Alex joined him, surprised to see a survivor. Then he realized this one would not make it. The fish-faced warrior sat back against the rusted side of a Dodge Caravan, arterial blood spurting from the stump of one of his—its—inner arms growing from the center of its torso and the chest wound just beside it, soaking the blue down hunter's vest and a thick wool sweater. The boggart watched Alex with its bulbous black eyes, each the size of a baseball. Its wide fish mouth, filled with double rows of pointy teeth, opened and closed, bloody spit bubbles popping as it tried to speak.
"Lung must be pierced," Dallas said. "Are their lungs in the same place ours are? Do they even have lungs?"
"They have lungs but much bigger than ours." Alex slung his rifle on his shoulder and drew his short sword, Witch-Bane, from the black leather sheath Leela had made him that he wore on his belt. He dropped on one knee, positioning his sword point over the boggart's main heart, just between the two smaller ones.
The boggart redoubled its effort to speak, this time succeeding. Its voice, almost a whisper, was a sibilant hiss. Its remaining inner arm jerked. Alex answered the boggart in Empire Common, the language spoken by all creatures within the Fae Seelie Empire, then he drove the short sword into the boggart's heart, killing it.
As he cleaned his blade on the boggart's vest, Dallas looked away and spat chewing tobacco onto the ground. "Creeps me out when you talk to them."
Sammy joined them. Sammy was a native, a member of the Dane-Zaa Beaver people. He and his cousin Anjie were the only two members of the team who had been rangers before the Culling, having been members of the 4th Ranger Patrol Group. Sammy had been one of the few survivors from the Battle of Taylor Bridge. "What did it say?"
Alex let his blade hang by his leg. "Same thing they all say: please don't."
"Hey, boss!" Bekka called out. "I count two dead elves, both male."
Alex saw Bekka standing over another dark-elf corpse. A chill ran through him. Even from where he stood, he saw the dead elf was male, a warrior with a shotgun and a long curved saber on his hip. His gaze swept the other corpses. "Eyes sharp, people. We're missing a female."
The others dropped to a knee, aiming in all directions.
Alex decided in a moment. "Screw the sweep. We're moving now."
He took only two steps when Witch-Bane's red metal blade pulsed and glowed crimson. Then the air before him shimmered, and a dark-elf woman, the missing mage, appeared out of thin air, her invisibility spell vanishing. The dark-elf woman's yellow eyes widened in surprise, and she stepped back, thrusting a hand at Alex.
"Channeling!" Bekka yelled from behind him at the same moment that the dark elf cast a torrent of fire, like a flamethrower. The flames enveloped him, and for a single heart-stopping moment, he feared he'd burn. But as always, the flames evaporated into sparks instead.
The rest of the spell, however, roared past him, and Bekka screamed in torment.
He slammed into the mage, ramming Witch-Bane into her stomach with both hands, puncturing the rings of the black chain mail armor she wore and impaling her. Her golden eyes opened wide, and she coughed blood into Alex's face. He yanked up the blade and sawed through her from stomach to sternum. Her blood splashed over his vest and hands, and she fell dead. He turned to see Bekka, wreathed in flames, spinning and flailing at the air just before Dallas rammed into her with his shoulder, knocking her down. He and Sammy rolled her in the wet ground, beating at the flames with their hands while Bekka screamed. Alex joined them as they beat out the fire.
Her hair was gone, flash-burned away, as was much of her skin, leaving red weeping sores. Sadly, they were all too familiar with these types of wounds. They undid her clothing, searching for jewelry to remove before her skin bloated, but Bekka was no fool and wore none. Her breathing became wet and raspy, her moans pitiful. Alex injected her with two ampoules of morphine and placed a wet gauze wrap over her face, leaving her burned mouth exposed so she could breathe.
"Oh hell," said Sammy, stepping back. "This is bad."
"I know," said Alex, sitting back on his heels and considering what to do next.
"What are the chances?" asked Henry from nearby, anguish in his voice. "What are the fucking chances, the only mag-sens in the north?"
"No, she's not!" Alex snapped. "Pull yourself together."
Anjie joined them, kneeling beside her friend and holding her burned hand. She looked at Alex, her glasses reflecting the still-burning fires. "What do I do?"
"Just be with her. Let her hear your voice."
