What was happening?
Off balance, Vira’ni toppled headfirst into the chasm. Her limbs flew wide as she fought to maintain her balance. The articulated legs caught the rocky edge of the pit, keeping her from a plunge into the molten rock, holding her precariously in place. She screamed in fear, trying to scrabble backward, but something still kept her rear end pushed up, blocking her retreat.
Responding with pure instinct, Tol’chuk lunged forward. He dove around the Throat’s edge. Ripping the young one free from her flailing pincers, he tossed the child to safety.
“Are you going to help me?” someone screamed from behind Vira’ni.
Tol’chuk ran back and spotted Mogweed under the spider’s belly. He strained against her bulk, pushing up with both arms, while webbing flowed from holes along the backside of the spider, half covering the struggling shape-shifter.
Tol’chuk instantly understood the ruse. The injured demonspawn—had been a disguised Mogweed! The others had distracted Vira’ni long enough for the shape-shifter to get in place and attack.
“Don’t just stand there!” Mogweed yelled, spitting webbing from his lips.
Tol’chuk turned and saw Vira’ni trying to sidle sideways off the pit. Tol’chuk shifted to block her. “You and your Master want the Heart!” he bellowed. “Then have it, wit’ch!”
He drew to his full height and swung the stone with all the strength of his arm and shoulder. He struck her in the side of the head and felt bone crack with the impact. Blood sprayed his hand.
Her wailing scream ended as if cut by a blade. Her struggling form jerked; then the strength went out of her limbs, and the wit’ch toppled into the Dragon’s Throat.
Tol’chuk dove to the side, dragging the shape-shifter out of harm’s way.
From the Throat, a gout of fire roared up as the monstrous bulk struck the molten core. The heat blistered Tol’chuk’s back. He sheltered Mogweed under him.
Then it died quickly away.
Tol’chuk rolled around. There was no sign of the demoness.
From the ceiling, clots of oily blackness fell, striking the floor in wet splashes—demonspawn falling back to nothing with their birth mother gone.
Tol’chuk sat where he had fallen. He clapped Mogweed on the shoulder.
The shape-shifter looked haggard, but oddly proud.
The others quickly joined them. Magnam stepped to the edge of the steaming Throat. “I’d like to see the Nameless One try to revive that wit’ch now.”
The strange winged creature landed nearby and Jaston went to her side. “Tol’chuk, this is one of Cassa Dar’s swamp children.”
The child took in the slumbering clans. “Sleep poison,” she said in a voice much older than her form. “It will wear off.”
Hun’shwa reached out a hand to help Tol’chuk stand. “When they awake, we will have a new leader—a leader of all the clans.”
Tol’chuk stared around at the mass of og’res. “What about Cray’nock and the Ku’ukla?”
Hun’shwa barked to one of the other hunters. The og’re loped away. “We’ll hold them off until the other clans awake.” His voice grew hard. “Then we will make them suffer for the blood here.”
Tol’chuk frowned. More fighting between the clans . . . It wasn’t what the og’re tribe needed right now. But he saw no other way. Against the darkness to come, the clans had to be united. If necessary, the Ku’ukla would be forced to bend their knee.
Nearby, one of the other hunters pointed to Tol’chuk. “Kree’nawl!” he said fiercely, beating a fist to his chest.
The chant was carried by the others. “Kree’nawl! Kree’nawl!”
At his side, Mogweed stared as Hun’shwa joined his voice with the others. “What are they saying?” the shape-shifter asked, wobbling a bit, clearly exhausted.
“Wit’ch Slayer,” Tol’chuk translated with a frown.
Mogweed scowled. “Wit’ch slayer? Don’t let Er’ril hear them call you that.”
Tol’chuk clapped him on the shoulder again.
Magnam stepped away from the edge of the Throat. Frowning, the d’warf pointed to Tol’chuk’s hand. “Is that the Heart?”
Tol’chuk lifted the stone with which he had slain the wit’ch. “Of course. Why—?” Then he saw it, too. He held the stone higher as the blood drained cold to his feet.
