The woman glanced to the darkmage, all panic gone from her face, leaving only cunning. “Yes, there is.” The dagger flew from her fingers and pierced Greshym’s left eye.
A long leather whip appeared in Humph’s hand. As Greshym stumbled back from the dagger strike, Humph snapped his whip, wrapping its tip around the darkmage’s staff, and with a tug, ripped it from his fingers. The stave flew across the room to clatter against the far wall.
It had all happened in a heartbeat. Beside the bed, Master Belgan sagged, like a marionette with its strings cut. “Wh-what is going on?” he asked blearily.
Hope surged in Joach—but it did not last long.
Greshym straightened. He raised his hand, and the stolen staff flew back into his fingers. Energy surged along the gray wood’s length. Joach recognized the spell. Balefire.
“Run!” he croaked out—but he was caught between two worlds, unable to help those who had come to his aid.
Greshym pointed his staff, its end flaring with black flames.
“No . . .” Joach moaned.
Then, from the curtain behind Greshym’s back, a small figure glided out, moving so silently that not even the drapery rustled. It was Kesla. Joach caught a brief glimpse of an open window behind the curtain and a trailing rope outside. She ran with a dagger in each hand. Before Greshym could react, she struck him from behind, driving both daggers into his neck. Black blood surged from the wounds.
Kesla danced back, a cry on her lips. Her hands smoked where the darkmage’s blood had touched her skin.
Greshym whirled around, sweeping his staff toward Kesla. Dread energies coursed its length. Humph attacked with his whip, but when its leather touched the wood this time, its length was set aflame. Humph grunted in surprise, tossing his weapon aside as it burned to ash.
Joach watched in horror as the end of Greshym’s staff bloomed into a black rose of darkfire. The daggers piercing the darkmage’s flesh fell away harmlessly. “You will pay for that!” Greshym screeched.
Kesla backed to the wall, her hands curled painfully to her chest.
Fire flared from the staff’s end.
No! Without thought, Joach struck out instinctively, grabbing the threads of power in his veins. From the bloodstained sands of the dream desert, a colossal fist of sculpted sand shot upward, passing from this world to the next.
As balefire shot out of Greshym’s staff, sandy fingers opened, and the large palm blocked the spew of deadly energies, absorbing it, growing more substantial. Its flow stanched, the sudden backlash of power threw the darkmage across the room.
Kesla, shocked and confused, remained sheltered behind the sculpted hand.
Greshym shared her expression as he rose from the floor. He slid along the wall until he was near his beastly pet. The darkmage’s single milky eye studied Joach, seeming to read the flows of power in the room, sensing the source. “You are full of surprises, boy.”
Joach, still twined to his power, birthed another fist of sand. He swept it toward Greshym and his foul pet, meaning to swat them from this world. But before it reached them, Greshym struck his staff on the stone floor—and the beast and darkmage vanished in a whirl of oily blackness.
Words and laughter echoed out. “This is not over, boy!”
The dream fist slammed into the empty wall and blew into a shower of sand. The first hand, however, remained where it stood, now a sculpture in sandstone, sheltering Kesla.
Belgan collapsed toward the floor, no longer supported by magick. Humph and Shargyll rushed to his side while Kesla retrieved a dagger and sliced Joach’s bonds.
She touched his cheek, her fingers cool on his hot skin.
“You must get the boy out of here,” Shargyll said. “Join Parthus in the desert with the others.”
“How is Master Belgan?” Kesla asked.
“He lives but has been cruelly used. It will take time to return him to his wits. Until then you and the boy must not be found here.”
Kesla nodded, her expression worried.
Humph stood, eyeballing the sandstone sculpture. “We’ll go to the stables. I’ll saddle up one of the malluks so you can travel swiftly.”
Kesla gently wrapped Joach in the bed’s blanket. “I’ll need help with him. He’s still dazed.”
Humph leaned over the bed and scooped up Joach and the blanket in strong arms. “We must not tarry.”
Kesla checked Joach and tugged up a corner of the blanket, but before drawing it over his face, she quickly leaned down. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear, then kissed him on the cheek.
