Blind now, she felt the dragon lurch beneath her. They tumbled through the air. Gasping, she curled over her wounded hand.
Then they struck the ground—hard.
Jarred by the impact, Sy-wen flew through the air until her shoulder struck something coarse yet yielding. She tumbled to a skidding stop. Her sight slowly returned to her. She pushed to her knees. Sand . . . black sand . . .
She lifted her head, but nausea swept through her. She lurched forward as her stomach clenched violently. Bile splattered from her mouth and nose. She stayed hunched for an impossibly long time as her entire body became a tightened fist. The flow of gore streamed out of her. She tasted blood on the back of her tongue, but still her body remained clamped. She teetered above a pit of blackness.
Then at last she was released. Like a bowstring pulled too far and snapped, she fell, gasping and choking, to the sand. It took her several breaths to get her vision back. First, it was like staring through the single lens of a spyglass. The world had shrunk to a narrow tunnel. All she saw was a dark strand of sand, the lap of water, scuttling crabs. Dragging up to an elbow, she blinked, and slowly the view widened.
She spotted Ragnar’k a short way down the beach, sprawled half in the shallows of the lagoon. “Ragnar’k!” she called in a hoarse wheeze.
He lay limp in the green waters, not moving, not breathing.
Dead, her heart rang out. She felt it in her gut and knew it to be true As if sensing her grief, the ground shook under her feet, an ominous rumble.
She forced herself to her knees. “Ragnar’k!” Her cry echoed over the empty stretch of beach and up the unforgiving slopes of Blackhall.
She was alone.
As the sun’s first glow brightened the morning, Tyrus stood with his men and the d’warf general atop a granite cliff head. Below them, the Stone Forest tumbled down to the sea as if seeking to drown itself in the gray-green waters. But stretching out from this coast in a single arched span was a volcanic causeway that connected island to forest. It was their goal, a road straight to the Northern Gate.
Through a spyglass, Tyrus searched the volcanic peak. It had been the silent giant in their midst since they entered the Stone Forest, glowing through the night with balefire and spouts of molten rock. Now they faced the jaws of the giant, open and waiting for them.
The Northern Gate was a monstrous cavern opening, a pocked wound in the side of the mountain, darker than the black stone that framed it. The arch of stone—the Black Road, as it was named—leaned out toward them like a foul tongue.
He lowered his spyglass, his brows pinched. Why were the road and gate unguarded? What trap awaited them?
Tyrus glanced back to the d’warf army, three thousand strong. Covered in ash from head to toe, the columns and lines of d’warves still appeared to be stone. But small movements belied this rocky appearance: the shift of a shield, fingers curling on a sword hilt, the glint of narrowed eyes.
A voice drew his attention forward. “There is no way to assault Blackhall by surprise,” Wennar said. “If they don’t know we’re here already, they will as soon as we hit the Black Road.”
Blyth ran a hand over his bald pate. “We’ll be exposed on that long road all the way to the island.”
“We have no choice,” Tyrus mumbled. “Xin has sent word—the fleet moves even now toward the southern piers. We must divide Blackhall’s attention. It is our only hope.”
Wennar grunted his agreement.
“Ready your forces,” Tyrus commanded. “We’ll do as we practiced.”
Wennar nodded, but Tyrus read the fear in his eyes. “I pray the gift you were granted will be enough,” the d’warf said.
It’ll have to be, Tyrus thought to himself. He studied the spread of d’warf soldiers. All knew their duties, knew the death they faced, knew that their lives would soon be in his hands. He stared down at his gloved fingers. He prayed they were strong enough to hold so much. How much simpler to be a pirate, where your men knew they’d die bloody and soon. Today so many lives, the lives of good men with families and futures, depended on him. Could he be the prince they needed?
Wennar sounded his horn, and the march began. Ash choked up from the shuffle of a thousand boots. The d’warf army split around the cliff head, like a river around a boulder, and descended the slopes toward the Black Road. With a wave, Wennar descended into the flow, joining his lieutenants, calling out last orders.
