A kaleidoscope of images swept across her mind’s eye.
“Concentrate, Fardale.”
A deep whine flowed from his throat, but the images slowed their spin: Two d’warvish guards . . . hidden in a smoky alcove in a tumble of rocks . . . crouched around a small brazier of glowing coals.
Mycelle straightened. “Spies watch the bridge from forest’s edge.” She turned back to the wolf. “Can you take us there?”
Fardale didn’t bother to answer, just spun on a paw, ready to lead the way. Mycelle quickly nodded to Tyrus. “You come with me. Meric, you nock up a crossbow and watch over the others.”
The elv’in nodded. Tyrus stepped to her side, his hand resting on his sword’s hilt.
With a wave, Mycelle sent Fardale off, then she and Tyrus followed. They were all skilled at moving unseen, unheard. In a short time, Mycelle made out the weak glow of the makeshift camp shining from a tumble of boulders. It was a good vantage point: high enough to watch the bridge, but sheltered to keep the lookouts hidden.
With silent hand gestures, Mycelle passed instructions. Fardale flashed across the cave’s entrance, making sure he was spotted, then dashed off again. A startled grumble erupted from the cave. One of the pair of d’warves bumbled to the entrance, weaving a bit on his feet, a wine flask gripped by its leather neck in his hand. It seemed the glowing coals were not enough to keep this bored pair warm.
The d’warf stumbled another step out to make sure the wolf was gone. Fardale had vanished, but not Tyrus. The tall prince stepped before the d’warf and drove his sword through the startled guard’s neck. Blood sprayed across the white snow, matching the sloshing wine that flowed from the flask he dropped. Tyrus snatched the d’warf’s cloak and tumbled him away from the alcove’s opening. His crash was not silent.
“Did ye get the furry beast?” his companion called out, slurring in his d’warvish tongue. “I could use me some hot, bloody meat.”
Mycelle kept her post on the opposite side of the shelter’s opening. When the second d’warf stepped free, she drove both her swords through his chest, piercing his twin hearts. He fell back into the alcove, landing on his brazier and scattering coals around the rank space.
Tyrus stepped to her side, wiping his sword clean on a cloak stolen from the dead d’warf. He offered an edge to Mycelle so she could clean her own weapons. Once she was done, he handed the cloak to her. “Mayhap it would be best if you resumed your disguise as a d’warf. We may run into others.”
Mycelle hesitated. She was more comfortable wearing her own form. Still, it was a wise precaution if they were entering a d’warf stronghold. As she slipped out of her own clothes, she likewise slipped out of her familiar form. She changed again into the d’warf huntress that she had imitated at Castle Mryl. Her body remembered the previous transformation and flowed easily into it. Legs bowed out and grew thick. Hair became ratted, and her face flattened and widened into the thick-browed visage of a d’warf. Once complete, she stole the outerwear of the d’warves and wrapped herself in the black cloak of the Gul’gothal soldiers.
Tyrus eyed her up and down, an amused expression on his face. It had been a long time since she had seen the man smile. She had forgotten how handsome he looked with that spark in his eye.
“What?” she asked.
He sheathed his sword and turned away. “You look better as a woman. Still, I was just wondering what it would be like to bed you . . . that flowing flesh and all. I’m sure it would be an interesting time.”
Mycelle’s eyes widened; a blush crept over the wide cheeks. Prince or not, it seemed there was still a bit of the pirate in him. She trudged after him in her new body, shocked at his words, yet oddly pleased at the same time.
When they reached the camp, Meric came close to peppering her with his crossbows until Tyrus waved him away. “It’s Mycelle,” he said. “We figured a bit of subterfuge may come in handy.”
Meric lowered his bows. “If nothing else, it’s certainly convincing.”
Mycelle shoved forward in her bulky form and led the others around the boulder. “It should be safe to reach the arch now.” She lumbered out to the bare stretch of rocky beach and leaned into the storm. The winds blowing off the lake had grown fiercer, howling now. The drifting snow sped almost horizontal to the ground. The party fought the storm and hurried to the bridge.
