“Dral,” Brant finally barked out louder than he intended, earning a glance back from Tylar.
“Apologies, Master Brant. It were just that my belly was growling and I thought—”
He turned a hard glance to the large man.
The giant slowly closed his mouth.
Brant felt a tad shamed at his outburst. He read the edgy twitch to Dral’s eye. Despite his size and strength, he was plainly rattled, too. And the cramped quarters of the passage only squeezed his fears closer to his heart, loosening a nervous tongue.
He touched the giant’s hand, acknowledging both his forgiveness and his own apology.
At last, Tylar halted before an arched doorway. “Here we are.”
“I got it,” Rogger said, slipping a large iron key from a pocket. “Not that I really need this.”
He touched the door—and it creaked open on its own.
Unlatched.
Even Brant knew this was not good.
Rogger backed away.
“Stay here,” Tylar said. “But be ready.”
The regent edged the door open with a toe and thrust his torch through the gap. Brant cringed as Tylar followed the flames into the room. The regent’s torchlight reflected off a pair of iron braziers at the back of the room. They cast monstrous shadows on the back wall. Tylar’s movement set them to dancing.
Brant had a horrible feeling about what was to come.
Tylar crossed to another door in the back wall, some inner chamber, the alchemist’s study. It stood ajar. The regent approached, kicked the door wider, and stepped to the threshold.
He paused for a moment, his back to all of them.
“Tylar?” Rogger whispered.
The regent swung around, his cloak billowing out. He rushed to the door. “Gone,” he said, his voice stiff and angry. “We’re too late. Only by moments, I suspect.”
He waved them back to the stairs. “We must get out of here.”
They retreated, in reverse order as before, mostly as the giant blocked Tylar from passing. Krevan led them back to the stairs.
Still, Brant could not escape that horrible feeling he had had only a breath ago. It remained with him as much as the stink off Rogger. But it grew worse with every step. He felt something building. The very air seemed to suddenly weigh more. Each breath took effort.
Somewhere on the back of his tongue he tasted a hint of spiced oil, a whisper of scent, more memory than real, of pompbonga-kee.
Oh, no…
Dral cleared the passageway and reached the broader stairs. Brant stepped after him, glancing back to warn the regent.
Too late.
The torch tumbled from Brant’s fingers. Both hands grabbed for his throat. Fire ignited his chest, burning through his skin, turning bone to ash.
He fell to his knees.
Arms reached for him.
“Master Brant…?” Dral asked, his voice mirroring everyone’s confusion.
Except one.
“It’s the stone,” Rogger said. “Somewhere they’ve exposed the skull. Cleared the black bile.”
Brant fell farther, catching himself with one hand on the steps. “It’s near…” he gasped.
Then Tylar’s face was in front of his. “Where?”
Brant sat back, bones burning. He lifted an arm, fighting the pained trembling of the effort. He pointed.
“Down,” Rogger said.
“Can you lead us?” Tylar asked.
Arms lifted him, to his feet, to his toes. He shook to keep his heels to the stone. He nodded. “Down,” he gasped. “Down…”
“Where the rats fled from,” Rogger said.
Tylar descended with his torch held before him. The others followed. The giant supported the boy, whose face remained clenched in agony.
“Is this wise?” Rogger whispered.
“There’s a chance the daemons don’t fully grasp what they have yet. If we can reach them before they understand…”
Rogger nodded.
Tylar tightened his grip on the torch. “I could still smell them in there. We were only moments late. If we’d not dragged our heels…”
“Or let so many others know what we sought,” Rogger added pointedly. “I know Kathryn meant well. But I find it strange that the ghawls should discover the skull shortly after you made your plea in the fieldroom.”
Tylar pictured Master Orquell. Even beyond the man’s clouded eyes, Tylar had noted the hunger shining through. Had word somehow reached Castellan Mirra down here? Or was it pure happenstance? Suspicion had already weakened Tashijan, stoked by Mirra’s manipulations. So which path was the more dangerous: to be too trusting or not enough?
