From here, all paths led down.
Fardale raised his nose to the breeze coming from the lower lands. Even Mogweed’s weaker nose could pick up traces of salt from the distant sea. Such a foreign and intriguing smell, Mogweed thought, so unlike home. But what also colored the air, almost overpowering the subtler scents, was a more familiar odor. “I smell smoke,” Mogweed warned.
“Old smoke,” Tol’chuk said, his voice stronger than it had been during the previous days. He seemed to be studying the scent, drawing it deep into his throat. “The fire be at least a day old.”
“So is it safe to continue?” Worries of a forest fire slid across Mogweed’s skin.
The og’re nodded. “And now that we be out of og’re lands, maybe it be time we parted ways.”
Mogweed started to mumble words of thanks for Tol’chuk’s help when suddenly the og’re gasped and clutched a hand to his chest.
“What’s wrong?” Mogweed asked, searching right and left for danger. Fardale leaped off the boulder and loped to Tol’chuk’s side. The wolf placed a concerned paw on the og’re’s leg.
Tol’chuk straightened his back and lowered his hand to his pouch. He removed from among his belongings the huge jewel that had killed the og’re. The stone pulsed a ruby red in the dimness. Its brightness stung the eye. Then, as if it were a coal cooling after supper, the fire receded in the stone until the light vanished.
“What is that? You never did tell us.” Mogweed tried to suppress the greed in his voice. The jewel had to be of extreme value. It might come in handy if they needed to barter in the human lands.
“Heartstone.” Tol’chuk returned the jewel to his pouch. “A sacred stone of my people.”
Mogweed’s eyes still stared at the pouch. “That glow? Why does the stone do that? What does it mean?”
“A sign. The spirits call me forward.”
“Where?”
Tol’chuk pointed to the spreading vistas of the eastern slopes of the peaks. Fingers of distant smoke climbed into the waning light. “If you will have me, I will journey with you into the human lands. It seems our paths are not yet meant to part. Ahead may lie the answers we both seek.”
“Or our doom,” Mogweed mumbled.
Book Three
PATHS AND
PORTENTS
19
ELENA STOOD FROZEN in the street, her eyes fixed on the spot where her brother had stood only moments before. Empty, blackened cobbles now remained. The town lay hushed around her, as if holding its breath. Her ability to comprehend what had occurred had vanished along with Joach. She did not blink as the one-armed swordsman stumbled over to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her, placing his single hand on her shoulder. His next words flamed with suppressed rage. “I did not suspect the monster’s power. Fear not. I will hunt him down and free your brother.”
The tiny woman who had earlier pulled Elena to safety joined them. “Er’ril, who was that cloaked one? Did you recognize him?”
“Someone from my past,” he mumbled. “Someone I never thought to meet again.”
“Who?”
“It is of no matter right now. The townspeople are aroused. It would be best if we fled this cursed valley.” Around them, the town was beginning to awaken from the demonic assault. A few calls for arms echoed from neighboring streets.
“What about the girl?” the woman asked.
Elena still stared. From slack lips, she whispered, “My brother . . .”
“We’ll take her somewhere safe,” Er’ril said. “Then I’ll search for what became of the mage and the boy.”
The giant mountain man approached and stepped between Elena and her view of the spot where Joach had stood. His intrusion severed some tenuous connection between Elena and the spot. Blackness edged her vision. She swooned to the cobbled street. The swordsman’s strong arm caught her before her head hit the ground.
“Er’ril, the child’s heart sickens with the horrors here,” the woman said. “We need to get her somewhere warm, away from here.”
Er’ril spoke near Elena’s ear, his breath on her neck as he supported her shoulders. “Nee’lahn, you need to discover if she has any other family.”
The word “family” penetrated the blackness around Elena’s heart. Her eyes settled on the torn remains of Aunt Fila, tossed like rags in a shadowed corner. Tears frozen in her chest thawed and began to flow. Her breathing dissolved to sobs. Elena remembered her aunt’s final words. With great effort she turned to face the swordsman. “I . . . have an uncle. She said . . . told me to go there.”
