Carol awoke well before dawn the next morning, dressed, and began walking up the valley along the stream. By the time the sun cast its first light upon the glacier-covered peak, she had rounded a bend and passed out of sight of the wagons.
She saw a waterfall, plunging off a twenty-foot-high cliff into a clear natural pond. As she approached the cliff, she spied several handholds that enabled her to climb along its face. She found the stones slippery with the mist from the falls, but with enough holds to make passage possible.
She climbed along the stones, ducked under an overhang, and found a place to sit behind the falling water. The cool spray on her face made her shiver but felt invigorating nonetheless. Her thoughts turned to the months since they had fled Rafel’s Keep. How different her life would be if she had never been forced to leave. For one thing, her father would have never allowed Hawthorne to put her through the Ritual of Terrors. And she would never have learned to master the magic that she intended to use to breathe life into Thorean’s vision.
She was beginning to think that even the knowledge of Arn’s death had helped her hone her abilities, albeit in an almost suicidal frenzy of spell-casting. Now all the practice was yielding desired fruit. Despite how Hawthorne had warned her of the dangers Jaa’dra presented, it had proved no match for her. After all, she had directly confronted the primordial who ruled the elemental planes and, through sheer force of will, had emerged victorious.
Kaleal’s statement that she was the one foretold by Landrel now began to seem possible. And if she truly were destined for greatness, she would open her arms to embrace it.
A loud laugh accompanied splashing from the nearby bend in the stream. Carol turned her head.
She saw Derek coming up the valley carrying a fishing pole, his orphaned bear cub in tow. The little fellow loped happily alongside the ranger, whom he had accepted as his adopted mother. The bear cub raced forward a few paces, got distracted by the sound of the stream, then dived into the water in a vain attempt to catch a fish.
“Ha, ha,” said Derek. “I can see I’m going to have a hard time catching anything with you along, Lonesome.”
Hearing his name, Lonesome splashed happily out of the stream, coming to a halt by Derek just in time to shake himself vigorously, spraying a healthy amount of water onto the ranger. Derek bent down and threw his arms around the plump black cub, rolling around with him on the ground. The two continued to wrestle for several minutes, oblivious of Carol’s presence behind the falls.
The wrestling match broke up when the little bear discovered some tasty berries growing among the bushes. Taking his chance while Lonesome was preoccupied, Derek picked up his fishing pole and moved to sit on a large rock on the bank.
Baiting the hook, he tossed the line into the water. In the span of a few moments, he landed his first fish.
As he leaned over to take the hook out of the trout’s mouth, two furry brown paws draped over his shoulder while a long tongue licked his right ear. Derek laughed and tossed the fish back over his shoulder, onto the bank. His friend deserted him.
For most of the morning, she watched the pair. Finally, Lonesome was full and Derek was able to fill a stringer with fish to take back to the cooks. Carol looked forward to the addition of fish to their diet over the next few days.
After Derek left, she made her own way back to camp. As she approached her wagon, she heard a loud ruckus from the mess area. The sound of pots and pans clattering accompanied angry yells.
She rounded one of the wagons and saw Jock, her father’s fattest cook, advancing toward a flour-covered bear with one of his butcher knives. As he was about to get in striking distance, Derek’s boot caught him full in the midsection.
The fat man doubled over with a whoosh.
Turning toward Derek, the enraged cook bellowed, “Out of my way! I’m going to kill that animal!”
“You try it, and we’re going to have to find ourselves another cook,” Derek said, glaring back at him.
Carol stepped between the two men.
“Knock it off. Both of you! Derek, take Lonesome and put him where he can’t cause any more trouble. As for you, Jock, I don’t want to ever see you threaten that little bear again. He’s just a baby.”
“That baby did as much damage to my dinner as a herd of stampeding cattle!” Jock snapped.
Then, realizing to whom he was talking, Jock inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry, Lorness. It’s just that the little monster had me so mad I couldn’t see straight. I’ll get over it.”
