass, but she didn’t need to watch long, for the ship had found a port--Flotsam, she thought--on the Isle of Zyth. A golden-haired Zythian woman backed swiftly down the docks to the ship. She turned and waved and pushed a painful-looking tear into her eye. The ship moved to the dock then. Captain Saint Elm skipped backward up a plank and almost fell into the woman’s embrace.
With a wave of her hand, Aserica Rime slowed, and then stopped, the image in the mirror.
She studied the Zythian girl—no, she was a woman. She had to remind herself of the long lives with which the gods had cursed all of the races of Zwar.
Her finger traced the woman’s belly, and it all became clear. She shuddered again, for the odds of birthing a blooded warlock through a generation gap were astronomical at best. But the odds of that child being half-Zythian were impossible. Only divine intervention could have managed to keep such a conflicted and powerful child alive. Such intervention meant that this trained Zythian warlock had a destiny, and most likely unimaginable power.
He was coming for her. He would try to steal her knowledge, take her life, and then assume her place.
It wouldn’t do. It just wouldn’t do.
“Calm yourself,” the minotaur said. “You are trembling and aglow with your emotion.”
She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes, letting the frozen image on her mirror start forward again. She turned away before her slowly forming reflection could remind her of her rotted body, but not before recognizing the glimmer of fear in her dark eyes.
“Go fetch me a sacrifice, Clytun,” she ordered. “Bring her to the Altar of Pain. I must seek our master in this. Divine hands have played a part in this thing’s survival. And I have a feeling that our stygian lord will relish thwarting them.”
Later, in a different sort of chamber, in the heights of one of Rimehold’s towers, the Hoar Witch slid a razor-sharp blade slowly across a pixie girl’s stomach. The young Spritan screamed, but the sound was muffled by the little wad of dirty linen shoved in her mouth. Her wrists were bound by silver chains that were anchored in the crimson-stained block of ice upon which she lay. Her glittery blue eyes were wide open with fear, and her body was convulsing wildly. Her wings were a ruin, one fouled and bent completely, the other a bloody mess of parchment-thin tissue. She looked like she wanted to die, and she was begging the Lords of Fae to grant her that single boon with all the will she had left in her.
From above, the moonlight transferred down through the crystalline structure, illuminating the rest of the palace in a jaundiced glow. Aur’s moon itself was mostly hidden by her heavy lid.
Aserica Rime poured a dollop of liquid on the pixie’s new wound and cackled with glee when the stuff started to corrode. Just as the pixie was on the brink of losing consciousness, she convulsed violently.
The dark one himself played a part in granting the fairy girl’s quick death after that. He had been enjoying the torture from afar, through the Hoar Witch’s senses, and when her thoughts had drifted from the task at hand to the half-Zythian warlock, he commanded her in such a way as to push her anger and fear to the brink.
Aserica Rime plunged the dagger deep into the pixie’s heart, sending her soul-shadow speeding away from the evil place. Clytun sank into the corner and crouched there.
“He ordered me to take in and teach the warlock.” She spat, and for the first time felt her own uncertainty. “The bastard thing is coming here to seek out its heritage. The dark one says we must kill off its companions. I can tell, as clearly as I can smell the dead fae’s stench, that either I or the man-witch will die in the process.”
She shook her head and let out a slow sigh. “It seems that the dark one is trying to replace me, and this will never do.”
“You don’t need him,” Clytun said. “You are a power unto yourself. You have crossed the dark one’s designs before.”
“He was not pleased with us then, Clytun, I assure you.” A plan was already forming in her wicked mind.
“Maybe not,” the minotaur admitted. “But driving away the Trigon was unavoidable. It had come down to us or them.”
“Unavoidable it was, Clytun.” She nodded. “Unavoidable it was.”
Chapter Twenty
Her name was Copper Sally and she worked out in the alley,
and she was always ready for a go.
The Captain brought her to his cabin, and like a dog his tail was wagging,
until he saw she had a bigger pole.
-- a sailor song
Vanx and his companions didn’t venture any closer to the lake but instead skirted around it on the lip of the valley’s southern rim. The island was in sight the bulk of the day, and Vanx’s curiosity kept wandering to the towers and who might have built them. He would have enjoyed exploring them, if he weren’t being pulled elsewhere by some insistent feeling. In fact, he marked the island in his mind as a place he would visit, if and when he made it out of Rimehold alive.
They put the lake behind them and the terrain became steeper, rockier, and far more slippery. Every one of them was forced to concentrate on the loose, treacherous path that Chelda chose for them. The big gargan girl was looking for a suitable place to stop for the night, when Poops exploded into a ferocious warning bark that set Vanx’s spine on fire and caused Xavian to gasp out loud.
Weapons came up quickly, for Vanx and Chelda had been carrying their bows strung and ready in hopes of killing something fresh for their supper. The crossbow Brody had aimed at the woods wasn’t so much for game, though. The ever-prepared man had been sleeping with the weapon loaded and in reach since they’d left the ramma rabble.
