“Sy-wen!”
Other voices rose in panic from the rigging and deck. The ship’s flight faltered as the captain seemed to lose her bearings.
Kast spun and found Sheeshon behind him. She held up a bit of half-carved ivory. His hands took it out of reflex. It was a crude boat with sails and a prominent keel, but there was something sinister about it. Coarse faces had been carved into its sides, twisted into malignant or terrified visages.
“A bone boat,” Sheeshon said.
Sy-wen’s scream died away, and the trembling terror passed. As the boat steadied, Kast collected himself. “Scrimshaw,” he agreed with the child. “Bone ivory.” He passed the boat back to the child.
But Sheeshon seemed disinterested in her carving. “Not that!” she said. She pointed down to the seas. “Over there.”
Kast glanced to where she pointed. Against the dark blue seas, the ship below was the white of something dredged from the bottom of the blackest sea. But it raced with a speed that had nothing to do with winds and currents. It was as if the oceans themselves rejected the sick craft and sought to expel it from the waters, sending it flying northward.
Frowning, Kast grabbed a spyglass from his hip and sought a better view. It took him half a moment to find it. Once he did, every hair on his arms and neck rose with a pebbling gooseflesh. He knew he was staring at the source of his terror from a moment ago. It was not winds that filled those sails, but fear and horror. The craft must have passed near enough for them to feel its wake.
He stared at the monstrous construction. Its prow was a skeleton, its bony arms outstretched to the skies in supplication or pain. Its sides were not planks of wood, but fused bones and skulls. Even its stitched sails seemed too leathery for cloth. Skin came to mind at the sight, accentuated by the dripping gore that seemed to flow along the rigging, like blood through a corpse’s veins.
“A bone boat,” Kast mumbled.
Sheeshon pointed. “Hunt’s down there! Let’s go see what he’s doing!”
Tyrus faced the Stone Magus in the dusty cellar. “Raal?”
The figure swung to face him fully. Stone eyes narrowed, and lips pulled into a wicked sneer of amusement. “Welcome to the heart of my kingdom.” He half bowed, mocking. “One lord of stone to another.”
“I don’t understand.”
The statue straightened, running a palm over his form as if smoothing rumpled clothing. “We share this prison of stone. Magus and king. Man and fae-nee.”
Shock slowed. “You’re one person!”
“Two spirits, one body.”
Tyrus’ thoughts turned to Fardale and Mogweed. The twins were similarly afflicted. “The magick . . .”
“It not only warped. It also wove. During the spell where the Magus’ spirit was sewn back into his stone corpse, I was woven into the mix like yeast into a bread’s flour.”
“Then why did you wait until now to reveal yourself?”
“It was not my choice.” A familiar bitterness soured his words. “The Magus only lets me out when he sinks so deep into his well of blackness that I can slide past him to the surface.”
“And can I speak to the Magus now? Can he hear me?”
“Not unless I allow it! I control the body.” Laughter flowed after this. “And I won’t allow it.” He covered his ears with his stone palms. “Let the sleeper sleep!”
Tyrus watched this display with a furrowed brow. The relationship, though similar to Mogweed and Fardale’s plight, was clearly different—and something struck him as wrong. This new speaker still sounded at the edges like the Magus. Was it just the limits in range of a stone throat, or was it something more sinister? And Raal had called him by name a moment ago, knowing him as prince and pirate. This spirit would not know that, unless it shared the Magus’ ears and mind.
Subtle mannerisms struck him: the way the eyes shifted to the left just before he spoke, the way one hand’s fingers would curl and uncurl while speaking. These characteristics of the Stone Magus persisted in Raal. Were the two truly different? Were they two spirits sharing one body, or had one spirit split into two minds?
“Come. It’s been forever and a day since I met any of my children. Let us see how they’ve fared in my absence.” Raal clumped his stone form back to the door. He paused only to grab up the torch from the wall.
Tyrus had no choice but to follow. Raal led the way to the spiraling stairway. He thrust his torch forward and called up the steps. “Children of the fae-nee, come to your king! Come greet our poor castle’s guest!”