She reached over and patted him on the back. She turned to see Derek leading the cub away by the scruff of his neck. The little fellow gazed up at him with such a forlorn look that she could not keep from smiling. Just then, Derek glanced back and, for the briefest moment, she thought she saw a hint of a smile play across his features. Then he turned and was gone.
The next several days passed too quickly for Carol. She had not realized how much she had needed to relax. The rest seemed to be improving everyone’s spirits. Broderick even rotated the rangers back in, a few at a time, for a break. She spent the time hiking, hunting, and practicing her spells. Hawthorne seemed duly impressed with her mastery of the fire elemental, although he warned her to maintain vigilance at all times when dealing with such a being.
She thought that this particular day was even lovelier than the ones preceding it, with a hint of change in the air. Tall thunderheads chased thin clouds across the sky, obscuring the higher peaks from view.
Rafel ordered everyone to prepare for a rainy night, and so most of the people scurried about, improving on the drainage ditches around their tents. Carol walked around her own tent only to conclude that she’d done a fine ditch-digging job the first time.
She walked over to the mess area as the first few drops of rain began to plop down here and there, sounding much louder than normal in the darkness. Jock looked up from where he knelt, trying to start a campfire.
“Ah, and a timely arrival it is,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps Lorness Carol would not mind saving me the struggle of trying to strike a flame in this wind.”
“Jock! I’m surprised at you. You’ve been spying on my practice sessions.”
“And I am truly impressed.”
Carol smiled. “With flattery like that, perhaps I can find it in my heart to lend a helping hand.”
The underground audience chamber beneath Hannington Castle was ancient and vast. The room descended in rows of stone benches from all walls toward a large square area in the center. From that area, a twenty-foot black pyramid arose, hundreds of candles lining its tiers. A spiraling set of steps wound their way to a throne.
Carvings of elementals adorned the seat’s back and sides, crowded with arms stretched outward in supplication, as if eager to do their master’s bidding. The throne had been carved from the orange wood of a swamp willow, prized for its connections to the planes of air, earth, fire, and water.
Kragan sat atop this perch, gazing out over the small group below. Three were human. The others were vorgs, except for the massive grun Tarok, who stood ready to deliver the latest update on Kragan’s army outside of Lagoth.
“Master, the army stands ready for your orders. All is in a state of readiness.” Tarok’s voice echoed through the room.
“How many?” Kragan asked.
“A hundred thousand strong await your orders to march from Lagoth.”
“What a shame that King Gilbert ordered most of his troops west after High Lord Rafel’s rebel band. He has just handed Tal over to me.”
As if on cue, Commander Charna entered the room.
An angry glint shone in Tarok’s red eyes as the muscular she-vorg shoved her way past him. Kragan motioned with his hand, signaling for the group to leave. Tarok departed last, closing the door, leaving Kragan alone with Charna.
Charna spread her arms wide as she approached the dais. “I never thought I’d be standing in the labyrinth beneath Hannington Castle, at least not before burning
it down.”
“You’d better watch yourself around Tarok, Charna,” Kragan said. “One of these days I may just turn him loose on you.”
“I’d have him screaming for mercy and release before he died. But enough small talk. I’ve scouted the western border of Tal, and there aren’t enough soldiers there to even slow our army down.
“There was one odd caravan heading west toward the desert, quite large and heavily guarded. One of my subcommanders was fool enough to attack it and suffered defeat. He should have known better than to come back alive.”
“Where is J’Laga?” Kragan asked. “I expected you to bring the wielder to see me when you came.”
“Oh, he was with me all right. But I left his sorry carcass rotting in a cave several weeks’ hard travel west of here.”
“Wha-at?” Kragan slammed his fist down on the black marble. “How did it happen?”
“We ran into some bad luck named Blade. I really wanted to bring you his head, but that turned out to be . . . difficult.”
“Deep spawn, I’ve waited far too long to step on that son-of-a-whore. But Blade is a nuisance, not a real threat.”
