Tyrus nodded and scooted up. “You’re right, mountain man. I fear how long the demoness wearing my father’s flesh will wait for me to wake.” He stood and shrugged out of his torn clothes, showing no shame at his nakedness. He moved to the wall and placed his palms on the stone, calling up the magick.
Kral sensed the shift in energies. Soon Tyrus was sinking into the wall, vanishing away. The beast inside Kral sniffed for a sign of the prince but came up empty. Not even a heartbeat.
Granite had absorbed granite.
MERIC LEFT THE Stormwing under the charge of his second cousin. The ship floated a hundred spans above the highest terrace of Castle Mryl, hidden in the icy mists that cloaked the upper Northwall. Meric craned his neck as he moved across the stone floor. His ship was indiscernible, the only sign of it the long trailing rope linking the hidden vessel to its mooring point on the parapet.
He crossed to the others gathered in the shadows. Mycelle looked truly ghastly. Still formed in the shape of a d’warf, her toadish body dripped with blood and gore. So shocked was he by her appearance, Meric’s left boot slid from under him. He cartwheeled his arms for balance and righted himself, scowling at the slick pool of blood that had betrayed his footing. The entire narrow open terrace was treacherous with blood and the bodies of the dead.
Meric straightened the lay of his dark cloak and repositioned the pack on his back, careful of its delicate contents. “Are we ready?” he asked as he joined the others.
Standing beside Mycelle were two of the elv’in sailors, the most skilled with bow and dagger. Around them prowled the wolf Fardale, who had been lowered in a basket. His keen nose would come in handy in the search. Left aboard the Stormwing were the remaining crew, including Xin and the boy Tok. Xin’s ability to far-speak would allow the rescue team to keep in contact with the ship above.
“We’re ready. Make haste,” Mycelle said, wrapping a clean cloak over her bloody clothes. “I know the way to the dungeons, but I had best go first to make sure the halls are free of any prying eyes.”
Meric nodded. “Then let’s go. Silent and swift.”
Mycelle led the way, followed closely by Fardale. Meric and his two crewmates, the elv’in twins Pyllac and Syllac, kept up the rear guard. No one said a word as they worked their way down the flights of stairs and hallways. Mycelle would hurry ahead, then signal them with hand gestures to proceed or hold.
By this late in the evening, the upper tiers were deserted, and they made quick progress. But once they neared the lowermost levels, servants and sleepy-eyed guards wandered across their paths, and care had to be taken.
Fardale slunk ahead of Meric, sticking to shadows. Mycelle slipped around a corner, then waved a halt. She continued forward alone. Meric and Fardale crept to the corner and peeked past it. The hall ahead was quite wide. Halfway down the passage, a dozen d’warves lounged around a game of bones-and-cups. There was no way around them.
Mycelle approached, sauntering casually. Words were exchanged, but they were in the d’warvish tongue. Mycelle seemed to be arguing with them, clearly trying to get the group to shove off, but she was not succeeding. Finally she leaned against the wall, one hand signaling behind her back.
Be ready to fight. Wait for my signal.
Meric shrugged out of his bulky pack and set it down with care. Next he slipped free his blade. Ready, he fed magick into his limbs. An elv’in could move with blinding speed for short bursts. Meric remembered his sword battle with Kral in the underground warrens of the rock’goblins. It seemed a lifetime ago.
Behind him, his elv’in companions set quarrels into their crossbows, while Fardale crouched, teeth bared.
Down the hall, Mycelle shoved off the wall, two swords appearing in her fists as if from thin air. She drove them through the throats of the nearest two and twisted. Blood sprayed the wall.
The d’warf band sat stunned a moment, then reacted with a roar.
Mycelle abandoned her swords and rolled away. Daggers appeared in her fingers, flashing in the torchlight. She tossed one into the eye of a d’warf holding a handful of coins. Bits of copper and silver showered into the air as he fell backward, dead before his head hit the stone. She threw her second dagger just as surely. Another dropped, a hide cup rolling from his dead fingers.
Meric was impressed. Four dead in the span of a moment. Clearly she was growing accustomed to fighting in her bulky form.