From beyond the reach of the firelight, laughter answered this summons. A pebble rolled down the steps, then another.
“They come,” Raal whispered, his smile stretching. “My children . . .”
Tyrus heard an echo of the Magus’ pain behind the excitement, but his own attention focused on the stairway. The first of the fae-nee crept shyly into the firelight.
Tyrus gawked.
The first creature was no taller than two handspans, hairless and gray of skin. It walked on two legs like a man, but the joints bent backward, more like a bird. Its head was taken up by its two eyes, black and moist. The mouth underneath was a lipless slit.
Others clambered after this one: some spindly with heads too large for their bodies, others squat with toady faces, some walked upright, others on all fours. There was even one pair joined by a single arm. But no matter the shapes, they all bore the same large black eyes, full of dark mischief.
Raal knelt to greet his offspring. They came to him like rats swarming over a corpse, climbing his stone arms, perching on his shoulder or head. Laughter flowed from Raal, echoed by his children, piping sharply from hundreds of tiny throats.
Tyrus backed away, fearing their touch.
Raal straightened and stood in the sea of pale gray flesh. “Their father is home.”
Tyrus frowned as more fae-nee clambered into the bowels of this dark dwelling. “You made all of them?”
“With my own hands, my own magick.”
It must have been centuries of work. One of the fae-nee crept near to Tyrus. It moved as if it were boneless. It had only one eye and stretched its neck to sniff at him, curious but wary of this granite stranger. It slipped to his leg. Then moving faster than the eye could follow, it raced up his limb to his waist.
Tyrus winced as claws dug into his granite flesh. From its perch, it continued to sniff at his form, clearly confused. Tyrus grabbed it, pulling it free. It hissed and snapped at his fingers, biting deep into the granite of his thumb. Pain welled. It seemed his granite flesh was not impervious to the fae-nee. Birthed from the poisonous petrified wood, stone could harm stone.
He tossed the creature back among its brethren, where it was lost in the shuffle of flesh and limbs. Tyrus pressed his wounded thumb to his chest. A single drop of blood fell to the floor. Another fae-nee sniffed at the splatter, then lapped it up.
Blood feeders.
Tyrus backed another step. Of the hundreds here, no two were alike. The roil of flesh was like the ravings of a madman given form and substance.
Tyrus quailed at the enormity of the task before him. How could he convince the Magus or Raal to help him? Hope of a cure for the d’warf army faded—but he knew he could not give up without trying. Perhaps if he better understood the magick at work here . . . “Raal,” he called out.
The stone figure focused back to him.
“I would see how you make one of your fae-nee.”
Raal waved a hand dismissively, knocking loose one of his creations. It fell squalling among the others. He ignored it. “I have enough children to care for.”
“So how would one more be a burden? Or can’t you bring another into existence?”
Raal’s eyes narrowed. “You doubt me . . .” A vein of menace laced his words.
Tyrus held his breath, sensing the moment could go either way. The hundreds of pairs of eyes swung upon him like a murder of crows eyeing a worm. At a word from their king, he could be torn lim
b from limb, a feast of blood for this foul brotherhood. But something shone in Raal’s expression, hidden under the menace: loneliness and fear.
Understanding dawned. How long had it been since anyone had conversed with the Magus or Raal? The pack at his feet were clearly mindless, creations of madness given life. They were feeble company.
“Come above,” Raal finally said. “I’ll show you what I can do.” He stalked through the fae-nee at his feet. They ran from his legs and up the stairs ahead of him.
Tyrus followed, leery of the stragglers, those fae-nee that moved more slowly, shambling or crawling. His thumb still ached from the bite. As he climbed, he kept his sword between him and these last fae-nee. A small creature that looked like a six-legged spider scrabbled ahead of him. He sidestepped its clumsy progress and followed Raal with his torch.
They reached the top of the stairs and wound their way to a chamber with a large cold hearth. A broken window let in wan sunlight. Raal slipped his torch into a wall slot and waved Tyrus inside.