The Heart was black as pitch and streaked with veins of silver.
“It’s changed to ebon’stone!” Mogweed gasped.
Book Three
A GATHERING
OF EAGLES
11
Elena waited for Er’ril to finish with the horse trader. The pair had been arguing all morning over terms for the necessary mounts and tack.
Her ears long grown deaf to the debate, Elena leaned on the corral’s fence and stared toward the bustle of Woodbine, a loggers’ and trappers’ village carved out of the great forest of the Western Reaches on the Mirror River. From this small hill, she could spy down upon the crowded streets jammed with overflowing carts and refugees, like themselves, from the magickal devastation around Moon Lake.
It had taken Elena’s party eight days to reach the township here. Traveling east, they had followed the Mirror River through the ruined forest that had stretched for two leagues beyond the banks of the lake. Hiking through the fallen logs and tangled limbs had been slow. By the second day, they had reached virgin forest and found the trail crowded with others fleeing the devastation. Along the way, Elena had heard many tales of tragedy and woe: destroyed homes, grave injuries, missing family members.
“All because of me,” she mumbled as she stood by the corral. The haunted faces of parents, the hollow eyes of children, the tears—all because of a war of magicks. It wore on her strength, leaving her constantly weary and sullen.
She glanced down to her gloved hands and remembered the night they were transported here. She had been unable to touch the moon magick. For just that one night, she had been an ordinary woman with two snow-white hands and an unburdened heart. It had felt so freeing. But come dawn, her powers had returned. First wit’ch fire from the sun, then coldfire from the next night’s moon. And once again, she had become the Wit’ch of Spirit and Stone.
Sighing, Elena noted a figure climbing the rutted road up the hill toward the horse barns. He jangled as he walked. She lifted an arm in greeting.
Harlequin Quail acknowledged her with a nod and marched over. His expression was not a happy one.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Her words drew a small smile from the diminutive man. “Looking at the black side of things these days, aren’t we?”
She stared over his shoulder at the crowded streets. “These are black days.”
“Perhaps this will cheer you up.” He reached a hand toward her, offering a palmful of gold coins.
Elena’s eyes widened. Magicked from the castle courtyard without warning, they had arrived here with little resources: a few pieces of silver and a few more of copper. And out here in the wilds, they dared not reveal their true identities, lest they make matters worse. Along the trek here, they had heard tales, stories of their own exploits at A’loa Glen and beyond. But as often as not, the tales cast them as the villains. This far into the wilderness, stories from the distant shores had a way of changing from one mouth to another. So the group kept their silence, especially with the recent devastation to the region. Tempers were high, suspicions even higher, forcing them to scrounge for supplies with the meager coins in hand.
Elena stared now at the fistful of gold. “Where . . . ? How . . . ?”
Harlequin shrugged. “The way I figure, so many of these merchants are scalping these poor folks flooding in here, it was up to someone to lighten their greedy purses.”
“You stole it?”
He shrugged again. “I prefer to consider it a secret tax to the cause.” The man nodded to Er’ril and the horse trader and stepped toward them. “Let’s see if we can shorten this war of wills before someon
e gets hurt.”
Elena noted that Er’ril had indeed grown red-faced. His voice was strained with suppressed fury. “That mare is not worth half the price you ask!”
The plainsman was right. The nag was bow-backed and looked to be at least thirty winters old.
“I’ve plenty of other folk interested in horses these days,” the trader said calmly, nodding to the jammed streets of Woodbine.
Er’ril opened his mouth to argue, but Elena motioned him to step away. Harlequin showed him his bounty. The plainsman’s face registered the same shock, then relaxed with relief. He turned to the trader, a pock-faced fellow dressed in leathers with a horsewhip on his hip. “Let me see your finest steeds.”
The man blinked in surprise. “I thought you said . . .” He glanced to the nag.
“Your finest,” Er’ril repeated.
The trader frowned at him with suspicion. “Don’t waste my time, sir. If you don’t have the coppers for Millie here, then you’ll not have the gold for my best.”
