Stretching forth one hand, Einar called the craft. To his great surprise, Derrick suddenly felt his dreggan handle become warm, then hot. Soon it was too scalding to hold, forcing him to drop it to the floor. He watched in awe as the dreggan melted at his feet, forming a pool of liquid steel and gold. Enraged, Derrick glared at the consul.
“Now then,” Einar said calmly. “You will escort us to the lower regions.”
The warrior remained defiant. “No,” he answered quietly.
“Then perhaps another object lesson will help,” Einar replied.
Pointing one hand toward the bleeding warriors, Einar again called the craft. An azure bolt loosed from his fingertips to go tearing across the room. Striking a wounded warrior in the forehead, the bolt blew his cranium apart. Blood, bone, and brain matter flew into the air and splattered against the rear wall. Einar lowered his hand.
“Do as I ask or your two remaining friends will suffer the same fate,” he warned.
Gritting his teeth, Derrick shook his head. “Do what you will,” he said. “Our answer remains the same.”
Frustrated by the warrior’s stubbornness, Einar again raised his hand. Then a thought came to him. There was a simpler way to get what he wanted. He had never entered a Minion mind. It would prove interesting.
Summoning his powers, Einar invoked the spell allowing him to control the warrior’s consciousness. Reznik and Actinius watched with rapt curiosity.
Suddenly the warrior’s head snapped back, and his eyeballs rolled up in his head-sure signs that his mind had been overtaken. Reznik and Actinius marveled at their master’s talent. Being able to penetrate another’s mind was a rare skill.
Satisfied, Einar lowered his hand. Weak from blood loss, the other warriors could only watch.
“Now then,” Einar said, “do you know where the secret entrances to the lower regions are found?”
“Yes,” Derrick answered thickly.
“How many are there?” Einar asked.
“Seven.”
“Good,” Einar answered. “You will show us each one.”
“Yes,” the warrior answered.
Einar smiled. “There’s a good fellow,” he said. He turned to look at Actinius. “After we have gone, kill the other two any way you like.”
Actinius nodded. “With pleasure,” he answered.
“Now then,” Einar said to Derrick. “You may lead the way.”
With Einar and Reznik in tow, Derrick walked numbly from the room. Leading them back to the grand stairway, he started down. As they took their first few steps, Minion death screams rang out from the bedroom above.
Two hours later, six secret entrances had been discovered and marked. As Derrick led them toward the seventh, Einar smiled. This had been a productive day.
Derrick stopped partway down another hallway. Reaching up, he grabbed an oil lamp sconce attached to the wall and gave it a sharp tug. As the sconce angled downward, an oaken wall panel slid open. Using the craft, Einar burned a mark into the wall just below the sconce, identifying it for later use.
Like the other disguised passageways, this one’s steps led down into darkness. Suspecting that the First Mistress would have lined the stairway with radiance stones, Einar waved a hand. At once a pale green light illuminated the way. He looked past the helpless Derrick and into Reznik’s eyes.
“I’m going down,” he said. “I want you to return to the outer ward, then issue the needed orders. Have the craft tools and the Scroll of the Vagaries sent down immediately. Above all, ensure that the Recluse is protected.” Then he looked over at the helpless warrior.
“Feed him to the shrews,” he ordered. “In his current state he will give them no trouble. Be sure that no Minions remain alive, then join me in the lower regions. We are about to make history.” Without further ado, Einar disappeared into the depths.
“Come with me,” Reznik ordered Derrick. Having no choice, the officer followed along.
On reaching the outer ward, Reznik called the shrews, envelopers, Valrenkians, and consuls together. After ordering the craft tools and the Scroll of the Vagaries taken to Einar, he selected several consuls to come forward.
“You are to fly back to the Ghetto,” he said. “Tell our comrades that they may start the shipments.” Pausing for a moment, he looked at the remaining consuls and Valrenkians.
“Continue to clean the Recluse and set things right,” he said. “Once that task is done, join Einar and me in the lower regions. The important work is about to start.”