Xavian positioned himself behind Vanx, and Vanx heard him quietly mouthing the words to a spell.
Gallarael unshouldered her backpack. She moved like an animal: quick, deliberate, and sure. Vanx hoped she didn’t shift forms prematurely. It might only be a group of hunters that had spooked Poops. But if it was the Shangelak, or another threat, he hoped she was ready to change and help defend them.
Poops darted toward a thick tangle of piled scree at the edge of a line of pine trees. Vanx could smell the dog’s alarm. He could feel Poops’s irritation in his own goose-pimpled skin. Poops barked again, then lunged into the tangle. Over Poops’s savage growling came a steady flurry of heavy, crashing footfalls. It was perfect
ly clear to Vanx’s ears, but whatever was making the sound was receding swiftly down the slope, not drawing nearer to them.
The deep crack of a tree limb breaking was followed by the shrill screech of an owl.
“Whatever it was, it bolted away,” he told them.
“I hope we’re not sleeping here,” said Xavian. “I will hike until the moon is high and hold my tongue the whole way to avoid whatever that might have been.”
“’Might have been that Shagenlak Chelda’s folks told us about.” Brody’s tone was serious.
“It’s Shangelak,” Chelda snapped. Then to Xavian she said, “You couldn’t hold your complaining for even a hundred paces on the easier stretches, wizard.” She forced a nervous grin. “But I doubt it was the same thing that attacked an entire village and a full hunting party. It was probably a bull elk or a young bear, unless the changeling beast is afraid of dogs.”
Poops had a sheepish look about him when he eased back and stood by Vanx’s side. Since he had no tail to wag, his whole rear end wiggled back and forth.
“It’s all right, Poops.” Vanx knelt and gave the dog’s ears a good scratch. “Being roused over naught is better than being caught off guard, every time.”
“Agreed,” Brody said as he eased over and gave the heavily bundled dog a pat on the back.
“We’ve got to make a camp soon,” Chelda said. “I suppose the wizard is right. So, we should push on and get out of this area, just in case.”
“Please,” Xavian said from where he was helping Gallarael get her pack straps situated back on her shoulders.
No more than a thousand paces around the bending path, chance, and the darkening sky, dictated their resting place for the night. An uncovered notch in a rock face they came upon looked like it had been used as a camp a few times before. Though it offered no great protection from the snow, its open side faced the trees, which fell sharply away. The immediate area was relatively level and clear of debris, and furthermore, there was no deep, dark, spider-concealing crack at the back.
Brody used what little light was left to them and trooped bravely down into the trees. He scrounged up a good bit of deadfall, and soon a real fire was roaring. The flames reflected off of the ice and the granite walls around them, lighting the nook well. It gave them the impression, at least, that they were safe from all of the flame-fearing beasts of the wild.
Gallarael helped Xavian boil some mash meal and added bits of dried venison they’d gotten from the gargans. The fare was plain but warm and filling. Everyone was pleased when Vanx offered to make one of the last pots of kaffee that they had left.
Above, the cloudy sky opened up to reveal a bright, star-spattered sheet of blue-black wonder. Looking out from their niche, they could easily see over the treetops. The sharp, jagged majesty of the Bitterpeaks was aglow with silvery moonlight. It all sparkled like some crystal fairytale landscape. It seemed to Vanx as if they were near the top of an alien world, for what color the moon stole from his vision, it gave back with breathtaking shimmers and sparkles. Only the occasional hoot of an owl, with the frequent, whistling call of some distant beast, could be heard over the popping pinewood fire.
In a reverent whisper, Chelda broke the silence, and for once her voice held none of its haughty, pride-filled disdain.
“When we reach Great Vale tomorrow, the reception might not be all that warm,” she started hesitantly. “We will be treated well, but my father and I parted in a very bad way. He’d wanted a son and raised me as such.”
That she was having trouble finding her words was plain, but when Gallarael slid in beside her and gave her a sisterly hug, it seemed to ease her anxiety.
“When it came time to be a woman,” Chelda went on, “I held onto the masculine ways he taught me. He blamed my choices for my mother’s failing health, and when she passed on, he swore that I had broken her heart.”
“Oh, Chelda.” Gallarael squeezed her closer. “That’s horrible.”
“You know you didn’t,” was all Vanx could think to say. His own mother had died. He couldn’t imagine feeling responsible for her death.
“No, no. She did die of a broken heart.” Chelda’s voice was barely audible now and thick with emotion. “My father broke it when he didn’t accept me for who I am. My mother loved me, I’ve no doubt. I guess all mothers love their daughters, but mine held no judgment. He and I have never forgiven each other, is all.” She hid her face in her hands then.
When no one spoke for a long time, she added, in a tone a bit closer to her normal voice, “I just wanted you to know what to expect.”
“So we will be there on the morrow, then?” Xavian tried to change the direction of the conversation.
