It was just then that the spices took full hold of his mouth. They bloomed with a fiery heat on his tongue. “Sweet Mother!” he choked out. His fingers scrabbled for his mug. He doused the fire with a generous wash of ale. The burn quickly faded. Joach sighed. “That is the way your people greet the morning sun?”
“It is, when you live in the desert,” she said with a small smile. “Burning tongue for the burning sun.”
“I see,” he said. He forked up another piece of meat. Regardless of the spicy burn, it had tasted wonderful—but more importantly, he did not want to appear a milk-fed calf in front of Marta. “Why don’t you join me?” he added, nodding toward another seat.
She bowed her head. “Thank you for the consideration, Prince Joach, but I’ve work to do here in the kitchen.” She raised her head, a sly grin on her face. “Besides, this dish is meant only for men of my tribe.”
As she turned away, Joach studied her, drinking in her beauty as much as he had the ale a moment ago. But this draught did not soothe the burn in his spirit. He reached out and touched her elbow.
“Thank you,” he said.
She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at him. Smiling, she drew back a fall of her hair to see him better. “It is an honor to serve a prince of the Blood.”
Joach suddenly could not breathe. With the firelight playing across her cheek, Marta’s beauty held him enthralled as surely as any dark spell. Then her silken hair fell back over her face, breaking the spell as she moved away and returned to her duties.
“I’m no prince,” he muttered as she disappeared inside a pantry.
ELENA FOLLOWED ER’RIL down the dark, narrow stairs. Farther ahead, a thick-bellied guard led the way with a torch held high. As Elena continued, the brush of a spiderweb whispered across a cheek. Scowling, she wiped the sticky strands away with a gloved hand. This section of the Great Edifice had seen little improvement since their victory here.
“I still don’t see why we need to consult them,” Er’ril argued again.
Elena answered in a tired voice. “If Tol’chuk means to journey to Gul’gotha, then I mean to give him as much guidance as possible. You saw the scorpion in the stone. It has to be a sign that the Manticore Gate lies at the end of Tol’chuk’s path.”
“But what do you hope to gain here in the dungeons?”
Elena sighed. “Hopefully an ally.”
The guard stopped ahead at a thick iron-bound door. He pounded a thick fist on the oaken frame. “Open up, Gost!”
The only reply was a coarse grunt, but the grate of old latches sounded. The door creaked open with a cry of pained hinges. A half-naked man stood at the threshold with a lantern raised. In his other hand was a thick ironwood club. It was the dungeon keep. His one good eye grew wide at the sight of Elena and Er’ril. The other half of his face was a frozen storm of scars.
Their guide nodded to the dungeon keep. “This is Gost. He’ll take you from here. But don’t expect no cheery banter from the poor grunt.” Their guide snickered. “He had his tongue cut out when he himself was a guest here of the Dark Lord.”
Gost clearly heard the guard’s words. After bowing toward them, he turned his face from the torch’s flame. The movement reminded Elena of Jaston, the scarred swamp man, hiding his scars from the brightness and light of the sun. Elena’s heart went out to the broken man. So much goodness had been butchered by the Gul’gothal tyrants.
Their guide stepped aside to let Er’ril pass. Elena followed more slowly.
Beyond the door, the passage ahead narrowed even farther. They were forced to continue in single file. The only illumination came from Gost’s lantern. As they walked in silence, Elena sensed they were slowly winding deeper under the castle. The air smelled more damp, with a hint of brine. To either side, the walls of the hallway changed from quarried stone blocks to passages carved in raw rock.
At last, a dim glow appeared ahead: the guardroom to the dungeons. Gost led them into the chamber and crossed to a ring of iron keys hanging on a hook. Elena glanced around the room. A small hearth glowed in one wall, the rock edges around it stained black from the smoke of countless centuries of fires. Four beds rested at the corners of the rooms, but three had their thin mattresses rolled up atop them, unused and dusty.
Gost must man these dungeons by himself , Elena realized.
