by Daniel Kirk
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kirk, Daniel.
The road’s end / by Daniel Kirk.
p. cm. — (Elf Realm ; [bk. 3])
Summary: Fourteen-year-old Matt, Tuava-Li the elf, and Tomtar the troll continue their race to the North Pole to try to save their worlds, but unexpected horrors await whoever journeys beyond the Gates of Vattar.
ISBN 978-0-8109-8978-8 (alk. paper)
[1. Elves—Fiction. 2. Trolls—Fiction. 3. Fairies—Fiction.
4. Magic—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.K6339Ro 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010038752
Text and illustrations copyright © 2011 Daniel Kirk
Book design by Chad W. Beckerman and Melissa Arnst
Published in 2011 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
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O Mighty Yggdrasil, with branches
As plentiful as the windows in the dome of night,
And leaves as abundant as the people of your tribes,
shelter us in your eternal embrace and bless us
always with the bounties of your seasons.
—FROM THE PAPYRUS OF GUIKUD, OLD LUNAR ERA, 14
’Tis the courage of Elf, Troll, and Human
united in common cause
that will heal the wounds of the worlds
and awaken us from long and troubled dreams.
May we each harken to the call of the Goddess
and spread her eternal Word,
awaiting our salvation in the rebirth of our Holy Tree,
as Winter awaits the coming of Spring.
—FROM THE SCROLL OF THAGR, OLD LUNAR ERA, 48765
Asra was grateful for that, at least. From the other side of the wall she recognized surprise and anger in Macta’s final shriek, but not pain. Not real pain. Wouldn’t it hurt to have one’s soul devoured? A sliver of moonlight worked through the bars of the high dungeon window. The Princess crouched like a child in the feeble glow, head in hands, with her back to the damp stone wall. Her matted hair hung over her face, and though she’d squeezed her eyes shut, she’d been unable to block out Macta’s scream. It still rang in her ears. She shuddered but felt a tinge of relief that the deed was done; if she could believe that shape-shifter Jal-Maktar’s promise, she herself was in no immediate danger. Jal-Maktar had vowed to eat only one soul, and Macta had, more or less, volunteered. Now that chapter of her life was closed for good; a book best put aside and forgotten. But what new horror might open up in its place?
Asra’s descent from Princess to prisoner had been swift. When she left the forest with the Human girl, Rebecca, she honestly believed they’d be able to waltz, carefree, into the palace of Helfratheim. Now Asra was trapped in the bowels of that distant fortress, with no more hope than a mouse at the bottom of a well. Rebecca was gone. Macta, her relentless suitor, was dead. Asra guessed there was no one alive who knew she was here except for Jal-Maktar. She could rot in the vaulted chambers of this prison, and no one would ever suspect a thing. Her only chance was that Jal-Maktar might help her escape. She’d probably be forced to pay him for his favors with some part of her body, some piece of lung or liver, but so be it. She would do anything, sacrifice anything, to get away.
Asra’s eyes blinked open at the sound of approaching footsteps. In the dim light, she was shocked to see that Jal-Maktar was still impersonating King Macta. He had to have known how much this would hurt her! It would have been so easy for him to change his shape to something less emotionally charged. Jal-Maktar could, after all, become anything, anyone at all. “Is this some kind of joke?” Asra hissed. Then she noted that the figure shambling toward her was not dressed in royal finery, but was as battered and disheveled looking as Asra herself. The figure’s right arm was missing, and there were Bloodstains on his torn shirt. “Why would you choose to appear like this?” Asra demanded. “Does it please you to wound me? Now that you’ve killed Macta, must you go on pretending to be him?”
“He’s gone.” The figure let out a choked laugh. “Jal-Maktar is gone!”
Asra felt faint; she dreaded the words she knew were coming.