But now the advantage of surprise was over; the other eight d’warves drew weapons and sprang to their feet. Mycelle danced away down the hall, drawing their attention to her. Empty-handed, she signaled Meric.
With the d’warves’ backs turned, Meric led the charge, sword raised. He flashed down the hall, a ghost in silver. Two dropped quickly to the poisoned bolts of the twins’ crossbows, and a third died upon the lightning-quick blade of Meric—two jabs, piercing both hearts, and a slice across the throat. Meric kicked the body over, toppling it across the spread of tossed bones.
Now the hall was littered with bodies, and the true melee began—five against five.
Fardale knocked over a thick-limbed d’warf and ripped teeth into his throat. Meric looked away.
The two twins nocked up two more quarrels, but the fighting was fierce. Working as a team, they swung on a d’warf that sprinted down the hall, attempting to flee and raise the alarm. Two feathered barbs sprouted in his back. He continued to run until his pumping hearts fed the poison throughout his body and he stumbled to his knees, skidding, then fell face first.
Meric ducked an ax swing. The blade whistled over the crown of his head. He bounced back up, sword tip leading. The blade pierced the d’warf’s groin and drove upward. Moving faster than the average eye could follow, Meric dragged his hilt up, splitting the d’warf’s belly from stem to stern. A slather of intestines and organs spilled across the stone floor.
Meric leaped away. The d’warf, still alive, stumbled after the elv’in, ax raised. But his own bowels betrayed him. He slipped on the blood and the loops of gut, and crashed to the floor. He writhed, but could not rise.
Swinging around, Meric saw Fardale rip into the hamstring of another d’warf, bringing the squat creature toppling down. The elv’in twins were already there, abandoning their crossbows in such close fighting and attacking the downed d’warf with their long daggers.
Meric spun again. Down the hall, he saw the last and largest d’warf closing in on the weaponless Mycelle. She backed against the far wall, hands raised, ready to fight bare fist against iron ax.
Meric touched his magick but felt the leaden pull of his limbs. He had no reserve of lightning speed.
“Mycelle!” he called to her.
MYCELLE CROUCHED, LOOKING for some weakness in the other’s defense. Her eyes flicked over her opponent. He handled his ax expertly, balanced evenly. From the top of his ax, a sharp spike of iron protruded long enough to impale a small adversary. A wicked weapon.
She clenched a fist. If she could hold him off long enough, perhaps the others could come to her aid.
As she studied him, a swordbreaker appeared in his other hand. The long dagger was deeply notched, meant to trap and break an opponent’s blade. But this night, there was no sword to break; its sharp point and single-edged blade would do enough damage. The d’warf rolled the small weapon in his large grip, moving it as comfortably as a baker would a spoon.
Unlike the guard on the terrace, this d’warf was not about to underestimate her. He moved in for a swift but cautious kill.
Mycelle heard Meric call from down the hall, but she knew no aid could come from that quarter fast enough.
“Prepare to die, traitor,” he grumbled at her as if he were chewing rocks.
Mycelle’s eyes narrowed, readying herself. But she knew the battle was lost. Not only was she weaponless, she was exhausted and shaky from the long night of fighting.
The d’warf lunged, swiping in with both ax and dagger. She moved a step forward, twisting sideways, attempting to duck under hi
s guard, but her attacker was not so easily fooled. The point of the dagger skimmed her side, forcing her back into the path of the descending ax blade. Encircled by blades, Mycelle knew her doom.
Ducking away, she prepared to take the ax blow to the shoulder, praying for a glancing blow—but the strike never happened.
Iron rang on stone.
Mycelle glanced up and saw an arm sprouted out of the wall—an arm of granite! Stone fingers were latched to the haft of the ax, stopping its descent.
A voice whispered in her ear—from the wall. “Move aside, Mycelle, unless you wish your death.”
She recognized the taunting, sarcastic voice. “Tyrus?”
“Move, shape-shifter!”
Though she did not understand this miracle, she ducked and rolled from beneath the imprisoned ax.
Her d’warf attacker, too stunned to respond, let her escape.
A few steps away, she twisted back around. The d’warf tugged on his weapon, trying to free its from Tyrus’ stone grip. He failed. Instead, as he pulled, Tyrus was drawn forth from the wall, stepping forth as a figure of granite.