A moan arose behind them.
“Left…to the left…” Brant choked out.
Out of the darkness, torchlight revealed another landing. The passageway headed the correct direction.
Tylar led the way and lifted his torch toward the passage. The flickering glow revealed only darkness and sealed doors. But that did not mean the shadows did not hide a legion.
“Close…” Brant confirmed it with a moan. He was now carried like a babe on the hip of the giant. One hand clawed tight to his throat.
Tylar turned to Rogger and held out his free hand. “Your lantern.”
The thief unhooked the bronze-and-glass lamp from his belt and passed it to him. Tylar thumbed the flame higher, then tossed the lantern in a high arc.
Glass shattered and flames spat with the angry hiss of a cat.
Darkness shredded and swirled away like burning ash. A bit of cloak caught flame and whisked down the hallway. A keening wail fled with it, setting all his hairs on end.
The daemon knights were here, buried in the darkness.
“Keep your torches up!” he ordered and entered the hall.
The firelight pushed back the shadows and anything hidden within. They gave chase, but Tylar did not forgo caution. If he had to burn through the bowels, he would have that skull.
He headed deeper into the level as it branched. Brant pointed the way. Passing a sealed room, the boy gasped. His hand raised, palsied and weak, pointing toward the door. Agony stole the boy’s words.
Tylar tried the latch. Locked.
Rogger passed him his torch, then slipped to a knee and worked with a thin dagger. A click of release sounded. He stood and took back his torch.
“The cask,” Tylar said. He would take no chances.
The giant passed him the small oil barrel he’d been carrying. It trailed a twist of soaked cloth. Rogger lit it with his flaming brand, then rested a hand on the latch.
Tylar nodded.
Rogger cracked the door open, and Tylar rolled the barrel through the gap. He joined Rogger and pulled the door closed, together bracing it shut. The small whooshing boom sounded. Flames lapped under the sill, then retreated.
Tylar shoved the door open, expecting to find a nest of burning knights. And though the oil had lit tapestries and flames chased across chairs and tables, there were no knights.
A single figure stood in the middle of the fiery room, untouched by any flame. Tylar noted a mist of Grace surrounding her, one of water and air, a cocoon of protection.
“Castellan Mirra.”
The brightness of the flaming room had no effect on her. She was not a creature of shadow like her legion. In truth, she looked little changed from when last Tylar had seen her. Same snow gray hair, secured plainly behind her ears, framing a serious face, but not necessarily a cold one. She wore a simple ankle-length gray shift, sashed with black at the waist, and soft black boots.
The only difference: She usually leaned on a cane.
Instead, she lifted the skull between her two hands. Blood dripped to the floor from sliced palms. She smiled warmly at him, welcoming.
Then she sang his name. “Tylar…”
And he was lost.
Through tears of fire, Brant saw Tylar fall to his knees at the threshold to the door. The torch tumbled from the regent’s finge
rs and rolled across the floor. Krevan collapsed in a similar posture, dropping both sword and brand. The woman Flagger went to her leader’s aid.
In the room, the old woman whispered in a lullaby voice, melodious and sweet. “I’ve been waiting so long for you.”
Though Brant’s bones burnt with fire, he still heard the lilt in her words. And he knew it for what it was.
Seersong.
Rogger grabbed Tylar by the back of his shadowcloak and yanked him back into the hall. “What are you doing?” he asked. Graceless, he seemed deaf to the melody.
“Come to me…” The old woman continued to sing.
Tylar fought Rogger. Krevan crawled.
Rogger threw an accusatory arm toward the old woman as if to scold her—but instead, a dagger flew from his fingertips.
She laughed.
The knife was swept aside like a leaf in a swirl of wind.
Doors opened up and down the hall, creaking ajar or banging wide. The daemons, cloaked in shadow, crept from their hiding places with a familiar rustle, filling the darkness, surrounding them on all sides.
All a trap.
And Brant had led them here.
“No…” he moaned.