“His time ran out before he could take me. You heard him say that he had to work fast, don’t you remember? I kept him talking, and his time in this world ran out. He’s gone! He’s disembodied, once more. He can’t hurt either of us; he can’t hurt anyone, anymore. We’re safe, Asra! What were the chances of that?”
“You—”
“’Tis I,” said the figure, and in the feeble light Asra could see the glee in his eyes. “’Tis I, Macta! I’m alive, Asra, I’m alive!”
Macta drew the little book from his pocket, found a bit of charcoal, and squatted on the floor. In a trembling hand he began to write. “I’ll calculate the odds, if I can. I’ll make a bet as to the chances of us getting out of here! Luck is with us again, Asra. I can feel it!”
Asra’s spirits sank at the realization that, once again, she was trapped with the Elfin prince who, not that long ago, had nearly become her husband. How could fate be so cruel? She got to her feet and pressed her body against the wall, as if she could dissolve into the stone. “Then it wasn’t you who screamed?”
“No, no,” Macta giggled, almost hysterical. “It was that monster Jal-Maktar. When he looked down and saw himself disappearing, he let out a roar, but that’s all. There was nothing he could do; he was completely helpless!”
Helpless, like me, Asra thought, struggling to rein in her growing sense of panic. Macta’s scratching in his little book was driving her mad. “Stop that!” she cried. “Stop!”
Macta looked up, eyes wide. He wasn’t used to being told what to do. Asra glared at him. “Put away your stupid book, and think for a minute. You grew up in the palace above us. Isn’t there any way out of here?”
The moon, its pockmarked face pale and full, hung sullenly over the towers of Helfratheim. Prashta, head of Dockalfar Security Operations, was in the midst of his speech. He stood in the high tower window, explaining to the citizens why the thousand Human children had not, in the end, been sacrificed to the Gods, according to Brahja-Chi’s Acquisition. He said that the Gods were appeased merely by the offer of the sacrifice, and that the heavenly hosts had made it clear there was no need for the plan to be carried to its Bloody conclusion. The risk of contamination from the foul Human children would have been high, after all, and the Gods’ love for the Elves was far, far greater than their thirst for Human Blood. How comforted the Elves should be, Prashta assured them, to know that he was there to relay the glad tidings of the Gods!
“What of our Mage, Jardaine?” a peasant called from the crowd.
“And our King!” someone else shouted. “Why are our leaders not here to speak to us?”
Prashta cleared his throat. The only thing he knew for certain was that Brahja-Chi had died at the hands of the shape-shifter, Jal-Maktar. It seeme
d likely that Jal-Maktar and Jardaine were still together, plotting their revenge against him and the Council. He had no idea what might have become of Macta. Nervously he fingered the medallions around his neck. “Jardaine and King Macta are understandably tired after the events of this busy day and have retired to their quarters. Rest assured that all is well in Helfratheim, and that the Gods are smiling down on each of you, grateful for your love and devotion. Good night, gentle Elves, and may you rest peacefully this night beyond the Gates of Vattar.”
Prashta turned from the tower window and wiped the sweat from his brow. He’d be lucky if his flimsy wall of lies and evasions got him through the night. “Guards,” he called, as half a dozen Elves in maroon uniforms snapped to attention, “I want you to find Jardaine and bring her to me.”
The guards hesitated; one of them stepped forward and bowed his head. “Sir,” he gulped, “if Jardaine is with that shape-shifting monster, our weapons will be no match for—”
“Our weapons are the best in all the realm,” Prashta bellowed. “Each of you take a Dragon Thunderbus, and do what must be done. If Jardaine resists arrest, shoot her. Shoot Jal-Maktar, too.”
In the grand ballroom upstairs, Jardaine and her underling Nick the Troll were hurriedly moving chairs from the plush carpet so that Becky could lie down. Fire Sprites flickered in their sconces, casting shadows into the high rafters. Becky yawned and sat down on the carpet. Jardaine glanced at the girl with an anxious grin. “We’ll have this cleared away in no time,” she said. “You’ll get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow we’ll begin our preparations to leave for the Pole.”