Across the wooden span, a single torch still glowed in the doorway alcove. The other had sputtered out, stanched by the wet winds. As a group, they hurried across and gathered in the cramped alcove. The single torch did little to warm the small space. Whirlwinds of snow continually swept into the tiny cubby.
Mycelle tested the iron door. It was locked and latched.
“What are we going to do?” Mogweed asked, eyes wide with fear.
Meric leaned against a wall. “Kral said to wait here for him, so we wait.”
Mycelle had none of the elv’in’s stoic patience. She drew out her sword and pounded its hilt on the door. Iron rang like a struck bell. “Stand back,” she ordered. “If there’s a d’warf guard, let him only see a d’warf at his door. And— ”
The door crashed open. Mycelle fell backward. A dark form filled the threshold, and a harsh voice barked out at them. “What are you all gawking at? Get your arses in here.” The figure stepped forward into the torchlight. It was Kral, soaking wet and dripping. His sodden beard hung to the middle of his chest. “What took you so long?”
They all hurried inside. Kral, his teeth chattering from the cold, eyed Mycelle’s new form as he dressed back into his own warmer clothes. Tyrus explained about the hidden spies in the rocks. “A good precaution,” Kral said, nodding approvingly.
Mycelle searched around the entrance to the arch. A wide stairway carved from the stone itself wound upward. On its lowest step, a dead d’warf lay sprawled facedown upon the stair. Blood still flowed and dripped down the steps.
Kral noticed her attention. “It seems you were not the only ones to come upon a hidden watcher.”
She nodded and turned away. But the tiny hairs at the back of her neck quivered with warning. She tried to keep her stance and manner calm and disinterested. Something did not add up. Before Tyrus had spoken, Kral had recognized Mycelle in her d’warvish form. She had recognized the knowledge in his eyes and noticed the way he had sniffed at her like some woodland animal. And now the dead d’warf. How had Kral killed him? The guard’s throat had been ripped out, sliced from ear to ear. But Kral had no weapon.
She studied him from the corner of her eye as he finished dressing and hitched his ax back to his belt. What unspoken game was being played here?
At her side, Mogweed craned his neck and searched the space. He asked the other concern in Mycelle’s mind. “How did you get inside?”
The mountain man straightened, shoving his foot into his boot. “Let me show you.” He pointed an arm. “Everyone on the stone stairs.”
They obeyed, careful of the slick blood and dead body. Kral joined them on the lowest step. Mycelle watched him. His eyelids lowered, and his lips moved silently.
After a moment, he leaned closer, studying the stone floor. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him. He turned to the group. “Link hands, flesh to flesh. No one let go, no matter what happens.”
Mycelle took Kral’s hand herself, then reached to Tyrus. Nee’lahn bared her breast and tucked the child inside, skin to skin, then offered her free hand. The rest linked up.
At the line’s end, Mogweed grabbed his brother’s tail. “Ready,” he squeaked out.
“Then let us go. The first step is dizzying, so hold tight.” Kral made the last step, but never reached the floor. He seemed to fall, head over heel, tumbling, tugging Mycelle after him. Mycelle’s first instinct was to let go, but she held firm, committed to this venture. She fell after him, feeling her stomach lurch sickeningly.
Then she found the floor back under her feet. She turned and saw the others gathered behind her. They were simply in the anteroom again. Nothing had chan
ged.
“You can let go now,” Kral said. “We’ve passed the threshold.”
Meric touched his forehead, his face somewhat green. “What just happened?”
“We’re right where we started from,” Mogweed said.
“No.” The mountain man pointed back to the staircase. “We’re in the nether arch.” Kral remounted the stairs. “We should hurry before a patrol finds the dead body of the guard.”
Mycelle looked to the stair. The d’warf’s body was gone. The stairs were clean of any blood. “What is going on?” she asked. “Where are we?”
Kral sighed. “I will explain as we climb.” He started up the stairs. Once under way, Kral spoke. “We now walk in the reflection of the true arch—the mirror image that is cast upon the waters of Tor Amon. When walked by one of the royal family, illusion becomes substance.”
“Water becomes stone,” Tyrus muttered, repeating the mountain man’s earlier words.