With the touch of her lips, Joach lost his hold on the real world. Consciousness faded. He drifted deeper into the dream desert again. As he did so, the sands grew brighter. The figure of Shaman Parthus reappeared in the sands at his side.
“You’ve done well, Joach,” the elder said with a quiet smile of satisfaction. “Now sleep.”
“But—”
“Sleep. The road from here leads to the Southwall . . . to Tular. You must be rested. So sleep, sculptor.”
Given permission, Joach let loose his control. The dream desert and the shaman faded around him. He fell into a deep slumber, where even dreams did not exist. Still, one memory swirled down with him into the bottomless depths of his spirit: the brush of soft lips on his skin.
Book Four
STORM CASTLE
12
FROM THE DECK of the Sunchaser, Elena stared as the coastline appeared like an apparition out of the mists. A light rain fell, but she stood under an awning set up on the foredeck and was dressed warmly in a calfskin leather jacket trimmed in rabbit fur. Overhead, the weeping sky was a featureless gray that stretched forever, as it had for the past six days, covering both sun and stars. During these last days of the long journey over the Great Ocean, the only difference between day and night was a slight brightening in the gloom.
But at last their flight was almost at an end.
Ahead, the skies blew against a steep coastline, bunching up into dark thunderheads. Lightning crackled, but the storm was too distant for them to hear any thunder.
Still, the forks of lightning lit up the mist-shrouded cliffs of Gul’gotha. It was a formidable sight. Jagged rock faces were beset with an angry white surf, while cracked boulders churned in the waters like clashing seabeasts. No ship dared approach this place, let alone try to make landfall.
Earlier in the day, Elena had studied the map of Gul’gotha with the others. Along this coastline there was only one safe port, far to the south: Banal, a trading port that made Port Rawl seem like a well-kept, civilized haven. But they would not be going there. With the elv’in windship, they could land anywhere. Wennar, the d’warf battalion’s leader, had placed a thick finger on a mountainous region of the map, a good hundred leagues from the coast. “We should go here,” he had stated.
“Why?” Er’ril had asked with his usual sharp suspicion.
The thick-browed d’warf had grunted. “It’s our homeland—and the birthplace of the Dark Lord’s reign. If you seek something of the blackest evil, it will be found there.”
Without any better idea where to begin their search for the Manticore Gate, they had agreed to start there. As Elena stared out at the storm-besieged cliffs, she remembered Cassa Dar’s old story of the Dark Lord’s appearance among the d’warves:
Five centuries ago, a troupe of deep miners discovered a vein of ore, leagues under our mountains. They had never seen such a stone: blacker than the darkest tunnel and impervious to any tool. Undaunted and determined to mine this vein, they used the kingdom’s strongest hammer to attack the stone. They employed the Try’sil, the Hammer of Thunder. Its magick-wrought iron was said to shatter any stone. And this claim proved true. The stone was mined and given the name ebon’stone by its discoverers. At first, it was greatly treasured: every D’warf Lord lusted to work a piece, to prove his skill at fashioning the new ore. Bowls, cups, plates, swords, even statues were carved from the material. But then the
stone began to warp and bind the d’warves in ways they did not understand. The lands, too, began to sicken and poison. Volcanoes grew, and the ground constantly shook. Gases and ash soured the skies. Poisonous beasts, the mul’gothra and skal’tum, began to appear from pits deep under the mountains. The Dark Lord arose among our people, almost as if out of the bowels of the land. Some said the Black Heart was a d’warf succumbed to the stone’s black magick, while others said he came from the stone itself released by our miners from an ebon’stone tomb. No one knew for sure.
Though dressed warmly in leathers and woolens, Elena shivered at the thought of where they must travel next—into the heart of Gul’gotha, into the heart of this ancient mystery. Who was the Dark Lord of the Gul’gotha? Where had the demon truly come from? Cassa Dar’s final words echoed in her head: No one knew for sure . . .
