“Is that all of them?” she asked, trusting her dragon’s keen nose.
Before he could answer, a commotion arose from the doorway. Guardsmen bristled at the threshold with spears. The dungeon keep, Gost, stood among them. He must have fetched the reinforcements when Ragnar’k had begun to bellow.
Sy-wen lifted an arm. “Stand back,” she warned. “It might not be safe to enter here yet.”
One of the guardsmen pushed forward. She recognized Py-ran, grandson of Master Edyll and lieutenant of the mer’ai forces still here. “Sy-wen?”
“Fear not.” She answered the suspicion in his eye. “The magick of Ragnar’k has broken the hold of my demon possessor.”
Py-ran’s gaze remained narrowed. No one lowered his spear.
She understood their fears. How could she be trusted?
Py-ran spoke. “We ran into a cadre of Bloodriders on the way down here. They attacked us, then fled through a hidden door.”
A Dre’rendi called from the cluster of guards, his voice shocked with horror. “One was Wrent, the captain of our guard. Another was the high keel’s own son.”
Sy-wen groaned. With Hunt’s knowledge of the Dre’rendi forces available to the Dark Lord, the danger to the fleet heading toward Blackhall was heightened. The escaped group had to be stopped before it was too late.
“I will loose the magick of the dragon,” Sy-wen said. “If you don’t believe my word, perhaps you will Kast’s.”
Sy-wen shifted from her seat, sliding from her perch to the stones. She was careful to keep one hand in contact with the dragon until she was ready. Spears and swords followed her every move.
She ignored them and turned to Ragnar’k. “I must let you go, my great giant.”
Bonded . . . you must not leave.
She heard the deep grief in his voice. “I must. I must prove that I’m free of the tentacles.”
But, bonded . . . you are not.
She frowned and sent her thoughts silently. I am my own woman.
No. The dragon’s thoughts were firm. I smell one knot of tentacles still in this stone cave.
“Where?” she said aloud.
Ragnar’k swung his nose and sniffed at her hair. Here . . . inside you. It still lives. It hides where I can’t reach it, but it still squirms, waiting.
Sy-wen sensed the truth of the dragon’s words. She wasn’t free. Though the magick of Ragnar’k had broken the simaltra’s hold on her, freeing her from her prison temporarily, it had failed to destroy the beast. It still lived inside her skull, waiting to claim her again.
Her fingers clutched a ridge of scale. She felt her legs weaken. Without the dragon, the evil inside her would take over again. Horror filled her at the realization that to free Kast, she must lose herself.
“Sy-wen?” Py-ran called from the doorway, clearly wondering at the delay.
She faced her fellow mer’ai. “I . . . I was mistaken,” she whispered, her chest hollow with despair. “I’m not free.”
Py-ran frowned at her words.
“Bring four of your men. Circle me with spears. I must not escape.”
“I don’t understand.”
Sy-wen shook her head. “When I free the dragon and call back Kast, I will be possessed again.”
His face grew pale. “Then don’t let go of the dragon.”
Sy-wen waved her free arm around the cell. “And imprison all three of us here? Ragnar’k is too large to fit out the dungeon door.”
“There must be another way.”
Sy-wen leaned her forehead against the dragon. “We must trust Kast to find it.”
Stay with me, Ragnar’k urged. I will dig our way out of this stone cave. My heart is strong, my claws stronger.
Sy-wen smiled despite the tears. No one doubts your heart, my giant, but true freedom does not lie that way.
Ragnar’k remained silent for a long time, but she sensed his understanding and his fear. It resonated with her own terror. She dreaded allowing herself to be trapped, alone again in that dark prison.
Not alone, Ragnar’k whispered in her heart. You’re never alone.
She again felt the flow of warmth from two hearts. She drew the heat and love around her like a blanket, wrapping it tight. Before her fears could overwhelm her, she stepped back, dropping her hand from the dragon’s side.
The world exploded into a whirlwind of black scale. Inner barriers shattered—then she was falling down a well, and cold tentacles unfurled to catch her.
She clutched the blanket of warm love to her heart with all her might.
