by Jean Johnson
“A little bit,” she demurred. “Not like you.”
“No one sings like he does,” the second-eldest muttered.
“And I’ll take that as a compliment,” Evanor retorted. “Go fetch the food, will you? Or we’ll starve to death, waiting for the next attack.”
“I wasn’t scheduled for any chores until lunch,” Wolfer reminded him. “This will take up most of the day!”
“I’ll take your cooking chore,” Evanor bartered. “You’re better at fishing than I am.”
“What about the others?” Wolfer asked. “And Alys’ morning lesson with Morganen?”
“He said it’s been put on hold until those mirrors are finished. They’re the priority right now. Sorry,” the blond mage apologized to Alys. “Your education is important, don’t get us wrong, but—”
“But those mirrors are our protection,” Alys agreed.
“Exactly.”
“Well, food is important, too,” she offered pragmatically. “I’ll help Wolfer fetch it, since I don’t know the first thing about forging an enchanted mirror.”
Both men smiled at her in thanks, making her blush in pleasure.
Ooh, ripe toska!” Alys pointed at a tree a short distance into the jungle on the northern side of the road.
Wolfer slowed and stopped the magic-driven cart. He peered into the forest, frowning. “I don’t see any.”
“I did!” Shifting shape, Alys launched herself from the wagon on soft-feathered wings.
There weren’t many of the purple-hulled fruits; most were still a dull brownish red, hinting at the sourness of the flesh each hardened rind contained. Landing on a close branch, she nipped at the stem of the ripened cluster, ignoring the bitter-sour sap. Eventually it fell, dropping four purple fruits with a thump. Swooping down, she landed, transformed, and worked her way out of the thick underbrush with mussed curls, but thankfully no snagged clothes.
Grinning, she lifted the cluster into the back of the wagon. “I’ve only had toska less than a dozen times in my life, but it was delicious every single time!”
“You’ll be sick of it before we’re through,” Wolfer informed her, helping to pull her back up onto the bench. “The old orchards definitely went wild after the plantations were abandoned, but toska was one of the more popular fruits grown on the isle, judging by the sheer number of trees. We’re after finger-fruit. I know of a stand of them that should be ripe, where the vira-peppers twine around the base of the trees. It’s a bit of a walk into the forest,” he warned her. “But worth the trek.”
“You’re the native,” Alys agreed. “I forgot—who had the chicken . . . sorry, citizen-chicken feeding chore, today?”
He shared a grin with her. “Saber. And I’m happy to let his ankles be pecked.”
“They are definitely ornery chickens,” Alys agreed. A moment later, she laughed. “I don’t suppose we could set them on my uncle? They’re almost worse than his mekhadadaks!”
“Alys!” Wolfer mock-protested, teasing her much like he used to when they were younger. “I didn’t know you could be so cruel. I’m very proud of you!”
Their laughter echoed through the trees, disturbing the birds into winging up into the increasingly cloudy sky.
They weren’t laughing that afternoon. Alys sighed roughly as she stared out through the door of the aging boathouse. Rain had caught them just as they were about to cast nets from the edge of the docks. Rain, and a touch of thunder in the distance. There weren’t many intact buildings this close to shore; the boathouse had been repaired by the brothers so they could store their enspelled fishing nets on the docks, but it still had gaps in the weather-beaten boards.
“Relax,” Wolfer ordered her. “This is a good thing!”
“It looks like it’s going to rain for hours,” Alys stated, wrinkling her nose again.
“Maybe two or three at most. But the fish are usually hungry after a rainstorm,” he told her. “We just cast a little bait on the water with a scattering spell, wait a few moments, then toss the nets over the same spot, and just draw them up! Nothing to worry about.”
“Tell that to the thunder,” she muttered, trying to discern if that was a flash of lightning or just a trick of her eyes; the daylight was doing a good job of obscuring the phenomenon.
“Surely a bucket of chicken innards isn’t as scary as whatever you used to feed your uncle’s beasts,” the man checking the nets behind her offered.