Royce and Gracie skidded to a halt on their hybrid-electric motorcycles, the only sound coming from the drive chains and stones crunching beneath their tires. Royce had slung the light machine gun over his back, and he kicked up the stand before jumping off and running over to Alex. "Damn, jefe. What happened?"
"Mage. She survived the ambush and turned invisible. Pure luck I wandered into her when I did. Otherwise, she might have had us all."
"All but you," said Dallas, which was true enough… if a bit cold.
Gracie swore, staring at Bekka, his dark Hispanic skin blending with the dim light, making his eyes shine. The brothers were so alike they could have been twins, but Gracie was two years older. Good looking, athletic, and quick to smile, the brothers were the youngest members of the ranger team, although Bekka, in her early thirties, wasn't that much older. Gracie's gaze went from Bekka to Anjie, who was holding her hand and cradling her head, whispering to her. "Goddamn it."
Bekka and Anjie couldn't have been more different. Anjie was a native, an experienced hunter, and an old hand at living rough off the land, but Bekka was white, an Anglo-Saxon Protestant, and had worked in a nail salon in Fort St. John, rarely camping for more than a weekend. Maybe it was their shared hatred of the Remnants, or maybe it was because they were the only women on the team, but they had become close. Anjie looked up, cradling Bekka's head against her chest, anguish in her eyes. "Please, Alex."
Henry joined them, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. "What do you want to do, boss?"
Alex yanked the cigarette from the man's lips, tossed it on the ground, then dragged Henry to the motorcycles. He flicked the switch on the motorcycle, engaging the much louder but more powerful gasoline engine, which rumbled throatily. Gracie engaged his engine as well.
"You three get to the vehicles," Alex said to Henry and the Sanchez brothers. "Bring them back as fast as you can."
Henry waited until Royce had climbed back onto his bike then straddled him from behind, grabbing him around the waist.
"What are you going to do?" Dallas asked as Gracie gunned the engine.
"Send Paco a nine-liner."
As the two motorcycles sped off, maneuvering around the abandoned cars and broken asphalt, Alex pulled the satellite phone from his tactical vest.
2
Wildspike Island, Faerum
Queen Tuatha de Talinor stood upon the battlements of her Star Tower, staring out over the roiling green sea. Four of her Storm Guard warriors—elite fae-seelie women—maintained a silent guard behind her in their black-and-silver plate-mail armor and helmets. White-crested waves crashed against the knifelike rocks hundreds of feet below, sending cold spray and mist into the air, causing her to shiver despite the thick griffin-fur-lined cloak she wore. Even the wind bit at her exposed face, her flawless purple skin. Of all her fortresses, she hated this one the most, but Wildspike Island, sitting off the coast of the southeastern shoreline, was the most secure in her empire, and in the aftermath of the Sundering, she needed security more than comfort.
Do I even still have an empire?
And if so, will I have one a month from now?
Her enemies had always been many, but with the bulk of her armies stuck on the Old World, they had grown bold. Tuatha could fix this. She was the most powerful mage-master who had ever lived. What she couldn't do was fix the Culling Machine, and without its magic, she'd grow old and die. Damn Horlastia to the Red Ether! She shivered—perhaps
from the chill, perhaps from the specter of her own death—and pulled the edges of her cloak in closer around her thin shoulders.
Tuatha felt the wyrm's presence moments before she heard the beating of its mighty wings and the rush of wind as it dropped like a thunderbolt onto the summit of her tower, shaking the stone foundations. She spun about, filling herself with magic even though it was pointless—no living creature could fight a great dragon.
How had it appeared out of thin air?
Had it been waiting for her to stand upon her tower's summit, vulnerable?
Tuatha didn't recognize this wyrm, but the monsters guarded their secrecy, and the only great dragon she had ever spoken to was Bale-Fire. This one, while smaller than Bale-Fire, was equally formidable. It was larger than any other living thing on Faerum, with a wingspan at least a hundred feet across. Its scales were bright silver, flashing in the setting sun, its neck long and powerful, its head crowned by four horns—two large spiraling ones on either side of the serpentine head, with two little more than nubs beneath them.
To their credit—and breathtaking stupidity—her Storm Guard warriors rushed at the wyrm, actually thinking to attack it with their two-handed swords. With one sweep of a wing, the wyrm sent them all hurtling over the side of the tower, leaving Tuatha alone to face it. When the dragon spoke, its words thundered in her skull.
