Mogweed sighed, tired of the man’s squirming, and removed the swamper from his own hook. “She never changed because when you knew her she had settled into the human form, forsaking her shape-shifting nature.” His voice dropped to a bitter mumble. “Then she died and was resurrected by that cursed snake that gave her back her si’luran gifts.” Mogweed swung away from the fire. For the thousandth time, he wished he had never meddled with her rainbow-striped viper. His attempt to break the curse upon him and his brother had only resulted in an even worse binding.
He slipped past Mama Freda and Jerrick as they laid out bedrolls side by side. They both moved as if they were already half asleep.
Mogweed crossed to the cave’s entrance, joining Tol’chuk. The large fellow seldom talked, but his silences and simple companionship were a balm for Mogweed’s own frustration and pain. He had not wanted to set out on this journey, preferring the safety of A’loa Glen—but Fardale had volunteered them. And since Mogweed was forced to venture out, he was glad he had the og’re at his side.
He kept vigil with Tol’chuk, watching for any marauding hunters. “I thought we were supposed to have reached your home caves by now.”
Tol’chuk shrugged.
Mogweed could guess the delay. After the attack on Fardale, the group had proceeded through the mountains warily, moving in a tighter group, cautious. The extra care had slowed their progress so much that Mogweed had eventually dozed off inside Fardale’s skull, only waking again when the curse pushed him back into his body, greeting him with a mouthful of raw rabbit.
He was sure Fardale was wolfishly laughing somewhere deep in his head. Laugh now, Brother, he thought, but I swear I’ll get the last laugh.
After a time, Magnam returned with a bit of stew for each of them, steaming in the cold air. Tol’chuk accepted his bowl wordlessly, lost in his own worries.
Mogweed sniffed at his meal, then curled his nose. “Rabbit!”
Magnam chuckled. “Fardale caught two. He likes to share.”
Mogweed shoved his bowl back at the d’warf. “I’m not hungry.”
“More for me then.” Magnam added Mogweed’s stew to his own, then handed the dish back to Mogweed. “The kettle is cooling beside the fire.”
“So?”
Magnam pointed out into the dark. “There’s a stream just yonder. Should be great for cleaning the cookery. Nice and cold, like you like it.”
Mogweed opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. What was the use of arguing? Whether he had eaten of this meal or not, he knew his duty. Besides, the chore would give him a way to wile away the lonely nighttime hours. Each evening, he returned to this form only to find the others climbing into their bedrolls, leaving the long night to himself. It left him too much time to think, too much time to curse his present state.
“I’m for bed,” the d’warf said, wiping the last of the stew from his bowl with his fingers and tossing the empty dish to Mogweed.
The others soon followed his lead.
Only Tol’chuk remained unmoving, crouched by the entrance, his amber eyes aglow.
Mogweed gathered the cooking utensils in a sack, then grabbed up his own pack. He crossed to the og’re. “Where’s this creek?”
Tol’chuk pointed. “Beyond that boulder. It runs in a shallow bed.”
Mogweed hesitated. With the moon and stars masked by clouds, the night beyond the cave was dark. “Any og’res?” he asked, staring out warily.
“Just half a one,” Tol’chuk mumbled, referring to himself.
Mogweed patted his elbow. “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he found himself assuring his large companion. “And neither do I,” he added in a whisper to both himself and the wolf inside him. It wasn’t all my fault.
“I’ll watch over you,” Tol’chuk said.
Mogweed nodded and set off down the loose escarpment of shale and dirt. He slung the sack of dirty bowls and pots over one shoulder, his own small pack over the other. He shifted muscles in his arms and back to better bear the load, swelling them. The warm flow of tissue reassured him.
Despite his predicament, it was wonderful to use his si’luran abilities again. Full transformations—like the one from wolf to man or back—were taxing, but small adjustments were effortless and fatigued his flesh very little.
As he marched down the short slope, he appreciated the body he wore. It was as comfortable as a worn boot. After wearing this shape for so long, it was like a rut worn in a dirt track—easy to slip into, easy to follow. But with the return of his abilities, small enhancements were now possible. He shivered out a layer of insulating fur over his cold cheeks, sharpened the vision of his eyes so he could see in the dark. Perhaps this curse is not as bad as it seemed . . .