To Reznik’s delight the Valrenkians and consuls started cheering and shaking their fists in the air. He happily joined in. After today nothing could stop them.
Reznik looked at the shrews. Their numbers were so great that they filled the outer ward, spilled across the drawbridge and lake bridge, and out onto Parthalonian soil.
“As many of you as possible will hide yourselves in the lake!” he ordered. “The rest are to patrol the surrounding area. Devour any strangers who come near!”
Snarling and hissing, the shrews lumbered from the castle grounds. Walking to the drawbridge, Reznik watched as shrews by the hundreds submerged into the lake. As the surface stilled, he smiled.
Returning to the outer ward, Reznik raised his hands to the sky. He couldn’t see the envelopers, but he knew they were there.
“Cease your camouflage so that I might see you!” he shouted. At once the sky filled with envelopers, their gray, sleek skin fluttering in the wind.
“Half your numbers are to patrol the sky above the Recluse!” Reznik ordered. “The rest are to become one with the castle! Go!”
Some envelopers dutifully sailed upward, again disappearing as they took on the sky’s and clouds’ exact likenesses. The others soared toward various places on the castle’s structure. Landing flat against the walls, turrets, guard paths, and keep, they soon blended in perfectly with their surroundings and disappeared.
After ordering Derrick to remain where he was, Reznik walked across the drawbridge, then traversed the lake bridge to stand on Parthalonian soil. Looking back at the Recluse, he smiled.
It was amazing. The castle appeared just as it did before the attack. Any force trying to approach would be drawn in by its normalcy, then cut to ribbons before they realized what was happening. Even theJin’Sai ’s entire Minion army could never take this place.
As he walked back across the bridge, he saw a litter carrying consuls soar over the castle walls, then turn southward. From his perspective it looked strange in its loneliness, because the envelopers carrying it could not be seen against the sky.
On walking halfway across the drawbridge Reznik stopped and looked at Derrick. With a glassy, absent look in his eyes, the warrior stood exactly where Reznik had left him. The Valrenkian beckoned him forward. Removing a knife from his belt, he grinned wickedly into the warrior’s eyes.
“Good-bye, you winged freak,” he whispered.
With one sure stroke he cut the warrior’s throat, then pushed him into the lake. Hungry shrews rushed to the surface. Teeth flashed briefly, then the warrior disappeared beneath the waves.
Wiping the blood from his knife, Reznik headed for the inner ward. Just as he started up the foyer steps the impending storm broke, sending a cleansing shower down onto everything. Soon the castle’s interior would look as normal as its outer walls.
Whistling a happy tune, he started the walk toward the secret passageway.
CHAPTER XXIV
AS TRISTAN RODE ALONGSIDE XANTHUS, PANIC GRIPPEDhim. He could sense the Darkling, but all he could see was a muddled form, matching his forward momentum. He also sensed his horse and saddle moving under him and the reins in his hands, but there was no sound. Even their horses’ hooves were silent. The azure air was thick and heavy, like the densest cloud.
Tristan tried to speak to Xanthus. Smothered by the dense atmosphere, his words arrived only as whispers and went nowhere. Then he remembered Xanthus’ warning.
“Take care
not to leave my side,”the Darkling had said.“Alone, death is inevitable.”
Trying to regain his composure, Tristan did his best to keep Shadow near the Darkling and his mount. But because the azure depths were limitless, he couldn’t gauge how far they had traveled, or how long they had been here. After a time an unseen force snatched up his reins. Shadow came to a stop. Tristan tried to call out again, but the result was the same. He peered forward into the gloom.
A golden pinprick appeared up ahead. Growing in size, it formed a pinwheel that started revolving. The sensation was dizzying. Soon it encompassed the entire area before them. With a roaring sound it suddenly imploded, taking the azure fog with it. As Tristan gazed into the distance, his jaw fell.
The forbidding landscape was something straight from a nightmare. The lifeless ground was rust-red, as was the angry sky. Lightning continually streaked across the heavens, its accompanying thunder so loud that he thought his eardrums might burst.
