Curling a fist, Kast held back any further questions. Instead he nodded imperceptibly to Hunt, indicating he understood. He swung to Ty-lyn and his mount, Helia, bobbing in the waves. “You and the others are to haul this last clutch to the dungeon cell as quickly as possible. We’ve additional men to help. Alert the others.”
“It will be done!” Ty-lyn struck a fist to his shoulder in salute. “Ho, Helia!” Rider and dragon twisted away.
Kast turned back to Hunt, who was directing his men, speaking in hushed, terse tones. When he finished, the cadre leader nodded, stepping back. “We’ll watch with the eyes of a hawk,” he said.
“What are they to watch?” Kast asked Hunt. “What’s the urgency with these last eggs?”
“Come.” Hunt headed down the pier. “There’s something I must show you.”
Kast kept pace with him. “What is it?” he asked irritably, tired of half answers.
Hunt waited until they were out of earshot of the others. “Two of the eggs are missing.”
Kast stumbled to a stop. “What?” Shock raised his voice.
Hunt motioned him to keep quiet and keep moving. “They vanished during the midnight shift last night. I questioned the guards. None admit leaving their posts or sleeping, but this morning the egg count is less by two.”
Kast shook his head. “How could that be? A dozen swordsmen couldn’t all have so been lax in their duty as to let a thief through.”
Hunt glanced to Kast, his face unreadable. “Last night, the shift was composed of all mer’ai.”
Kast’s brows pinched. It was common for shifts to be entirely elv’in, or Dre’rendi, or mer’ai. But Kast understood the unspoken suspicion behind Hunt’s words. Sy-wen was mer’ai. Was there some connection to a theft that occurred during a mer’ai shift? It seemed improbable, but Kast now understood the cadre of Bloodriders brought to the dock. We’ll watch with the eyes of a hawk.
Hunt leaned in closer, his voice lowering another note. “This morning I confirmed the dungeon count myself. And while doing so, I found something else.”
“What?”
“Something you should see for yourself.” They had reached the end of the docks, and the usual crowds of fisherfolk and shippers closed around them, silencing their talk of traitors and betrayals.
Kast climbed the streets in silence, lost in his thoughts. Part of him, deep in his heart, hoped Sy-wen had played a role in this midnight theft—for the past half moon, there had been no sign of the woman he loved. Kast feared she had already struck out for Blackhall, never to be seen again. But if she had stolen the eggs . . . if she was still here . . .
A seed of hope rooted in his spirit.
They reached the castle and passed through the gates and guards. Hunt led the way through the forecourt and down to the dungeons, where two guards stood post with spears and belted swords. Both were Bloodriders; Hunt was taking no chances.
Beyond the guards at the entrance, steps led down to a dark passage that trailed far under the castle. Their footfalls echoed hollowly until they reached an ironbound door. Hunt knocked his knuckles on the oaken frame. A small panel opened, and a scarred face peered out—the mute dungeon keep, Gost. The disfigured man grunted in recognition, the rattle of keys sounded, and the door opened with a scream of rusted hinges. The scarred man waved them in.
“Thank you, Gost,” Hunt said.
The dungeon keep nodded. His eyes were red-rimmed; a scrabbled growth of beard marked his chin. Kast knew his story. The heavy-limbed fellow had endured tortures beyond speaking in these very dungeons during the occupation by the Dark Lord’s forces, including having his tongue cut out. Fear again shone bright in the man’s eyes now: Gost had not been happy to have his warren of cells become a vault for the ebon’stone eggs.
Kast couldn’t blame him. Even in this room, one could sense the clutch: a prickling of the tiny hairs over one’s body, a thickness to the air that felt oily. From the worn condition of the man, Kast doubted sleep came easy here.
Bowing, Gost led them across the room that doubled as his living space. He used his keys to unlock the far door, the entrance to the main dungeons.
Once through, Kast motioned to the door being locked behind them. “Did Gost notice anything last night when the theft occurred?”
Hunt shook his head. “The keep had let no one through his room since the change of guard just before midnight.”
“Then how did the thief get down here?”
“I couldn’t say, unless Gost was part of the conspiracy.”
