Ahead, the black water lay flat as glass. The air hung heavy with the promise of rain. Clouds covered what little starlight had shone. The darkness was almost complete.
Brant sank down next to her, dropping to one knee. He hated to disturb her. She plainly wanted a moment alone to settle her thoughts, but what he had come to suspect could not wait.
“Dart-”
Her face lowered farther.
“I’m sorry to bother you.”
A hand wiped at her cheek. “What is it?” Her voice was tremulous with tears.
He began to straighten, suddenly regretting his intrusion. “I’m sorry. Perhaps another-”
She sniffed, once and hard, clearing her throat. A hand reached and touched his shoulder. “No. What is it?” A bit of firmness returned to her voice. She wiped her cheeks with a corner of her sleeve and shook back her hood, facing him.
His voice died for a moment, struck silent as the firelight brushed across her damp face, glistening and warm.
“Brant…?”
He blinked and swallowed. Finally he settled beside her. “I wanted to ask you something away from others. I’m probably wrong, but it was something you said a while back. Up in the flippercraft as we approached the Eighth Land. When you asked to see my stone.”
Brant offered his hand, opening his palm. The stone rested there, unthreaded again from its cord. He’d felt its warmth as he had neared Dart. Pupp must be close, watching with his ghostly eyes. It was one of the reasons he had come. He had to be certain.
Pupp…the sword…
A single line furrowed between her brows as she stared at his stone.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“You said something up in the flippercraft,” he mumbled. “About the stone. I dismissed it before. But after what we just heard…”
She looked up at him a bit more firmly, hearing the hope in his voice. Even his hand trembled a bit. If he was right, it could make his father’s death mean something…make all of this mean something.
But was he right?
He remembered Dart’s description of his stone.
It’s beautiful…the way it catches every bit of light.
Brant also remembered his words to his father when he first picked up the stone.
It’s only a rock.
That was what everyone else saw, just a dull, drab stone, something of no great acclaim, especially as Brant kept silent about where it had come from. A secret between father and son.
Now Dart, a girl with sharper eyes, saw something more.
Was it what he suspected-hoped for?
“All I see is a plain black stone,” Brant explained. “Dull and wan.”
Her eyes flicked to him, confusion shining. “But it’s not dull-”
“I know. You see something else.” He held out his hand, trembling. “Show me what no one else sees. Like Pupp. Or the sword.”
She knew then. He saw the understanding in her eyes. Not everything, not yet.
“My blood…”
He nodded.
Before either could move, a shout erupted from steps away. They both turned to find Lorr running straight at them, bearing aloft a fiery torch. “Get back! Get away from there!”
Brant’s fingers clenched over the stone. He leaned closer to Dart, ready to protect her. But he saw the wyld tracker’s eyes weren’t on them-he looked beyond them.
Toward the water.
Brant twisted around.
Dark figures stood out in the lake, some still rising out of the black water, though not a ripple was stirred, as if the dark flood was mere shadow. Closer still, two dark shapes were already sliding toward Dart and Brant. Again not raising any wave by their passage, wading out of shadows.
Black ghawls.
A dozen strong.
Brant and Dart scrambled back, but the sand was loose and their feet kicked more than gained.
Then Lorr was there, leaping over them with the agility of a spring deer. He splashed into the water’s edge, flaming brand before him, warding against the pair that were closest.
“Here, Master Brant!” Malthumalbaen bellowed behind him. “By the fire!”
Brant finally gained his feet and hauled Dart up with him. They stumbled toward the waiting fire.
Out in the water, knee-deep, Lorr swung his torch before him. The fiery arc forced the two closest ghawls back a step. They were cloaked in shadows, bearing aloft black swords. The torchlight washed away the darkness for a breath, revealing pale, sunken faces of the long dead.
“Git back to the fire!” Lorr called to them.
Heeding his own advice, he backed toward shore, keeping his torch between him and the pair of daemon knights. The flames kept them at bay. But to either side, the other ghawls floated toward shore, again moving without disturbing the water, eerie and silent.