As Elena frowned at the broken coastline, a voice spoke behind her. “You should go below. We will be upon the storm soon.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Tol’chuk crouched nearby. How long had he been there? For such a hulking creature, he could move as silently as a mouse sometimes. He leaned on one knuckle of his thick right arm, bent to peer under the awning. In the open, the rain had soaked the ridge of fur along his bowed back and dripped down the thousand crevices of his face and body. He appeared like a weathered mountain worn down by the rain. The only part of him that did not seem carved of rock was his large eyes, glowing a warm amber in concern for her.
She smiled at his worry and touched his damp shoulder with a gloved hand. When they had first met, his monstrous appearance had frightened her, but over time, she could no longer see the monster, just the large heart and undying loyalty. “I think the storm is the least of our concerns in the days ahead,” she said softly. “But I appreciate your worry. I’ll go down below in a moment. I just wanted to see Gul’gotha with my own eyes.”
He nodded, peering over her shoulder. “It be not a welcome sight.”
Elena saw Tol’chuk touch his thigh pouch that hid the jeweled Heart of his people. She moved a step closer to him, bringing her arm around his thicker one. “We will not leave here until both our missions are finished. This I promise. If there’s a Gate here, we’ll destroy it. And if there’s a way to rid your people of the Bane, we’ll find it.”
A deep rumble flowed from the giant. Though it was wordless, Elena heard the thanks in his tone. They stood silently for a few moments more, then Tol’chuk spoke. “I don’t think it be mere luck that our paths go the same way now.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Heart first guided me to you. I believe both our paths will end at the same place.” He stared out toward Gul’gotha. “Wherever the Manticore Gate be hidden, it be there that all answers will come.”
Elena nodded. “I believe you’re right.” She frowned once more toward the coming storm. Thunder finally rumbled out to them, as if trying to ward them off. She wished she could mind the storm’s warning but knew she could not. She turned from the sight. “I’m ready to return below. Let’s keep warm while we still can.”
Tol’chuk grunted and swung around. He led the way, sheltering her somewhat from the sting of the cold rain.
As Elena followed, she pondered the twining lines of fate. The Bane, the Weirgate, the birthplace of the Black Heart, the homeland of the d’warves—how did they all weave together?
Once again, Cassa Dar’s words echoed to her.
No one knew for sure . . .
Elena glanced briefly over a shoulder before ducking through the hatch held open by Tol’chuk. On this path, answers to these mysteries would be discovered—of this she was sure. But she shivered as a bigger question loomed: Would they be strong enough to face those answers?
QUEEN TRATAL WATCHED the fiery-haired woman descend into the bowels of the Sunchaser. Neither the woman nor her large companion had been aware of the queen’s presence. Aboard the ship, Tratal could move unseen whenever and wherever she wanted. Wisps of energy still traced her figure, casting a heavy mist that hid her from others’ eyes without clouding her own vision. She walked from her position by the stern rail. One hand trailed along the wood, caressing it like a lover brushing a sweetheart’s cheek.
Alone, except for a lone sentry in the crow’s nest atop the central mast, Tratal extended her senses into the ship. She made sure the woman was gone, feeling Elena’s footsteps on a lower deck ladder. The wit’ch soon joined the others gathered in the galley.
Good . . .
She dropped her cloak of mists and stared ahead, past the ship’s bow. No one had seemed to sense the falseness to the tempest hovering at the coastline. She signaled the elv’in sailor in the crow’s nest. He nodded back to her.
All was in readiness.
Tratal faced forward. Along the bow of the ship, elemental energies crackled brightly as she tapped into the power of the storm ahead. A nimbus of silver-white hair plumed about her slender face as the magicks swelled in her. She lifted her arms, sighing in the play of wind and power. Sails swelled. Tratal aimed for the heart of the storm, a hard smile fixed on her face. In the gray light, her skin was carved ice, her eyes imbedded jewels of azure.
“Show yourself,” she wind-spoke to the heavy clouds that hung above the storm-lashed cliffs ahead. “It is time!” Her words were borne on gusts of winds.
Near the coast, the mists slowly blew apart and a bank of angry clouds opened. A fleet of a dozen small sky-cutters broke free and swept forward like a flight of angry bees. Energy crackled along their black keels, stabbing downward in dazzling bolts of lightning. The swift warships split into two waves, diving to circle the larger flagship.