Rounding the boulder, he spotted the small creek. It was only a step wide, gurgling down a shallow rock channel. Mogweed shrugged off his packs, dropping the bag of dirty dishes with a clatter, then lowering his own pack carefully. Settling to his haunches, he glanced over a shoulder to make sure the boulder was between him and the og’re.
Satisfied, he let his eyelids drift closed and felt for those hidden eyes—Fardale’s eyes. Over the many moons since their joining, Mogweed had learned to recognize when his brother was awake inside him by a telltale tingle, that tiny sense of a stranger’s eyes on the back of the neck. He felt nothing like that now. Mogweed smiled. As usual, Fardale was fast asleep. After the long hike, his brother must be as tired as the others and not particularly interested in watching Mogweed scrub dirty bowls.
Alone for the moment, Mogweed untied the leather strings of his pack, making sure the carefully tied knot was the same as when he left it. It appeared untouched: No one had rummaged among his private things.
He smiled. With Fardale spending all his time in wolf form, he ignored Mogweed’s pack—as did the others. Its contents were his alone, items collected on his long journey among these lands.
Mogweed sifted through the pack, pushing past his own clothes and then a broken iron chain and collar from a sniffer that Tol’chuk had slain in these same hills so long ago. A tiny goatskin pouch bulged with a few pinches of Elena’s red hair. He scrabbled a moldy walnut out of the way. And at last, in the deepest corner of his pack, his fingers reached stone wrapped in linen. He hauled it out.
Sitting back on his heels, he settled the object on a flat rock and pulled away the folded cloth. The ebon’stone bowl sucked in what little light there was behind the sheltering boulder. He checked again behind him, making sure he was not spied upon.
He studied the small treasure. It had once belonged to the spider wit’ch—Vira’ni. He ran one finger along the lip of the bowl. Oily to the touch and oddly cold, its surface felt like fever sweat on a dying man.
He bit his lip. Almost every night he stared at the bowl, daring himself to take the next step. And each night he folded the linen back over his secret prize. After the failed attempt to free himself from his twin—the result of which was this strange fusion of forms—Mogweed knew there was only one way to break the curse that joined brother to brother. It would take a stronger magick than even Elena offered, and there was only one source of that magick: the Dark Lord of Gul’gotha, the ancestor of Tol’chuk.
Long ago, in the ancient Keep of Shadowbrook, Mogweed had spoken to the Dark Lord. The monster had spoken through the stone lips of a blackguard, a voice as empty and dead as an open crypt: For now, stay with those who aid the wit’ch. A time may come when I will ask more of you.
Mogweed knew that for his curse to be lifted, he would have to face that demon again. And he had learned from the pale twin lordlings of Shadowbrook that the blood of an elemental given to the bowl would call the Black Beast.
He stared at the ebon’stone. Over the past nights, he had feared doing what must be done. What will be asked of me? he wondered. He glanced back to the cave. He had traveled far from the side of the wit’ch, the Dark Lord’s nemesis. But he knew that his role here with the others was not insignificant. They had
entered the og’re homelands seeking the answer to the mystery of ebon’stone, the base upon which the Dark Lord built and wielded his power. If that answer was ever discovered, the allies of the wit’ch would gain a marked advantage.
Mogweed shivered. Did he dare play with the power here? Then again, dare he not? Would he be forever doomed to walk in darkness, never seeing the light of day? At the back of his mouth, he still tasted the retch of raw rabbit. Would he be forever yoked to his twin?
Bile burned in his belly. His fingers clenched. This curse must be lifted, no matter what the cost.
Twisting to his pack, he rummaged inside and found a bit of caked and shredded cloth—a bandage that the mountain man, Kral, had worn after being attacked by the d’warves near Castle Mryl. Kral had been an elemental steeped in the magick of the mountains’ granite roots. Mogweed had saved the bloody scrap in case he ever risked contacting the Dark Lord. He didn’t know if the dried blood would ignite the magick of the bowl, but he was determined for once to try, for time was running short. They were in the heart of og’re territory. It was now or never—and never was not an option.
