In the coming siege upon the southern piers of the island, he would make sure his spilled blood did the most good. He would use his body and life to forge a path to the volcanic lair of the Dark Lord. Only by dying nobly in battle could he justify slaying Ragnar’k. As he died, so would the dragon inside.
His only regret was that he would be taking the one magick that freed Sy-wen from her dark prison. But in his heart, he knew she was near to being lost already; the monster in her skull swelled inexorably stronger. As he could not escape the fate of Ragnar’k, neither could she escape her own skull.
He sank into the darkness that was the dragon, resolute in his decision.
This day I die.
Sy-wen leaned atop her dragon. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Free, her heart sang—but deeper inside, she despaired for Kast. For a glimmering moment she had touched him, felt his cheek on her palm, seen him leaning to kiss her—then in a whirlwind of scale and wing, he was gone, stolen away by an ancient spell. She could not balance the despair of his loss with the joy of her release. Her heart was a storm, her body convulsing with sobs.
Bonded, Ragnar’k sent gently to her, he is not lost to you. He is here with us.
Sy-wen patted her giant. They shared sensations, but the dragon could not reach the depths of her heart, nor understand the simple need of a woman for the touch of her lover. A caress could mean more than a thousand words, and a kiss was a chorus without end.
But all this was denied her. The pain was almost worse than the prison of her skull.
She lifted her face to the dark morning. Mists clung to the seas, masking all but the closest ships. Horns sounded over the waters. She took a deep breath. She knew her duty this day: to fly to the foul sandy shores of Blackhall and scout the defenses there. She would do her duty, then return to her prison, waiting to be summoned again if needed.
A voice called to her. She turned to find Master Edyll moving briskly toward her despite his cane. A pair of children trailed behind him: Sheeshon and Rodricko. “Sy-wen!” Master Edyll huffed in the icy morning. “A request!”
She smiled at the elder, both mentor and grandfather to her.
As he drew near, his brows knit together. “Child, are you all right?”
She wiped away the last of her tears. “You should be down below. We head into black seas.”
He frowned. “No place is safe this dread day. And I have a request while you’re out with the dragon.” Sheeshon came around his right side, the smaller Rodricko on his left. He patted Sheeshon on the head. “The children have heard of your flight and begged—or rather nagged with some urgency—that I take them to you.”
Sy-wen lifted an eyebrow. “What do they want?”
“Mayhaps they should tell you themselves.” Master Edyll guided Sheeshon ahead and rested his hands on her small shoulders. “Go on. Tell her.”
Sheeshon’s eyes were as wide as saucers as the dragon swung its head around to stare at the trio.
This child rode with us before, Ragnar’k sent to her. He sniffed noisily, which earned a squeak from Sheeshon. Rodricko backed farther into Master Edyll’s cloak.
“Fear not, little one,” Sy-wen said. “He won’t hurt you. What did you want to tell me?”
Sheeshon’s eyes never left the giant black dragon’s. “I . . . we . . . Roddie and I . . . we want you to take something to that volcano place.”
She frowned. “I’m not sure I can do that.”
Master Edyll interrupted. “Listen to the child first,” he urged her. He plucked Rodricko from the folds of his cloak and pushed the lad forward. Rodricko clutched a tiny sprig with a single flower in his small fingers. Sy-wen had heard the tale of the boy, how this thin stalk was his link to his tree back at the island. It was all that sustained him away from his bonded sapling.
As Rodricko joined her, Sheeshon straightened, clearly biting back her own fear in front of the boy. “We want you to take Roddie’s flower to the volcano.”
Rodricko did not seem so keen on this plan. He clutched the twig tight to his chest.
Sy-wen narrowed her eyes and glanced over the children to Master Edyll. “But Rodricko needs the flower’s magick. It keeps him alive.”
The answer came not from the elder, but from Sheeshon. “Roddie doesn’t need the flower now!” she said, waving her hands in childish frustration. “He bloodied his finger already. He won’t get sick until later.”
“Calm yourself,” Master Edyll warned the girl.
Sheeshon took a long breath, then let out a sigh. “The flower’s got to be put in the smoke. Papa says so.”