Brant’s single word broke Tylar’s gaze upon the woman and back toward the others. Tylar tried to push away with one hand. “Go…run…!” he called to the others.
From the room, a hummed melody flowed again and drew Tylar’s attention back. His head swung around, swayed by the Dark Grace of the song. To the side, Krevan continued his slow crawl toward the room, dragging the ash-faced woman with him.
Surprisingly it was Sten who finally seemed to comprehend the depth of the trap. He backed a step. “Away—we must be away. They are lost.”
The captain drew his blade, while Dral hauled Brant up into his arms. The movement only stoked the fire inside him. He screamed, but the sound seared in his throat, unable to escape.
Unrelenting, Rogger attempted to haul Tylar, but the regent, lost to the song, swept out his sword and came within a hair of removing his friend’s head. Rogger stumbled back, letting him go.
And still she sang, humming, encouraging, welcoming.
Tylar and Krevan were caught in its melody, like flitterbees in a web.
“We must flee!” Sten cried out.
Brant wanted nothing more than to escape—from here, from the cursed fires that flamed out of the stone. But he had not come this far for nothing. His road had led him to this ruin. He would not turn back.
No…
But no one heard him. Maybe he hadn’t even said it aloud. Did he still have a tongue? He tried again, coughing feebly to clear the flames from his throat.
“No…”
Dral glanced down to him. “Master Brant?”
Thank the Grace-blessed oversized ears of the giant.
He could manage no more than a whisper, all but mute to the others. “Get…me…to her.”
Brant did not have to explain whom he meant. Dral glanced into the room. The way stood open.
The giant searched down at Brant, studying his face. He had no strength for words, but Dral must have read the desperation shining through his pained tears. The giant turned to the door, hitched Brant higher under one arm, and charged forward. He knocked the regent aside and bulled across the threshold and through the smatter of oily flames.
The old woman’s eyes widened at the attack. She lifted her arms but dared not let go of the skull. “Stop!” This was more a screech than a song.
Dral merely lowered his shoulder and lunged. Though Grace-born, the giant was not blessed now. The song held no sway. Brant felt a scintillation of power in the air, but Dral was no mere dagger on the wind. He was born of loam. Water and air were no match.
The giant was upon her in three strides. A massive fist shot out and smashed her square in her surprised face. She flew off her feet, blood spurting. The skull tumbled from her slippery palms and clattered to the floor. A tooth broke from it and skittered away.
Brant wriggled from the giant’s arms. He fell to the floor beside the skull. Fire continued to consume him. He stretched with arms that were surely sculptures of boiled fat and ash.
“Stay back!” the woman cried.
Dral strode toward her.
Brant’s hands closed upon the rogue’s skull, where all his heartache had begun. It would now end. Let them both be consumed together.
As his skin touched bone, the fire inside him snuffed out. There was no relief, no cooling balm, simply gone. It left Brant hollowed out. He had been gutted by the fire, and like the charred husk of a burnt stable, he collapsed inward on himself.
And kept falling.
Tylar’s wits returned like a fall of brass pinches, rattling and heavy in his head. Chaos surrounded him. He could make no sense of it for a breath. Beside him, Krevan rose from hands and knees, face screwed with equal confusion.
Tylar found the Godsword in his hand, but he had no memory of drawing it.
“The boy…” Rogger said at his shoulder, nodding his head to the room while keeping a torch high toward the passageway on the right. To the left, the Oldenbrook captain and Krevan’s woman did the same. Tylar’s torch lay at his toes, guttered and blown.
Beyond the torchlight, darkness stirred against the waning flames, drawing down upon them. They were being herded together, driven toward the room.
“Stop the boy!” Rogger said again, rattling those pinches in Tylar’s head back to some semblance of order.
He lifted his sword.
Brant sat in the center of the floor. Past the boy’s shoulder, the giant had Mirra by the throat, pressed against the far wall, dragging her off her toes. Tylar remembered enough.
Seersong.