“Tell that to J’Laga,” Charna snarled. “He had a rather startled look on his face as Blade cut him down. That maniac attacked a whole group of us, killed some of my best fighters.”
Kragan got up and climbed down from the pyramid to clap his hand on the she-vorg’s shoulder. “It’s been a long while since we hunted together. Would you care to accompany me this night?”
“I stand ready.”
Kragan led the way up the pyramid to the back of the throne. He pressed one of the nude figures, and the throne slid forward to reveal a stone stairway, leading down. Charna followed him into the dark hole. The two moved easily through the darkness for a time, negotiating a maze of turns and twists, finally coming to a stop before a granite wall.
“Grab my hand,” Kragan said.
Charna complied.
The two of them stepped through the wall, which had acquired the consistency of mist, and into the night beyond. They had emerged at the base of a cliff, far below the castle. The city of Hannington lay just to the north, but Kragan turned east, leading Charna through a wooded area and down into the farmland beyond. They stood together in the darkness watching the twinkling lights of several small farms.
“Take your pick,” Kragan said.
“I like that one,” Charna said, pointing to the leftmost homestead. “It has a cheery look.”
The two of them moved rapidly down the hill, crossing a field of late-season wheat. As they got close to the farmhouse, a dog began to bark. Behind it, the door opened to reveal a strong young man in work clothes. Over the man’s shoulder, Kragan could see a comely woman peering out.
“Don’t worry, Anna,” the man said. “It’s just that fox again. I’ll go check it out.”
The man stepped outside, closing the door behind him. He signaled to the dog. “Go on, Lance. Go get that fox.”
The dog came running toward the outhouse, behind which Kragan and Charna stood. As it caught sight of them, it snarled and leapt over the trough. Kragan’s casting met the attack, snapping the canine’s neck in midair, sending it to the turf with a dull thud.
“Lance. Lance. Where are you, boy?” The man continued to walk toward them.
As he came up alongside the outhouse, Charna stepped out. Upon seeing the vorg, the man blurred into motion. With surprising swiftness, he swung the small hand ax in his right hand. Charna caught his wrist in midair, twisting the farmer’s arm violently and slamming him into the side of the outhouse. Charna’s knife brought the man’s howls of pain to an end.
As the woman opened the door, Kragan stepped inside. “Good evening, Anna.”
Once more his mind reached out. Glowing orange bands crawled around the woman’s body, binding her hands to her sides and lifting her off the ground. Charna entered the house as Anna came to rest about two feet above the floor on a far wall.
“What have we here?” Charna asked, gesturing toward the far corner.
Kragan’s gaze followed the gesture. Seated on a narrow bed, her small hands still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, sat a little girl.
“Looks like we struck gold at the very first house.”
Kragan walked up to where the terrified woman hung suspended in the air. As he leaned in, she spat directly in his face. He calmly reached up and wiped the spittle away. “I was planning on taking you first. But now you get to watch what we do to her.”
The defiant woman began to speak, but a casual flick of Kragan’s mind cut off the sound.
The wielder reached out to caress the girl’s face. His mind cast outward for one of the greater fire elementals. Taking a deep breath, he gathered his will and spoke a single word.
“Jaa’dra!”
Standing beside the fat cook, Carol reached out with her mind for Jaa’dra, producing a flame that spread evenly under the pyramid of kindling, holding the fire long enough to allow the wood to catch. Suddenly Jaa’dra wrenched violently, almost breaking her concentration. Another jerk and her mind made contact with that of Blalock. Surprise rocked her as she felt Blalock’s sudden burst of exultation, accompanied by a more powerful assault from Jaa’dra. Blalock had grabbed the fire elemental while she had control of it, and now the king’s wielder was throwing his entire will into helping Jaa’dra overcome her.