Save me . . . , she whispered out to the emptiness.
Around Tyrus, the world hardened, as if the very air thickened—first to molasses, then to mortar, then to stone. He did not feel his limbs and body solidify into granite. He simply could no longer move. Through eyes that would not blink, he watched the stone statue slam his body down, driving his legs into the soft loam as a man might plant a fence post.
Even time seemed trapped. He watched his men harry the Stone Magus, who without a doubt this creature was. Their voices grew high-pitched; their efforts became frantic blurs. Time sped into the future, leaving Tyrus behind. Helpless, Tyrus watched his men, one after the other, succumb to the same spell. Statues grew around him: Blyth frozen with his sword raised, Sticks crouched with his clubs crossed in futile defense, Fletch frozen with his bow in midpull.
One last battle ensued. A blur that was Hurl fought the demon from his childhood tales. The Stone Magus bore the man’s ax chops with no reaction, his face fixed in the same stern glower.
Tyrus watched as a stone hand snapped out with a speed that belied the flow of time and grabbed Hurl by the wrist. The last of his men was about to succumb to the Magus’ spell.
He refused to let it happen; he fought the leaden air. If he could only move a finger, he sensed the spell would break. He fed his desire and will into one hand.
Move, damn you . . . move!
Before him, Hurl’s flesh and clothes grew the gray of unpolished granite, spreading inward from his struggling limbs. From the vantage in his eddy of time, the transformation seemed but a matter of heartbeats.
Tyrus continued to fight. He had no choice.
Hurl was slammed into the soil, a granite statue of horror and fury. The Stone Magus stared at his collection. His lips moved, and he uttered words of distaste and disgust. He must have been speaking very slowly, because the words were plain and clear. “Pirates . . . scum of the sea . . . you prey upon the carrion left behind by the Dark Lord. I curse your black hearts and leave you here to watch the world pass you forever by.”
Tyrus fought all the harder. We are not your enemy! he sent silently. We fight the same cause!
But he was not heard. The stone figure turned away, moving at what appeared to Tyrus to be normal speed, but from the whip of clouds overhead, his gait must be slow, a creep of stone across the foggy field.
Wait! Tyrus yelled in his mind. He willed his stone limbs to move. A hand, a finger . . . anything. As he strained, his vision blackened with the effort. Sweet Mother, release me!
Laughter answered him, so very faint and far away. But it was not the voice of the Mother above. It was a deeper, grumbled sound that rose from the stony ground under him. Words followed, even fainter: Remember your roots, fool. The ridicule was blunted by a sense of peace and friendship.
Who . . . ?
Laughter again; this time it sounded more mournful. We are stone, you and I. One Rock, one Granite. Have you forgotten your oath-brother?
Tyrus felt his heart thud in his chest with recognition. Kral! His mind churned with confusion and shock. How . . . ?
I reach you through old allegiances bound in blood and sworn upon Mrylian steel. What is made of stone never truly dies, only slumbers. I heard you calling through the stone, crying for release from your own blood. Thick laughter grumbled. Such foolishness . . .
Tyrus felt his anger boil up. I’m trapped in a statue.
So? A sigh sounded, like
a shifting of slabs of stone deep underground. You’ve lived too long among pirates and brigands. Have you forgotten your birthright? You are Lord Tylamon Royson, heir and king of Castle Mryl, lord of the Northwall. Granite flows in your veins.
Tyrus inwardly frowned. At the Northwall perhaps, but not here.
Whatever ground you walk, you are still a prince, Kral said with a finality that brooked no argument. Granite is granite.
Tyrus searched his heart. Could this be true?
Kral’s voice began to fade, slipping back into the rocky roots of the world. Stone can never hold you prisoner. We are rock, you and I. What more magick do you need?
No further words followed.
Kral?
There was no answer. But for the briefest flicker, Tyrus sensed something else, a touch of prophecy, the Scrying that was also his family’s birthright. Though the mountain man’s time had ended in this age, he would be called for one last, great task, in a time yet to come. So Tyrus did not call out to him. He released the giant man to his stony slumber. Guard my family sword well, man of the mountains. Wield it with honor.