Er’ril picked up one of the coins from Harlequin’s palm. “Is this gold enough for you?”
The trader eyed the coin, his eyebrows rising. His posture straightened. “Well then, this way, sir!” The man crossed to a gate in a neighboring corral and ushered them through toward a set of barns under the eaves of the forest.
A loud explosion of splintering wood sounded from one of the two barns they were nearing. Er’ril’s hand dropped to his sword. Another blast of shattered planking erupted. A pair of men came diving out a small door.
The trader called to them. “What’s the matter now?”
One of the men dusted off his leather leggings with a lasso of rope. “We was just tryin’ to move the black to another stall.”
The other answered, coiling up a length of whip. “The demon came near to crackin’ my skull.”
The trader glanced back to them. “I’m sorry, folks, for the commotion. I bought a big horse off some trappers a couple days ago; it looked great for log-dredging, but the dang thing is as mean as a kettle is black.”
Another crash sounded inside.
The trader shook his head. “I should’ve known better when they brought the demon in here hobbled in shackles.” He loosened his own whip from his belt. “Dang trappers said they found it running wild up north. Must have some blood of those wild Steppe stallions in it or somethin’.” He waved his men to accompany him toward the barn. “This’ll only take a few moments.”
Er’ril frowned at the delay, and Elena understood his consternation. Joach had reached Xin back at A’loa Glen via his black pearl, a magickal link to the zo’ol tribesman. An elv’in scoutship would meet them at the summit of the Pass of Tears in another six days. They did not want to miss the rendezvous.
As the horsemen disappeared into the barn, Elena stepped with Er’ril and Harlequin to one of the fences. Word coming from A’loa Glen was a mix of both bright and dark. Their forces were already en route toward Blackhall. The elv’in warships and the fleet of the Dre’rendi had set sail two days ago, accompanied undersea by the leviathans and dragons of the mer’ai. Farther north, the d’warf army marched overland from Penryn, heading toward the Stone Forest, which lay within the shadow of the volcanic peak. So far all was going well.
But not all of the news was this hopeful. Elena had also heard about Sy-wen’s corruption by something hatched from the ebon’stone egg. The mer’ai woman still remained missing, so Kast had stayed behind at A’loa Glen, protecting the island and searching for his mate.
Pondering Kast’s loss now, Elena stared over at Er’ril. She could only imagine the Bloodrider’s pain. If she had lost Er’ril . . .
Across the yard, the barn doors crashed open. A large black form flew into the corral, huffing and stamping. It moved with grace and speed, a storm of muscle and steel-shod hooves, followed out by the three horsemen.
One had a lasso around the beast’s neck and was being dragged across the rutted dirt. He finally let go and tumbled to a stop. The other two chased the huge horse, their whips snapping in chorus to their screams.
Harlequin stared at the giant beast, his eyes huge. “What a mound of horseflesh. I’d hate to be the one owning that monster.”
Er’ril stepped forward and waved to the horse trader. “How much for the black?” he yelled.
The trader ran past, red-faced and panting. “If you can catch him, he’s yours for a dang copper!”
“Deal!” Er’ril called back.
“Are you daft, man?” Harlequin gaped at him. “That beast will kill the lot of us.”
Er’ril ignored him and whistled sharply. The giant black stallion skidded in its tracks, turning sharply and pawing at the ground. White plumes blew from its nostrils. Its wild eyes focused on the trio by the fence.
Er’ril whistled again.
In response, the horse whinnied loudly and galloped toward them, kicking up dirt. The trader dove out of his way before being trampled.
With a curse, Harlequin leaped away. “Get back, lass!” he called to Elena.
She waved away his concern and stepped to Er’ril’s side. The stallion thundered over to them, then stopped with a loud huff. Sweat steamed off its glossy black coat, and one steel-shod hoof dug at the dirt. The horse sniffed at them, then reached a nose toward Elena.
She reached a gloved hand to the stallion and reassured the giant beast with her touch. “It’s good to see you again, too, Rorshaf.”