“I don’t want to give her my flower,” Rodricko mumbled.
Sheeshon swung on the boy. “You have to. We have to help Hunt.”
Rodricko scowled, but his lower lip trembled, near tears. “I still don’t want to give her my flower. It’s mine, not yours or hers. It’s mine only.”
Sy-wen stared over the bickering children. “Master Edyll, I really must be going.”
He nodded, pulling the squabbling children apart. “I know. But I think we should heed the girl. Sheeshon is rich in sea magicks, able to see what’s to come. Her dreams told her to bring Rodricko here, that somehow it will help Hunt.”
“I don’t see how . . .”
“I don’t either. But the child is bonded to the high keel’s son. Her abilities could be attuned to his fate. And since you’re heading to the island anyway—” He shrugged. “The risk is slight.”
Despite her doubts, Sy-wen allowed a glimmer of hope to root in her own heart. If there was a way to help Hunt, could it help her, too? She nodded slowly. “What am I supposed to do with the flower?”
Sheeshon set her lips in a serious line. “You have to wave the flower in the stinky smoke coming out of the ground. Like this!” She flapped an arm in the air.
Sy-wen glanced northward toward where a dull glow marked the volcanic peak. “Is that all?”
“That’s what my papa told me.”
Sy-wen turned back with a frown. “Your papa?”
Master Edyll dismissed her question with a shake of his head. “Her dreams.” He knelt beside Rodricko and spoke to the boy. “Will you let Sy-wen take your flower to the island?”
Rodricko shoved his lip out in a pout. “It’s my flower . . .”
He patted the boy’s cheek. “Of course. She’ll bring it back very soon. I promise.”
Sheeshon punched the boy in the arm. “Give it up, Roddie. Quit being such a baby!”
He riled up. “I’m not a baby!” He shoved the twig at the mer’ai elder. Master Edyll took it from his trembling fingers. “See!” Rodricko shouted back at Sheeshon. “I’m no baby!”
The two glared at each other.
Master Edyll stepped carefully around the edge of the dragon’s folded wing to reach Sy-wen. He held out the small flowered stem. “Be careful.”
As Ragnar’k watched, she took the broken branch, examining its heavy flower. The purple petals were folded over a fiery heart. She sensed no magick from it. Her eyes met Master Edyll’s. He must have read the doubt there.
He shrugged. “I know. It seems foolish. They’re just children. It could simply be some fantasy of Sheeshon’s. But still . . .” He glanced back to the two children.
“What?”
Master Edyll turned back to her. “Sheeshon knew you were going to the island this morning. How many know of this mission of yours?”
“Maybe she overheard someone speaking out of turn.”
Master Edyll cocked one eyebrow. “On a Bloodrider ship?” He sighed. “I don’t know. Perhaps you’re right. But it seems worth the risk.”
She nodded. “It is.” She tucked the woody stem into the waist of her trousers. “If there is any chance of helping Hunt—” And herself, she added silently. “—then it’s worth attempting.”
Master Edyll backed away. “Be careful.”
Sy-wen took a deep breath. “I will.” She patted her dragon’s neck. “And I don’t
go alone.”
The elder gathered the children and herded them back out of the way.
Can we go? Ragnar’k asked irritably, snuffing at the gusty winds. She read the longing in his heart to fly free after being trapped inside Kast for so long.
Fly, my heart, fly.
The dragon’s joy sang through her as his legs sprang upward, driving them over the ship’s rail. Once clear, wings snapped wide and caught the morning winds.
Ragnar’k sailed skyward. Below, the sea was a mix of roiling steam and ice floes surrounded by cold fogs. Ragnar’k circled one of the boiling pools, taking advantage of the rising warm air. The pair swept up in a tight spiral.
From her vantage, Sy-wen spied upon the hundreds of sails flowing northward, gliding through the morning mists like the fins of pale sharks. Overhead, the glowing keels of the elv’in fleet shone around her, small suns in the fog. The captain of the nearest ship spotted them and waved.