The fae-nee swarmed ahead at their master’s signal and climbed over chairs, tables, and benches. Pottery on a shelf fell with a loud crash, startling Tyrus. Other fae-nee ran through the hearth, leaving tiny footprints of ash.
Raal scowled but entered with Tyrus. “They’re excited to have visitors.”
“So I see.”
A wood rat was ferreted out by the horde. It ran across the stone floor, but it was set upon by the fae-nee. They tore it apart before it could cross half the room. Its squeal was brief as it disappeared under their many claws and teeth.
Raal crossed to a bench on the far wall. Metal tools were spread on the tabletop and hung on pegs on the walls. Tyrus, following, recognized woodworking chisels, awls, and knifes. Chunks of petrified wood in various stages of sculpting rested on the bench.
Raal reached to one of these. “I was working on this before the Magus last took command of the body.” He collected a chunk of stone chiseled into the likeness of a dog. A vague snarl marked its lips.
Grabbing a sharp-pointed awl, Raal set to work on the piece. He dug and scraped, changed tools, flipped his handiwork one way, then another. Tyrus let him work, fearful of disturbing his concentration.
Seen through the open window, the sun was setting into gloomy twilight, as one statue worked on another.
Tyrus used the time to plan a strategy. If Raal could indeed change stone to flesh, then he must convince him to break the spell on the d’warves. But what coin could he offer this madman?
He had no clear answer when Raal finished. “That will do,” he said. “It is hard to hear the voice in the wood after it’s stone.”
Tyrus remembered similar words from the Magus, how the wood spoke to him, telling him what it wanted to be. Tyrus stared at the wolflike carving. If the wood itself told him to sculpt this, then the tree must have been mad. The dog had horns on its head; its hind legs looked like a bird’s, ending in claws.
“You can breathe life into this?” he asked, suddenly unsure he wanted Raal to do so.
“Yes.” Raal studied his handiwork. “It only takes a bit of concentration.”
Tyrus stepped around for a better view. He saw that most of the other fae-nee also were fixed on the new statue.
“And a little blood,” Raal mumbled. He grabbed up one of the fae-nee nearby and stabbed it with the awl he had been using.
It screamed like a wounded bird, but Raal lifted it and spattered its blood over his new statue. Where each drop touched, stone melted into gray flesh. The transformation spread like thawing ice over the sculpture’s entire surface. In a short moment, the wolfish creature appeared flesh.
Raal tossed aside the wounded fae-nee. It scrambled away, licking at its wounded side. On the bench, the wolf stood unmoving, as still as any statue, only carved of gray flesh.
Leaning forward, Raal blew across the form, starting at the back end and working forward. Where his breath touched, the flesh seemed to ripple, coming alive. Legs bent, its tiny chest heaved, its neck craned. Then, as Raal straightened from his labors, wide black eyes opened to stare anew at the world.
“Welcome, little one. Welcome to this dark world.” Laughter followed, echoed by the other fae-nee.
Tyrus gaped as the creature tested its legs, throwing its head around, trying to skewer anything nearby with its tiny horns. It bounded off the table to join the others. Several gathered around the newcomer, sniffing and pawing at it.
Raal swung around. “That is how my children are born. Blood and breath.”
Tyrus remained speechless. Blood to melt stone to flesh . . . breath for life. Was that the answer? Could the blood of the fae-nee break the spell that held the others trapped in stone? And since the others already had life, would they even need Raal’s breath?
He stared at the mass of cavorting creatures. How much blood would it take?
There was only one way to find out.
He crossed to the bench. The wounded fae-nee had left a trail of blood atop the table. It was black but also seemed to glow a sickly green, like the stream that ran past the house. Tyrus leaned forward, placing his granite palm atop a tiny pool of the brackish blood.
With its touch, a shock trembled up his arm. His legs weakened, and a gasp flew out of his lips. He stumbled back, raising his hand before his face. His granite palm was now pale flesh. As he stared, the transformation raced up his arm with a warm tingling. The heat warmed the stone. Clothing and skin bloomed with color and life.