“I don’t believe he’d side with the Black Heart, not after the suffering he endured here.”
“Then maybe he was duped . . . or enthralled.”
Kast shook his head as they crossed down the rows of cells. Ahead, at the end of the passage, torches blazed. Men milled, a dozen, all Bloodriders, Hunt’s own men.
Hunt nodded to the captain of the guard. “Everything secure, Wrent?”
The man nodded, standing straight, shoulders thrown back. “We’ve let no one in or out, as you instructed.” Kast recognized the man as Hunt’s cousin. His warrior’s braid reached to his waist, the sign of many successful battles. He also bore a scar across his seahawk tattoo, a pale slash as if the hawk’s throat had been cut.
Hunt jangled a set of keys from a pocket and stepped to the door. Kast followed along with Wrent. The cell door, a stout construction of fire-hardened oak banded in iron with a small barred window, was doubly locked. It took one of Hunt’s keys and one of Wrent’s to free the way.
As they unlocked the door, Kast again wondered how anyone could have stolen the two eggs. Even with the aid of the mer’ai on duty last night, how had the thief gotten past Gost? How had the locks been managed? It seemed an impossible theft.
Kast could fathom only one explanation. Since Sy-wen’s corruption, he had investigated the accounts of the malignant tentacled creatures, from Tok and his experiences aboard Captain Jarplin’s ship, to Elena and her “cure” of Brother Flint. One thing seemed clear: Once corrupted with the beasts, there was some malignant connection among those infected, a demonic link between the creatures that allowed communication. If this was so, then with the Brotherhood of Scholars tainted, Sy-wen would have access to their knowledge of A’loa Glen and its castle, including its maze of secret passages and tunnels. Could she use this knowledge to slip past the safeguards and steal the eggs? And what other evil could she have achieved already? The thought chilled him.
The creak of hinges drew his attention as Wrent hauled the heavy door open. The prickling sensation swelled, like spiders skittering across bare skin. The others in the hall, all battle-hard men, took a step away.
Hunt grabbed a torch from the wall. “Keep your guard up while the way is unbarred. Don’t let anyone near.”
Wrent saluted. “It will be done.”
Hunt led the way through the door with his torch, and Wrent closed the door behind them. Kast studied the dim room. He had chosen this cell because it was large enough to hold the entire clutch of a hundred eggs and had been carved from the stone of the island itself, solid rock all around. Hunt’s torch flickered shadows on the walls.
Eggs lay everywhere in neat stacks, like the nesting grounds of some foul flock. The biggest pile, a pyramid, stood in the room’s center, reaching to the ceiling itself. The heap of ebon’stone absorbed the torchlight, casting no reflection. Even the room’s scant warmth seemed to be sucked away by the clutch, leaving the air cold. Their breaths blew white with each exhalation.
“The missing eggs were taken from over here.” Hunt circled to the far side, where one of the smaller piles was clearly lower than the others.
“And the vanished eggs aren’t elsewhere in the room?”
“I counted twice,” Hunt said. “And on the second count, I found this.” The tall Bloodrider dropped to a knee beside a neighboring pile. He lowered his torch and pointed to the stack’s base. Something was lodged there. “I didn’t want to disturb it before yo
u saw it yourself.”
Kast bent down. It was a scrap of cloth. He reached and fingered the material. His breath caught in his throat. Sharkskin. His fingers yanked the material free, held it closer to the torch. “It’s Sy-wen’s.”
“Are you sure?”
Kast could only nod.
Hunt straightened, standing. “I’m sorry, Kast. I know how this must fire your blood. I, too, would be furious.”
Kast had to turn away, not to hide his anger, but his joy. His fingers closed over the scrap of sharkskin. She was still here!
Hunt offered further words of consolation, but Kast remained deaf to them. He raised the bit of leathery cloth to his nose and breathed in the faint scent of sea salt and the hint of Sy-wen’s skin. My love . . .
“. . . all the mer’ai on duty.” Hunt’s words slowly intruded. “I’ll have them rounded up again.”
Kast lowered the scrap and nodded. Hunt led the way back toward the door. As they neared it, they heard the scrape of a sliding bolt. Hunt glanced back to Kast with pinched brows—then the clash of steel sounded from beyond the room. Cries arose.