But Lorr kept his focus on the closest pair.
A mistake.
Behind him, a dark shape lunged out of the water at his heels, catching the tracker off guard. And rightly so, as the water was only ankle-deep-too shallow to hide such a form-but Brant knew it wasn’t truly water from which these creatures welled. They arose out of the darkness that lay across the waters like oil.
Dart screamed, in both warning and surprise.
But it was too late.
Lorr half turned as the daemon knight’s blade buried itself in his back. He was lifted from the water, impaled and arched on the sword. Shadows spread out from the blade. His flesh darkened and sank to his bones. His last breath was a wail of a hunter on a trail.
But where Lorr went to hunt now, they could not follow.
His body was cast aside, to splash facefirst into the waters.
The other ghawls headed toward shore.
Arms grabbed Brant, raising a startled yip.
But it was only Krevan. He snatched Brant’s shoulder and Dart’s arm and all but threw them into the ring of firelight. “Stay by the fire!” he yelled. “It’s the only safety.”
“Where are you-?” Brant started.
The pirate furled out his shadowcloak and vanished into the shadows beyond the firelight. His last words carried back. “To find Tylar.”
They circled each other inside the tent, shifting shadows. Though their blades did not strike for the moment, they still fought, testing each other, feinting for an opening. A shoulder move here, countered by a shift of hip. A leg stepped back, met by a contrary twist of a wrist. Move by move, they danced in a slow circle.
Tylar had taught Perryl well.
He lifted Rivenscryr in his good hand. The blade glowed with its own inner fire, a soft silvery radiance, moonlight given substance. He knew it was the only weapon that could withstand the blade wielded by this daemon knight.
Perryl’s blade glinted with green fire, the same poison that ate through Tylar, weakening both naethryn and its vessel.
As if reading his worry, the daemon spoke for the first time, whispery and low, oily with malevolence. “You are riddled with the blood of Chrism, darkly Graced with old enmity and fury. Nothing in Myrillia, nothing in the naether can burn this poison away. You are doomed. Better to open your guard and die quickly. A final kindness…”
Proving this point, Tylar stumbled on his bad leg. His chest burnt with every breath. They had come at each other twice already. Tylar had barely kept his footing at the last attack, deflecting the daemon’s blade more by sheer luck than skill.
As they circled, he wondered how Perryl had found him so readily. Was this an ambush by the Wyr? A trap? Or had the ghawl found him by the poison he just described? Sniffed out like a dog on a trail?
Either way, Tylar had to survive.
He heard the screams beyond the tent. Perryl had not come alone. But before Tylar could help any others, he had to deal with this one, plainly the leader. If he could vanquish this daemon lord of the ghawls, the others might take flight.
But how to do that?
Once before, he had speared Perryl thro
ugh the chest with Rivenscryr and still failed to slay the beast. But perhaps a fiercer blow, a slice through the neck-even a daemon would lose his fight with his head rolling across the floor.
That was Tylar’s only hope.
Tylar’s ankle turned on a knob of root underfoot. He dropped his sword for balance, opening himself up. Perryl blended shadow and speed brilliantly. Tylar had just enough time to appreciate the beauty of the move. A Jackman’s Tie. He attempted a Sweeper’s Row to block, but he knew it would fail.
Then a rustle of tent flap, and a storm of shadows burst into the tent.
A knight shed out of the darkness.
Krevan smashed into Perryl. But Perryl turned the blow to his advantage. Using Krevan’s own weight, he spun on his back heel, coming around as swift as any shadow. His blade sliced for the pirate’s neck.
Krevan rolled to the side-but not fast enough.
Perryl’s sword sliced across Krevan’s raised wrist, cutting through cloth and flesh down to bone.
Normally the pirate would not have faltered, but this was no ordinary blade. A howl escaped Krevan’s lips as he fell back. Shadows fell like water from around the pirate. His outstretched arm sprayed blood, but not enough to wash out the poison. His hand melted from his wrist, then the corruption spread up his arm.