Kral nodded. “Lord Tyrus, the Land has granted my family a secret means of moving unseen through our arched home. We now walk behind the mirror of what is real.”
Mycelle glanced out a passing arrow slit. The white snowstorm was gone. Only darkness lay beyond. Pausing, she reached a hand through the window and touched water.
“The lake,” Kral explained, staring back at her. “As we climb these stairs, we are actually climbing into the depths of Tor Amon, following the reflection down into the waters.” He pointed to a wider window up ahead, a lookout post. The windowsill and wall were wet, as were the steps. “I climbed from the lake through there, then came and fetched you.”
“But why climb down . . . or up . . . or whatever to this watery castle? To what end?” Mycelle asked, wiping her damp hand.
“None will see us on this path. It is a way known only to the clans, a way that can only be opened by one of the Senta Flame. We are safe, and once we reach the castle, we can pass through the mirror and back into the true world—back into the castle—with no one the wiser.”
Mycelle pondered his plan. If he spoke truthfully, it would certainly give them an advantage. “Can you move easily between the two planes—real and reflection?”
Kral growled his assent.
Mycelle nodded and waved him onward. Suspicions still rang in her bones, but what choice did they have? The Griffin Weirgate had to be challenged. She followed after the mountain man leading their party.
The climb grew into an endless trek. The stairs seemed to flow forever. Several times along the way, they came upon old bones tumbled in a landing’s corner or sprawled across the steps. Kral’s voice was a hoarse rasp. “The bones of the wounded. Many were too weak and died on the steps as the last survivors of the bloody war fled down this secret path, led by my ancestor. Here they remain forever, the last guardians of the Citadel.”
In silence, as if walking a graveyard, the group continued up and up. Finally, exhausted and bone-tired, they reached the top of the stairs. A set of stone gates lay open. A wide echoing hall lay beyond, lit by netherlights, shimmering fiery glows.
“Reflections of the hall’s torches in the true world,” Kral explained, and led them through the wide gates.
Mycelle stepped forward. The hall was strangely empty, hollow, their steps echoing off the phantom walls. But at the same time, Mycelle seemed to sense the presence of others nearby. And she was not the only one to feel this way. The others darted glances around, as if spotting movement from the corner of an eye or hearing a whisper near an ear.
Holding back a shudder, Mycelle followed after Kral. “Where are we going?” she said in a hushed voice, afraid of being overheard by the ghosts in the hall.
“To the throne room,” Kral said. “If we are to start our search anywhere, it should be there.”
Mycelle nodded. The mountain man increased his pace in his excitement. They left the entrance hall, climbed more stairs, and passed through a maze of tunneled corridors. Mycelle concentrated on remembering the way lest they get separated.
At last, they reached a wide hallway that ended at a towering, carved granite door. It stretched to the height of six mountain men and stood slightly ajar. Kral hurried forward.
“Wait!” Mycelle called, nerves jangling with warning.
But the mountain man was deaf to her. He slipped through the door and into the room beyond. Mycelle raced after him. “Keep up! He’s our only way out of this stony reflection!”
Mycelle dashed through the door and into the cavernous chamber beyond. Here, too, strange fiery netherlights lit the expansive floor of polished granite and vaulted ceilings. But in the room’s center, an oily darkness stood, eating any light that reached it, a black whirlpool tipped on end. Its hungry eye stared back at them. Screams wailed up from its pit.
“Kral!” Tyrus yelled.
The mountain man knelt before the darkness—not in allegiance, but in terror. His hands and feet scrabbled for purchase, but it was clear he was being drawn, sucked toward the darkness. “I can’t stop it!” he yelled. “It’s drawing me out of the reflection and back to the real world!”
The group rushed forward, grabbing Kral’s arms. But it was like trying to stop a ship from sinking. Kral’s body dragged forward, hauling them all along like fishes on a line.
“We’re not strong enough!” Tyrus said.
“But we can’t lose him either!” Mycelle spat back. “He’s the only one that can get us safely through the threshold and back to the real world!”
Kral’s feet vanished into the oily whirlpool. “It’s too late!” he cried.