“Chicken, pig, sheep, cattle . . . chicken is bad enough, but mutton smells worse. If Uncle hadn’t owned the only butchery on his own property, he would’ve had a hard time hiding the need for so many meat scraps. Can we get some sheep, too? Along with the cattle?” Alys asked, changing the topic. “I’m not that fond of mutton, but at least we’d have wool for clothes.”
Wolfer abandoned the nets, since they looked whole and sound. He wrapped his arms around Alys from behind, resting his chin on her curls. “My domestic goddess. We don’t have much use for wool, save in the coldest months. I’m not sure it would be cost-effective to have any, but if you want them, and are willing to take care of them . . . Maybe we should give you the official title of Mistress of the Herds?”
“That’d be nice.” She leaned back against him, relaxing as the rain continued to pound down on the roof over their heads. Until she felt his hand caressing the underside of her breast. “Wolfer?”
“Well, we do have some time to kill, until the rain subsides,” he offered slyly, his deep voice tickling nerves that his fingers couldn’t quite reach.
Only the thunder in the distance answered him. Alys was too busy turning in his arms so she could kiss him. Their kiss lasted through another rumble of thunder. Wolfer broke away from her lips, moving to nuzzle her ear. “Right now,” he breathed, “our night-loving brother is undoubtedly roaming around up there, charging himself like a child does when shuffling around on a section of carpet in woolen so—”
Something cracked sharply, followed by a sizzling sound that was not lightning striking the ground. Orange-red light flared as Wolfer jerked his head up. Alys squirmed around in his arms, both of them peering into the rain as they felt a pulse of energy prickling harshly against their inner senses. The cause of the ongoing sizzling noise wasn’t immediately apparent. Not until Wolfer released Alys, stepped out into the rain, and peered around the corner of the building toward the end of the dock.
Mage-fire burned in a rune-etched circle, pulsing with a sickly orange red brilliance. The light arched higher and higher with a rhythm not unlike a heartbeat . . . if that heartbeat was slowing and dying. But rather than dying, the light intensified, forming a dome. A final flair of light, and the dome started descending again.
Filling the ring, an unnatural menagerie now stood on a broad metal surface where there had only been tar-soaked, weather-aged wood. Small, black, multilimbed balls of malevolent hunger, large, dog-like beasts with elongated teeth, slithering serpents scaled in putrid yellow brown, leathery-winged raptors with venomous claws . . . And above them, standing on a floating sheet of metal, a familiar, balding mage. At his feet dripped the corpse of his own brother, red staining him from throat to scalp, since his head and his heels dangled over the magically levitated metal.
The only thing that saved Wolfer from being instantly noticed was an inadvertent effect of the strange transportation spell: Broger of Devries and his magical beasts were all facing the wrong way. The only other thing that saved them from being attacked right away was how slowly the orange red wall of energy was fading back down into the runes scorching the boards of the quay.
Wolfer jerked himself back around the corner, bumping into Alys, who had peered around the corner, too. He grabbed her by the arms, pushing her around the boathouse. “Fly! Fly to the castle, and warn the others!”
“I can’t!” Alys hissed back. “He’s brought his wyr-wracks! They can outfly my owl form, and they’ll attack and kill me—run! Run as fast as you can, as a stallion!”
“I
can’t carry you!” Wolfer shot back tightly, trying to think of a way to get both of them to the safety of the castle. “Not and still outrun those pookrahs!”
Inspiration snapped her eyes wide. “Run without me!”
“No! Alys—”
She transformed even as he protested. Wolfer took one agonized look at the chest-tall canine, and shifted shape as well. Lunging away from his beloved, he galloped across the last of the wooden section of the dock and clattered over the paved stones of the wharf, racing for the road. Alys quickly tucked herself into the boathouse, hiding as the last of the sizzling noise faded.
Her one hope was to mingle with her uncle’s army. There were nine pookrahs in his pack. That should be more than enough visually for a tenth to lurk among them unnoticed. So long as he didn’t pause to count them, that was, or notice the diamond still affixed to her breastbone. If he didn’t notice, the ruse would work. If he did, she would be in trouble. And, of course, provided his beasts remembered her scent as their primary caretaker, and refrained from turning on her . . .
