“So any delays could lead to more deaths,” Joach said. “How about if we just crossed the field at night? After the sun has set?”
“It won’t help. At sunset, the petals close, storing the day’s sunlight. The vine uses this stored heat to hunt prey at night. I’ve seen their lights from far across the desert—flashes along the wall as the vine attacked mice and lizards. Night is no haven from the narcissus.”
Everyone grew quiet.
“Then we go around,” Richald said. “Find another way to reach Alcazar.”
Sy-wen sighed. “It’ll be a long way. Even Ragnar’k could not see where the fields ended. It is a solid barrier for endless leagues.” She turned back to Kesla, searching for some other answer. “There must be a weakness. When the vines attack at night, is their heat as intense?”
“I . . . I’m not sure. But I’ve heard tales that once a bloom casts its heat, it won’t be able to renew until the next dawn.”
Sy-wen leaned back in her chair, thinking. “So it can only shoot one burning volley; then it’s harmless.”
Kesla nodded. “That’s according to old stories. But I’m not sure if it’s true or not. So little is known about the narcissus.”
Hunt stood up. “So either we add days to our journey, searching for a break in the weed, or we take our chances on a nighttime flight across the fields.”
Richald frowned. “I will not risk my ship.”
Sy-wen stared across at the elv’in lord. “You may not have to.”
AS THE SUN set, Greshym shambled out of the last canyon and into the empty sands. He was wrapped from head to toe in flows of linen and rough-spun cotton. As darkness spread and stars began to shine, Greshym hardly noticed the change in heat or the drop in light. He had a small spell cast around his body, keeping him cool and his sight keen. As he walked, he clutched his staff of petrified wood in his left hand. The magick trapped in its crystalline structure throbbed dully with his own pulse. Its energy was weak.
Free of the canyons, Greshym glanced skyward, calculating his bearings. He still had far to go.
Rocks skittered down a slope to his right. Slowing to a stop, Greshym cocked his head, extending his senses. It was Rukh returning. The stump gnome hopped down a slope of boulders, his split hooves moving with goatlike skill. At the bottom, he fell to his knees before Greshym.
“M-master . . .”
“Did you do as I asked?”
“Y-yes, Master.” Rukh’s porcine face groveled in the rough sand. He held up his claws, dripping with blood. Clenched in each grip was a bloody heart.
“The children of the caravan leader?”
Yes.
The darkmage noted the dried blood around the creature’s fanged muzzle. “You’ve fed?”
Rukh ground his face into the sand at the tone of reprimand. “Hungry . . . much hungry.”
Greshym lifted his staff threateningly, then lowered it back to the sand with a sigh. He could not blame the gnome. The journey through the Crumbling Mounds had been a long one, and they still had far to go.
Glancing to the stars, he wished he could have used his magick to bring himself directly to his target, but he dared not. When he had transported from his cave in the Stone Forest, he had sensed the vortex of energies swirling near the Southwall and knew it best to keep his magick to a whisper in its shadow. He could not risk any eyes turning in his direction.
So he had untied his magick and brought himself and his servant into the dry wastes of the neighboring Mounds. He had spent the past half moon hiking and climbing through this sun-seared terrain, using the barest touches of magick to bring strength to his decrepit body and to draw water up from the rocks. Then, two days ago, he had run into an even worse challenge than the stubborn landscape—a field of deadly narcissus blooms blocking his way. Casting out his senses, he was able to divine that the infernal weed circled the entire region, a barrier protecting the foulness germinating at its heart. Determined not to turn back, he was forced to use more magick to cloak Rukh and himself so they could pass the weed unharmed. It had been a risk to cast such a strong spell, but he had no other choice—not if his gambit was to succeed.
Luckily, nothing seemed to notice his flare of magick. In fact, shortly after passing the weed, Greshym encountered a caravan, a mix of silk traders and ragged families carrying all they owned on their backs. The group had been attempting to flee the Wastes, but they had been turned back by the narcissus. Greshym had joined them, gladly accepting their hospitality and water, preserving his waning magick. He traveled in comfort with the group while Rukh tracked the caravan from a league away.
