“It can be done,” Joach insisted. “I have the knowledge, the ability. I . . . I only need one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
His eyes again drifted to the book on the table. “More life energy. The spell to bring true life to a dream-sculpted creation requires more energy than I have right now.”
“How much more?” she asked, standing up. Leaving the sword on the bed, she stepped toward the desk, beginning to understand.
“A lifetime’s worth,” Joach mumbled. He nodded to the Blood Diary. “Immortality is locked between its covers, the infinite energy of the Void.”
“I know this all too well.” Elena picked up the book. First it had granted Er’ril immortality to serve as its guardian and keeper. Then its power had passed to her. It did not stop death, but its font of energy could hold off the passing of winters and heal injuries more quickly.
“It would take only a small fraction of that energy to fuel the spell needed to bring Kesla back. Please, Elena . . . Kesla gave her life to break the Basilisk Gate that threatened our lands. We owe it to her to try and bring her back.”
Elena felt herself swaying to Joach’s cause. Dare she trust her brother’s heart in this matter? Could she deny him this attempt? Still, she glanced to Joach’s new hand, to the face that was both familiar and strange, and doubt weighed her heart.
Finally, she sighed, putting off such matters for now. “We dare not attempt any spells that might weaken the book before the coming war. I can’t risk the world’s fate on the possibility of one woman’s resurrection.”
Joach nodded gratefully. He clearly took her words as agreement, rather than just a postponement. “Of course. I didn’t mean we do this now. I must conserve my own magick for the battle to come.”
She started to correct Joach’s assessment, then thought better of it. She’d leave that discussion until later. It would also give her more time to consider her brother’s request.
Joach stood. “Thank you, El . . . I knew you’d understand.”
She simply nodded, averting her eyes.
Joach crossed back to the door. “I should see to the final preparations. Harlequin Quail wanted to discuss something about using illusions to confound our enemies.”
“If anyone knows a way to sneak us under the guard of the Dark Lord, it would be Harlequin,” Elena agreed, holding the door for him.
Joach turned back to her as he slipped away. “Thanks again, El.”
She smiled at him, seeing for a moment the simple, honest boy she had left in the orchards. But beneath that something darker stirred. His grip on his foul staff was tight as he thumped away.
She closed the door and leaned back against it, the Blood Diary still clutched to her chest. The gilt rose on its binding glowed with the growing magick of the moon.
Stepping from the door, she flipped open the cover. Blank pages stared back at her. She laid a palm on the parchment, smooth and clean. There was no evidence of the gateway that would open again with the moon’s rise. She wished Aunt Fila were here with her now. Joach had awakened old family memories. She closed the book and returned to the cabin’s bed. She smoothed a blanket. Even more than Aunt Fila, she wished her mother was here. If only for a few moments . . .
“Mama, what am I to do?” she whispered to the empty room.
For answer, a piercing horn echoed through the ship. She swung around. The sentinels in the crow’s nest! Distantly a more muffled horn answered the first, this time from the ground, from the blasted orchard.
It begins!
She ran to the door and tore it open. She was startled to find Joach blocking her way. He must have returned for her when the alarm was raised. “Joach! We must—”
Further words were knocked from her as he struck her straight-armed in the chest. She stumbled backward, caught off balance. She fell back on the bed as Joach pushed into the room after her.
“Joach, what are you—”
Then the illusion fell from the figure as he slammed the door behind him. Red hair faded to brown, features melted from the warm familiarity of her brother to another familiar face—but one far from warm.
Elena could not catch her breath from the shock and disbelief. It was impossible. She had seen his body hacked apart and buried. His name choked from her throat. “Greshym!”
She snatched for her wit’ch dagger, but before her fingers could touch its hilt, a magickal force ripped forth from the darkmage. Elena was thrown to the wall, pinned in place, spread-eagled against the slightly curved planks. She could not move.
Greshym stepped toward her, kicking through the jumble of furs and blankets. “It’s no use struggling.”