Hurl stepped to Tyrus’ side, staring out at the stream of armored d’warves. “The Magus would have been proud,” the Northerner mumbled.
“Just pray that granite is strong enough to resist what will be thrown at us this day.” Tyrus turned to the others. Fletch was already mounted on his small horse, a brown mare to match his bronzed skin. Two quivers of arrows were crossed on his back.
Blyth brought up two more horses. They were all mares, stocky but small. Hill horses, Hurl had named them, buying them from a wary-eyed farmer before entering the Stone Forest.
Tyrus climbed into his saddle, as did Blyth and Hurl. Only Sticks remained on his feet. The hill horses, though stocky, were too small to bear the giant’s form—if he sat astride them, his feet would drag the ground. Instead, he would keep up as best he could on foot.
Tyrus studied his fellow pirates atop the cliff. He weighed them with his eyes. They remained steady, survivors of many sea battles. “Into the teeth of darkness we now go,” he said to them stiffly. “I would think no one a coward to turn back now.”
They stared back at him. Finally, Blyth laughed. Hurl rolled his eyes and slapped Fletch’s knee. Fletch flashed a rare grin. Together they turned their horses toward Blackhall.
Sticks followed after them.
Blyth walked his horse beside Tyrus’. “Captain, we’re pirates. We’ve walked the dark path since we were suckling babes.” He waved toward Blackhall. “We wouldn’t miss the chance to join this fight for all the gold in Port Rawl.”
Tyrus found a grim smile rise to his own face. Perhaps he had been wrong earlier. Maybe this was a day for pirates, not princes.
And that was fine by him.
Together, the five of them trundled down the hill in the middle of the d’warf brigade. Already the forefront of the d’warf army had reached the edge of the Black Road. They stopped, awaiting the final command. The other d’warves closed ranks behind them.
Wennar appeared out of the throng. “At your word, Lord Tyrus.”
Standing in his stirrups, Tyrus stared down the length of the black span to the peak beyond. This close, it seemed the world itself ended at that wall of volcanic stone. Spouts of smoke snaked up from cracks and fissures, joining the monstrous plume from the cone, blackening the sky.
Tyrus took a steadying breath. “Let it begin.”
At his side, Wennar lifted a horn and sounded a sharp note.
With scarcely a pause, the d’warf army mounted the road. The archway was barely wide enough for more than two wagons to pass. Below, the waters were jagged with spears of rock and broken shoals. Death awaited a misstep along the thin span.
In rows of four, the d’warves marched forward, moving swiftly. Column after column followed. Off to the sides, a cadre of other d’warves, armed with spyglasses, watched the waters, the skies, and the peak beyond for any response to their approach. They held horns that curled to their armored shoulders, ready to sound the alarm.
Wennar stood at the edge of the road, nodding to his fellow soldiers, calling out good-natured gibes, patting an occasional d’warf on the shoulder. And still the columns flowed down from the Stone Forest. Not a single soldier broke the steady tread. Slaves for centuries, they were determined at long last to bring their pain and suffering to the door of their former master.
On they marched, four abreast, a flow of armor.
Tyrus shifted in his saddle, the hairs on his neck prickling. Time stretched as the sun, cloaked in slate-gray clouds, climbed the sky. Soldier after soldier streamed past, unwavering. The front of the a
rmy was near to halfway across the arch when a sharp, brittle note shattered the tread of the army.
A horn . . . then another horn . . . and another.
Tyrus swung around, sighing out the breath he had been holding all morning. From the peak, a pale mist rose from a thousand cubbies and windows and holes. He yanked out his spyglass and quickly focused on the threat.
Through the glass, he watched the rise of pale shapes, winged aloft. They were easy to pick out against the black stone: bony wings and clawed appendages. Even from this distance, their forms promised venom and death.
Tyrus lowered his glass and counted the pale army banking down to defend the Black Road: hundreds, if not thousands.
“Skal’tum,” Wennar said.
Tyrus knew that with the sun covered by heavy clouds, the creatures would be protected by their dark magicks, impervious to normal weapons. Still, he had anticipated such a scenario. The d’warf weapons had been tainted with skal’tum blood, collected after the War of the Isles. Such treatment would allow their blades to pierce the beasts’ dark protections.
