Elena remained quiet. She was safe as long as she remained silent and hidden. She would heed Joach’s warning and be wary—for now.
As she watched, Er’ril collected the book and pushed to his feet. While doing so, his toe nudged her abandoned wit’ch’s dagger. He glanced down and spotted it. Retrieving the knife, he turned it over in his hands. Of course he recognized it. Er’ril glanced up and down the corridor as if seeking some answer. “Flint, you fool, you brought her here.”
Er’ril held up the dagger, then shoved the blade into his belt. “Elena,” he said roughly, his eyes bright, “if you’re here, I’ll find you.”
Elena pulled back from the fire in Er’ril’s gaze. She had never seen such heat in the plainsman before. In the past, he had always been warm, thoughtful, and supportive. But what Elena saw now went much deeper, a flame that arose from a depth that unnerved her. Like his new arm, Elena had never seen this side of Er’ril.
Where had it come from? Was it natural or unnatural? Was this new intensity directed at saving her or killing her?
As Elena weighed his words, Er’ril collected the ill’guard’s lantern. With a final glance at Flint, he started a fast pace toward the distant surface.
Elena leaned her head against the cool stone of the catacomb. Then she let out a long breath and began dogging the trail of this mysterious two-armed stranger. She would not give up the hope that Er’ril’s spirit was still pure. She could not! Especially since he carried the salvation of A’loa Glen—the Blood Diary.
24
PINORR PACED THE length of the keelchief’s cabin. As the ship’s shaman, this was his post during a battle: to pray to the seven gods of the sea and be ready with advice for the keelchief. But for Pinorr, this was an imprisonment, a torture beyond a man’s ability to survive.
Above his head, the sounds of battle raged on the decks of the Dragonspur. Men fought and died while he cowered below. He had been informed of the magickal twilight and of the flight of the skal’tum. Even now he could hear the bone drums of the beasts and their cackling howls as men fought demons.
Pinorr clenched his fists. During past battles, he had never felt this way. He had accepted his position as shaman. But after the night of bloodshed during the storm, Pinorr knew his role was a mockery to the gods. He need only look down to be reminded of his crime. All the lye soap and scrubbing had failed to totally cleanse Ulster’s blood from the cabin’s planks. A brown stain marked the wood for all to see.
Pinorr covered his ears with his fists. Bad enough that he must stew while men died, but why must he wait here? He should be with Mader Geel and Sheeshon in his own cabins. For the thousandth time, Pinorr’s eyes were drawn to the wide stain under his feet. He deserved whatever punishment the gods thought to inflict. He had taken a steel blade in hand, and he had taken a life. In the eyes of the seven sea gods, Pinorr was cursed forever.
Raising his eyes to the rafters of the cabin, Pinorr prayed with his arms lifted. “Do not punish this ship! My hands alone have bloodied your gifts. Punish me, not those aboard this ship. Spare them of your curse! I will accept any punishment, any torture, to cleanse the Dragonspur!”
A sudden pounding on the cabin door startled Pinorr. Dropping his arms, he hurried to the barred door and lifted the latch; the door swung open before Pinorr could even step back. He had expected to see Hunt, the ship’s keelchief, but instead he found Mader Geel rushing inside.
The old warrior woman’s words were frantic. “I turned my back on her for a breath! I swear!”
Pinorr clutched Mader Geel’s shoulders in both his hands. Her eyes were wild. “What is it?” Pinorr asked, dread clutching his heart.
“Little Sheeshon! I went to peek at the battle through the porthole and when I turned back, the cabin door was open and Sheeshon was gone!”
Pinorr released the woman. His legs grew numb under him. He glanced back to the rafters, trying to see the laughing gods above. No, this price was too high!
“Shaman?” Mader Geel asked, clearly sensing his inner turmoil.
Pinorr lowered his gaze but lifted his hands and began braiding the locks of his white hair. His fingers remembered the old pattern of a warrior’s tail. “I am shaman no longer,” he said coldly.
“What are you saying? What are you doing?” Mader Geel’s eyes went wide with fright.
She reached for him, but Pinorr knocked her hand away. “Curse the seven gods,” he spat. “I am done playing their whipping boy. If they mean to wreak punishment, it will be on my head, not Sheeshon’s.”