The woman knelt beside her. “Who told you, child?”
“Where is your uncle?” Er’ril interrupted.
Elena forced her hand to point north of town
“Can you guide us there?”
She nodded.
Suddenly a deep voice barked nearby. “Look what I found here!”
Elena and Er’ril both turned. Elena saw the mountain man reach behind a rain barrel and haul out a thin-framed man dressed in a smudged uniform of the town’s garrison.
“Who is that?”
Elena knew the answer to the swordsman’s question. She had seen that pinched face with its manicured mustache and black eyes. Elena fought her tongue loose. “He’s the one who k-k-killed my family! He was with the old man.”
He was the one named Rockingham.
ER’RIL WATCHED THE trembling man dart looks right and left, searching for help or a way out. But Kral had the man’s cloak wrapped in a boulder of a fist. His other hand braced an ax. Er’ril recognized the thin man as the one who had spoken to the darkmage. “Who are you?” Er’ril demanded.
“I am . . . head of the county garrison.” Rockingham’s voice tried to sound threatening, but his words cracked with fear. His eyes kept darting to the headless carcass of the beast slain by the mountain man. “You would do well to release me.”
“This girl says you’re in league with the darkmage. Is that true?”
“No. She lies.”
Er’ril nodded to the mountain man. There was a way to measure this one’s truth. “Test him.”
Kral nodded and rested his ax against the rain barrel. He reached up and placed his palms against the man’s temples. Rockingham shied away, but Kral pressed firmly. A heartbeat later, the mountain man whipped his hand away as if he had touched fire.
“Does he speak the truth, Kral?”
The mountain man flexed one hand as if it hurt. “I cannot tell. I never felt anything like him. It’s as if . . . as if . . .” Kral shook his head.
Nee’lahn spoke up. “What?”
“It’s as if the man himself were constructed of a lie. His words were mere droplets in a monstrous ocean of untruths. I can’t read him.” Kral now held the man at arm’s length, as if disgusted at the thought of touching his skin again.
“Do you think—?” A bugle blew stridently from across the town, interrupting Er’ril’s next question.
A chorus of horns answered, scaring a flock of pigeons from a nearby roof. The blaring horns sounded from the direction of the garrison. Er’ril was suddenly aware of townspeople beginning to peek out of windows and from behind doors. The town continued to awaken from the shock of the magickal assault.
“Perhaps we should take your advice, Er’ril,” Nee’lahn said, “and head out. We have nothing else to gain here.”
The horns sounded again.
“My men are on the march,” Rockingham said. “Release me, leave the girl, and you may yet live.”
Kral shook the man and raised a startled squeak from him.
“I don’t think you’re in any position to give orders,” Er’ril said. “Kral, haul him with us.”
Elena stirred. “No! He’s evil!”
Er’ril rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder; all he needed was a hysterical child. He softened his words. “He may have answers as to where your brother was taken. If we are to find him, this man may know how.”
Er?
??ril watched her swallow her fear and straighten her slumped shoulders. Determination shone in her eyes. She spat in the direction of their prisoner. “Don’t trust him.”
A spark of respect for the youngster flared in Er’ril. “I don’t trust anyone,” he mumbled. Er’ril turned to Kral and Nee’lahn. “We’ll head north and see if we can find her uncle and maybe some answers on what occurred here today.”
Kral nodded and bound Rockingham’s wrists. Once finished, he secured the ax to his belt and slipped a knife to Rockingham’s ribs. “To keep your tongue from waggling,” Kral growled with a humorless grin.
Nee’lahn placed an arm around Elena. “Come, child.”
Er’ril led the way north through backstreets and alleyways. The commotion kept most of the townsfolk indoors or patrolling the main streets. Few eyes noted their passage.