Despite his words, she fought the invisible bonds. Her hands pounded with energy, aglow with magick—coldfire in one, wit’ch fire in the other—but with no blade to release the blood magick, she was kept from her power, at the mercy of this creature.
Greshym leaned near to her. “Now where is the blood sword?”
With the first horn blast, Er’ril leaped to one of the underside hatches of the Windsprite, while others in the hold scattered to various portholes and hatches. Er’ril dropped beside a coil of rope attached to a complex block-and-tackle pulley system overhead—the conveyance used to haul supplies. He leaned out to stare at the landscape below.
Rain swept in waves, obscuring the view, but clearly something had the og’res roiled. Another horn blast echoed up from the muddy orchard.
He could not see what threatened. All he could make out was columns of og’res breaking down into bouldered lines. Others bounded about, shouting orders that didn’t reach this high.
What was going on? He needed a better vantage. Just as he pushed up, a large shape burst up through the hatch, shooting into the hold with a flourish of wings and a gust of wet air. Er’ril rolled away, his sword in his hand as he regained his feet.
But no defense was necessary. The shape, still in flight, spun through the hollow space and landed in a wary pose. The creature was a blend of avian and human features: a crown of feathers, naked legs, arms that trailed long pinions, and a narrow, pinched face. Amber eyes glowed in the dim hold.
Fardale and Thorn appeared at Er’ril’s side. “It’s one of our scouts!”
Er’ril sheathed his sword. “What is happening?”
The si’luran glanced around the room, panting. “Under attack. From the ground itself. Lying in wait—an ambush.” The bird-man locked eyes with Thorn. “The elder’root sends word.” His eyes glowed at Thorn for a long silent moment.
She nodded, as Fardale clutched her elbow. Clearly he had caught the silent message, too.
His duty done, the scout dove back out the hatch. Er’ril caught the glimpse of feathers sprouting as the shape-shifter dropped away, becoming a terror-hawk again.
“What did he tell you?” Er’ril asked Thorn.
She turned to him, paler than a moment before. “My father and his army are going even now to join the battle below.”
Er’ril clenched a fist. “I must see what they face.” He swung up the stairs to the open deck above. When he shouldered open the door, he found the storm growing fiercer; spats of stinging rain pelted the rolling deck. He dragged the hood of his cloak over his head and hunched into the foul weather. He spotted Tol’chuk and Magnam already stationed by a rail, leaning over to peer below.
He hurried over as another hatch banged open in the wind. He turned, expecting to see Elena, but it was Meric and Nee’lahn. “What’s happening?” Meric cried into the gale.
Er’ril shook his head. Tol’chuk glanced to them as the entire party assembled at the rail. His brow was furrowed deeply.
Er’ril stared below, his fingers scrabbling for his spyglass.
Through the curtains of rain, he watched carnage, as strange beasts burrowed up from dead branches and muddy leaves.
Yanking his spyglass free of his belt, Er’ril focused down, drawn into the heart of the battle. He watched a black creature unfo
ld from the tangle of roots of an upturned tree. It was all articulated limbs, some cross between a praying mantis and an ant, but it stood as tall as a man. The monster sprang on an og’re, wrapping its legs around its victim. Razored mandibles tore at neck and face as both combatants fell, rolling, in the mud.
Elsewhere, monstrous slugs, the size of fallen logs, oozed from subterranean burrows. Their oily skin hissed with poison in the rains. Wormy appendages shot out, burning flesh to bone with a touch. Er’ril watched one of the monstrosities roll over an injured og’re, melting straight through the flesh of the fellow’s legs.
Bellows echoed up from below, while thunder rumbled over the horizon. It was a slaughterhouse. Er’ril lowered his spyglass, sickened both from the death and his own impotence.
Despite the odds, the og’res slogged forward through the trap, paying in blood for every step. Er’ril gripped the rail almost desperately, willing them his own strength.
“They’ll never make it alone,” Tol’chuk said at his side.
Er’ril understood. The edge of the pit was still a full league away.
“They’re not alone,” Fardale said fiercely. He pointed toward the skies.
