As he stared, the dank mud around the sphere began to freeze, ice and frost sheening in the torchlight. The mud cracked as it froze. Then the ice spread from the stone in ripples.
What was happening? Torwren retreated from the ice, his wide feet sinking into muck. Soon his back was against the wall.
The prisoner, hanging on the stones beside him, raised his head, his eyes suspicious and wary.
Torwren met his gaze. Was this some elv’in magick? Had he misjudged the extent of this elemental’s skill? Or did it have something to do with the bearded stranger’s intrusion within the stone? He glared back at his prisoner. “What do you know of this?”
Behind the glaze of pain, confusion was evident in the elv’in’s expression. “What . . . ?”
Torwren turned away, realizing the elv’in was unaware of what was happening. The ebon’stone still lay in the center of the room, a pool of ice flowing out from it. As the ice finally reached the d’warf’s feet, the mud froze around his sunken ankles, locking him in its frigid embrace, the cold so intense that it felt more like fire.
The shock of its touch drew a moan from the d’warf lord.
He suddenly understood what was happening. Oh dancing gods of the Forge! He crashed to his knees in the mud. His left ankle, trapped deeper in the mud, cracked. Terror gripped his heart so fiercely that Torwren did not even feel the pain of his wailing ankle.
With his lips pulled back in a rictus of fear, Torwren watched the ebon’stone rise from its nest in the cracked and frozen mud. It floated in the air and began to spin. This time, Torwren had nothing to do with the magicks that drove the stone’s flight.
“No,” he moaned. Not when he was so close! His hands scrabbled at his ears, as if trying to block his realization. Not after so long! Tears rose from eyes that had not cried in centuries. He knew his mistake, felt it in the ice that clutched his ankles. After discovering the elv’in heritage of his prisoner, he had engaged the stone without his usual caution. He had been so certain that the elv’in’s appearance was a sign of his destiny, a divine portent that the Try’sil would soon be his, that he had let his guard drop.
He ground his fists at his throat and groaned. After so long a vigil, all had been lost in a single moment of hope. Despair ran like the mud’s ice through his veins.
The ebon’stone sphere slowly flew toward him.
Its black surface no longer ran with bloodfire. Instead its surface grew blacker; the faint lines of silver impurities disappeared until the stone sphere was a hole in the world. It sucked the warmth and feeble torchlight from the room.
Torwren knew it was no longer a sphere of stone, but the pupil of the blackest eye, a pool through which a monster stared out from his volcanic lair.
It was now the eye of the Dark Lord.
Awakened to Torwren’s traitorous heart, the Black Heart had come to exact vengeance. The Try’sil, the Hammer of Thunder, was the only tool that could break the bond that held his people thrall to the Dark Lord. Torwren had been his people’s last hope. His elemental skill at seeking had kept him from the tight leash that bound the other d’warves to the Black Heart’s will. With only a narrow room in which to maneuver, he had plotted and waited centuries for his chance to reclaim his heritage.
He cried his despair to the stone roof of the cellar. As with the original defenders of Rash’amon, no one answered. But this time, the roles were reversed. He was not the one wielding the black magicks and smiling at his suffering victims. No, this time, he was the one crying to the blind heavens.
He stared at the black eye and despaired.
With his death, all hope was lost.
Resigned to his fate, he spread his arms as the ebon’stone approached. Death would at least end his pain. Once within arm’s reach, the stone stopped its flight and hovered before him. Torwren closed his eyes—and waited.
For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Torwren’s breath grew ragged, and his knees began to quake. He remembered how he had toyed with the prisoner: Agony threatened was often a worse torture than the actual pain.
Frightened, Torwren opened his eyes.
The ebon’stone sphere still spun in the air before his chest, but now its surface was again afire—not with the red flames of bloodfire, but with the midnight flames of darkfire.
Before he could wonder at this, the fire burst forth to envelop him. At its touch, every bone in his wrinkled body blew to flame. Torwren fell backward, welcoming his death at long last.