Flames crawled outward to form a circle around Carol. As she fought to keep them back, long strokes of fire reached out to her body. Despite her best efforts, she realized that she could not withstand Jaa’dra’s and Blalock’s combined will. Suddenly a spear of flame leapt up to pierce her left shoulder, liquid heat etching an intricate brand into her flesh. Carol expunged the agony from her brain, pushing desperately against the fire, but with no effect. Her mind churned. Unless she did something very soon, she would die.
She centered, casting her mind out from her body in one sharp effort, feeling Jaa’dra’s sudden delight. She had committed a wielder’s cardinal sin. She had projected while spell-casting, her consciousness no longer anchored to her body, thereby ensuring elemental possession.
Her mind hurtled across the leagues of dark desert, drawn toward her target even as the elemental raced after her. Following Blalock’s mind-link back to his body, she passed through the roof of a small farmhouse, her consciousness wrapping the wielder like his black cowl. And along with her consciousness came Jaa’dra.
Blalock staggered backward, one side of his head engulfed in a raging inferno. Recovering his concentration, the wielder forced the fire elemental away from his body, driving it back to the netherworld from which it had come. Blalock’s knees gave way, and a massive she-vorg threw a blanket over him to snuff out the flames. As Carol’s mind propelled itself back to her body, she caught sight of a woman running from the farmhouse, a young girl clutched tightly in her arms.
Carol stepped out of the circle of dying flames to see Hawthorne’s fire-lit silhouette round the wagons at a dead run, his robes flapping out behind him.
Her legs buckled. As the world faded away around her, she reached out toward him, the smell of her own cooked flesh wafting into her nostrils as the ground rushed up to her face.
26
Hannington Castle
YOR 413, Early Autumn
While he could remember many bad storms, Gilbert had never heard or felt fury equal to the one that had held Hannington Castle in its grip for the last two days. Wind did not whine through the cracks in doors and shutters. It howled, a wounded animal spewing out all its pain and anger at the world.
Although the quality of the workmanship in the castle was exquisite, the angry wind found its way through each chink in the mortar, every crack in the wood. It scurried along the hallways, picking up the dust from the floors in little eddying whorls, as if trying to grow baby storms into replicas of their mother outside.
If it had not been for the lightning that crawled across the sky, sending b
arrages of thunder to shake the mighty walls themselves, Gilbert would have thought the wind loud. Instead, he felt relief when he could hear the wind.
Gilbert paced across his chambers, barely seeing the form of the wielder who was the object of his ire. “Damn you, Gregor. Is this your idea of handling Blalock?”
Gilbert’s scowl deepened. “What was it you said to me all those weeks ago? ‘Do not worry, sire. I will do what I have been longing to do all these years. I will handle Blalock.’ Wasn’t that what you told me?”
Gregor failed to respond.
The king stopped his pacing to kick a chair across the room, almost striking Gregor, but it was not sufficient to break the infuriating old man’s silence. To think he had allowed himself to believe that Gregor had succeeded in driving Blalock away. After all, the dark wielder had disappeared for several weeks with no word of his whereabouts.
But Blalock’s return had been unpleasant enough to put an end to all the king’s wishful thinking. The left side of the dark wielder’s face had been nearly burned away, the flesh having melted and run, leaving bone and teeth exposed. Only a wielder of Gregor’s power could have inflicted that kind of damage upon Blalock.
But despite his disfigurement, Blalock reasserted his authority with a vengeance. And now this.
“I want to know something. What news did the messenger bring Blalock that put him in such a fury that his storm of anger threatens to pull down our very walls? You can at least tell me that. No?”
Gilbert spat at the stone floor. “What good are you? What earthly good have you done for your king other than to make things worse than they were before you confronted Blalock?”
Gilbert came to a sudden stop in front of the ancient wielder, kneeling down and reaching out a hand to grab the man by his bearded chin, forcing his face toward the king’s own. “Do you not understand that you are the only power that now stands between me and Blalock’s madness?”
Mark of Fire (The Endarian Prophecy Book 1) Page 22