The d’warf jabbed around Tyrus’ torso with his dagger, meaning to puncture a kidney, but the blade shattered against the stone. Tyrus smiled and dragged his other arm from the wall. In its grip was a long sword, a sliver of granite formed from the substance of the wall itself.
His smile hardened to a sneer. He swung the blade and impaled the d’warf. “This is for Castle Mryl!” He yanked out his weapon and plunged it in again. “And this is for my people!”
Free of the wall, the magick faded from his skin, and granite flesh became pale skin again. Naked, Tyrus pulled his blade from the bloody d’warf. The ax fell from the creature’s thick fingers. Tyrus took his granite sword in both hands and swung from the hip, twisting his body with all the muscle of his taut form. The blade ran clean through the d’warf’s neck, slicing through both flesh and bone. The large pumpkin head went flying, striking a wall and bouncing off.
Tyrus straightened, sword still held in both hands. “And that was for my father,” he said to the decapitated figure as it fell backward.
Mycelle approached the prince with caution. His body shook with pain and fury. “Tyrus . . .”
He glanced up at her, the rage dying in his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
She kept her eyes diverted from his nakedness. He was the son of the man to whom she had sworn fealty. “We came to rescue you.”
“Who?”
Mycelle nodded at the approach of the others. “I think you remember Meric from the docks of Port Rawl.”
“One of the allies of the wit’ch. The burned one.”
“I’ve mended from my injuries,” Meric said, sheathing his sword and introducing his elv’in compatriots.
Tyrus patted the wolf on the shoulder as he came nosing forward.
“Good to see you again, too, Fardale.” He then turned to those gathered around him and bowed slightly. “Welcome to my home. Welcome to Castle Mryl.”
Mycelle was surprised at the amount of dignity the man could assume even when naked as a newborn. Meric met his bow and explained briefly about the Stormwing while Mycelle marched back to the dead and sifted through the bodies for her weapons. Once returned, she asked, “What of the others? Mogweed, Kral, Nee’lahn.”
Tyrus shook free a cloak from the dead and wrapped it about himself. “In the dungeons. I’ll take you to them. With the ship above, we now have a means of escape.” He began to lead the way.
Mycelle glanced to the blank wall from which he had stepped.
Tyrus noticed her attention. “An extra gift of the Wall to the royal family.”
She nodded, though she scarcely understood. Explanations would have to wait another day.
As a group, they continued down the halls. With Tyrus’ ability to meld into the wall and sneak upon the unwary, it was not long until the group moved past the guardroom and into the dungeons.
Mycelle unlocked the cell.
Kral was the first out. His eyes were wide upon the newcomers. “Meric?”
The elv’in lord nodded in greeting. “It’s been a long time, mountain man.”
Mogweed followed next, supporting Nee’lahn under an arm. Fardale nosed his twin brother, whining a greeting. Mogweed briefly acknowledged his brother, but groaned under the thin weight of the nyphai. “She weakens,” he said. “We must return her to the forest. Leave this sick place to the d’warves.”
“No,” Mycelle said. “Not until we discover the whereabouts of the Griffin Weirgate.”
Tyrus frowned. “Weirgate? I know nothing of such a thing, but I do know the griffin beast has returned to some roost in the north.”
“At the Citadel,” Kral added. “We must go there!”
Mycelle nodded. “We will. We must. Come. I’ll explain on the way up to the Stormwing. The Griffin Gate must be destroyed.”
“Wait,” Meric said, his eyes wide upon the resurrected nyphai. He fumbled with his bulky, oversized pack and fished inside. He removed a velvet-wrapped object. Lifting it, he peeled back the covers to reveal the small musical instrument protected inside. The lute’s heartwood shone with such luster that it seemed to glow warmly with its own inner light. As he offered the tiny instrument to Nee’lahn, the dark-grained whorls churned with gold.
“I think this is yours,” Meric whispered on bended knee.
HER FINGERS TREMBLING, Nee’lahn accepted her lost lute. It was as if a severed limb were returned to her. She sighed as the warm wood met her skin, the touch of sunlight after an endless night. She stroked the instrument’s skin, sensing the trace of spirit in the wood. She brought it to her lips and kissed it gently. Beloved, she whispered silently, a brush of breath upon the wood.