While waiting for the guard to find the right key, she noticed the touches of a man who had made his home here under the castle. Small personal objects hung on the wall above the single dressed bed. An oil painting, no bigger than her palm, depicted a smiling woman astride a handsome chestnut stallion. Draped around the picture was a fine set of bridles and reins. The leathers shone in the feeble light, clearly well maintained. The metal of the bridle sparked brilliantly. Silver, Elena imagined. She studied these pieces. Here was a reflection of a different life, a life before the coming of the Gul’gotha, before the time of scars and mutilations. For the thousandth time, Elena promised herself she would end such pain. Alasea had suffered enough.
Finally, a grunt drew her attention back to Gost. The scarred man held up a long key. With a satisfied nod, the guard led them to a door on the far side of the room. He opened the way—lantern in one hand, ring of keys in the other.
Beyond the door was a hallway with a long row of short doors. Er’ril’s face darkened at the sight. He even stumbled a step. Elena remembered that Er’ril himself had recently been imprisoned in these very cells. Most of the doors now lay open. The dungeons had been emptied after their victory. Sadly, many of the victims of the Dark Lord’s attentions here had had to be destroyed. Strange, twisted creatures had been discovered howling, cowering in their own filth. Once men, but no longer, their minds had been ground away by dark magicks.
Thankfully, Gost led them past these cells to a branching hallway. Here there were larger cells, meant to hold multiple captives, with doors composed of iron bars as thick as a man’s wrist.
Gost led them to the centermost cell, the largest, as big as a small ballroom. The prisoners here, the only occupants in all the dungeon, had insisted on being housed together. Elena had agreed to their request. How could she refuse? She had not even wanted them imprisoned. After the war, they had sworn allegiance and fealty to her. But her allies, including Er’ril, were still mistrustful of these former enemies and had insisted they be incarcerated in the dungeons.
Elena stepped to the doorway. She was glad to find the area clean. Even iron braziers had been moved into the cell to warm the damp from the air and offer a bit of light and cheer. Clearly, Gost proved a fair innkeeper.
Amid the braziers, thick-bodied forms huddled, some wrapped in blankets and snoring, some whispering among themselves. They stood no taller than Elena’s shoulder but weighed threefold, all muscle and bone. Faces turned in Elena’s direction as her footsteps stopped at the cell’s door. Under heavy brows, narrowed eyes stared at her.
“Oath or not,” Er’ril muttered, “I do not trust any d’warf.”
Elena stepped nearer the door. “When do you trust anyone?” she answered glibly.
The leader of the d’warves, an ancient with an old scar running from crown to jaw, came forward to the bars, then quickly dropped to one knee. He was bald but bore a long gray mustache that drooped below his chin. “Mistress Elena,” he said, bowing his head farther, “how may I serve you?”
Elena’s cheeks grew hot with shame at their imprisonment. His position reminded her of a similar display when she had first encountered the warriors. Wennar’s battalion, bearing heavy axes and protected by impenetrable spellcast armor, had fallen to its knees—not for her, but for the sacred talisman she bore. The Try’sil, the rune-carved Hammer of Thunder. The sight of the magickal talisman had succeeded in breaking the Dark Lord’s hold on these fierce warriors.
She waved to Gost. “Could you open the gate please?”
Gost was quick to obey. His keys rattled in the barred door’s lock.
“Is this wise?” Er’ri
l said, and moved to Elena’s shoulder, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
As answer, she glared at the plainsman.
Once the gate swung open, she moved closer to the kneeling d’warf. “Please rise, Wennar,” she said, using the leader’s name. “I come to ask your aid.”
The d’warf was slow to climb to his feet. He kept his eyes downcast. “You have but to ask. We are yours to command.”
By now, all the d’warves were intent on their conversation. Even those slumbering had been shaken awake.
Elena inclined her head in acknowledgment to Wennar’s statement. “Thank you. I have a request of all of you.”
Wennar nodded, waiting, eyes downcast.
“You know Tol’chuk, I believe.”
The d’warf leader nodded again. “The og’re.”
“He prepares to embark on a dangerous quest.”
Wennar glanced slightly up, his gaze narrowed in confusion.
“To Gul’gotha,” Elena finished.