Then earlier this afternoon, with the open desert of the Wastes in sight, Greshym had cast the caravan into a sleep spell. He had no further use for his new companions. Upon leaving, he ordered Rukh to slay them and collect the hearts of the leader’s two girl children. Both were virgins, untouched, rich in the power that surges just before their first bleed.
“Enough groveling, Rukh. Hold the hearts higher for me.”
The beast’s long ears twitched in relief. He rose from the sands, sitting back on his heels, and held out the pair of hearts at arm’s length.
Greshym reached out with the heel of his staff, touching one of the hearts, then the other. With its touch, the two lumps of flesh began to beat anew, throbbing, squirting blood into the sands. Rising from the twin hearts, a distant wail could be heard. The spirits still trapped in the hearts cried for release.
“Patience, my two little ones . . . Patience.”
Greshym lowered his staff to the sand and leaned on it as he bent over the two hearts. He brought his lips to the throbbing bits of muscle and kissed them gently, inhaling as he did so. He felt their spirits and energy flow into him. Their magick of burgeoning womanhood drew into him, becoming part of him as tiny screams of horror filled his ears.
He straightened, feeling vastly renewed and invigorated.
In the claws of the stump gnome, the two hearts were now just dried and wrinkled chunks of meat, like grapes gone to raisins in the sun. Greshym grinned and wiped the blood from his lips. “That was refreshing,” he whispered contentedly.
He patted the leathery skull of his servant as he thumped on past with his staff in hand. Suffused with fresh magick, he knew nothing could stop him from reaching his destination.
Alcazar, the desert guild of the assassins.
In its tunneled and sculpted halls, he would lay the trap for his prey. As he moved into the desert, he spoke to the stars and empty sands. “I’ll be waiting for you, Joach.”
JOACH STOOD AT the bowsprit of the Eagle’s Fury. He shivered and wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders, unable to escape an uneasy edginess. He glanced behind as if expecting an enemy to attack. No one was there.
In the rigging, elv’in sailors climbed the masts and worked the sails. Richald was a figure in silver on the stern deck, hands in the air, drawing on the magick of the winds, ready to propel them swiftly across the deadly fields. Already stray gusts and wild flurries spat around the ship as energies gathered.
Kesla popped her head by the ladder. “Sy-wen and Kast are ready. Did you want to see them off?”
He nodded, unable to shake off his misgivings. Joach had been blessed with the gift of prophetic dreams, and though he was awake, he could not dismiss his growing sense of catastrophe.
He crossed to the ladder and clambered down. On the middeck, Sy-wen and Kast held each other’s hands. The Bloodrider looked fully healed and rested. He would need to be. Sy-wen leaned on the man’s arm. The two would risk much to bring the ship swiftly over the fields of burning flowers.
As Joach stepped up to them, he heard Kast grumble, “The winds smell bad, like smoke in the air.”
Joach’s eyes narrowed. Was the large man feeling the same misgivings he had felt? “It’s not too late to change course,” he offered. “We could still circle around the field.”
Sy-wen shook her head. “No. The vine’s field extends to the norther
n and southern horizons. There will be no way around the vine, only through it.”
Kast hugged the mer’ai woman closer to his side. “She’s right. We must attempt this.”
Joach reached out and shook the larger man’s hand. “Be careful.”
“And swift,” Kesla added at Joach’s side.
“Ragnar’k has never failed me,” Sy-wen answered them, then glanced up into Kast’s eyes. “Not when fueled with two strong hearts.”
The Bloodrider leaned down and kissed her fully on the mouth, passionately. Arms reached to pull each other tight. Sy-wen was lifted off her feet.
Joach glanced away, giving them a moment of privacy.
Then Richald called from the stern deck. “The winds come! We must be off!” The sails overhead snapped with more vigor.
Sy-wen and Kast broke their embrace, fire still in their eyes. “Are you ready?” she asked the tall Bloodrider.
He nodded.
Together, they moved to the starboard rail. The landscape below was limned in silver from the moon and stars.
“Safe journey,” Kesla whispered.