CAST THAT SPELL, ELFLING QUEEN, AND I SHALL FEAST UPON YOUR TENDER FLESH. I AM HERE TO SPEAK, NOT KILL.
Tuatha, fear clawing through her, released the magic. She lowered her head in respect. "Welcome, then, great one. How may I be of service?"
BY DISPENSING WITH THE PLEASANTRIES. HOW DID BALE-FIRE PASS FROM LIFE TO DEATH?
Death? Bale-Fire is dead?
It seemed impossible, but she realized it must be so. The only way the manlings could have destroyed the Culling Machine, unleashing the Sundering upon her empire, was to defeat the dragon guarding it first. But how? No one bested a great dragon. It was unthinkable, akin to imagining the sun not setting. She stalled, her heart pounding. "Great one. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?"
NAMES ARE POWER, ELFLING QUEEN. UNLIKE MY BROTHER BALE-FIRE, I HAVE NO DESIRE TO SHARE WITH YOU. ANSWER MY QUESTION.
"Great one, I do not know what has befallen Bale-Fire. All I know is that my empire crumbles." This was truth. Even her own kin betrayed her. And recent reports stated that the heretical followers of the Benevolent Grandfather were now in the open, advocating love and forgiveness.
How did it fall apart so quickly?
SPEAK OF THE COMPACT BETWEEN YOU AND BALE-FIRE.
"He crossed the Red Ether to the Old World, the world of manlings. Once there, he agreed to defeat the manlings for me. In return, I was to gift him a Shatkur Orb."
AND THE ORB, WHERE IS IT NOW?
"Destroyed. All three orbs were destroyed—along with the Dwarven Culling Machine. The Sundering…"
The dragon's crimson eyes flashed with fire. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? NEVER BEFORE HAS ANYONE ABUSED THE RED ETHER SO CARELESSLY. EVEN NOW, THE REVERBERATIONS OF YOUR STUPIDITY RIPPLE ACROSS THE COSMOS, OPENING DOORS WHERE THEY SHOULDN'T BE. WHERE IT WILL END, EVEN WE CANNOT SAY.
"It wasn't me. It was the manlings."
MANLINGS? IMPOSSIBLE. THOSE PRIMITIVES HIDE IN CAVES, HUDDLING AROUND CAMPFIRES. THEY COULDN'T DEFEAT A HERO SUCH AS BALE-FIRE.
"Not true, great one. They have evolved and multiplied. They have powerful weapons. Weapons that can kill even drag—"
The dragon's wings snapped out to the side, the buffeting winds knocking Tuatha to her knees. Its head rose high on its long neck. A trace of blue fires jutted angrily from its nostrils. FOOL OF AN ELFLING, YOU HAVE DAMAGED THE FABRIC OF EXISTENCE, AND FOR WHAT? A FRACTION MORE OF YOUR PITIFULLY SHORT LIFE. YOU AREN'T WORTH THE EFFORT.
The dragon took to the air—
Tuatha awoke, bolting upright in her bedchamber as the door opened.
A servant entered, holding a lit candle. "Apologies, your majesty."
As protective as always, Rizleoghin, her spider-demon familiar, scuttled closer to the open doorway, and the servant's eyes widened with terror.
A layer of sweat coated Tuatha's skin, and she could barely breathe with her racing heartbeat. Her small fingers massaged her chest through her thin shift. For six cycles now, nightmares of that foul wyrm haunted her sleep. She hated that dragon more than anything. She held one hand out to the servant and closed her eyes, trying to find calm and peace. When her heart stopped racing, she spoke. "What… what is it?"
"A messenger from the High Mage-Elder. She thinks another rupture might be forming."
"Where?"
"Eladior Haven, majesty."
"Send for my advisors. We'll meet at once."
As Tuatha strolled into her council chambers, her advisors leapt to their feet, their hands across their chests, bowing deeply. Rizleoghin scurried along behind her. Standing around the massive oak table were Kendrassia Half-Heart, the one-eared, heavily scarred veteran mage-warden who served as commander of her elite Storm Guard; Cal Endralia, a mage-scout and her elderly spymaster; and Rooth Balmorin, a diminutive mouse-faced woman who was the new High Mage-Elder. Also in attendance were a handful of fae-seelie nobles from those great houses that had remained loyal, but their presence was more a formality than a necessity. More often than not, their council was worth less than a redcap's courage.