Whispers in the wind carried greetings and acknowledgment from each of the cutters’ elv’in captains. They sounded their readiness.
“Then let it begin,” Queen Tratal commanded. She sent more energies out into the false storm.
The black length of cloud swirled, and a passage opened through the middle of the storm. The small cutters, now flanking the larger ship, escorted it toward the roiling tunnel in the tempest. Far ahead, buried in the clouds and lit by flickers of lightning, she spotted familiar fortresses and battlements.
Queen Tratal smiled. For the past moon, Elena had refused to abandon this petty war and accept her true heritage and bloodline. Even her own son Meric had foolishly been swayed to the passions of these mud dwellers. But Queen Tratal was not so easily persuaded. She knew her duties to the past and future of her people. The bloodline of their lost king would not be lost again. It would be returned to its rightful place. What did the squabbling of land-bound nations concern the elv’in? They had flown above such fighting and wars for countless centuries.
Still, her attempts at convincing Elena had been another matter. The wit’ch had proven to be obstinate and headstrong. But there were other ways to turn a stubborn wind. If Elena would not travel willingly to the elv’in kingdom, then the kingdom would be brought to her.
The Sunchaser swept down into the long stormy tunnel, flanked by the cutters that assisted her in keeping the tempest at bay. Lightning flared in bright glows along the passage’s walls. Ahead, at the end of the tunnel, massive wooden gates swung open. Bright, clear sunlight flowed out into the passage from the heart of the elv’in’s sky fortress.
As they neared the open gates, the lead cutter’s captain announced the return of their queen. Almost lost in the rumbling thunder of the storm, trumpets blared. Tratal’s keen ears picked up the triumphant greeting. The head captain turned his attention back to the Sunchaser. His words were bold on the winds. “Welcome, Queen Tratal. Welcome back to Stormhaven.”
As the city in the sky opened before her, she smiled, like ice finally breaking with the coming spring. It was good to be home again.
Stormhaven.
The elv’in citadel floated atop this unnatural storm, hidden from below, open to the bare sky above. For centuries, the city had flown over the world’s seas and islands, oceans and lands
—just an unexpected gale passing overhead. None were aware of what rode atop this tempest. For an endless time, none but the elv’in had ever set eyes upon the ancient citadel.
Until now.
Upon first learning of Elena’s intent to leave A’loa Glen, Tratal had sent word by hawk to Stormhaven, ordering the citadel’s keepers to fly the fortress to the monstrous cliffs of Gul’gotha. All was going as she had ordered. Before any of the others grew wise, the Sunchaser would be docked at Stormhaven—and at long last, the ancient king’s bloodline would be rejoined to her own.
Queen Tratal whispered her own greeting to the girl below. “Welcome home, Elena. Welcome to your true home.”
ER’RIL BARELY NOTICED as the rumbling thunder grew worse. The planks under his feet trembled with each roar. Ignoring the storm, he remained intent on the map spread atop the galley table. He had borrowed the browned and weathered parchment from the libraries back at A’loa Glen. His eyes ran over the old names, many unreadable, the colored inks faded to blurs by age.
The lands of Gul’gotha.
Across from him, the captain of the d’warves, Wennar, hunched just as raptly. The craggy-faced d’warf poked a thick finger at a mountain. “We can land on the slopes of the southern side of Mount Gallmanor. There is an old trail that winds around its flank and into our homeland valleys. It should allow us to approach the region in secret.
“Why could we not just fly directly into your lands?” Elena asked. She stood by the hearth, warming her hands. Her hair still dripped and clung to her face. “I thought the mines and townships of your people were long abandoned.”
Wennar glanced to her from under heavy brows. “They were abandoned by d’warves. But they are not uninhabited. I’ve heard tales of the diseased creatures and awful rites that are still performed there, fouling our lands. To explore, we must move swiftly and attract no unwanted attention.” He tapped the map. “This is an old hunting trail. Few should be watching it.”