Kast nodded and shrugged out of his robe, standing naked. With a nod to Joach, he picked up Sy-wen in his arms again and toppled over the rail.
Joach leaned and watched them tumble through the air. “They’re off!”
In response, the ship lurched forward as a fierce gust swelled the sails and sped the ship toward the fields. Kesla, off guard, slid into Joach’s side. He caught her under an arm and held her steady. Together the two searched below the keel of the windship.
Kast and Sy-wen were gone.
SY-WEN CLUTCHED KAST tight as they plummeted through the darkness toward the broken terrain below. They needed as much momentum as possible for their mission to succeed. Her green hair whipped like sea snakes about her head.
“Now, Sy-wen!” Kast yelled. His lips nuzzled her ear, but the wind almost ripped the words away. Still, she could hear his thrill and excitement, a Bloodrider at heart.
She shifted her fingers from his shoulder to his neck, then up to his cheek. As her skin met his tattooed flesh, her fingertips warmed. Kast stiffened under her, arms squeezing tight; then she spoke the words. “I have need of you.”
With these words, the ancient magick ignited. The world vanished around her into a whirlwind of roaring. Clouds of magick burst forth. Scaled flesh spread apart her legs and slowed her fall, taking her weight. She squeezed her thighs, holding tight. In another heartbeat, Sy-wen was no longer falling, but riding the back of the great black dragon, sweeping at amazing speeds.
Ragnar’k trumpeted his rebirth with an echoing cry. Bonded!
Despite the tension, Sy-wen smiled. She heard the same excitement in the dragon’s voice as she had in Kast’s words a moment ago.
“Do not slow. We must forge a path through the burning blooms,” Sy-wen instructed, then silently added additional directions to her mount.
Though he remained quiet, she sensed his confusion.
“At night, the weed can only shoot at us once. We must get the flowers to unleash their fury upon us, opening a safe passage for the ship that follows.”
Ragnar’k swept toward the fields, using the momentum of their plummeting fall to increase his speed. Danger. Risk to bonded.
“I know, my brave heart. But this time we will not be caught by surprise. We know the danger. We must be swift, cunning. You must fly better than you’ve ever flown before!”
The equivalent of a dragon chuckle filled her mind. Bonded has heart as big as dragon!
Sy-wen thumped the side of his neck. “It’s not bravery! I just know my dragon! I trust his heart and wings!”
Dragon laughter trailed behind them as he dove steeply toward the blooms, spinning in a curving arc.
Sy-wen leaned over his neck, hugging him tight. She felt the flare of wind under wing, sensed the dizzying spin of the landscape below. Instead of terror, she felt delight, sharing not only her dragon’s thrill but that of the man buried deeper, all three spirits merging in this common goal.
As the dragon roared, Sy-wen added her own voice, yelling her challenge into the wind.
FROM THE BOW rail, Joach watched the vine’s fiery attack begin. A quarter league away, the night was shattered by spears of brilliance blasting skyward. Some shot straight up, others striking at angles from the side. The lances of searing energy were so bright it hurt to stare at them directly. “Can you see the dragon?” he asked, grimacing.
Kesla stood at his side, a spyglass fixed to her right eye. “I . . . I’m not sure. I spotted a flicker of movement, a spark of reflection, but it moved faster than I could follow.”
“It must be them,” Joach said.
“I’d guess so, too.” She lowered the spyglass. “The vine is certainly hunting something.”
As Joach watched, the sprout of bright spears traced farther away, deeper into the wide valley. Closer, the near edge of the field died back to dark, the blooms spent by their attack upon the dragon.
Joach half turned, lifting an arm. “Now, Richald! Steer a straight course!”
Both the elv’in lord and Hunt stood ready at the stern. The Bloodrider raised a hand in acknowledgment, but Richald showed no sign of hearing his call. The elv’in lord stood stiff, his head thrown back, cascades of crackling energy coursing over his body, his mind lost to the winds.
Just as Joach wondered if he had been heard, the gales grew worse around the ship. Overhead, the rigging and ropes groaned, strained by the sails stretching even farther. The ship sped faster, its bow rising for a moment, then settling into an even flight.