Tyrus focused back on the present, surprised to see the Stone Magus only steps away, plodding slowly along.
Tyrus concentrated. He abandoned any hope of moving a hand or finger. Instead he drew his energy inside him, to his own heart. He remembered Castle Mryl, his home and love. At the Northwall, he had but to press his palms against the granite and will the living energy in the stone to transform him into stone, allowing him to flow into and through the great wall as if through water.
Granite is granite. The mountain man’s words echoed in his heart.
Tyrus centered himself, remembering who he was, what blood ran in his veins. Then he touched the magick in his heart, sending out his desire and will.
Slowly he felt the air around him soften. Stone melted to mortar. His raised arm sank under its own weight.
Tyrus held his heart calm, allowing the world to continue to thaw. His limbs bent from their frozen postures. His lips parted; his chest expanded. He took a cautious step, pulling his feet from the soil. It was like slogging through molasses, but he was moving! And time slipped back to its normal groove, a well-worn rut. The scudding clouds slowed to a gentle roll across the skies.
Tyrus raised his limbs. They were still the dark gray of unpolished stone. The spell remained intact, but he was no longer a fixed statue. He craned his neck and spotted the Stone Magus. With time back to its regular flow, the Magus appeared to be merely a statue in the misty woods. But his limbs were indeed moving with a steady and determined grind as he climbed the rise.
Tyrus sheathed his stone sword and pursued his quarry. He would not leave his shipmates frozen. He would force the monster back, to free his friends. Tyrus climbed the rise, but his pace was only a fraction more hurried than the Magus’. Granite was indeed granite, and though it flowed, it was still heavy. With each step, his feet sank into the leafy muck of the woodland floor. It was like marching through thick snow, but Tyrus plodded onward.
He was within a few lengths of the Magus when his quarry sensed the pursuit. The stern face swung in his direction.
Tyrus gained a small amount of satisfaction from the surprised look that spread like lava over the man’s stone face.
“How?” the Magus asked.
Tyrus hauled his way up the slope. “You are not the only one with stone in his blood.”
“Demon! Black-heart fiend . . .” The slurs flowed from the cold lips as the Magus faced him. Fingers folded into stone fists.
“I am no demon.” Tyrus drew even with him near the top of the rise. “It is not I who turns innocent men into statues and leaves them to die.”
Features hardened into a frown. “Innocent? I saw your ship. Pirates. Sea-sharks.” A growl rumbled up his rocky throat, and a hint of madness shone from his eyes. “You are no better than the beasts that infest the town.”
“You judge us falsely. We meant no harm. We came ashore only to look for lost friends.”
He sneered. “This is not your land. You and your lost friends don’t belong here. I will protect it as I see fit.” With the determination of a boulder rolling down a hill, he turned away.
Tyrus raised a hand to stop him, but it was knocked away with the sound of crashing rocks as the Magus continued to the top of the rise.
“You must lift your spell from my friends,” Tyrus called, dragging himself after the Magus. “I will pursue you to Blackhall itself, if need be!”
The mention of the Dark Lord’s lair had the desired effect. The Magus swung around with a speed that belied his heavy stone limbs. “Never mention that foul place, that blight upon these northern woods.”
“You claim to protect these lands. Why then do you thwart the very men who bring war upon that dread island?”
Confusion mixed with suspicion in the other’s face.
Tyrus pressed. “It is you who do the Black Heart’s will here, not I!”
Anger built in the other. “Lies!” he spat.
Tyrus held out his hands. “Stone does not lie. If you are birthed from the Land as its avatar, then you will know truth written in granite.”
The Magus stared at his open palms, then slowly placed his own hands atop Tyrus’.
Tyrus looked the other in the eye, granite meeting granite. He prayed the creature’s stony madness would clear enough for him to recognize the truth. He spoke boldly. “In ten days’ time, four armies will converge on Blackhall, bearing the magick of the Land itself. We will lay down our lives to break into that lair and wrest the wyrm from his black hole.”