BOL STUDIED THE room, rubbing at the thick mustache that hid his pursed lips. He was just about ready. The piles of books and scrolls had been shoved into cabinets, shelves, closets, and empty corners. He had finally cleared the dining table of his scavenged library. Decades had passed since he last saw the wood of the table; some of the books had left scarred outlines of their bindings on its oak finish. Spots of yellowed candle wax dotted the surface, giving it a pocked, diseased look. He sighed. That would have to do. He was no chambermaid.
Running fingers through his white hair, he smelled the ko’koa simmering on the stove. The lentils for the soup should just about be ready. The roast needed basting but could wait a few moments more. Maybe he should collect an extra bunch of carrots from the garden. Frost would soon be here, and they would go to waste otherwise.
He glanced out the western window to the sun setting behind the peaks of the Teeth. Storm clouds blustered among the mountaintops, blurring the tips with rain. It would be a wet night.
No, the carrots would have to wait. Time ran short.
His hand kept fluttering to the amulet hung around his neck by twisted strands of his sister Fila’s hair. She would have done a much better job preparing the meal, but such was not to be. Fate had chosen between the twins, and Fila was snatched. She had her own responsibilities now, leaving Bol the more practical concerns. Who had the worse lot in these matters was yet to be seen. The paths from this room pointed to a thousand different compass points. Like a boulder loosened by centuries of rain and tumbling a path of destruction down the mountainside, there was no turning back—for any of them.
“Fire will mark her coming,” he mumbled to the empty room. “But what then?”
A chill slipped past his coarse shirt and woolen undergarments to tingle his skin. He crossed to the fireplace and used a brass poker to stoke the fire to a brighter blaze. He stood before the flames and let his clothes cook in the heat. Why were his old bones always so cold? He never seemed to stay warm these days.
But that was not the real reason he stood idle by the fire. The last of his chores still awaited his attention. He clutched the amulet firm to his chest. “Please, Fila, take this duty from me. You were always the stronger of us.”
No answer came. The amulet did not even bloom with its familiar warmth. Not that he expected it. Fila was past the point where this simple trick could reach her. He was alone in his task.
He heated his fingers on the waves of hot air wafting from the hearth, trying in some manner to purify his hands for what he must do. He stared at the tiny white hairs on his knuckles. When had his hands become so old, just parchment-dry skin wrinkled over knobs of bone?
Sighing, he dropped his hands and turned from the fire. If his interpretation of the passages read true, the party would be arriving soon. Bol had built his home as a young man at this exact site for the coming night ahead. The ruins of the ancient school’s chamber of worship lay buried under the floorboards. Here is where all would be drawn, and the journey would begin.
He must be as strong as Fila this night.
Bol crossed to a cabinet constructed of impenetrable iron-wood. The door was sealed with only one key. He hesitated, then reached and slipped the braided cord from around his neck. He raised the cord and stared at the amulet. Carved of green jade in the shape of a wine pitcher, it contained three drops of sacred water. The water still swam with ancient traces of elemental energies. The amulet had allowed the twin siblings to communicate across long distances and had been vital to coordinating their efforts and plans.
He closed his eyes. As sacred as the amulet was, what stayed Bol’s hand was its connection to his dead sister. He was reluctant to let this piece of his sister’s memory go. Still . . . He pictured Fila’s stern gray eyes and could guess her response to his delay. “Hurry up, old man,” she would scold. “You have to let go sometime.” She had always been the practical one.
A small smile played at the corner of his lips. He twirled the amulet on its cord and smashed it into the seal of the iron-wood cabinet. Jade shards flew across the floor. One piece stung his cheek, like a slap for destroying such delicate artwork.
He ignored the bite on his cheek. The key had worked. The seal on the cabinet was broken. He reached to the cabinet’s handle and opened a door that had been sealed tight over two decades ago. A single object lay within the shadowed interior: a rosewood box with flowered traceries of gilt around the edges. Bol did not remove the handsome box but only lifted its hinged top. Resting on a violet cushion of silks lay a dagger older than any of the buildings in the valley, older than most people’s memories.