“Are you mad?” Mader Geel backed away.
Pinorr finished the last twist of his warrior’s braid, then crossed to the wall where Hunt had hung an assortment of swords. He reached for the one that best suited his old skill, a long blade with a curve to its length.
“No!” Mader Geel cried. “Don’t touch it!”
But her call was too late. Pinorr grabbed the sword’s hilt and swung it from the wall’s hook. Blade raised, he turned to face Mader Geel.
Mader Geel fell to her knees. “You damn us all!”
“That, I’ve already done. Now I must end it!” Pinorr swung around and stalked from the room. In the open hall, the sounds of battle worsened. Shouted orders echoed down from above, swirled with screams and wild laughter. Boots thundered overhead. Claws scraped wood. Pinorr hurried, half running down the passage. He met no others. All hands were on deck.
At last, he shoved through the hatch and into horror. Even fueled by his rage at the gods, Pinorr’s feet stumbled to a stop. Blood and dead bodies washed the deck. The sails overhead were a shredded ruin stained with blood and gore. Torn corpses swayed in the rigging. It was all tainted by the eerie netherlight that had been described to him. Pinorr glanced to the west and saw the pall of inky darkness that masked the setting sun.
He shook his head at the ruin of the world. Everywhere he looked, men and women fought the winged demons. But without the sun, the beasts were invulnerable. The best the crew could manage was to hold the foul creatures off and use nets to tangle and shove them overboard into the seas.
Near the stern, a red seadragon roosted, claws dug deep into rail and decking. A small mer’ai woman, her eyes wide with fear, sat mounted on her beast and called orders to the Bloodriders around her. She urged the men to drive the skal’tum toward her, where her dragon would snatch at wings and throw the dark spawn overboard. But even from here, Pinorr could see the dragon bore countless scratches and deeper gouges from the monsters’ fangs and claws. A greenish steam rose from these wounds, where poison met dragon’s blood. The great dragon would not last much longer, and Pinorr suspected that the fear in the mer’ai’s eyes was for her dragon, not herself.
Suddenly, Hunt’s deep voice boomed over the chaos. “Ragnar’k comes again! Be ready, men!”
All across the deck, the crew raised fists in the air, acknowledging their chief’s order.
Pinorr pushed farther out so he could see atop the raised foredeck. Near the ship’s prow, Hunt stood with five other Bloodriders, holding off a trio of skal’tum. Hunt, his face bloodied, a fire in his eyes, refused to give up the ship. The high keel’s son was a true keelchief. For just the briefest flash, Pinorr was glad he had slain Ulster. If Ulster had still been keelchief, Pinorr suspected the ship would have been sunk by now.
Pinorr saw how Hunt’s shouted orders seemed to revitalize the crew’s spirit and strength of arm. All around the boat, men and women fought fiercely.
Past the keelchief’s shoulder, Pinorr spotted the black wings of Ragnar’k. The great dragon swung toward their foundering ship, diving fast and low—too fast to land. What were Sy-wen and Kast doing?
Then almost faster than Pinorr could follow, Ragnar’k sped over their masts. His roar surged across the ship. Pinorr found himself ducking against the noise. It seemed to press at him. As he straightened, he watched as all around the boat, the crew hacked into the skal’tum. For the brief moment that Ragnar’k had roared, the dragon
’s voice had washed away the dark protections of the beasts. Axes and swords cleaved into flesh that a moment ago was impervious to blades. The screams from the score of wounded monsters followed the flight of the dragon across the twilight sky.
Pinorr watched Ragnar’k turn on a wing and dive toward a neighboring ship, spreading his deadly roar.
A small voice snapped his head around. “I have need of you!” Atop the raised foredeck, Pinorr saw his granddaughter crawl from around an overturned barrel and push to her feet. She walked toward where Hunt and the others still battled the skal’tum trio.
The monsters were wounded now after the passage of Ragnar’k, but they were far from dead. With the fading of the dragon’s roar, their dark protections had again returned. But it seemed the blades that had been bloodied during the last passage of the dragon could now pierce the dark protections. It was slow going, though; for every skal’tum slain, two others appeared.
Atop the foredeck, one of the beasts heard Sheeshon’s voice and swung its fanged face around.