With trembling fingers, he dropped the reddish-brown bandage to the bottom of the bowl. He held his breath and waited, watching.
Nothing happened. The bowl continued to suck in the feeble light. The crumpled bit of cloth simply rested in the center.
Mogweed sighed out his trapped breath. “It must take fresh blood,” he whispered in frustration. He considered his options. Both Jerrick and Mama Freda bore elemental gifts. But how could he get their blood?
As he pondered his choices, a stench suddenly swelled around him, as if something had died and rotted under his toes. Mogweed tensed, fearing something had crept up on him unaware. He remembered the smell of the og’res through Fardale’s nose. They had reeked of wet goats and blood. But this smell was much worse.
He scanned the dark forests across the creek, afraid to move and draw attention to himself. Then motion drew his eye—not from the woods, but from the bowl near his knees.
The bandage in the bowl twisted upon itself like a blind worm. The smell grew stronger around him.
With icy terror lacing his blood, Mogweed watched the brown stain on the cloth drain into the stone of the bowl. In a matter of heartbeats, the white cloth lay pristine against the black ebon’stone, quiet again.
Mogweed swallowed hard. The stench was now overpowering. Gorge rose in his throat. Surely Tol’chuk would smell the corruption and come to investigate.
Fearing discovery, he reached to the linen wrap, meaning to cover the bowl again, but as his fingers neared the ebon’stone, the bit of cloth burst into flame—not with the fiery red of true flame, but with flickers of darkness: darkfire. The hungry flames ate the light and heat from around the shelter. But as the cloth was consumed, the pyre refused to die away. Flames continued to dance darkly from the hollow of the bowl, reaching high above the rim.
Mogweed snatched his hand away, his fingers frozen from the cold. What have I done? Where a moment before he feared discovery, he now wished Tol’chuk would appear and rescue him. Surely the og’re noticed something amiss: the smell, the strange bloom of cold . . .
From the flames, a voice crept out like spiders on silk. “So the little mouse roars.”
Without turning his head, Mogweed’s gaze flicked to the caves, hoping Tol’chuk heard the icy voice of the demon. He was too scared to run, too frightened even to use his shape-shifting gifts. He was once again frozen in this form.
“No one will hear our words. No one will smell the open path—not even the wolf slumbering inside you. You are alone.”
He cringed from these words as the cold fog of the voice wrapped around him. His panted breath steamed in the frigid cloud. The nearby creek rimed with ice.
“We taste your heart, shape-shifter. You reek of desire.”
Mogweed forced his tongue to speak. “I . . . I want to be free of my brother.”
The black flames coiled like snakes. “You ask our help, but do nothing to earn it.”
“I will . . . I want . . . anything . . .”
“That will be seen. Do as we ask, when we ask, and we will free you.”
Mogweed clenched his cold hands, bringing blood into his fingers. To be separated from his brother . . . to walk again free of Fardale’s shadow.
“We will burn the wolf from your heart,” the voice whispered, edged with frost. “Your body will be your own.”
“Burn the wolf . . . ,” he mumbled, not liking the sound of that. “Do you mean kill him?”
“There is only one body crouching here. There can only be one master of it.”
Mogweed balked. How he longed to be free of Fardale’s yoke. In fact, he’d be happy never to see his brother’s face again. But to kill him? Could he go that far?
“What would you ask of me?” he finally blurted.
The ice in the air grew even more frigid. “You must destroy the Spirit Gate.”
Mogweed frowned, not understanding at first. “What gate is . . . ?” Then he remembered: the arch of heartstone under the Fang. It was the magickal portal through which Tol’chuk had been exiled into the world and sent to heal the jeweled Heart of the Og’res. “The Spirit Gate . . . How can I destroy it?”
The voice grew, filling his head. “It must be shattered with the blood of my last seed!”
Mogweed paled. He meant Tol’chuk!
“And not just a dribble of blood, shape-shifter,” the voice finished. “Not like the bit you offered the stone here—but blood squeezed from the seed’s very heart. His last blood.”