The d’warf’s eyes grew large. Murmuring arose from those gathered behind Wennar. “He must not go there,” their leader mumbled. “The very ground is poisoned by the Nameless One. Only death lies there for the untainted.”
“He must go. Both at the behest of his father’s spirit and in the hope of aiding our battle against the Gul’gotha.”
Wennar turned his back slightly. “No good will be found on those shores.”
Elena glanced at Er’ril. The plainsman acted as if he expected no other response.
“What would you have of us?” Wennar asked, his gaze focused on a glowing brazier nearby.
“I would have you go with Tol’chuk. Those are your lands. You know them and can help.”
Wennar’s shoulders trembled with her words. “We swore an oath to you, but what you ask is not possible.”
“Why?”
“Centuries of winters have passed since any d’warf has set toe on Gul’gothal soil. Our homeland is dead to us. We would know it no better than the og’re.”
“But surely you’ve seen old maps, know something of—”
Wennar swung back toward Elena, moving more swiftly than she imagined he could move. Er’ril yanked his sword from his sheath at the sudden movement, but no harm was intended by the d’warf leader. “Our homeland is dead to us!” Wennar wailed. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes. Anguish was etched in Stone on his old face. “It is forbidden.”
Er’ril spoke for the first time. “I told you coming here would prove a waste.”
Wennar slunk back around. “I’m sorry, Mistress Elena.”
Elena was not ready to admit defeat. “And what if you bore the Try’sil on this journey?”
Wennar tensed.
“I promised Cassa Dar,” Elena continued, “that I’d one day return your sacred talisman to its homelands, to the mines of Gul’gotha, and fulfill the ancient prophecy.”
“The Hammer of Thunder,” he mumbled.
“It is foretold that the return of the hammer would herald the rebirth of your homeland.”
Wennar still would not turn. He drew even tighter inward. “It is not a d’warf hand that must carry the Try’sil.”
“Then Tol’chuk will,” Elena said.
“No.” Wennar slowly turned. “Did the d’warf mistress of the swamps not explain this to you? The legend is exact. Only the one who freed the Hammer can bring the Try’sil home.” Wennar raised his eyes and met hers squarely for the first time. “Only you can free our lands.”
Er’ril slammed his sword back to its sheath. “Elena cannot go to Gul’gotha. She is needed here.”
Elena’s immediate reaction was the same as the plainsman’s. They had fought so hard and lost so many lives to bring the wit’ch to A’loa Glen. How could she think of venturing on this side journey when the larger war loomed? But once she heard the plainsman speak it, Elena considered this thought more deeply. She remembered sitting on the Rosethorn Throne, all but forgotten by the others. Was it truly so vital she be here? The war was not fought to bring the wit’ch to the island, but Elena to the book. And with that accomplished, was she needed here? Did she plan to hide in safety while her friends scattered throughout the lands in search of the cursed Weirgates? Should she not bear her magick and power in pursuit of the Gates’ destruction? Elena clenched her fist. Still, dare she consider leaving the safety of this fortified island? She had no answer—but one last question had to be asked aloud.
“If I go,” she said, “will you come as guides?”
“Elena!” Er’ril blurted. “You can’t think to—”
Elena held up a hand to silence him. She kept her eyes on Wennar’s.
Slowly he fell to his knees and bowed his head to the floor. The other d’warves did the same. “We would be yours to command,” Wennar said, his voice swelling with hope. “We would die to keep you safe.”
Elena nodded. “Very well. I will consider this.”
“You will not!” Er’ril said in rattled shock.
Elena did not even glance his way, but turned on a heel and led the way back out of the dungeons.
Er’ril chased after her as Gost locked up the cell behind them. “Elena, you can’t truly be thinking of going to Gul’gotha. You can’t risk yourself this way. You’re safe here. You have armies from many lands protecting you.”
Elena did not stop her march back toward the castle proper. “Safe?” she asked. She slipped the glove from her left hand, exposing her pale flesh. “There are assassins within these very walls. The Dark Lord knows that I hide here and will try again and again to destroy me. I am a sitting target, just awaiting his next arrow.”
They had reached the dungeon keep’s domicile. The light here was much brighter. Elena turned to Er’ril. “I have made no final decision, Er’ril. I only said I would consider it.”