Yet, as the pain grew more intense, his hearts still continued to beat. He willed them to stop, knowing that the coolness of death lay just a thin curtain away. He let himself go, releasing his spirit to the grave. Just as his last, weak grip on his essence loosened, he realized his error.
No!
His eyes whipped open. Blind to all but the darkfire that lapped and crested over his body, he still saw clearly what was happening. It was not death that welcomed his spirit, but the twisting magick of the ebon’stone.
He writhed and screamed, but it was too late.
The Black Heart was not destroying him. He was forging him, perverting his spirit as Torwren himself had done to so many others, changing him into one of the Dark Lord’s creatures—into one of the foul ill’guard.
AS TOL’CHUK AND Mogweed unpacked their meager supplies, Kral glanced around the Musician’s Hall. A small raised dais decorated in gilded roses occupied the far wall. Two tall-backed chairs of oiled ramswood and silk pillows stood atop the dais, the two cushioned thrones of the lords of the Keep. The rest of the chamber was empty, just polished marble floors reflecting the many bright lamps along the walls. Overhead, a crystal-and-silver chandelier lit with a hundred candles draped across the arched ceiling like an intricate spider’s web sparkling with drops of morning dew.
Kral could imagine the lavish minstrels and parading guests who usually occupied this room. It was a chamber that called for extravagance and fanciful productions.
With a growing frown, Kral judged his own troupe. Dressed in road-worn clothes and gear singed black at the edges, the three circus performers seemed lost in the large hall. Something was wrong here. Kral sensed it in the same way he knew when the ice of a frozen lake would crack under him.
Tol’chuk came up to him. “We be about ready. Mogweed will start with a few of Meric’s tricks just to set the lords at ease.”
Kral nodded. They had no intention—or even the ability—to perform a complete show. The crates of gear were just decoration, a thin guise in which to gain access to these two lordlings.
“Tol’chuk,” Kral said, “be wary this evening. Something rings false here.”
The og’re nodded. “I now wonder, too, why we truly be called here. Did you see the guards at the doors?”
Kral nodded.
Nearby, Mogweed was fishing through a crate. Kral saw him slip a small goatskin satchel in a pocket. Then he pulled forth a small bowl of the blackest stone and set it upon another crate. Kral’s brow crinkled. He did not remember ever seeing such an item among Meric’s magickal paraphernalia. Just the sight of the stone made his skin crawl. Kral rubbed his arms to collect himself. He was too edgy. It was just a bowl.
Suddenly, the large wooden doors near the main entrance were swept open by two stately armsmen. Standing in the threshold was Rothskilder, the man who had led them here. Behind their thin-limbed guide stood two men of shocking visages.
Like a trick of mirrors, the two men were identical reflections of each other. Draped in matching green cloaks and silks, the pair moved in synchronous step as they entered the Musician’s Hall. Their faces were disturbingly foreign, and Kral could not help but stare. Hair whiter than virgin snow and eyes a reddish pink, like those of cave newts, told Kral the birthright of this pair. Among his people, an occasional babe was born with such features. It was considered a bad omen. In the past, such babes had been considered to be touched by ice demons and were often abandoned on the snowy mountaintops to die. Such ingrained supers
titions were slow to fade; even now Kral could not help but shudder slightly at the sight of the twin lords. He stared at their skin, pale as bleached bones. It was bad enough to birth one such cursed child, but to birth an identical pair of them struck Kral as a bad omen for the lineage of the Keep.
Tol’chuk grumbled beside him, keeping his voice low. “I do not like the scent of these two.”
The og’re’s nose was keener than his. Kral did not argue.
Rothskilder bowed. “The Lords Mycof and Ryman,” he announced in a formal nasal cadence, “viceroys of Shadowbrook and princes of the great Keep, inheritors of the House of Kura’dom.”
Without a word, the two lords crossed to their pillowed chairs. The guards stood straight backed, with swords in hand. Rothskilder stood just inside the doorway.
The pair ascended the dais. As they sat, one of the two raised a single finger from where it had settled on the throne’s carved wooden arm. With this signal, Rothskilder backed out of the room in an extended bow. The guards followed, sweeping the doors closed behind them, and soon the two lords were alone with Kral’s group.