One thing was not known, nor tested fully.
He glanced to the men around him. He got the nods he wanted.
Tyrus kicked forward, breaking into the column of d’warves. The army had frozen at the sound of the first horn. Across the volcanic span, the d’warves on the road had taken up their assigned positions.
Of the four in each row, the outer pair of d’warves faced the empty air, each shoulder to shoulder with his neighbor, spears thrust up and out, shields raised overhead and back, touching the raised shield of his partner on the far side. Under this archway of raised shields, the inner pairs of d’warves crouched, ready to act.
Tyrus slid off his horse, peeling back his gloves with his teeth. He spat them on the ground, then crossed to the nearest d’warf, who headed the column of shield men on the road’s right side. He saw the fear in the d’warf soldier, a young fellow, new to his armor.
Without flinching, Tyrus met his eyes, trying to instill faith, though the youngster trembled a notch, his raised spear jittering.
Tyrus lifted his right hand and brought it to the d’warf’s exposed wrist. From their past trials, skin-to-skin contact worked best, though it wasn’t necessary.
Wennar spoke at his shoulder. “The skal’tum come!”
Tyrus glanced skyward as the flock dove toward the Black Road and the waiting army. Shrieking cries echoed off the water, singing the promise of a bloody death.
With a steadying sigh, Tyrus gripped the young d’warf’s wrist. He closed his eyes and touched the granite inside him, unfettering the magick granted to him by the Magus. It was easy to cast, harder to keep in check, and almost impossible to call back.
Now he let it go.
The petrifying magick welled out and into the d’warf in his grip. He watched the man’s wrist go to dark granite, then rush over the rest of his body, turning flesh, armor, and weapons into stone. The magick did not stop there, but spread to his neighbor, who stood shoulder to shoulder, and continued down the line of d’warves, one after the other, turning the entire line to stone—a solid wall of granite. He fed more and more of his magick into the line, swelling it with petrifying energy.
With nowhere else to go, the magick leaped across the raised shields to flow down the other side, petrifying the column of d’warves posted on the left side, too.
“Hurry!” Wennar warned.
Tyrus fed a last bolt of energy, prayed it was enough, and broke contact. He fell back gasping, weak in the knees. Before him lay a long tunnel of granite, a passage composed of living statues. Within the tunnel, the remaining d’warves huddled.
“Here they come!” Wennar shouted.
Stumbling back, Tyrus watched as the skal’tum struck the road, screaming a dreadful cry. But they struck only stone. Many impaled themselves on the festoon of granite spears, crying out and writhing in agony. The more cautious were still blocked by the packed stone soldiers, unable to reach those shielded inside the passage. Claws raked and screams echoed, but the tunnel held.
From within, the huddled d’warves leaped up and jabbed spears at the skal’tum, poking between their stone brothers. Shrieks of blood lust turned to cries of surprise and pain. With careful aim, others shot arrows between the cracks in the shields, striking with cold efficiency, plucking skal’tum from the skies like a rabble of crows.
Sticks appeared with Tyrus’ horse. “We should hurry; the trick will not last long!” The giant offered a hand to Tyrus.
He almost reached to take his friend’s hand, then saw the black tint to his own fingers. “No!” he said hoarsely—he dared not be touched yet. The petrifying magick was still ripe in him. Clenching his lips, he concentrated and choked back the magick. Stone slowly—too slowly—turned to flesh. It took all his will and constant vigilance to keep the magick in check; it was as much a curse as a boon.
With the magick secured for the moment, he mounted.
Wennar lifted a horn, and a piercing blast burst through the morning, sounding the next stage of the assault. He glanced up to Tyrus and his men. “May the Mother protect you!”
“And you and yours,” Tyrus replied ritually.
With the alarm raised, the d’warves inside the passage abandoned their attacks on the skal’tum and raced forward toward Blackhall, running under the shields of their brothers. They moved with surprising speed.