Grotesque mountains loomed all around. Steaming geysers sprayed boiling water high into the sky. The ground rumbled and shook, hurling rocks down the craggy mountainsides. There were no trees, no foliage, and no creatures-just barren desert wasteland that stretched into infinity. Red dirt maelstroms whirled angrily, burning Tristan’s skin like red-hot needles.
Tristan heard another strange sound, then gasped as a gigantic sinkhole developed, its closest edge not ten meters away. The gaping hole quickly widened, pulling nearby rocks and soil into oblivion. Then the roaring heat hit him fully.
This bizarre world was a living blast furnace, its fiery atmosphere so intense that sweat started pouring from Tristan’s skin. Soon his clothing was soaked, and his dark hair lay matted against his head. Even though Shadow was at rest, the horse’s chest and neck were already lathering. Xanthus turned to look at Tristan. For some reason, the Darkling had taken on his human form.
Tristan was about to speak when a lightning bolt struck a nearby peak, exploding it into rubble. Shadow suddenly reared, nearly throwing Tristan to the ground. Then the stallion started dancing wildly, disobeying Tristan’s every command. Soon Xanthus’ mount became equally frenzied.
The Darkling jumped from his horse. Removing two blankets from his saddlebags, he tied one over Shadow’s eyes, then did the same for his mount. The horses started to calm. Xanthus urgently beckoned Tristan to dismount. When the prince’s boot soles hit the ground, the heat seeping through them nearly caused him to faint.
Tristan glared hatefully at the Darkling. He was now certain that this entire journey had been a ruse, designed to draw him into a horrible death. But when he saw Xanthus’ worried expression, he realized that something had gone horribly wrong.
“Where are we?” Tristan shouted. He could barely hear his own voice above the raging elements. “This place can’t be what you promised!”
Struggling against the wind, Xanthus placed his lips against Tristan’s ear. “It’s not!” he shouted back. “The Heretics have activated the Borderlands! Their struggle against the Ones must have escalated! Magic has no use here!”
Just then the wind howled and another dust storm arose, sending more whirling soil toward them. Raising their arms, they tried to shield their eyes. After what seemed like an eternity the maelstrom passed. Xanthus pointed to a mountain range lying against the horizon.
“There is where we need to go!” he shouted.
Narrowing his eyes, Tristan looked into the distance. His heart fell. Leagues of deadly wasteland loomed in between. They would never get across it alive. Then he turned to look behind him. To his horror, all he saw was more endless, heat-baked desolation.
“Can we go back?” he shouted.
“No!” Xanthus answered. “To survive, we have to go forward! You must trust me!”
“I don’t understand!” Tristan shouted back. “What are the Borderlands?”
Ignoring the question, Xanthus grabbed the horses’ reins then beckoned Tristan to follow him. Bent against the raging wind, they started for the horizon.
Never had the prince traveled across such deadly terrain. As they plodded desperately along, more sinkholes surfaced here and there, nearly sucking them into oblivion. With every step, sweat ran from their bodies, threatening death from dehydration. Wind and sand tore at Tristan’s skin like hot knife blades. The ground shook so violently that he went down twice, the scalding earth burning his palms as he fell. Each time he stood he had no choice but to somehow go on. Wherever Xanthus was taking him, he knew he would never live to see it.
After about an hour, Xanthus stopped. Nearly unconscious, Tristan staggered to his side. Xanthus pointed to a nearby slope.
“There!” he shouted. “Do you see it? That dark spot in the mountainside-I think it’s a cave!”
Tristan strained his eyes. After a few moments, he saw what Xanthus meant. But given all the swirling dust, Tristan couldn’t be sure. Only going there would tell the tale.
Without waiting for Tristan’s response, Xanthus started trudging toward their new destination. Summoning his remaining strength, the prince followed.
After another grueling walk they finally arrived. Looking up, Tristan nearly fell to his knees with relief. A huge cave entrance loomed before them, its edges smoothed by the constantly blowing sand. Wasting no time, they led their horses inside.