Raal stared at him in shock.
Tyrus gasped again as the spell dissolved from him, spreading over his torso and down his legs. He watched his other arm come to life, starting at the shoulder and sweeping down to his hand and up the length of his sword. In moments, bright steel reflected in the firelight.
He straightened and moved his limbs. He felt lighter, more spry.
“The Magus’ spell . . . you broke it!” A cry escaped Raal’s throat. It was pure madness, a mix of horror and delight, an impossible sound. Turning to the bench, he smeared some of the blood on his own stone flesh. He held his finger out toward Tyrus: the finger remained gray stone. “Why doesn’t it work for me?” he screamed, sounding distinctly like the Magus. “Why is this a key to your prison and not mine?”
Tyrus backed from this tirade.
The fae-nee, sensing the distress of their master, churned and grew more agitated. Wails piped from their throats, too, an echo of their creator. Several were staring his way. Their black eyes glowed with suspicion . . . and something more dire. Blood lust. Tyrus was no longer stone. They must smell his flesh. He remembered the fate of the wood rat. If they set upon him, how far would he get before being brought down?
The wolf creature stalked out of the pack, nose in the air, gray lips pulling back to reveal gray teeth.
“Why can’t I break free?” Raal wailed.
Tyrus knew he was doomed unless he could gain the support of the fae-nee king. “The magick that created you must have been more complex. As you said yourself, the energies of your creation were warped by the foul birth throes of Blackhall. The blood of the fae-nee must not be strong enough to break the spell.”
Raal screamed in despair. The fae-nee surged toward Tyrus, sensing the source of their master’s distress.
Tyrus held the sword before him. The wolf creature leaped, but he kicked it away. “There might be a way!” he cried. “A way to set you free!”
The wailing cut off with his words, and screams faded from the fae-nee. A heavy silence settled into the room. The horde held back.
The stone figure was a statue, bent under the weight of centuries of loneliness and madness. “How?”
Tyrus spoke slowly. “If there is a way, I need both Raal and the Magus listening. It took both of you to create your stone prison. It’ll take both to free you.”
The figure remained frozen for a breath, then nodded. “We’re listening.”
Tyrus gulped. He had no clear answer; he had sought only to d
elay the inevitable by dangling the possibility of hope. Now he had to think quickly. For the moment, sanity was needed: He could not risk Raal’s wild ravings, nor the Magus’ immovable depression. They were two extremes. He needed a middle ground between the cold stone of the Magus and the raging fire that was Raal.
As he thought this, connections clicked in his own head. He blinked in shock. Of course! A plan began to form.
He faced the figure before him with renewed determination. “The Magus can turn flesh to stone. Raal can breathe life into stone. Opposite magicks!”
Again a slow nod.
“What if you both cast your spell at the same time?”
His words crinkled the other’s brow. “Would one not simply negate the other?” This sounded like the Magus, leaden with hopelessness.
“Not if you cast it upon yourselves!”
“Impossible!” This fiery retort was clearly Raal again. “What good would that do?”
Tyrus pressed on. They were not two spirits in one body, but one mind divided, one magick divided. If he could bring those parts together—even for a moment . . . “What would it hurt to try?” he answered back.
Silence pressed. Then lips moved. “What do we do?” the Magus asked dourly.
“This is a fool’s errand,” came next from the same mouth, sharp and impatient. The fae-nee shifted nervously, chittering and scrapping amongst themselves, as divided as their master.
After a moment, Tyrus explained. “At the same moment, I want the Magus to cast a spell of stone upon yourself, while Raal wills the stone of your current form back to flesh.” He paused, then stressed the most important part. “It must be done at the same time . . . on my signal!”
The statue stared back, doubt and menace clear in the expression. “We will do it.”
Tyrus lifted his arm. Despite his own uncertain conviction, he tried to instill confidence with his words. “On my count from five, I will drop my hand and point. Both must act together.”