Turning, Joach gripped the bow rail. Below, the ship’s keel crested over the deadly fields. He waited, holding his breath. Were they right? Had the blooms emptied their energies pursuing the dragon? Was it safe to cross?
He glanced up. The fiery display drifted even farther away. The dragon still fled, a lightning rod for the field’s energy, hopefully leaving a swath through which they could fly. Joach stared back down, leaning far over the rail.
The fields beneath the ship remained dark.
He let out a long sigh, allowing hope to grow.
“Oh, no . . .” Kesla said at his side.
He straightened back up.
“Look,” Kesla said. She pointed to either side of the ship. In the distance, a weak glow flowed toward their position—from both the north and the south.
“What is it?”
Kesla passed him the spyglass. Joach pointed it toward the strange sight. Magnified, the continuous glow broke into a thousand gleaming snakes winding under the leaves and flowers, converging toward them.
“The field is one continuous vine,” Kesla said. “Its stalks are sucking energy from blooms elsewhere, siphoning power to fill this void, like roots moving water up a trunk.”
“Mother above . . .” Joach’s stomach tightened.
“Once it reaches here, the blooms will be able to attack again. We’ll be snared.”
Joach dropped the spyglass and swung around. By now, they were thick in the fields. It was too late to swing the ship and retreat.
Turning back forward, Joach stared. Distantly, across the fields, the fiery display slowly died away. Sy-wen and Ragnar’k must have reached the far side. Joach estimated the distance. At least another two leagues. He glanced north and south. The glow sped rapidly toward their position.
He shook his head. They would not make it in time.
Joach pushed away from the rails.
“Where are you going?” Kesla yelled.
“To warn Richald! We need more speed!” Joach fought to keep his footing in the gale blowing from the stern. He leaned into the wind.
“Let me!” Kesla argued. She danced from the rail, as if the wind didn’t exist, and sped forward, racing sure-footed across the rocking deck. Reaching the ladder to the middeck, she waved him back to the bow rail. “Keep a watch!” Then she vanished down the ladder.
In a heartbeat, Joa
ch spotted her again, running across the mid-deck toward the raised stern. He stared dumstruck after her. The girl was not only quick-limbed, but she had the balance of a jungle cat. Relenting, Joach allowed himself to be blown back to his position at the bow rail.
To either side, the snakes of bright energy twisted and slithered toward them. A single bloom shot a spear of light off the starboard side. It angled toward them, splashing against the ship’s side. Though bright, the one flower did not have enough power to burn—but soon there would be more. As the glow swept under the ship’s keel, new pillars of light blasted into the skies on both sides, creating a forest of blazing trunks.
As Joach watched, more and more blooms ignited.
SY-WEN GUIDED HER dragon to a flat-topped pinnacle of sandstone. Ragnar’k settled to the rocky perch, with a heaving sigh from his chest.
As he dug in his claws, Sy-wen rubbed her right arm, wincing, but the stinging burn would not subside. She glanced to the dragon’s wing. Ragnar’k held it slightly out to the side, like a gull with a wound or a broken bone. The edge still smoked. The reek of burned dragon scale filled the night.
Thankfully it had been only a glancing strike. They had been lucky to escape with so little damage. The vine had fought fiercely, stabbing at them, chasing them to and fro across the sky. As they had flown, the vine had even seemed to grow wise to their evasive tactics, anticipating their moves. Luckily, they had reached the field’s end before the vine had grown too skilled at hunting dragons.
Ship comes, Ragnar’k said.
Sy-wen twisted in her seat. Across the field, she spotted the Eagle’s Fury in the skies. The slower ship was under attack.
“Sweet Mother . . .”
Lances of light streaked across the skies. As she watched, a sail caught flame and flared like an oiled torch.
“We must go help them,” Sy-wen said.
Cannot, my bonded. Ragnar’k tried to extend his wing. She felt the agony shoot up her own arm. Too far . . .
Sy-wen gasped with the pain. The burning strike had been worse than she had initially thought.
I have failed you, my bonded. The agony in his heart was worse than his wing.