With each word, the eyes of the Magus grew wider. The ravening glint faded for the moment. “You speak with a true tongue.”
Tyrus bit back a sigh of relief.
The Stone Magus lifted away his hands and covered his face. “Will this pain never end?”
Tyrus stepped closer to him. “It is not too late to change what you’ve wrought. Release the spell that holds my men.”
The Magus stumbled a few steps down the far side of the ridge. “I cannot.” His words were a choked wail.
Tyrus pursued him. “Why?”
The stone figure glanced over a shoulder. “There is no way to lift the spell. Once cast, it cannot be undone. It is why I return regularly to the village.”
Tyrus frowned; then understanding dawned on him. “The stone villagers . . . the bonfire . . .”
“A tragic mistake . . .” Rocky shoulders slumped in grief. “Two winters ago, the village here was attacked by dog soldiers and monsters. I was summoned near the end of the fighting. From the park, I cast out my magick. I was so blinded with rage at the murder and pillaging that I failed to notice my own energy spilling over into the grounds around me. The townsfolk were frozen in place in their own refuge.”
The Magus shook his head. “I destroyed the statues of the attackers, buried the dead, and built a fire both to mark the town as my own and to offer light and warmth to those I imprisoned falsely. It is all I can do. The drak’il moved in last winter. As long as the goblins left the park alone, I allowed them to haunt the ruins. They are simpleminded beasts, and their hunger guards the park as much as I do. I did not want the resting place of those poor villagers disturbed.”
Tyrus heard the pain in the other’s voice. Guilt weighed heavier than granite on this one’s heart. “There is no way to lift the curse?”
The other stood in a posture of grief. His silence was answer enough.
Tyrus clenched his stone fingers. What was he to do now? No ship, no men . . .
Overhead, the skies had begun to lighten to the east. Much of the night had disappeared while he had stood frozen, trapped in the time eddy. Now a morning breeze began to shred the blanket of mists. Patches of starlight shone clear.
Tyrus stared out at the valley below him, lost in thought. Across the valley floor, starshine limned an empty stretch of felled forest. From his vantage, it appeared the woods below and across th
e next rise had been axed and harvested, leaving behind only a landscape of stumps that spread as far as the eye could see.
An entire forest of stumps.
Who would need so much wood?
The winds gusted over the ridge, driving away the fog. With the brighter light, Tyrus recognized the error of his assumption. He stared in horror below.
A voice spoke behind him. “At least I accomplished some good here,” the Stone Magus mumbled. “If nothing else, this dread legion of the Dark Lord will harm no others.”
Tyrus found himself frozen again, unable to move, a statue like the thousands down below.
At long last, he had found the d’warf army.
17
Kast knelt beside the dead boy in the north tower. Glassy eyes stared up at the hallway’s raftered ceiling, and a grimace of pain marked the cold lips. A slow seep of blood still flowed from the jagged slice through the boy’s throat. The kill had been recent.
Reaching out a hand, Kast closed the boy’s eyes. He had not thought his heart could be any heavier this night. “I’m sorry, Ty-lyn,” he said, remembering the lad’s exuberance, his youthful pride and joy in his dragon, Helia. So much life . . . now gone forever.
Kast surveyed the other mer’ai, slain and strewn about the hall and across the entrance to the tower stairs. An ambush . . . The mer’ai group had been returning with the last eggs from the crashed scoutship. They would have had no reason to fear Hunt or the captain of the Bloodrider guard.
And there was no doubt who had attacked and murdered the group here. The handiwork was clearly Dre’rendi—and not a single ebon’stone egg remained.
Kast cursed under his breath. The murders here were his fault. He had delayed too long in the dungeons below, watching as Sy-wen had been bound hand and foot. She had fought, frothing, spouting foul oaths, laughing with mad glee. Heartsore, Kast had been too stunned to act quickly. He had not thought to send an immediate warning and guards to the mer’ai returning from the sea with the last eggs.
He stared down at the result of his shortsightedness. These days, blood was the wage of a single misstep. Kast stood and clenched his fists. No longer. It was time to bring the war to its rightful place.