Tyrus kicked his horse after them, leading his men down the living tunnel. “Keep your heads down and your arms close to you!” he commanded as they entered the stone passage. “I’ll be sending more petrifying magick into the tunnel, and you won’t know when, so don’t let your mares brush the shield wall.”
“And risk being a statue again?” Blyth said. “Not likely. There’s only one part of my body I want turned to hard stone, and that’s only when I’m back in one of Port Rawl’s brothels.”
The quip earned a guffaw from Sticks, who kept pace behind the horses, his head ducked from the arch of raised shields. Wennar led the remaining d’warf army into the passage after them.
Another horn sounded from far ahead. Tyrus sighed with relief. It was the signal he had been waiting for.
He reached a hand out and touched the wall on the right, casting a fresh jolt of energy into the granite. His senses raced with his magick down the line to the end of the tunnel. There, as the horn blast indicated, new guards had joined their brothers, taking up their posts, shoulder to shoulder. The new magick swept over them and petrified the newcomers, extending the reach of the tunnel a few spans closer to the dread mountain.
Tyrus also felt the sick touch of the unfortunate skal’tum who happened to be perched or touching the magick-wrought passage. They, too, were petrified into granite, caught in the spell. A few became a part of the tunnel, grotesque statuary. Others, wings now stone, fell to shatter on the rocky shoals below.
Tyrus broke contact, a tight smile on his lips. Time shrank to a shining moment of the present as he raced on, careful to keep his hands clear of his mount.
Cries reached him—both beast and d’warf. Claws scrabbled at him from cracks in the tunnel. But he pulled his sword and hacked at any that drew too near. His steel blade went to stone at some point, but he could not say when. Poisoned blood, green and noxious, steamed along its length.
And still they raced down the tunnel, chased by screams. His horse sweated under him, whinnying with fear. It sidestepped bodies, soldiers poisoned black by the venomous claws of monsters, and fled onward. There was no retreat.
Then distantly another horn sounded, and Tyrus reached out again with his magick. Black fingers brushed stone. Petrifying energy lanced out. Bit by bit, the living tunnel snaked down the Black Road’s span, its creep relentless.
Still, Tyrus was not so fooled by their success as to be emboldened. They fled straight toward the looming mountain of dread evils: Blackhall.
A part of him knew they faced their own doom, but he could not help
smiling, showing his teeth. He was a pirate after all.
Sy-wen stumbled across the sandy beach toward the prone form of her dragon. Tears flowed. “Ragnar’k!” she called futilely, knowing the dragon was gone—and with him, the man she loved. Her bare feet were cut by the glass-sharp rocks. She ignored the pain, barely felt the burn of salt in the wounds as she splashed through the shallows.
“Ragnar’k!” she cried again, her heart bursting.
Then a miracle—a single claw responded. Then his head lolled in the shallows as he tried to shift . . .
Her heart surged. Still alive!
Sy-wen stumbled to him, splashing into the deeper waters. The cold of the sea snapped her somewhat back to herself. She stopped with an arm raised toward the dragon as a horrible understanding dawned. She was not touching him . . . yet he remained a dragon!
She fought against a rising panic. Then she remembered when a similar strange circumstance had occurred before. Shortly before the War of the Isles, Ragnar’k had been struck by lightning in a fierce storm and horribly wounded. Until cured, he had remained in dragon form, even when she wasn’t touching him.
Surely the same was happening now.
Ragnar’k lifted his head, wobbly on its long neck. Dark eyes stared down at her.
Sy-wen . . . ?
The name filled her head, a familiar touch, but it was not Ragnar’k. “Kast!” She rushed to the dragon’s side. “What happened?”
As her palm touched the heated scales, the world blew out in a whirl of wing and smoke. In a matter of heartbeats, Kast stood before her in the shallows, her palm on his tattoo.
He stood naked, looking down on her, his face wide with surprise. “Sy-wen, what—?”
Startled, she pulled her hand down. As her fingers left his skin, the magick flared again. She fell into the waters, buffeted back by magick as the dragon reappeared, crouched before her, chest heaving, wings wide in shock.