The stallion was Kral’s war charger. She remembered how the steed had been lost a winter ago, when the mountain man and the others had been attacked near the Stone of Tor up in northern reaches of the forest.
She patted the mighty stallion as it nuzzled her hand. A sad whinny flowed from its chest. She leaned closer, hugging her arms around his neck. For a moment, old memories flooded her: of the endless trail, she atop her gray mare, Mist, and the mountain man leading the way atop his war charger. In some small way, it was like having a piece of Kral returned to them.
She whispered in the stallion’s ear. “We miss him, too.”
At her side, Er’ril flipped the trader a dull copper coin. “We’ll take him!”
Meric argued with the merchant. “You can’t expect eight coppers for that paltry bag of dried peaches. Eight should buy at least four bags.”
The merchant pulled up a second bag and placed it beside the first, as if he were doling out satchels of diamonds. “That’s the best I can do, friend.” He motioned vaguely to the crowds that filled the riverside bazaar.
Meric plunked down the coins and grabbed up his supplies: dried peaches, cranberries, and nuts. With a grumble, he turned to Nee’lahn. “Let’s go.”
The two of them strode through the jammed bazaar. Hawkers of every sort, from bakers to tailors, called from open-air stalls that lined the wharves. Nearby, a merchant of pots banged his wares for attention, while in the next stall, a butcher waved the flies from the hanging flanks of skinned rabbit.
Deaf and blind to the merchants, Nee’lahn stared at the river. It was all muddy banks, as the river’s normal flow went to fill the empty lake so many leagues away. Until the winter rains could refill the waterways, travel by river had been choked off.
Thus they were forced to travel overland. So while Er’ril bargained for horses, Meric and Nee’lahn were hunting up larder and supplies, but it was no easy task. With the hoarding of goods, the flow of displaced folk, and the stagnant traffic, each copper bought less and less.
Meric jingled the handful of coins left in his pocket. So far he had the dried goods, a crate of hardcake, and some cookware. It had even cost a copper to have the supplies delivered to their rooms at the inn. If Er’ril hadn’t assigned the castle guards to aid the refugees, they could have helped carry supplies. But then, Meric thought ruefully, they would have to purchase more supplies—and with what coin? Meric sighed, scouting out his next battle. Somewhere in the long bazaar, there was supposed to be a merchant who sold dried and salted meats, but so
far, they had not come across his stall.
They pushed through the crowd. About them were faces of fear and worry. Families carried their lives on their backs. Children, normally boisterous and loud in a bazaar, were unusually quiet, holding the hands of their parents.
Nee’lahn sighed, her expression weary and sad as she stared around. “The magickal blast harmed more than just the lake and the surrounding forest. That single wound continues to bleed this region.”
“This region and our own purse,” Meric added.
“Yes, but we’ll surely manage. Can the same be said for many of these folk?” Nee’lahn stared down at a little girl who clutched a tattered doll to her chest. Her eyes were haunted. Her father walked through the stalls with the same eyes, his left arm splinted and slung.
Meric eyed the pair, too, as they disappeared into the crowds. Had the man been injured by the blast? A twinge of guilt cut through his frustration. Though they were not directly to blame, where did their own responsibility for this tragedy begin or end?
Meric motioned Nee’lahn ahead. “Let’s finish and get back to the inn.”
After a few more spent coins, they made their final purchases. Meric paid out his last two coppers for a wax-sealed comb of honey.
As they turned back to the inn, Nee’lahn leaned closer to Meric. “We’re being followed,” she whispered.
“What?” He resisted the urge to swing around.
“Pause at the next stall and look over your right shoulder. The fellow with the green cloak and slouched hat.”
Meric searched, then spotted the man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his features hidden in shadow by his hat. Meric was careful not to stare for too long, lest the man know he had been spotted. He glanced to Nee’lahn. “A thief perhaps.”
She nodded. “We’d best be wary.”
They continued onward. The green-cloaked fellow kept a distance away, but he never left their trail.
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