From across the hall, the eyes of each group studied the other.
Around them, the sounds of bars dropping into place sounded from behind all the doors. They were being locked in with the two lords.
Finally, one of the two pale figures spoke, his words quiet but reaching Kral quite clearly. His words were soft and did not attempt any false pretenses. “Thank you for coming. Now which of you circus performers is the elemental who escaped our hunt last night?”
MOGWEED HEARD THE sharp intake of breath from Kral. The shape-shifter had sensed Kral’s edginess after his strange faint in the back halls. Since then, the mountain man’s suspicions had been high. Mogweed had feared for a while that he might call off this evening’s meeting. Luckily, the man had a fool’s courage and had continued forward.
“Now come,” the lord continued from the dais, “if you step forward, we’ll let the others live.”
While Kral and Tol’chuk recovered from the shock of the lords’ casual revelation of their ill’guard status, Mogweed thought quickly. He had a dozen plans worked out in his head. None of them supposed the lords would speak so boldly and openly. He had expected artifice and trickery. Still, Mogweed twisted a way to use this to his own advantage. He cleared his throat. He would have to be just as bold. He stepped forward. “I am the one you seek,” he stated simply. “If you know of our troupe, then you must know of my talents in controlling our wolf. It is my magick. I can beast-speak.” He placed his fists on his hips. “Now let the others go free.”
The twins glanced to one another briefly, the smallest smile thinning their lips.
Kral hissed beside him, “Don’t do this, Mogweed. Their tongues lie. They mean to kill us all.”
Mogweed, with his back to Kral, rolled his eyes. The fool thought he meant to sacrifice himself. Such honorable men as Kral were quite blind to any subterfuge under their noses. He ignored the mountain man’s further protests. “Let the others free,” he said, “and I will give myself to you freely, without a fight.”
Tol’chuk snatched at his sleeve, but Mogweed shook loose and took another step toward the dais. He needed to convince these two minions to take him to their master. Once there, he could reveal the whereabouts of the wit’ch and gain not only his freedom but the gratitude of the king of this land.
Mogweed saw the amusement in the twins’ eyes at his veiled threat. This pair would need more convincing. As he stepped forward, he snatched up the black stone bowl from where it rested on a nearby crate. “Do not be deceived. I escaped you before when you had the advantage of surprise. Don’t think that I can’t harm you now.” Shuddering at the touch of the foul stone, he held up the bowl like a trophy. “This I took from one of your ill’guard brethren—after I destroyed her and ground her bones to dust. Be warned!” He thrust the bowl toward the pair.
With satisfaction, he saw fear dampen their frozen smiles. “Ebon’stone,” one of them mumbled to the other in recognition.
Mogweed pushed his slim advantage. He needed to get this pair of lords alone. When he spoke his betrayal, he wanted it to be a private conversation. He did not know where this evening would end and wanted to maintain the ruse of his loyalty to Elena for as long as possible. “Let the others go, and you will have what you want without bloodshed. This I swear.”
Kral had crept up behind him. “Don’t do this,” he whispered. “We will fight our way from here together.”
Mogweed watched the lords lean toward each other. Their lips moved but no words reached him. Mogweed had a few moments. Just as it was necessary to trick the lords into freeing the others, he had to convince Kral and Tol’chuk to leave. If they tried to fight these demons, there was a likelihood Mogweed could get killed in the melee. He swung toward Kral. “If these twins are the ill’guard,” he whispered to Kral, “then I’m sure Meric must be held somewhere here in the Keep.”
Kral nodded. “I know where he is.”
This revelation shocked Mogweed. He blinked a few times and almost lost the weave of his lies. “You . . . How? . . .” He clenched his teeth and collected himself. “Then all the better. I will distract them as long as possible. You two go for Meric.”
“What about you?”
Mogweed allowed himself a small smile. He knew better than to lie to Kral. “I will manage. I have a plan.”
Kral studied him a moment, his voice full of respect. “You surprise me, shape-shifter.”