Of course, she was in danger just for still being alive, too. Jinga, Alys found herself praying. I don’t call on You often, but please, please make sure everyone on my side comes out of this mess alive!
The deep ringing of a bell startled Morganen. He almost ruined the last dregs of magic being poured into the third mirror. As it was, Rydan caught and smoothed out the energies of his youngest sibling. Rydan, who was supplying the magic for their endeavors, thanks to the storm crackling its energies along his skin, charging him as they worked in Koranen’s forge at the base of his tower. Rydan, who wasn’t supposed to be bothering himself with the taming of those energies any further than converting them into raw magical energy.
It took a lot of attention and control to turn natural energy into magical energy, after all.
Morganen’s estimation of his elder brother’s abilities rose a notch or two, but he didn’t have time to dwell on Rydan’s multitasking abilities. That bass-voiced chime was no ordinary sound; it was a warning that the defensive magics woven into the island and its coastal waters had just been violated. Not breached, not tripped, not invaded: violated.
Someone had just cast a very powerful spell, with a magical signature that did not belong to the inhabitants of Nightfall. There were three possibilities, based on the brothers’ three potential or outright enemies: the Mandarites, whom Morganen dismissed as too magic-poor to craft such a harsh signature; the Council of Mages, who had enough power to do so, but not nearly enough provocation to waste that much energy; and dear Uncle Broger, who had his own reasons for hating the eight of them, whatever those were.
Firming his concentration, Morganen resumed smoothing the energies pouring into the spells being embedded in the third mirror. They wouldn’t have time to finish any others, but another handful of minutes would see this particular artifact ready for the invasion. The island’s wards had been violated at their very perimeter; they had at least that much time to prepare, perhaps a little bit more. Dear Uncle Donnock had apparently made it back to his brother’s side faster than expected.
Wolfer didn’t bother to open the gates; he leaped, transformed, and soared over the wall in his one bird-shape. The fear of the incipient attack was more than enough to goad him through his fear of heights. Speeding on wings to the far side of the sprawling compound, he raced to the outbuilding at the base of the southeastern tower, darting inside. His brothers were just finishing the final spells on one of the proposed mirrors. Fluttering to slow his forward momentum, Wolfer transformed and drew a heavily panting breath to gasp out his message. “Broger—”
“—is here,” Morganen finished for him, calmly helping Trevan to seal the wooden frame around the edge of the mirror.
“He brought—” Wolfer panted next.
“—his beasts,” the youngest continued for him.
A frown creased Wolfer’s brow as he struggled to breathe and speak at the same time. “Alys stayed, transformed herself—”
“Into something that would hopefully blend in and allow her to do some sabotage, or at least keep an eye on her uncle’s forces,” Morganen surmised.
“Would you stop that?” Wolfer growled, catching some of his breath as he scowled at his youngest sibling. “You’re not a Seer, Morg!”
“No, just very intelligent. Did you see how and where he arrived?” Morganen asked as Saber slipped out of the building, no longer needed to help forge the mirror. The eldest’s voice rose in song for a brief moment, calling to Evanor to warn and guard his wife.
“On the docks . . . some sort of rune-circle. It was an orange red fire. He’s also murdered Donnock of Devries,” Wolfer added breathlessly. “Had the body with him.”
“Shit!”
The vulgarity made the others in the room jump. Morganen abandoned the mirror to Trevan’s hands, raking his fingers through his hair. The act dislodged the band wrapped around his forehead to contain any sweat during their spell-casting efforts. He paced a few steps, making his brothers eye the normally unflappable Mage askance.
“What’s wrong?” Koranen asked his twin, hand outstretched as he killed the forge fires.
“He’s crafted a Dark Gate. We’re going to have to sanctify and then destroy the docks—and none of us is a priest!” Morganen swore again. “Jinga’s Steaming Turds!”
“A what?” Wolfer asked, confused.