She acknowledged him with a salute of her own. Then they were banking away, heading northward themselves. Ragnar’k climbed above the roll of fog. The gray morning turned a shade brighter, but the slate of clouds still dampened the sun to a meager glow.
Bad mountain, Ragnar’k sent in a rumble.
Sy-wen stared ahead. Above the fog bank, the vistas stretched wide in all directions—but to the north, the world ended at a monstrous peak of black rock. It rose out of the mists, stretching toward the cloud banks, belching smoke from its central cone in a roiling column. Vents in its side also spewed black smoke, smaller snakes hissing at the fringes. Red fires blazed across the black cliffs and slopes. Some were from natural fissures and lava tubes exposing the molten heart of the foul mountain. Others glowed from the torchlight within tunneled openings: windows, balconies, and sentry posts. It was said that the chambers within the hollowed-out mountain numbered in the thousands.
Yet despite its menace and horrible history, there was an undeniable majesty to the peak, with its smoke-shrouded cliffs. Even the edges of the cone were broken into towers and crenellated battlements. From the fractured shapes, it was difficult to judge what was created naturally and what was carved by dark magick and monstrous claws.
Sy-wen glided northward, heralded by drums and horn, into the heat that shimmered off the peak. It was not the clean heat of the Archipelago’s sun, but the sick swelter of a fever. Even the air reeked—not just of brimstone, but of something more foul, meat left to rot. Her stomach lurched. Below, the blanket of mists and ice fog began to break apart. The seas below appeared again: dark waters, flat and still. As she flew, she soon distanced herself from the last of the ships, leaving the fleet behind her.
Keep high, she warned her mount, now that they ventured alone into the heart of the enemy’s territory. Ragnar’k swept up the steamy air, gliding, barely shifting his wings, keeping his movements to a minimum to draw less attention. But the seas below remained empty, not a single ship in sight.
Where were the Dark Lord’s forces?
The pair swept onward, crossing the ring of shoals that encircled the island. The tall jagged ridge of reefs was named the Crown of Blackhall. The reef surrounded the peak, a full league from its black sand shores, an impenetrable sea wall as high as the castle walls of A’loa Glen. The jagged ramparts were only open through one narrow break in the rocky shoals. Beyond the ridge, a giant lagoon surrounded the island.
There was only one way to spy what lay within—and that was the reason for this mission. The elv’in ships were too slow to risk such close surveillance. It was up to her and Ragnar’k to scout it out.
The pair swept over the Crown and peered down into the lagoon. Sy-wen frowned. It lay as empty as the seas beyond. An elaborate set of docks jutted into the lagoon from the southern slopes, with a hundred piers and jetties; it took a constant run of ships and supplies to feed and outfit a city of this size. But the dockworks lay abandoned. Not a single ship, not even a skiff, was tied to the piers. Not a soul moved.
Despite the heat from the peak, a chill shivered over Sy-wen’s skin.
Beyond the docks, a small township skirted the peak’s slope, servicing the deckhands and sailors of the supply ships. Though many found it profitable to do business here, a great number feared to set foot within Blackhall proper. So inns, brothels, trading shops, and other enterprises sprouted like barnacles along the rocky shore between the docks and the Southern Gate. But even here the tangle of streets and alleyways was deserted.
Where was everyone?
Since the allies had cut supply lines to the island as soon as they entered these waters, many ships should have been trapped here. The township should have been full of people.
Beyond the crude town, the Southern Gate yawned above the dockworks: a fissure that went a quarter of the way up the mountainside. It was dark. No glow from the vents, lava tubes, or windows broke the gloom under the gate. No bars or obstructions closed off the passage into the heart of Blackhall. It was open, waiting for them.
Can you get closer? she urged the dragon.
Bonded, I would be away from here.
“As would I, my giant. But we must discover a hint of what ambush awaits the fleet.” And Sy-wen had no doubt that a trap was set here. Blackhall was a woman lying with her legs spread wide. But what disease was she carrying? Where was the hidden dagger?
I will try to fly closer, Ragnar’k said, his usual bravado gone. His tension flowed into her.