Against the clouds, the si’luran army massed, a dark flock. Turning in unison, the winged army dove toward the fighting. They fell with all the might of their momentum, striking out with claws and beaks.
Er’ril lifted his spyglass again, his heart thundering in his ears. One golden eagle fell upon the og’re still writhing with the black insectoid creature. The bird struck with such speed, Er’ril could barely mark the passage. Only when the chitinous head dropped from the eagle’s claws did Er’ril understand. The og’re, bloody-faced and roaring, shook off the decapitated monster.
From the skies, death rained upon the hidden lurkers. Slowly the tide of the battle turned. The og’res surged forward, clubs beating a path forward. Working together, the two armies rolled toward the waiting pit.
Er’ril lowered his glass and stared at the hole blasted in the highlands. He knew this was only the first skirmish. Whatever else lay ahead remained shrouded in the swirling smoky fog.
He glanced down the rail. Tol’chuk stood with Magnam. Meric with Nee’lahn. Fardale and Thorn. All wore matching expressions of tired horror.
From a hatch, Joach and Harlequin appeared, Jaston and the swamp child behind them. Joach waved to Er’ril. “We may have worked out a plan—”
Er’ril cut him off. “Where’s your sister?” He had left Elena with her brother. He had thought he was still with her.
Joach scanned the rainy deck. “I . . . I thought she’d be up here. Last I saw, she was in her cabin.”
Er’ril’s heart climbed into his throat. The horns should have drawn her topside. Cursing his lapse in attention, he shoved past Joach and the others.
Joach was caught up in his wake. “She seemed to want some time alone . . .”
Er’ril was deaf to his words. He burst through the forward hatch, leaping the stairs.
Joach ran after him. “What’s wrong?”
Er’ril didn’t answer. He raced into the belly of the ship. He had put too much trust in the open air around them, their isolation. He had foolishly let his guard down, trusting Joach to watch after his sister for a moment. But a moment was all it took to lose everything.
He pounded down the length of the ship, praying he wasn’t too late. He spotted their cabin door at the end of the hall. Nothing seemed amiss.
Joach yelled, racing after him. “What are you—?”
Ahead, the explosion blasted the door off its hinges, blowing it down the hall. Er’ril was tossed backward, colliding into Joach. The flying door struck them with the force of a hammer, clipping Er’ril on the side of the head as it tumbled past. All sound went silent, his vision skittered, and time paused for a frozen instant.
Then Er’ril slammed into the planks, hitting his head again. He fought against the tide, but the world slipped away . . . into darkness.
Elena blinked through tears after the magickal explosion. She was still pinned against the wall, helpless. Her head ached; her heart pounded in her throat. Her hands were twin suns of pent energies.
Greshym stood before her, his cloak billowing with energies, staff held before him like a king’s scepter. He had lost all composure, anger and frustration turning him wild. “Where is the blood sword? Tell me, or I’ll rip this ship apart and pick through the ruins myself!”
The darkmage had the power to back his threat—she only had to look at the ruin of the doorway to know this. But she remained silent. Since capturing her, he had battered at her will with horrible figments, whispered promises, but he dared not risk physical harm against her. If he were to bloody her hands, the magick would be hers again.
It was a standoff.
Elena carefully kept her eyes away from the furs at the darkmage’s feet. His initial attack had thrown the bedding to a jumble at the foot of the bed. The wit’ch sword lay hidden in the pile. Clearly Greshym believed the sword more artfully protected—not lying in plain sight.
She kept her eyes fixed on Greshym.
The darkmage’s patience had worn thin. He must know his time was running short.
A voice startled them both. “Greshym!”
The darkmage swung around. Joach stood in the splintered doorway, his staff raised before him.
“Joach! Get back!”
Her brother ignored her. “You swore you’d not return!”
Greshym shrugged, but kept his staff raised. “I only collect one last item. Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Shadowsedge,” Joach said, his eyes narrowing.
“It would destroy your sister anyway. I’ll find a better use for it.”