He swung back to the boy. Brant stared toward him, but his face was empty. Yet, still something glowed behind the glass of his eye. Tylar knew it wasn’t the boy.
Brant opened his mouth.
Tylar rushed forward, sword high. He would not be snared by the lilt of Dark Grace again.
Too late.
Words flowed out the boy’s stretched mouth, echoing from deep within. “HELP THEM…”
It was no song. The agony behind the two words stayed Tylar’s hand. Also there was something oddly familiar about the sibilant cast to the voice.
Though Brant’s lips did not move and no breath seemed to escape his chest, words still flowed.
“HELP THEM…
LET THEM ALL BURN…
FREE THEM…
LET THEM ALL BURN…
FIND THEM…
LET THEM ALL BURN…”
It sounded almost like an argument. Even the cadence shifted back and forth, echoing up from some other world. Tylar paused with uncertainty.
But another had no such hesitation.
“What have you done!” Mirra wailed through the throttling hold of the giant. Her wild eyes found Tylar’s, fired with terror. “Kill the boy…before he wakes them! Tylar, kill the boy!”
Refusing to be swayed again, Tylar backed a step.
“No!” the former castellan cried out. Her hand rose, bearing a small bone dagger. She drove the yellowed blade into the shoulder of the giant.
He bellowed, stumbling back and letting her free. But one arm swung out as he spun away. He cuffed her on the side of the head, felling her to the ground.
The giant caved to his knees. An arm lifted toward them, the same limb that had been wounded. From the impaled blade, a rotting spread out from his shoulder and down his arm. Flesh melted and putrefied to bone. Fingers fell away. The rot flowed to torso and neck. Half the giant’s face sagged on the one side, sloughing from the skull beneath. He screamed, wafting out an exhalation of pus and virulence—then collapsed face forward.
The stone floor silenced his scream.
Forever.
To the side, the boy continued his litany, like the rote cadences that clerics cast to the aether.
“HELP THEM…HELP THEM…
LE
T THEM ALL BURN…”
Then Rogger was there. He scooped the skull from the boy with a wrap of cloth. It stank of black bile. He shoved it into an empty sling over his shoulder.
Brant collapsed backward, sprawling out on the stone floor.
Was he dead, too?
Then an arm trembled up. Fingers scribed a pattern of confusion.
“Get the boy!” Tylar ordered Krevan. “We must get free from here.”
A moan escaped the boy as he was lifted up and tossed over the large man’s shoulder.
But Brant was not the only one to stir.
To the side, Mirra shoved to the wall, sitting up. “No escape…” she shuddered out.
Tylar turned to the door.
The Oldenbrook captain and Krevan’s woman backed away from the doorway and farther into the room. Beyond the threshold, darkness ate the light. The black ghawls had closed off their only escape.
Closer at hand, the captain’s torch sputtered out with one last gasp of embers and ash. They were down to two flaming brands, one borne by Rogger, the other by the gray-cloaked woman.
Too few to hold back a horde.
Proving this, shadows stretched into the room and spread across the walls. They were forced back. Knights formed out of the gloom, shifting in an ever-flowing weave of malevolence. Mirra was swallowed up along the edge of them.
Rogger sidled next to Tylar. “We need a way through them. Mayhap a little help from that black dog of yours. Turn daemon upon daemon.”
He nodded, sheathed his sword, and waved everyone behind him.
They needed some wedge here.
He grabbed his smallest finger of his left hand.
Agee wan clyy nee wan dred ghawl.
He yanked and snapped the digit straight back. From the sharp pain of the tiny break, a tide of pain spread outward, growing and swelling, a trickle becoming a flood. The world spun, and out of the tempest of pain, it burnt a hole into this world. Cloth burnt to ash over the black handprint on his chest, freeing what lay beneath. Gloom flowed out from his body, and the naetherspawn swept into this world, taking shape and sculpting itself from the smoke.
Wings unfurled, and a snaking neck stretched, sprouting mane and muzzle. Both wyrm and wolf. Fiery eyes opened on his world.