The dragon tilted on a wingtip and dropped in a plummeting dive toward the dockworks and the open gate beyond. He did not slow as the winds howled past Sy-wen’s ears. Ragnar’k clearly wanted to make a fast pass, nothing more. He also maintained the momentum of his fall, ready to use its power to speed a quick escape if necessary.
They skimmed over the scrabble of portside buildings and swept toward the Southern Gate. The fissure into the heart of Blackhall lay dark, towering over them. It had to be a quarter league wide at its base, scaling four times that in height.
As they swept toward the opening, a low droning reached through the wind’s howl, drumming deep into her chest. It came from beyond the arched threshold, flowing forth in shivering waves.
Ragnar’k began to bank away, buffeted by the sound.
No, she sent him. A little closer.
He obeyed, and they flew into the teeth of the droning. It battered at them like a physical wind. Sy-wen’s head soon ached from the sound, and other sounds grew muffled.
But deeper inside her skull, something stirred. Strange sensations bloomed. For a fleeting moment, she smelled kelpweed flowers; then flashes of color swam across her vision; then she heard singing, an old lullaby from her mother, even as she felt a familiar stroke across her breast, Kast’s touch.
She gasped as the panoply of sensations rode through her. She knew the source of her inner storm—it came from the lurker in her skull, writhing with the droning from without.
My bonded . . . ? The dragon’s flight faltered.
Steady, she sent her mount. She would not let the simaltra distract her from her goal. She strained to see what lay beyond the gloom of the gate, but the darkness was complete. She knew that she dared go no closer. But as she began to order Ragnar’k away, that darkness rippled. At first she thought it a trick of her eyes, but she was not sure. She concentrated, trying to pierce the shroud. If she could only see beyond . . .
Bonded! Beware! The dragon’s vision swept over her own, sharpening and crystallizing her eyesight.
Then she saw it, too, and terror clutched her heart. Away! she screamed to her mount.
The dragon needed no further prodding. Ragnar’k swept upward in a tight spiral. As he spun toward the distant heights, the pressure fell from her shoulders. Sy-wen glanced back toward the opening, staring with her newly opened eyes. The lurker did not hide within the darkness under the gate—it was the darkness. She watched the blackness ripple again. It was smooth-skinned, filling the monstrous gate from base to pinnacle, a slick of oil poured into the hole,
jamming it tight.
As they fled, she sensed the creature staring back at her, ancient and malignant and aware.
“Hurry,” she gasped into the wind.
Then they were past the fissure and flying over volcanic black stone. Sy-wen clutched her dragon. She appreciated her mount’s solidness after seeing what filled the gate below. The fleet had to be warned.
Back to the ship!
Ragnar’k banked on a wingtip and swept down the southeastern slopes of the peak, keeping away from the southern port and the sentinel looming over it. Sy-wen found she could breathe again. She hugged tight to her dragon as he glided past smoking cracks and glowing fissures.
Only then did she remember her other duty. She straightened and slipped Rodricko’s flowered twig from her waistband. She had promised to wave it within the smoke coming off the peak. Sy-wen considered abandoning this goal, but she spotted a tumble of boulders near the base of the slope, where smoke plumed up in a spiraling font. It was in their direct path.
Ragnar’k, aim for the smoke ahead. She sent her desire to him.
He grumbled his assent, following her silent directions. His neck flaps tightened to her ankles as he flipped sideways. He glided at an angle, intending to brush near the dark column. Sy-wen stretched her arm as far as it would reach—they dared not enter the sick smoke itself. Not only might it scorch with flaming ash, but there was no telling what dread magicks rode that dark current.
Sy-wen thrust the twig near the spouting smoke. Wind whipped her hair. She felt the heat given off by the dark gases, but she kept her arm out. Only a glancing brush, she promised herself; then they’d be away.
Her private thought was acknowledged by the dragon. With infinite skill, Ragnar’k brought them near the smoke—close enough for her to reach with her fingers, but out of the column itself.
She held the flower as they banked past the plume. Her hand disappeared into the smoke. The heat struck her immediately—as if she had shoved her fist into a roaring hearth. But worst of all, the burn raged up her arm and exploded inside her head, taking her sight with it.
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