The cave’s interior was immense. Dark red stone lined the walls. As they walked deeper, Tristan and Xanthus turned a corner to see the tunnel’s end. The cave’s entrance was far too high to seal with rocks to block out the terrible sandstorm, but being around the bend gave them some relief from the elements. The wind moaned as it swirled its way into the cave’s depths, then back out again.
His throat parched and his skin burning, Tristan looked around. To his dismay there was nothing to be found. No food, no water-just bare stone and the constantly moaning wind. Reaching to his saddle he untied his canteen to take a welcome drink.
Almost as soon as he started drinking, the Darkling ripped the canteen from his hands. Surprised, he glared at Xanthus.
“What are you doing?” he growled. “I am near death with thirst!”
Xanthus looked back at him calmly. “I know,” he answered. “So is my human side. But there is a long way to go before we reach the mountains. Some food remains in my saddlebags, and we have a certain amount of water. Crossing the Borderlands is our only hope. To succeed, we must ration what we have left.” Xanthus thought for a moment. “Unless things change,” he added softly.
“What are you talking about?” Tristan demanded. “What in this awful place might possibly change?”
Ignoring the question, Xanthus closed Tristan’s canteen.
“I agree about the food!” Tristan shouted. “But you charmed the canteens to constantly replenish themselves! Why can’t we drink all we want?”
“I have already told you why,” Xanthus answered calmly. “Magic has no meaning here. My spell over the canteens no longer works.”
So tired he couldn’t stand, Tristan sat on the ground. He looked up at the Darkling with angry eyes. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “What in the name of the Afterlife are the Borderlands?”
Xanthus sat down across from the prince. As the wind moaned, the Darkling looked into Tristan’s eyes.
“There is so much that you do not know-thatno one on your side of the world knows,” he said. “You are right about one thing: This place is not our destination. Once we entered the azure wall, we should have arrived among the Heretics. When I saw that we were crossing through azure fog, I knew it had all gone wrong. Even so, there could be no turning back. I have done all I can to keep us alive, Jin’Sai, and I will continue to do so. Even though you believe I’m your enemy, you must trust me. I’m all you have.”
Suddenly an alarming thought struck Tristan. His eyes darted to the Paragon hanging around the Darkling’s neck. To his great relief, it looked as vibrant as ever.
“If magic has no meaning here, why is the Paragon still aliv
e?” he asked.
Xanthus looked down at the stone. Cupping it lovingly in his hands for a moment, he looked back at the prince.
“All the craft’s spells are made useless here,” Xanthus answered. “The Borderlands purpose is to create a deadly environment, protecting the Heretics from the Ones during an intense attack. The environment is meant to be severely hostile-so hostile that if we survive it, we will be the first. It is also said that dangerous creatures-designed by the Heretics to withstand these elements continually wander the Borderlands, hunting for the Ones. But that is not to say that magic does notexist here, just because those who enter cannot call forth spells. The fact the Paragon still lives proves that.”
Tristan looked unbelievingly at Xanthus. “Do you mean to say that the Heretics are powerful enough to havecreated this place?”
“Yes,” Xanthus answered. “Their ability to conjure and dispel the Borderlands is aeons old. But in all that time, the Heretics have needed to summon its protection only twice before. We seem to be witnessing the third time. Summoning the Borderlands is a drastic measure. The Ones must be making a particularly savage attack. Had I known that the Borderlands had been summoned, we would have waited longer in your world. Unless the Borderlands are dispelled soon, our chances of surviving are not good.”
“If the Borderlands protect the Heretics from the Ones, then why don’t the Heretics summon it constantly?” Tristan asked.
“Although their gifts dwarf anything seen on your side of the world, even they are not all-powerful,” Xanthus replied. “The energy needed to sustain the Borderlands is beyond our imagination. Even the Heretics cannot summon it indefinitely. But the last two times they called it forth, it served its purpose admirably.”
Tristan scowled. “What do you mean?”
“The Heretics survived,” Xanthus said. “When the Ones’ armies tried to advance, they were annihilated by the elements.”
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