Chelda nodded. “If this upthrust of rock wasn’t behind us, we would be able to see the ridge of the Great Vale Rim. We might be all day getting there, but by nightfall, for whatever it’s worth, I’ll be home.”
The night watches were uneventful, save for Vanx’s. He couldn’t sleep well, so he relieved Brody and Xavian not long after they’d relieved Chelda and Gallarael. They objected at first, but Vanx insisted, and the two weary men found their tent.
Vanx let the fire burn low and put it behind him so that he could see out over the landscape without the flames’ glare agitating his vision. Poops lay down at his side and worried the bone Vanx had been carrying for him. For a long time, the two of them sat and enjoyed the splendor of the night.
Sometime later, the underlying sound around them suddenly hushed. Vanx and Poops both noticed it immediately, but after standing down the slope, even moving about to get a better viewing angle into the trees, Vanx saw and heard nothing that gave him pause.
It was as he was moving back into the firelight that Poops let out a long, low growl and sent a tendril of warning through him.
Glancing quickly at the dog, he saw that Poops was looking skyward. He craned his neck and saw immediately what had gotten Poops’s hackles up. It wasn’t a definite shape circling high over them, but it was a dark, shadowy thing that blotted out the stars as it soared on the wind. It moved like a circling hawk but was far larger. Just how large was impossible to judge at the moment, though.
Vanx left the camp to get himself completely away from the fire’s glow. He didn’t go far. He would never leave his companions unguarded, but he went far enough that his eyes began to pick up details of the thing soaring soundlessly overhead.
To his best recollection of creature lore, it was some sort of griffin, only it wasn’t a winged lion with an eagle’s head. Its body looked feline, though, like a large, well-muscled mountain cat. Its head seemed wolfish, with a long snout and laid back pointed ears that could have been horns. Its wings were thin, for Vanx could sometimes make out the stars through their membranes. He decided its hide was probably gray scales, with a sheen that allowed it to blend with the clouds or the snow. He guessed it to be a little larger than a full-grown haulkatten and most likely the same creature that had been terrorizing the gargans.
The thing was purposefully circling a very specific area, but there was no way to know if it was after some unwary prey down the mountainside, or if it was the campfire that it was drawn to. The idea that it might be some witch-born, demon-beast flitted through his brain, too, but the notion quickly fizzled out and he discounted it. He doubted that the fabled Hoar Witch was still alive, never mind worrying about his modest little group’s presence this far away from Rimehold. But even though the goddess had told him otherwise, he wouldn’t completely discount the possibility that it was Aserica Rime reaching out to him and urging him near. Luckily, by the next morning, the thing was gone.
“Its scales and wings would explain why it simply vanished in the forest,” Brody offered. “If it can fly, it will be very hard for the hunters to track.”
“Why would a winged beast fall through the ice into Three Tower Lake?” Xavian asked.
“Well, there is that.” Vanx shrugged. “That sort of puts a hole in my bucket, doesn’t it
?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” the mage pondered aloud. “It could be the beast leapt into the air in flight. They said it was snowing rather harshly that day, and terrified people sometimes confuse things in their minds. Or it could be more formidable than anyone thinks, Vanx. The thing could possess some magical ability to do what the hunters said it did. It might be able to turn into a mist and simply vanish.”
“It might be able to make a fargin Parydonian mushroom pie, too,” Brody jested gruffly. “Or imitate a stubble-headed mage whose skullcap has worn the growth off of his crown.”
“What would you say it was, then?” Gallarael asked.
“Pardon my mouth, milady.” Brody fumbled for words, probably thinking his swearing had offended her. Vanx knew his mentioning of mushrooms had gotten her ire up, not his cursing. “It was most likely some mountain beast looking for food or protecting its territory… nothing for us to get overexcited about.”
Chelda was starting to reply, and Xavian had his mouth halfway open, when Vanx hushed them all, as if the beast were swooping in that very moment. When he saw that they were startled into being on guard, he let out a heartfelt laugh.
“Enough bickering,” he said with narrowed brows. “We have to get moving or we won’t make Great Vale by darkfall.”
Vanx had to fight to keep his expression serious. Every one of them was looking at him as if they were children being shamed for behaving badly.
Chapter Twenty-One
I’m off to make a fool of a fool
and a fool of a king as well.
Only a fool can fool a fool,
But with a king’s wits who can tell?
-- The King of Fools
Throughout the day’s travel, Vanx couldn’t shake the feeling that the strange Shangelak beast was watching them from overhead. The sky had grown blustery again and was an ash-gray blanket, shaking loose only a light snow on them in fits and starts. If the thing was up there, Vanx decided, it was having no trouble staying out of sight. The steady wind all but died away as they headed through the heavily forested valley below the Great Vale Ridge, but when they started up out of the denser woods, the wind found a way through every gap in their furs. Only Chelda and Gallarael seemed oblivious to the cold.
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