“How long do you think it will take?” Becky asked wearily. The Elf’s name was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite recall it. She lay on her side, with the mossy carpet pressed against her cheek. “I’ve forgotten what to call you,” she murmured.
“You can call me Astrid,” Jardaine said, “and my friend’s name is Nicholas.”
“I prefer Nick,” the dark-haired Elf piped in, “like how I arrived in the nick of time!”
“How long will it take before we can go after my brother?” Becky asked. “If those Elves, Tuava-Li and her Mage, want to hurt him, we’d better hurry.”
Jardaine turned and swept across the carpet to where Becky lay. “I know how worried you are,” she said. “But we must be properly prepared for the journey. While you sleep, we’ll work on acquiring the maps, cold-weather provisions, weapons, and the Arvada for travel. We’ll be on our way as soon as we can.”
“There’s something else,” Becky said. “Princess Asra, she’s my friend, and she’s here, in the palace somewhere. Do you think you could find her and tell her I’m okay?”
“Asra, you say?” Jardaine said through gritted teeth. “You know an Elfin Princess called Asra?”
Becky nodded. “Uh-huh. She’s my best friend.”
“I’ll look into it,” Jardaine said, “and if she’s here, I’ll do what I can to find her for you. In the meantime, though, I want you to close your eyes and not give it another thought.”
“Thank you,” Becky said with a sleepy smile. “I’m really glad to know that there are Elves like you, who want to help people.”
Nick moved the last of the chairs into the corner of the room, and Becky stretched out on the carpet. With a gesture from Jardaine, the Fire Sprites drew their flickering light down to a dim glow. Becky was already asleep by the time Jardaine and Nick exited through the massive ballroom doors and hurried down the corridor. “How does that child know Princess Asra?” she said anxiously. “And why would she call the Princess her best friend? If Macta and Asra are still alive, they have the power to completely destroy our plans, Nick. We’ve got to get out of Helfratheim before the girl finds out what’s going on.”
“Jal-Maktar struck Macta and Asra with his fist, and they vanished in a puff of smoke!”
“Aye, but he didn’t kill them. He said he was going to deal with them later. He sent them somewhere else, that’s all. For all we know, the three of them could be conspiring against me, right now.”
“Halt,” a voice cried out. “Stop where you are, both of you!”
Weapons clattering, a handful of Imperial Guards squeezed together, midway up the stairs. Their eyes darted around, knowing that if Jardaine were here, Jal-Maktar might well be nearby. Jardaine sneered down at them from the banister. She wasn’t sure which of them had dared to bark orders at her; they all looked equally fearful and wary. “Fools, don’t you know that Jal-Maktar is right behind me? Which of you will order him to stop?”
She put a hand on Nick’s shoulder and whispered, “I’m going to conjure up the image of one of Jal-Maktar’s monsters. It takes an enormous amount of energy to do this. Hold on to me, in case I lose my balance. I can’t afford to fall down.”
Nick complied, thrilled that his Master had confided her weakness to him. Jardaine pressed her eyelids shut and bowed her head. She pictured a huge, tar-skinned creature with a dozen bobbing heads, and with a sharp exhalation of breath she sent the image of the monster into the minds of the guards cringing below. Jardaine’s knees buckled as the guards shrieked and turned on the stairs, panic-stricken, and raced for the exit. She opened her eyes and realized that Nick still had his arms around her shoulders. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek. “Let go of me,” she hissed and pushed him away.
“Are you all right?” Nick asked.
“Aye,” Jardaine said, stiffening. “Prashta’s stooges are gone, aren’t they?”
Nick’s eyes were wild with delight. “How did you do that, my Mage? There was nothing there, but the soldiers ran like frightened rabbits! Can you teach me to make monsters with my mind?”