Tylar remembered Malthumalbaen’s brother, who suffered a similar fate.
Krevan swung at Perryl, driving him back a step.
Tylar had regained his footing and attacked. He yanked his other sword free, earning a flare of complaint from his bandaged hand, and swung the blade-not at Perryl but at Krevan.
Using all his strength, Tylar cleaved through Krevan’s raised arm. He took the limb off at the shoulder, before the poison could spread. He followed through by shouldering Krevan back out the tent flap and shoving him clear.
As the heavy hide tent flap clapped shut, Tylar swung wildly with Rivenscryr as Perryl tried to close on him. Too eager, Perryl. Tylar faced the daemon, tossing his knightly sword to the floor and lifting Rivenscryr high.
The Godsword was his only hope.
Sweating and with his limbs on fire, Tylar faced the daemon lord again.
Though likely doomed, he knew what he had to do.
Let’s end this dance.
“Stay low,” Rogger said, pulling Brant farther down.
They all crouched with their backs to the fire. Brant knelt on one knee. Beyond the thief, Malthumalbaen lay almost on his belly, while Calla took up a post on the far side of the fire, facing where Krevan had vanished.
Dart kept to Brant’s other side. She had covered her face when Lorr died, but the deaths had not ended there. All around, the Wyr-folk were being slaughtered. Screams echoed from all sides.
A moment ago, a large-limbed woman had lumbered past their flames, howling in fear, knuckling on one arm as she ran. Brant had tried to call her over, but her wits were as low as her forehead, and what remained had been burnt away by fear.
She trundled past their flames only to have shadows open to one side and a blade shoot out, striking clean through her neck. Her body continued for another two steps, then slid to the ground. Her head rolled farther off into the darkness as if still trying to escape.
The only Wyr-folk who seemed to have found a safe haven were the strange women led by the one named Meylan. They had scaled the nearby pinnacle, reaching the flames on top. They cast the occasional fiery brand down the side, scattering sparks along the rock, warning against any trespass by the ghawls.
And that was the true danger.
The ghawls lurked just beyond the reach of the firelight, searching for a way past their defenses.
Rogger explained one such threat as he pulled Brant lower. The thief had been studying a few other fires across the camp. “You don’t want your shadows to stretch out to the darkness. I think they can flow up such channels to reach you.”
Brant dropped to his other knee.
“What happens when we run out of wood?” Malthumalbaen asked, sprawled almost flat to keep his silhouette low.
Rogger shook his head. “Mayhap you can leap and grab a few branches overhead, tear them down with those long arms of yours.”
The giant eyed the canopy as if considering this plan.
Dart spoke softly from his other side. “Brant…your stone…”
Rogger heard her. “I don’t think that’ll help, little lass.” The thief must believe she was grasping at false hope, like the giant eyeing the branches overhead. “These creatures are not locked in seersong. And any other nullifying-”
Brant stopped him with a raised hand. Though the stone was still clutched tightly in his other hand, he had forgotten about it.
Dart turned. She already held a dagger in her hand.
She knew.
Brant leaned back, his body damp from the searing heat of the fire. He opened his palm toward her.
“What are you two doing?” Rogger asked, sidling around while staying low.
Brant didn’t bother to explain. Either it worked or it didn’t.
Dart met Brant’s eye, scared but determined. He reached out with his other hand and touched her knee. He kept his fingers there.
Dart nicked her thumb with the tip of her dagger. A single drop of blood welled up, crimson and fiery in the firelight. She tilted her thumb and let the drop roll off and splash onto the drab black chunk of stone.
A flash of fire ignited in his palm, but it was not a true flame.
Brant stared at the whetted stone in his palm. It was no longer a drab bit of rock. Dart’s blood had revealed its true heart, reflecting the firelight from its hundred facets.
A perfect black diamond.
Dart’s words echoed.