Both men rushed forward. Hunt yanked on the handle, but the way was locked. “Wrent!”
Kast pushed to the small, barred window. By the dim torchlight, he watched the quick slaughter of five Bloodriders, set upon by their own brothers. Curved daggers sliced throats open, spilling rivers of spurting blood. Bodies were impaled on pikes and swords. In a matter of moments, the dead lay strewn, entrails oozing from deep wounds, blood seeping into wide black pools on the stone.
Wrent’s face suddenly appeared at the window, blocking the view. The warrior now wore a wide leer, froth at the corner of his lips.
“Wrent! What have you done?” Hunt tried to reach through the bars, but he could not even get his fists between the iron.
Kast pulled him back with one hand and slid his sword out with the other. “He’s corrupted. It’s not the mer’ai that were the traitors, but our own men.”
Wrent continued to leer.
“Then why did Wrent alert me to the missing eggs?”
Kast stared down at the scrap of sharkskin. “So you’d find this and fetch me here. It’s a trap.”
As if to confirm this, a large crack sounded behind them, as if a stone had been shattered by a hammer. Both men turned to the center pile of eggs.
. . . crack . . . crack . . . crack . . .
“They’re hatching,” Kast said.
The pile shook before them. The topmost egg in the pyramid toppled from its perch and bounced to the floor. As it struck and rolled near them, it split open, steaming green into the cold air. Fist-sized globs of gelatinous slime splattered out in all directions, striking the floor and walls with wet slaps.
One struck Hunt’s leg, clinging to it. He smacked it away with the butt of his torch and danced back. “Sweet Mother!”
On the floor, the offending glob sprouted tentacles and began to hop, like a sick toad.
“Stand back!” Kast warned.
All around—on floor, ceiling, and walls—the other scattered fists of slime grew wormy appendages and questing tentacles.
Hunt thrust out his torch, ready to defend with his flame. But instead of deterring the creatures, the brand’s heat seemed to attract them. Their moist feelers all swung in unison toward the heat, and they rolled and slimed their way forward.
“We have to get out of here,” Hunt said as more eggs cracked throughout the cell.
“There’s no escape,” Kast said calmly, ready with his sword.
Hunt’s voice edged toward panic. “Why didn’t the guards just slay us? Why lure us here?”
A new voice, full of mirth, intruded behind them. “Because we need a dragon, Brother Hunt.”
Kast swung around. At the barred window, the leering face of Wrent had been replaced by another. Kast’s heart burst at the sight of those sea-blue eyes and the pale face framed in deep green hair. Despite the danger, Kast felt a surge of relief. “Sy-wen . . .”
As evening neared, Prince Tyrus lowered his spyglass and called down from the Black Folly’s crow’s nest. He had to grip the edge of the nest to keep from falling headlong to the deck of his ship. “Signal fires to the north!” he yelled to his first mate. “Turn us into the next cove.”
He straightened, knowing his order would be obeyed. His legs easily rode the teeter of the ship’s central mast as he swayed atop his perch. His face burned from the days of salt and wind. The coast lay a quarter league away. Here in the far north, the shore was an unbroken cliff face topped by storm-burned pines twisted into agonized shapes by the ceaseless winds that swept across the Bay of T’lek.
As sails snapped and the ship edged nearer the coastal cliffs, Tyrus focused his spyglass on the bonfire atop the cliff face. He sought the makers of the signal blaze, praying to see the squat forms of d’warves, but nothing moved. He made out a small village beyond the fire. The hamlet lay in ruins: chimneys toppled, roofs collapsed, walls scorched from old blazes. But despite the abandoned look to the town, a fresh pyre smoked into the darkening skies. It was clearly a signal meant for seafarers, but who had set it and why? Tyrus searched with his spyglass and found no answer.
Tyrus dared not pass by without sending a shore party to investigate. For the past four days, he and his crew had been scouring the coastline for any sign of Wennar and his d’warf party. Every morning he sent out crows, and each evening they returned to the ship with the same messages still attached to their legs, unread, untouched.
“Mother above, where are you?” he muttered as he searched.