Elena hung from the wall. Shock coursed through her despite the terror of the moment. Joach plainly was not surprised to find Greshym alive. From her brother’s words, some pact had been made between them. But why? Just to regain some of his life? Elena stared at Joach’s resurrected hand. No, it had been something more important than his own life. Kesla.
She closed her eyes for an awful moment. She had not realized the depths of her brother’s despair.
Greshym spoke. “And I must say, my boy, your timing here could not have been more opportune.”
Elena opened her eyes, sensing a well of power building in the room.
“I had no leverage with which to pry your sister’s secret.” Greshym lashed out with his staff, more swiftly than a striking snake. “But with you here . . .”
A whirl of oily darkness opened behind her brother.
“Joach!” Elena yelled.
Before she could finish her cry, a horrid beast leaped from the darkness and snatched at her brother. It was gray-skinned, muzzled, with peaked ears, and its hands ended in ripping claws. Bone-crushing arms ending in vicious claws grabbed Joach, ripping through his clothes to dig into flesh. His staff tumbled to the floor, rolling out of reach.
The beast lowered its muzzle to Joach’s throat, lips curled in a snarl, razored teeth glinting. He snuffled hungrily, piggish eyes bright with blood lust.
“Rukh likes you,” Greshym said as her brother struggled. “I think he remembers the taste of your old hand.” Joach’s struggles became more frantic as the darkmage turned to Elena. “Now perhaps we can negotiate: Shadowsedge, for your brother’s life.”
Elena stared at the slavering beast.
“And don’t expect any further interruptions,” the darkmage added. “I’ve sealed the end of this corridor.”
Elena’s eyes drifted toward the floor, toward the rumple of blankets and furs. She had no choice. “The sword—”
Then movement caught her eye. Joach’s staff was rising from the floor behind Greshym, a shadow building under it. Her brows pinched.
Greshym sensed the danger a moment too late. He swung, but the staff lunged over his head as the shadow burst upward. The darkmage was caught by the neck, choked across the throat by the stone staff. His own bone
stave clattered to the floor as he grabbed for his neck. Behind the darkmage, the shadow continued to take shape, as if folding out from another space.
It was Joach!
Greshym’s mouth opened in dismay, even as her brother continued to throttle the mage. “I warned you never to return.” Joach slammed a boot atop the fallen staff, shattering the length of bone. Blood flowed from the shards, steaming across the planks. A howl rose—and Greshym groaned to match.
Joach glanced to the beast who was holding his facsimile. With a wave of his hand, the image dissolved to sand—then even that vanished.
The goblin startled back to cower against the wall, eyes darting.
“Free my sister,” Joach hissed.
Greshym lifted his hand as a scrape of wood sounded by the doorway. All eyes swung around.
Er’ril stood, leaning against the ruined frame, sword in hand. Blood dribbled down his forehead. “Elena . . .”
The moment’s distraction was all it took. Greshym slammed his elbow into Joach’s rib cage. At the same time, obeying some silent command, the beast leaped at Er’ril with a roar.
Elena fought her bonds, but she could not even move her fingers.
Before her, Joach coughed, the air knocked from his chest. He stumbled back, releasing the darkmage. Greshym leaped free, crouching amid the remains of his shattered staff. He opened his palm over the bloody remnants, and the bone shards reassembled in a flash of magick. His staff snapped back to his fingers.
Joach lifted his own staff, but the darkmage was quicker. Magick blasted out. Her brother was thrown across the cabin to strike the stone hearth—pinned against the wall as surely as Elena.
By the doorway, Er’ril was a whirl of steel. He skewered the darkmage’s creature again and again. Then with a final spin, he sliced his sword across the beast’s throat. Blood spurted to the ceiling as the creature fell dead to the floor.
Er’ril stalked into the room, the front of his cloak dripping with gore.
Greshym spoke from the corner where he crouched by Joach, his bone staff pointing toward the plainsman. “Even after five centuries, you’ve not lost your stroke. Now drop your sword and kick it over here.”
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