Mycelle glanced to the others. “There is only one way to go from here. We stick together. Where Kral goes, we go!”
She reached a free hand to Nee’lahn. The nyphai took it. The others joined the link. Mogweed hesitated, glancing around the ghostly hall, then took Tyrus’ hand. Nee’lahn grabbed Fardale’s tail.
“Be ready!” Mycelle yelled.
As a group, they were tugged forward, tumbling into the dark void. Again there was the queer lurch. The world spun toe over heel, and then they were through.
Mycelle stared around her. The hall was the same as the one they had been in a moment before. But now instead of a whirling pool of darkness, she found them all collapsed before a monstrous stone statue of a winged black lion, its talons dug deep into the polished floor of the chamber, its fanged mouth open in a silent roar.
It was the Griffin Weirgate.
Beside it stood a tall, plain throne of silver granite: the Ice Throne. Seated upon the chair was a massive d’warf, white-haired and so wrinkled with age that it was difficult to make out his features.
The ancient one’s hoary eyes stared down at Kral. “Ah, Brother,” the ancient figure croaked, his dry lips cracking into a wide smile. “Be welcomed home. The Dark Master has missed you.”
17
KRAL GAINED HIS feet, trembling with rage. To either side, a mass of armored d’warves closed in on his stunned companions as they lay sprawled on the granite floor. From galleries high on the walls, archers bristled with arrows. It was an ambush, and he had led their group into it.
But guilt had no grip on his heart. Fury and rage burned out all other emotions. To see a d’warf seated on his family throne was too much for Kral’s blood. He loosed the beast inside him, oblivious to all who witnessed it. He was past caring about secrets and allegiances. He had only one goal now—to destroy this d’warf king.
A roar burst from his throat as claws sprouted bloody from his fingertips. A snowy pelt shivered from his skin, and a muzzle of razored fangs grew forth from his face. Legion burst forth from the mountain man’s clothes, shredding through the leathers, wearing the muscled and deadly form of the snow leopard.
With the heightened senses of the beast, he heard Mogweed gasp and scramble away.
“He’s an ill’guard,” Mycelle called out, tugging everyone back.
Deep inside, Kral registered the lack of surprise from the shapeshifter, but he ignored it for now. I
nstead, he turned his red eyes upon his true prey.
The ancient d’warf king also showed little surprise at Kral’s transformation. A thin smile cracked his features. “So the kitten wants to play?”
D’warves closed ranks before the throne and attacked from all sides, cleaving down with axes and swords. But Kral moved with the speed and grace of the leopard, vanishing before any blade could touch him. He was a white blur against the black granite.
From the corner of his eye, he saw his companions pinned against the wall. Tyrus and Mycelle kept a wall of steel between the attacking d’warves and the others, while Fardale shored up any weak spots in their defense. Behind them, Meric’s form danced with blue energies, calling forth a flurry of winds to confound the aim of any arrows. Kral growled, acknowledging their fierce hearts. But he knew they were doomed. The number of d’warves was too great.
Dismissing them, he ripped out the throat of a d’warf in front of him, and with a kick of a hind paw, he tore open the stomach of another. Imbued with dark magicks and armed with the natural instincts of a forest cat, he was an unstoppable force. Slowly, he worked toward the d’warf king seated on the Ice Throne. He maintained a wary distance from the Weirgate. Kral knew it had been the ebon’stone statue that had sucked him out of the reflection—knew to fear its powers. Still, Kral would not accept defeat, not until the last d’warf was slain in the Citadel.
With a wail, he dove into the line of d’warves before the throne, shredding through them with teeth and claw. At last, the way lay open to the king. Leopard muscles bunched under him, ready to leap and claim his family’s throne.
Still, the king did not move. He simply continued to smile, meeting Kral’s feral gaze with amused disinterest.
Kral’s feline instincts thrilled with warning, suspicious. Why was his prey not running?
“I know your secrets, Legion,” the king said. “The Nameless One has warned me of your special gifts—gifts you use to betray him now.” The ancient d’warf rubbed his crooked fingers along the chair’s granite arms. “Gifts to win back a throne.”