“A Dark Gate—it’s a pathway through the aether that an evil mage can create by murdering someone who has been to the location where the Portal needs to be opened,” Morganen explained. “That’s what he meant by Donnock’s life being valuable . . . because Donnock had been to our docks—never mind,” he dismissed as the others stared at him in confusion. “If it’s not sealed properly, if it’s not sealed quickly, it creates a weakness in the Veil between worlds. The more intense the sacrifice, the more it weakens the boundaries. The murder of a close family relative means we have a potential doorway to the Netherworlds sitting on that dock!”
“Shit is right,” Trevan muttered, cradling the mirror. “What do we do?”
“You prepare to fight Broger and his beasts. I need to do some research!” Turning, Morganen ran—ran—out of his twin’s forge. The Mage rarely hurried. It unsettled the others.
Wolfer, his breath recovered, cleared his throat. “Alys is still out there, and he’s coming up here with a lot of beasts. Wyr-wracks, pookrahs, bone monkeys . . . I think he used up all of his wyverns in the last attack, thankfully. We don’t have a lot of time to lay traps for them. Who has a mirror, so far?”
“Kelly, of course,” Trevan revealed. “Saber has the second mirror, and of course I have this one, though it could go to any one of us.”
“Can you carry it in your hawk-form?” Saber asked him, stepping back inside the forge chamber in time to hear Trevan’s words.
It was a hand-sized mirror. Trevan shrugged. “Of course; it’s not nearly as heavy as the ducks I hunt.”
“Then keep it, and try to keep yourself out of the fray,” Saber instructed him. “There’re wyr-wracks to take care of, but once we clear the skies, you get yourself into a position to swoop down and return any of his offensive spells with that mirror. You’re more valuable being a mobile defense for the rest of us. Wolfer, find Alys and get her this mirror; tell her to do the same.”
Wolfer grimaced at his twin. “If these mirrors don’t work—”
“Then we’re all in trouble. I’m risking my own wife, here!” Saber reminded him tersely, shoving the mirror into his twin’s hands. “Go! The rest of us, spread out, find those beasts, and blast them to pieces. Start with the raptors, if you can. We need those skies clear. “Rydan . . . the storm is passing to the south. Can you . . . ?”
One black brow arched upward. Arms folded across his chest, Rydan’s mouth twisted into something not quite a full smirk. Rain rattled against the windowpanes, driven into them by a gust of wind.
Saber rolled his eyes. “Stop being
so gods-be-damned enigmatic, and start whipping up some lightning, or something! The rest of you, spread yourselves out around the castle, and set some traps for the beasts he’ll have brought. I’m going to activate the soldier-stones on the walls; they’ll help with some of the defenses, even if they cannot move very far.”
I’m afraid we’re about to have some very unwanted visitors,” Evanor translated for Kelly, as soon as he was finished listening to whoever had called out to him, interrupting his work of prepping vegetables for supper. “Dear Uncle Broger has decided to drop by, and has brought a number of his favorite pets.”
Despite his lighthearted words, the blond mage’s tone was very unhappy. Kelly dropped the chicken she had been plucking and quickly rinsed her hands at the sink. “How much time do we have?”
“Unknown, but probably not very long—where are you going?” Evanor called out to her as she didn’t stop to dry her hands in her haste to leave the kitchen. “Kelly! I’m supposed to stay with you, to help guard you!”
“Then try to keep up with me! I need to lay some traps of my own,” she called over her shoulder, hurrying toward the nearest stairwell. “God—why did I leave that chest up in the attic after they left? We need to keep it down in the Great Hall if we’re going to keep having visitors drop by!”
“The chest of what?” Evanor asked, hurrying to catch up with her. For a thin redhead who had been nearly skin and bones when she had first arrived just a few months ago, she could move very quickly when she wanted. “What are you talking about?—Kelly?”
Alys waited in the shadowed doorway of the boathouse, her jaws slightly agape as she struggled against the urge to pant from anxiety. Any moment now, a host of nasty things would come slithering and scuttling and padding past her position . . . any moment. She blinked as a blurred ripple of air passed in front of her. A largish blurred ripple.