Pinorr scrambled up the ladder after his granddaughter, but Hunt also spotted the girl and fought his opponent more vigorously. Neither man would make it in time. Sheeshon still continued toward the grip of the nearest beast. “I have need of you,” she called again to Hunt.
“Sheeshon! Get back!” Hunt called to her. Pinorr saw the pain in the keelchief’s eyes, but he was pinned down by his own monster.
One of the men at his side tried to break free and come to the child’s aid, but he was cut down by one poisoned swipe of a skal’tum’s claw. The man writhed for several breaths, then lay still.
By now, Pinorr had scrambled atop the deck. Sheeshon was only a step away from the beast. He would never reach her in time.
Pinorr met Hunt’s gaze. The keelchief had spotted the shaman, and his eyes flew wide at the sight of a sword in his hand. But instead of words of warning like Mader Geel, Hunt yelled encouragement. “Get Sheeshon back! Kill anything in your way!”
Having the keelchief’s support instead of admonishment fueled Pinorr’s heart, as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest. He leaped with a lunge of his sword. Old buried instincts again raged forth. His sword struck the outstretched claw of the skal’tum. It did no damage, bouncing off its protected skin, but it knocked the limb away from Sheeshon. Pinorr continued his roll across the deck, striking his granddaughter with his shoulder. Sheeshon gasped and bounced to the side.
Pinorr jumped to his feet, standing now between the beast and Sheeshon. He raised his sword against the monster’s leer.
“You think to sssteal my treat, little man,” it hissed.
“You will never touch her, demonspawn!”
The skal’tum struck, lightning-quick. Pinorr danced back, barely in time, using a twist of his sword to parry a swipe of claws. But already the beast lunged with its other limb at the shaman’s chest.
Pinorr was forced back. He now stood over his fallen granddaughter. Sheeshon sobbed at his feet. The beast struck again. Pinorr spun a flurry of steel before him. Claws bounced back.
The skal’tum cocked its head and studied Pinorr for a moment. “So the white-haired elder thinksss he hass fangs, does he?”
Winded now, his heart’s fire was unable to maintain its ferocity for long. Pinorr’s arm trembled.
Sensing the weakening of its prey, the skal’tum lunged once more. All claws and fangs, it leaped at him. Pinorr tried his best to fend the beast off with flashes of blade, but he tired rapidly.
A claw slipped past his defenses and ripped the robe across his chest. Then another’s sword was beside his own. Pinorr did not have time even to glance at his savior, but he sensed it was Hunt. Back-to-back over the girl, the two men fought. It seemed an endless dance.
Then Hunt’s voice boomed out again. “Ragnar’k comes! Be ready!” In a lower voice, the keelchief added. “Fight brave, old man. Just for a moment more.”
Pinorr tried his best to honor the keelchief’s order. But relief at hearing of the dragon’s return actually doused his heart’s fire. He slowed.
Then the roar was upon them. “Duck!” Hunt hollered in his ear. Pinorr dropped, his legs giving out anyway. He watched Hunt swing his sword with both arms. The head of the monster cleaved from its shoulder. It arced across the deck and rolled into the sea. The malignant body fell away like an axed tree.
With Pinorr down, Sheeshon crawled into the old man’s lap. Pinorr dropped his sword to wrap the child in his embrace. “Papa.” Sheeshon leaned her head to his chest. “Papa, I love you.”
With his beast slain and a momentary lull in the battle, Hunt knelt beside them both. Pinorr met his gaze and straightened. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, nodding toward the sword.
Hunt shrugged. “It’s not as if it was the first time you picked up a sword.”
Pinorr blinked at these strange words.
Hunt’s face was bloodied, but the fire of chiefdom still shone brightly through. “You did the fleet a service by ridding the Dragonspur of Ulster.”
A gasp escaped Pinorr. “You knew?”
“Do you think me a complete dullard, old man? There were clues enough for those who cared to look. But most would rather not see.”
Pinorr’s voice cracked. “But I cursed the boat. I broke my oaths.”