The main battle fleet was two days out from these same waters. If need be, the combined fleets would attack the island on their own, but the plan had been for the d’warf army to drive north through the Stone Forest. Then while the fleets attacked from the south, the d’warves would charge over the arch of volcanic stone that connected the island’s northern coast to the mainland.
Now the plan was in jeopardy.
Growling his frustration, Tyrus slammed his spyglass closed and pulled open the hatch to the crow’s nest. He clambered down the rope ladder.
His first mate, Blyth, met him at the foot of the mast. The shaven-headed pirate was tall and wiry, a whip of a man whose tongue was as sharp as his sword. He wore a cutlass over one shoulder, and a bolo on his other hip. “Is it the d’warf army?”
“Can’t say . . . but we have to check it out. It’s the first sign of life we’ve seen in days.”
Blyth nodded. “We should watch our arses, though. Something don’t strike me right about this place.”
Tyrus trusted his first mate’s instincts. “How so?”
Blyth pointed to the bonfire. It disappeared around the point as the ship entered the sheltered cove. “Someone goes to all the trouble to set a fire like that, then where are they?”
A call sounded from the prow. “Dockworks ahead!”
Tyrus and Blyth hurried forward and joined the seaman whose duty it was to watch for shoals and reefs. He pointed to the base of the cove’s cliffs, and a set of four piers, or what remained of them. Pilings jutted from the waters like broken teeth. Bits of planking clung to some. The damage seemed at least a winter old.
“No one’s been fishing out of this hole in a while,” Blyth mumbled.
“Drop anchor here,” Tyrus ordered. “We’ll take a party ashore in one of the longboats. We’ll take another three men. That’ll leave an even dozen left to guard the ship.”
“Aye.” Blyth turned to obey, already shouting commands.
Tyrus studied the lay of the land as sails were reefed and the ship slowed. In the shadow of the cove’s cliffs, the last of the sun’s glow disappeared. Evening had already claimed the small bay. He stared at the stone walls. A heavy mist clung in patches, promising the night to come to be foggy and damp. They’d best make short work of this search; he didn’t want the Black Folly to be trapped by the icy, blinding fogs of this northern clime.
Ty
rus wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders as the cold sucked at his warmth. It was hard to believe that midsummer was only a few days away. Here in the far north, winter never truly let go. On their search through T’lek Bay, they had even seen ice floes drifting south, bobbing in the current, flowing down from the Northern Wastes as the ice pack broke apart from the spring thaw. It made traveling these summer seas especially treacherous . . . and the dense fog only added to the danger.
The creak of rope on wheel sounded to the starboard side as the longboat was lowered. It landed with a muffled splash. Rope ladders were tossed over rails.
Blyth appeared at his side. “All set, Captain.”
“Who’s coming ashore with us?”
“Sticks, Hurl, and Fletch.”
Tyrus nodded, watching the trio gather, clapping each other on the shoulders and checking weapons. Sticks was the largest of the pirates, bowlegged, with arms as thick around as any og’re’s. His frame was not suited to the delicacy of the sword—he preferred the pair of ironwood clubs hooked to his belt, studded with steel.
At his side, Hurl stood with a sharpening stone, honing the edges of his hand axes. Blue-eyed with straw-colored hair, he hailed from these same northern lands. He had seen his family slaughtered by the dog soldiers of the Gul’gotha, leaving him an orphan on the cold, hard streets of Penryn. He bore no love for the denizens of Blackhall.
And, of course, ever at Hurl’s side was Fletch. The two were inseparable, one dark, one light, tied by bonds deeper than any brothers’. The black-haired Steppeman knelt on one knee, stringing his bow. He seldom spoke, but there was no better archer than the dark-eyed man.
Blyth had chosen well, picking a party whose skills were diverse and complementary. If trouble arose, Tyrus had little doubt they could handle it.
Satisfied, he crossed to the shore party with Blyth. “Let’s load up!”
The group clambered down the ladders to the longboats. Hurl and Fletch took the oars, while Sticks hunched in the stern, manning the rudder. From the bow, Tyrus and Blyth watched the waters ahead for any dangerous shoals or reefs.