Her eyes brimmed with tears as she looked up at Meric. “Thank you.” Already vitality infused her limbs. She was able to stand on her own—two halves made whole.
“We must be off,” Tyrus interrupted. “The dead will soon be discovered. We must be gone before the castle rouses.”
They quickly freed the other prisoners in the neighboring cells: two unlucky woodsmen who had been captured by the raiders, food for the pot. Unfortunately, the man with the burned stumps for legs was found dead in his cell. He had chewed through his own tongue, drowning and choking himself to death.
“Poor man,” Nee’lahn said sadly.
No one spoke from there, but simply moved on, backtracking through to the guardroom and up into the central keep. Tyrus and Mycelle led the way, Meric and Nee’lahn next. The rest trailed with Kral in the rear. The mountain man found their stolen gear and supplies in the guardroom. He had his ax in hand again, and Tyrus his family’s sword.
In a long thin parade, the group trod up the many stairs and through many twists and turns. Tyrus knew the castle well and guided them quickly and steadily, ducking through rooms and out into other halls. It was a winding path through a granite maze.
Nee’lahn barely noticed at first. Her only concern was the lute in her arms, hugged to her chest. Its warmth seeped into her core, spreading through her limbs. Her sight became sharper, her senses more acute. It was as if she were waking after a long dream.
At the top of a winding staircase, Tyrus paused, letting the line of stragglers along the stairs close ranks. “It’s not much farther,” he called down, encouraging them. “Another four levels.”
Next, Tyrus led them off the stairs and into a lofty side chamber, a desolate ballroom with frescoed walls.
As Nee’lahn stepped from the stairs and into the room, she felt a pluck on the magick inside her—a vibration that shook her limbs. She stumbled to a stop at the doorway. “Something . . . something comes.”
With the words just out of her mouth, a scream arose from down the stairs. Mycelle and Tyrus returned to Nee’lahn’s side.
“What is it?” Meric asked, unsheathing a long, thin blade.
The answer came soon enough. Mogweed and Fardale flew up out of the
darkness of the lower stairwell. “D’warves! Scores of them!” Mogweed skidded to a stop at the entrance to the ballroom. “Kral is holding them off as he retreats, but arrows took out the two woodsmen. And one of the elv’in twins took an arrow through the shoulder.”
Tyrus barked commands. “Get everyone inside!” He waved at the ballroom. “We can bar this door, slow them enough for us to reach the ship.” Tyrus pulled one of the thick double doors closed. Mycelle moved to the others.
In moments, the elv’in archers came limping up the steps. One leaned heavily on his twin, his shoulder a bloody wound with a feathered shaft protruding from it. The sounds of combat—roars of rage and clash of iron on iron—echoed up the staircase.
“Close the door!” Mogweed cried out, retreating from the threshold.
Mycelle held the second door cracked open. “Not until Kral gets here!”
Tyrus was ready with the bar. Meric looked after his kinsmen and helped the pair deeper into the ballroom.
Suddenly, Kral burst through the doorway, wild-eyed, chest heaving, covered head to foot with blood and gore.
Nee’lahn gasped, stumbling a few steps away. It took her a moment to recognize their companion. For a flickering moment, she had seen a monster instead of the mountain man. She blinked away the image as Mycelle slammed the door and Tyrus slid in the thick bar.
“Quickly!” the prince of the castle called out. “Out the far door.”
Meric took the lead with the injured.
As Nee’lahn stepped to follow, she realized the strange welling sensation in her chest had not abated. In fact, it had grown worse. Strange vibrations strummed through her. “Wait!” she yelled sharply, drawing all their eyes.
Meric turned. The elv’in twins bumbled on ahead toward the distant door. “What is—?”
The far stone portals burst open behind Meric, casting shards into the room, throwing the elv’in prince to the floor. His two kinsmen were not as lucky. The wounded one took a blow to the face, falling backward, nose smashed. His brother was struck by a flying shard to the leg, breaking the thin bones and crumpling him to the floor.