Jardaine snorted. “Bah! ’Tis magick, not for the likes of you. Don’t get too excited, though. The soldiers will be back. Prashta will send them with reinforcements next time, and I may not have the strength to fool them again. We’ve got to get over to the techmagick labs and see if they have any weapons I can use against Prashta’s forces. My bag of tricks will take us only so far!”
The pair met no further resistance between the palace and the Techmagicians’ labs. The door, deep in shadows, was ajar. “Is anyone here?” Jardaine cried.
There was no response. Jardaine turned toward the narrow doorway in the corner. “We don’t want any surprises,” she said, starting up the staircase. “We’ll take the back way. Prashta’s troops could surprise us at any moment.”
On the second floor they entered a glass-walled room, stacked with mechanical gear. A ghostly blue glow came from a box propped on a table. Cables snaked their way from the back of the box, down the table legs, and across the floor. In the gloom Jardaine could see a figure in a lab coat cowering under the table. “Come out of there,” she commanded. “’Tis no use trying to hide. Let me see your face!”
“Your Hi-Highness,” the Elf stammered, creeping from his hiding place. “I mean, Your Grace, I mean, my Mage! I am at your command!”
“Indeed you are,” Jardaine said. “Though I’m the Mage of Helfratheim, I have enemies within the palace. I’ve come in search of weapons with which I may defend myself.”
The Techmagician gulped. His best weapons were already in factory production, and there was little that remained in the Experimentalists’ labs to share with the Mage. He placed a trembling finger on his chin and gazed around. Then he crossed the room, reached into a vat of liquid, and fished out a ceramic rod. A thin, segmented worm was coiled around the tip. He held it up for Jardaine to see. “Touch the end of this device to your enemy’s flesh,” he said, “and they’ll be shocked, as if struck by lightning. The worm holds an electric charge for twelve hours.”
“Indeed,” Jardaine said, wrinkling her nose. “Is it lethal?”
The Techmagician shrugged. “That depends on the length of contact.”
Jardaine took the device in her hand. “What else?”
“What else?” The Techmagician’s heart was pounding. “A
h, there are protective medallions, which you could wear around your neck. They’ll prevent your enemies from approaching you and inflicting harm. …”
“I am interested in offense, not defense,” Jardaine said. “Perhaps I should look beneath the tables here to see if any of your cowardly associates are still hiding there. Perhaps there are others who will prove more useful than you!”
The Techmagician backed away. “I’m alone, ma’am; the others all went to witness the ritual in the courtyard!”
“And why did you remain here?”
“I’m squeamish about Blood, my Mage.”
“What about books, then? There’s no Mage’s library in all of Helfratheim. Have you got books of spells or curses? Something that doesn’t require hardware?”
“As it happens,” the Techmagician said brightly, “there is something of a library here!”
He moved to the end of the table and stood in the glow of the strange vertical box. Any Human being would have immediately recognized it as an old computer monitor; but the Elf and the Troll had never seen such a thing, and they were transfixed as the Techmagician pushed some small rectangular buttons and an image appeared on the screen. “By the Gods,” Jardaine whispered. “Spells and curses, enchantments and conjury, right before my eyes. What manner of magick is this?”
The Techmagician chuckled, scrolling down a long list. “’Tis Human magick, or at least a version of it. We stole it from them, and adapted it to our own uses. We can find out just about anything we want to know concerning the Human world, and some of us have been using the device to compile information from the Elfin libraries you’re interested in, my Mage.”
“Stop,” Jardaine ordered, as the Elf scrolled down the list of magick spells. “Right there, it reads, methods for using mental energy to conquer an enemy with the power of the mind—that’s what I want! Show me how it’s done!”
The Techmagician pressed another button and a detailed description materialized on the screen, laying out the method by which one could send bolts of pure mental energy into the brain of an enemy. Jardaine glanced warily at Nick. “Step out into the hall,” she said. “This information is privileged, not for you.”