Hunt leaned a bit higher to keep an eye on the flow of battle. “In these dire times, every warrior is needed, shaman or not.” He placed a hand on Pinorr’s chest. “I don’t believe in the curses of gods, only in the strength of a man’s heart. That is where the hope of the fleet lies. The world changes today. Whether it ends good or bad, nothing will be the same.”
Pinorr covered Hunt’s hand with his own. “Thank you.”
Hunt nodded and pulled his hand away. He glanced in shock at the blood that now covered his palm. “Pinorr?” Hunt showed his stained palm.
Pinorr glanced to Sheeshon in his lap. A bright bloom of blood oozed through his robe over his heart. “Take care of her, Hunt. If the ship survives, the next days will be hard for her.”
Hunt knelt lower, touching Pinorr’s shoulder. “I know. We already share a bond. I think she came up from below because she sensed my own danger. We will watch over each other.”
Pinorr hugged his granddaughter one last time, squeezing a lifetime of love into this one embrace. Then he placed Sheeshon’s small hand into Hunt’s. He glanced up to the young keelchief. He saw the strength, courage, and heart in the man. “I made the right choice.”
Hunt nodded, his voice formal. “You have served the fleet well, Shaman Pinorr. Go in peace.”
With tears flowing down his cheeks, Pinorr reached to touch Sheeshon one last time as battle raged all around. “I love you,” he whispered as the poisons of the skal’tum finally reached his heart.
SY-WEN LEANED OVER Ragnar’k’s neck to view the spread of boats under them. Like steam rising from boiling water, screams and the clash of steel rose above the seas. All around the island, boats foundered and spats of skal’tum forces wreaked havoc wherever they flew. Sy-wen searched the island itself for any sign of the signal fire, some sign that the Blood Diary had been discovered. If the others were successful, she and Ragnar’k could wing to their rescue, scoop them off the island, and the battle below could end.
Tears flowed down her cheeks, but the winds quickly dried them. Her fingers were numb as they clutched a fold of scale. It seemed as if the war below had been raging for several days, not just an eternal afternoon. With the onset of the skal’tum attack, the tide of battle had turned. Fiery plans of taking the island had long gone to ash. Now the mer’ai and Dre’rendi fought just to survive. Each ship below was its own island under assault. Though the mer’ai struggled to help, with the strange twilight the skal’tum were almost impossible to vanquish. It was now a war to stay alive.
Sy-wen and Ragnar’k gave what little aid they could: diving toward ships when most needed and roaring away the dark protections of the beasts. But their main duty was
still to watch the towers of A’loa Glen, awaiting the signal from the wit’ch. Until that time, the two protected the fleet.
“Over there!” Sy-wen yelled hoarsely. In her mind’s eye, she sent an image of the ship she meant.
Ragnar’k sent his acknowledgment, and the dragon turned on a wing and began a long banking dive toward a ship whose sails were ripped to rags and whose rigging was festooned with skal’tum. Sy-wen leaned against the wind. The heat from the dragon kept her warm, but still she shivered. As Ragnar’k swooped, roaring over the masts, Sy-wen closed her eyes. She no longer wished to see the carnage atop the decks of the ships; it wore at her heart. At least from the height of the clouds, such details were muted.
As Ragnar’k finished his run, Sy-wen felt an ache in her throat. The dragon’s roar grew hoarse. This mode of attack would soon fail.
From somewhere deep down, words whispered up. As long as we breathe, there is always hope. Sy-wen opened her eyes and sat up straighter. It was Kast. She had not heard from him since they had initiated the transformation aboard the Dragonsheart.
“Oh, Kast, the deaths . . . the screams . . . the blood . . .” Sy-wen sobbed.
Hush. Ragnar’k was right in allowing me forward. Do not lose heart.
“But, Kast, our people are being slaughtered.”
I see the deaths, my love. Sy-wen felt a warmth suddenly fill her that had nothing to do with the dragon’s heated body. It was as if Kast’s arms had wrapped around her. He meant to comfort her, even as he spoke words that quailed her heart. What occurs now is a price that must be paid. Both our people avoided this payment for too long. The mer’ai fled to the Deep. My people turned south and never looked back. If we are to find our own true spirits again, it will take such a cleansing flame. We’ve emerged after centuries of hiding. We’ve declared our loyalty to Alasea’s future, and a line must be drawn here—even if it is in blood.