Mogweed’s cheeks blushed. “Free Meric,” he urged, then faced the lords.
As he turned, the lords rose from their private counsel. One of the lords used a polished fingernail to brush back a strand of white hair. “We accept your generous offer,” he said.
The other slipped a small silver bell from a hidden compartment of his chair and rang it twice. Before the echo of the ringing chime faded, the main door was unbarred and swung open.
Rothskilder stood in the threshold, head bowed. “You called, Sires?”
“The two larger performers have fallen ill,” the lord with the bell stated softly. “Guide them from the Keep and back to their inn, please.”
“Of course, my lords. Right away.” Rothskilder waved two guards from deeper in the hall forward. “Do as our lords command,” he instructed with a snap of his fingers, then quickly faced the chamber again. “And the third performer?”
“Once the others are gone, we will be enjoying his company in private.” Mogweed caught the twitch of a leer on the other lord’s face. Then his features settled back to calm.
Mogweed’s knees trembled. For several heartbeats, he had to restrain himself from calling the others back to him. Tol’chuk must have sensed his discomfort and glanced toward him. The shape-shifter offered the og’re a weak smile. Tol’chuk touched a claw to his heart and then to his lips. Mogweed knew the sign. It was an og’re’s good-bye to a friend.
Mogweed found his own fingers repeating the sign.
As much as it suited his schemes to free the others from this trap, somewhere deep in his heart, Mogweed felt a twinge of relief that Tol’chuk would live.
Mogweed pushed aside these feelings. He must be strong. Now he would need all the skill and cunning he had learned along the difficult road to this room. In his mind’s eye, he pictured a mustached man dressed in a red-and-black uniform. Silently, he mouthed the name of his initial teacher in the ways of trickery: Rockingham. But even such a skilled practitioner as Rockingham was finally destroyed by the black magicks of the Dark Lord. If Mogweed was to survive, he would have to surpass his teacher.
As the doors to the hall swung slowly closed, Mogweed set the stone bowl on a nearby crate. Alone with the two ill’guard demons, he reached to his tunic’s pocket for the pouch hidden inside. No coins lay within the goatskin satchel, but he prayed its contents would buy him his heart’s desire.
Swallowing hard, he pulled free the pouch.
“What do y
ou have there?” one of the lords asked.
“What the Black Heart hunts,” he said calmly. He had somehow thought his betrayal of Elena would be more difficult, but he discovered no remorse in his heart. He smiled at the lords of the Keep. He had their full attention now. Their pale faces had blanched further at the mention of the Dark Lord.
Opening his satchel, he drew forth several strands of red hair. “I can lead you to the wit’ch.”
KRAL STOOD UP from where he crouched over the two collapsed guards. “They’ll live,” he said, hitching his ax to his belt. He had used the haft to club the men unconscious. He flexed his bandaged hand. It ached, but he had still managed the ax well. “Now let’s go.”
He led the way along the hallways at a half run. They passed the occasional startled servant. One young girl burdened with an armload of folded linen screamed, threw her work in the air, and ran. Kral could only imagine the picture the two of them made: a bearded mountain man barreling through the halls with an ax in hand followed by a loping og’re, fangs bared and claws scraping at the scatter of rushes on the floor.
Kral had no time for niceties or subtleties. He had to reach the brass door that led into the old tower before—
Suddenly a loud ringing echoed through the halls. Though unacquainted with the ways of the Keep, Kral knew an alarm when he heard one.
“They know we be loose,” Tol’chuk grumbled behind him.
“It’s just a bit farther,” Kral answered. “Hurry!” By now, the halls had narrowed, and the ceilings were lower. They were close. Half crouched, they sped down the passages.
Crossing a side hallway, a voice yelled from down the intersecting corridor as they passed. “This way, men! They flee toward the old tower! Cut them off!” The sound of booted feet thundered toward them.
Kral swore under his breath. It was not far, but they needed time to get past the brass door. He prayed it was unlocked but knew better than to put much hope in this, especially since he knew who and what lay below. It was doubtful a prisoner would be kept behind an unlocked door.
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