“Then I would ask you to consider this, Elena. By going, perhaps you would be playing into the Dark Lord’s hands. Maybe the assassin was not meant to kill you, but to scare you, to chase you from the island, so he might snare you when you are less protected.”
Elena sighed and stopped. Her eyes settled on Gost’s portrait of a smiling woman on a handsome horse. “No one can know what game the Dark Lord is playing. To guess his next move is the path to fear and indecision. I’ve heard enough of that in the Great Hall over the past moon. All I can do is follow what my heart tells me.” Elena turned and met Er’ril’s eyes. “Can you trust that? Can you trust my decision?”
Er’ril closed his eyes and slowly nodded. His words were a bare whisper. “Always. I am your liegeman.”
KAST STOOD AT the prow of the double-masted elv’in windship, the Eagle’s Fury, and glanced below to the dock. Men bustled with crates and supplies among the thick ropes tethering ship to land. Winches creaked and draft horses whinnied as they fought the pulleyed ropes to haul gear to the elv’in warship floating two stories above their heads. Open hatches on the underbelly of the ship awaited their cargo.
Scowling, Kast turned his back on the sight. Outfitting the ship for the journey to the Southern Wastes would have gone much faster if the ship had docked like any normal seagoing vessel. But the captain of the Eagle’s Fury—Meric’s brother, Richald—had refused to let his ship settle into the sea for loading. “No Thundercloud has ever touched the world’s surface,” Richald had stated coldly. “It would taint the Eagle’s Fury, and auger ill for our journey.”
Kast had not argued. It was not his ship. On this expedition, he was a mere passenger. He stared up at the masts with their furled sails and at the thin, waspish fellows climbing lithely among the ropes and rigging. As much as he found this mode of travel distasteful, Kast could not fault the skill of Richald’s crew. They walked the ropes as well as any man walked the planks of a normal vessel.
Sighing, he glanced away. On the far side of the dock, the twin to this boat floated two stories above the water. It was Meric’s own ship, the Stormwing. Its magic-wrought iron keel glowed like warm coal, its
elemental power keeping the ship afloat in the air. Men bustled under its hull, too, as it was being outfitted and readied for its flight to the northern stretches of Alasea. From here, Kast spotted the elv’in lord among his own crew atop the deck, including the trio of dark-skinned zo’ol tribesman who would accompany Meric on the search for Elena’s companions.
There was a certain symmetry here. Two brothers, two ships, two tasks. One headed to the north, one to the south. But how would each fare? Twin victories or twin defeats?
The scrape of bare heel on wood drew his attention from his reverie of the future. Dressed in mottled sharkskin, Sy-wen might as well have been naked. From the swell of her breasts to the curves of her thighs, nothing was hidden by the thin material. She smiled as their eyes met, oblivious to the immodesty of her dress.
But others were not so blind. At her side strode the captain of the ship, Richald. Kast noticed how the elv’in kept trying to avert his eyes from Sy-wen’s form, but failed. A slight blush glowed on the captain’s pale cheeks as his eyes flickered toward her periodically. It seemed the blood of elv’in princes did not entirely flow with ice.
Sy-wen slipped easily under Kast’s arm as she neared him, giving him a quick brush of her lips on his cheek. Kast firmed his grip around her waist, making it clear who lay claim to her heart.
Richald cleared his throat and glanced off to the empty skies. “We are on schedule. We’ll be off with the first light.”
Kast nodded. “It seems Meric fares just as well.”
This triggered a hardening of Richald’s countenance. His eyes narrowed as he glanced toward the Stormwing. “Luckily my brother’s crew has been trained well.” It seemed Richald was not about to give Meric any credit for leadership in this matter.
“Ah, but a crew is only as good as their captain,” Kast mumbled.
Richald’s fist clenched. “That is yet to be seen. My brother has been too long on solid ground. Let us see how he fares in the wilds of the empty skies.”
“I’m sure your brother will do well,” Sy-wen said, pulling slightly away. She squeezed Kast’s arm, scolding him silently for goading Richald. “But I must be off. Mother is expecting me.”