Cal Endralia rose much more slowly than the others and leaned upon her Ettin-bone walking cane. "My queen," the spymaster said in a voice like brittle paper, "the reports are less than desirable."
Her skin was so old and lined that it had long ago faded from its natural deep purple to a pale blue, but the spymaster's mind remained sharper than a fel cat's claws. And age was a foolish weight by which to judge someone's worth. Tuatha herself was much, much older than Cal Endralia, kept that way by stolen life forces—but not for much longer, not without the Culling Machine. All things ended, even her life. Damn you, Horlastia, daughter, I trusted you with my armies, with… with everything. I pray to the Spider Mother every night you died screaming for your failure.
"When are reports at this late an hour ever desirable?" Tuatha asked as she seated herself at the head of the table. She motioned for the others to sit, and they did so with a squeaking of wooden chair legs. "So, tell me."
Rooth Balmorin coughed once to clear her throat. "Another rupture, a rift, from within the Red Ether is forming, my queen, near the Ley lines that form the Nexus Star on the plains of Eladior Haven."
"I see," she said, her thoughts a seething tempest. "And the other end?"
"Near the city the manlings call Fort St. John."
Fort St. John. Her heart rate quickened. Where my foolish daughter Horlastia had deployed the Culling Machine. It was also the epicenter of the Sundering. Six cycles ago, Horlastia commanded the largest military force that Tuatha sent to the Old World, over thirty thousand boggarts, trolls, and loyal fae-seelie warriors. If Tuatha could recover that army… Her eyes drifted over those of her advisors, who were waiting for her to speak. "Do my daughters know of the disturbance?"
"I… well… that is…" The High Mage-Elder's eyes told Tuatha what she needed to know—yes.
"Yes, my queen," Cal Endralia confirmed. She was one of the few who weren't too frightened to give Tuatha unwelcome news. "The twins have already deployed their forces around it, awaiting its opening."
Tuatha sighed. "Well, it was too much to hope they'd be too stupid or naïve to sense what's coming. They may be traitors, but they share my blood—however diluted by their freakish nature."
"Brush them aside, my queen," insisted Kendrassia Half-Heart. "Give me the honor."
"I need you here, my general, to protect us." She raised an eyebrow and cocked her head at Cal Endralia. "But what of the army? I will need to deal with the twins eventually."
"The crown princess has sent a messenger bat," her Storm Guard commander said. "She reports she can maintain the siege of House Galthazin wi
th a small part of her forces while moving the bulk of the army south to crush her sisters. She begs the honor of cleansing the de Talinor name."
Tuatha glanced at Cal Endralia, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
"Leave me with my spymaster," Tuatha ordered. "All of you get out!"
They rushed out, veering away from where Rizleoghin groomed one of his long, spiky-haired legs.
When they were alone and the door to the council chamber had closed, Tuatha turned to her spymaster. "Well?"
"Wolf reports it would be a disaster, my queen. He insists the siege will fail if any part of the army moves away, and even if they force-march the entire army to Eladior Haven within the next few days, they'd arrive strung out and in poor shape to fight the twins' soldiers. Besides, he promises House Galthazin will fall if your commitment remains firm. The crown princess is… a tad optimistic in her abilities."
"Meaning the little fool has no clue what she's doing?"
"Wolf does, and he and his warriors serve us well."
Tuatha sat back, sighing and rubbing her face with her hands. "So even if I wanted to, there's no way to reach Eladior Haven with enough force to defeat my daughters, and if I try, I'll lose my chance to finish off House Galthazin?"
"So it would seem, my queen." The spymaster hesitated, clearly wishing to say something further.
"What?" Tuatha demanded.
"I have my best mage-scout near Eladior Haven, my queen."
"The one nicknamed Silent-Death?"
"The same, Majesty, Terlissandia. She reports… she has seen the wyrm near the city, the silver one."
Tuatha stared at her spymaster, a chill running down her spine. That damned monster plagues me—awake or asleep. "I see. Do you know why?"
Cal Endralia shook her head, unable to meet Tuatha's eyes. "Just the obvious guess that the magic in the air has attracted its attention, my queen. They are… in tune with such things."
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