Before fear clutched his hand, Bol grabbed the dagger’s hilt and lifted it free of its nest in the box. He held it up to the firelight. Its black blade seemed to absorb the light, while a rose of gold carved on its hilt reflected the fire in blinding exuberance.
Tears threatened to well as he held the dagger, but his hand did not tremble, and the tears never did flow. Bol knew his duty. He was his sister’s brother.
“Forgive me, Elena,” he whispered to the empty room.
20
A GASP OF joy burst from Elena’s throat as she ran under the branches of the willow to the horse. “Oh, Mist, you’re still here.” She hugged the horse’s neck, inhaling the mare’s familiar smell, a mix of hay and musk. Her family’s barn had always smelled just like this. She hugged the horse tighter. If she closed her eyes, in a tiny way, she was home again.
Mist nickered and nudged her away, reaching for some tender shoots growing nearby, plainly unimpressed that Elena had returned. This familiar snubbing brought tears to the girl’s eyes.
Er’ril spoke behind her, but his words were for Kral. Elena ignored him, still content to place her palms on Mist. The horse stood solid: firm muscle, hard bone, and coarse hair. The mare had not vanished.
“Kral,” Er’ril continued, “be careful. Just retrieve our gear and mounts from the inn and head right back here.”
“No one will stop me. What about the prisoner?”
“Tie him to the tree for now.”
Elena clenched her lips at Er’ril’s words and untethered Mist from the trunk of the willow.
“Girl, what’re you doing? Leave the horse be.” Er’ril’s voice snapped with exhaustion.
“I don’t want that man near Mist.” She pulled Mist’s halter and guided the mare to the edge of the canopy of branches. Mist’s presence bolstered her confidence. Though she had lost so much, she still had her mare. “And my name is Elena, not girl.”
Nee’lahn crossed to join Elena, an amused smile on her lips; her violet eyes and honey hair caught splashes of light from between the branches. The small woman’s beauty snatched the breath from Elena. When in town, she had thought the woman somewhat plain, but out here among the trees, she seemed to bloom like a forest flower. Elena would even swear the willow branches moved so the small woman’s beauties were accented by rays of sunlight.
“She is a handsome mare,” Nee’lahn said.
Elena dropped her gaze to her toes, embarrassed by her own gawky appearance. This close, Nee’lahn even smelled of honeysuckle. ?
??Thank you,” Elena said sheepishly. “I raised her from a foal.”
“Then the two of you must be very close. I’m glad you were able to lead us here to find her.” Nee’lahn offered Mist a bite of apple from the wares they had purchased as they snuck from town. Mist twitched back her ears in delight and snatched the entire apple with her thick lips.
“Mist! Mind your manners!”
Nee’lahn just grinned. “Elena, can you find the way to your uncle’s as easily as you did here?”
“Yes, he lives in the next valley. Winter’s Eyrie, up by the old ruins.”
“What?” Er’ril wore a shocked look on his face. Kral had already left for town, and Er’ril had just finished testing Rockingham’s bonds and gag. He stalked over to Elena. “Where did you say he lived?”
Nee’lahn placed a hand on Elena’s wrist. “She said that he lived near some old ruins. Now quit raising your voice.”
The swordsman tensed with the rebuke, his face darkening. “Fine. Now, girl . . . I mean, Elena, are these the ruins of an old school?”
Elena shrugged. “We aren’t allowed near the ruins; there are lots of poisonous snakes. But Uncle Bol is always poking among the stones, digging up books and such stuff.”
Er’ril blew an angry wind from his chest. “Did your uncle ever find anything . . . unusual?”
She shrugged and shook her head. “Not that he ever mentioned, but he sort of keeps to himself.”
“Er’ril, do you know the place?” Nee’lahn asked.
He spoke as if his jaws were stuck. “I visited it the last time I was here.”
“So you know the way?”
“Yes.”
“Then as soon as Kral returns with your horses, we can set out.” Nee’lahn turned her back on Er’ril and faced Elena. “While we’re waiting, maybe you could tell us how you ended up with those evil men?”