Mogweed shivered, and it had nothing to do with the magick-wrought chill in the air. His own blood pounded in his ears, his heart in his throat.
The flames dancing in the bowl died down as the spell frazzled away. “Slay the og’re by the Gate, and you will be free.” The voice drifted away. Then a last whisper reached him as the darkfire pyre extinguished: “But fail us, and your screams will echo forever.”
Then the woods grew brighter, warmer, the air clean and crisp. It was like awakening from a nightmare. But Mogweed knew this was no figment. He slowly folded the linen wrap back over the ebon’stone bowl, silently wishing he had never touched the cursed thing.
But deeper inside him, a glimmer of hope burned. To be free . . .
He shoved the bowl into his pack and cinched the leather knot, tying it specially. Once done, he hauled to his feet. His legs were numb, his mind dull with dread. He stumbled around the boulder and stared up at the tiny glow of their campfire. Limned against the brightness was a dark shadow.
Tol’chuk.
Mogweed climbed toward the light, scrabbling up the slight slope. The amber eyes of the og’re studied him.
Mogweed could not meet that gaze.
Tol’chuk’s face scrunched in confusion. “Where be the bowls?”
He flinched, thinking the og’re meant the ebon’stone talisman. Then realized the og’re only meant the dirty cookware. Mogweed pointed to the slope. “I left it beside the creek. I’ll scrub ’em later. It’s too cold right now.”
Mogweed tried to slip past the og’re to reach the warmth of the fire, but Tol’chuk stopped him.
“Be anything wrong, Mogweed?”
He raised his face to the og’re, meeting his concerned gaze, burning under it. “No,” he mumbled. “No, nothing’s wrong.”
Tol’chuk patted his shoulder. In the distance, thunder rolled. “It is a bad night. Stay by the fire.”
Mogweed moved past the og’re, glad to escape his gaze. Reaching the campfire, he glanced back to the entrance. Tol’chuk sat hunched, staring out into the night, protecting them, watching for any dangers beyond, unaware of the closer threat.
In Mogweed’s mind, icy words repeated in his head: Slay the og’re by the Gate, and you will be free. He faced the fire, turning his back on Tol’chuk.
He had no choice.
7
Tol’chuk marched throug
h the morning drizzle. Overhead the skies were a featureless gray. His companions trailed behind, sodden, slogging, already exhausted. The dreary weather seemed to sap the strength from both leg and heart. They climbed the last switchback to reach a long ridgeline.
He paused at the top. Fardale loped up from where he had been guarding their rear. Ahead the valley was a mix of scraggly trees, bushes, rock, and thorn. Meadow grasses blanketed the rest, trampled into paths. Tol’chuk had forgotten how green the valley was in the spring. Wildflowers brightened patches: yellow honeysuckle, blue irises, red highland poppies. His heart filled with memories.
At the end of the valley, a sheer cliff face blocked the way, a root of the Great Fang itself. A black opening yawned near its base.
“Home.” The word was a mumbled sigh.
Fardale growled.
Then Tol’chuk saw them, too. Movement drew his eye. What had appeared to be granite boulders suddenly sprouted limbs and loped away, bleating and raising an alarm. Even through the rain, Tol’chuk smelled the musk of the frightened females. Smaller than their male counterparts, they must have been out grubbing and rooting for tubers and greens. They fled toward the caves, scattering a herd of milk goats.
Tol’chuk led the way down, motioning the others closer. Near the mouth of the tunnel, movement could be seen. Tol’chuk stopped. “Stay together at my side. Do not make any threatening moves.”
From the cave, a large group of og’res thundered out—males, the hunters and warriors. They ran at the intruders, knuckling on their arms. The ground shook as they pounded forward. Most bore clubs or chunks of stone in their claws.
“Let me speak,” Tol’chuk whispered to them needlessly.
Magnam stepped to his shoulder. “You’re the only one who speaks the language.”
Jaston stepped to Tol’chuk’s other side. “But will they listen to you?”
Tol’chuk heard the frightened thread in their voices. The others gathered in his shadow as the herd of og’res bore down on them.
Mama Freda’s pet tamrink whined on the healer’s shoulder. “Big, big, big . . .”