It’s beautiful…the way it catches every bit of light.
Rogger’s reaction was less prosaic. “Smart bastard. Keorn hid it in plain sight.”
The thief patted Brant on the shoulder. “Well done.”
Brant knew the thief understood immediately. It was Rogger’s own words that had helped Brant begin to suspect earlier. How Chrism had designed the first shadowknight’s sword, a blade with a black diamond on its hilt.
Rogger leaned closer. “Chrism must have fashioned the knight’s sword after Rivenscryr. Or at least how he remembered it.”
“But what about this diamond?” Dart asked. “Why is it not with the sword now?”
“Because Keorn removed it,” Rogger said. “He probably replaced the diamond with a fake, some artifice that looked like it, to fool his father. That was the sword’s flaw. The fake must have been destroyed during the Sundering, but the original diamond, like the sword, came to Myrillia. The sword with Chrism. The heart with Keorn. Two parts of a whole.”
“We must get the diamond to Tylar,” Dart said.
“But how?” Rogger mumbled and nodded out to the darkness.
Brant glanced up.
Others had been drawn by the flame in his palm. At the edge of the firelight, darkness stirred and rustled. Like moth-kins to a flame, the black ghawls had gathered tight around them.
“Can’t go out there,” Rogger said. “And fire’s the only thing keeping them back.”
As if hearing him, the skies opened up.
Rain fell in great large drops-at first lightly, then in a drenching downpour. Behind Brant, the fire sizzled and spat, slowly being doused.
As more rain fell, the ring of firelight began to collapse.
A WITCH’S THRONE
“Why does that skagging hound keep baying?” Argent griped irritably.
Kathryn straightened. She understood what irritated the warden. It sounded as if all of Tashijan were wailing some last death rattle. But inside Kathryn, the howl ignited a deeper anxiety. It took all her will not to despair. She noted Gerrod had stepped closer to her. Though his features remained hidden behind bronze, she knew he shared the same misgiving.
It was Lorr’s bullhound that howled, baying in raw grief.
That could hold
only one portent.
Gerrod’s hand found hers atop the table. And though his bronze fingers were cold, she sensed the warmth inside.
“Do not put so much stock in a hound’s grief,” he mumbled through his faceplate. “The reason could be multifold.”
She nodded, little convinced.
To the right, Argent tugged Hesharian’s sleeve. “So when the ice comes, show me where we should place your alchemies.”
“I-I’m not sure.” His face was deathly pale and his breathing wheezed in and out.
Gerrod lifted his hand from hers and stabbed at the map in two places. “Here and here.”
“Thank you, Master Rothkild,” Argent said, with a tired roll of his head away from Hesharian. “How much alchemy will we need?”
“That is a concern,” Gerrod said. “We’ve used up so much bile already.”
Hesharian blurted out, his voice ragged and panicked. “ You used it all up! Helping the regent escape to safety! Leaving all of us to die!”
“That’s enough!” Argent barked. “Either be helpful or be silent!”
Hesharian slunk away from the warden’s words, quite a feat for one so large. He retreated to the wall, where Liannora still stood, back straight, silent, hands folded into her muff. Her only sign of distress was a single long lock of silver hair that straggled across her face. She had yet to fix it back in place.
“When will Ulf attack?” Argent asked. “Night has fallen-and still we stand.”
“It is early,” Gerrod said. “The coldest part of the night is just before dawn. Though he may attack at any time.”
A hurried scuff of boots on stone drew their attention to the door, accompanied by a shout from some knight by the stair. Kathryn’s hand reached for her sword’s hilt.
Then a familiar figure rushed into view, her face pale, her head wrapped in a bloody bandage. She grabbed the frame of the door to hold upright.
“Delia?” Argent said. “What happened to you?”
“The witch is coming!” she gasped out, weaving on her feet, plainly having run here. Fresh blood dribbled down her neck. “She’s hiding in the dark abandon. Somewhere in the first four levels.”
She took a step into the room and almost fell.
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