“Tikal?”
“Yes. Over the course of three winters, we were brought north to your lands, stopping at coastal towns and ports to display my talent.”
“But how did you escape?” The slavers were notorious for holding tight to their merchandise.
A fierceness entered Mama Freda’s voice. She faced Mycelle again. “Some tales are best forgotten, locked forever in one’s own heart.”
Mycelle respected the woman’s words. There were parts of her own life she did not wish ever spoken aloud. “So you ended up in Port Rawl. But why my companions? Why did you take them in?”
“As I said, generosity does not come without a price in Port Rawl.”
“What do you want? I have silver, even a gold coin.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“When your companion is hale enough to travel, I ask that you take me with you when you leave.”
Mycelle stiffened. This was a price higher than she was willing to pay. “Why? Why do you wish to come with us?”
“I wish to meet this wit’ch of yours. This young girl Elena.”
Mycelle backed a step. She stared at her companions, searching for the traitor, for the one who spoke their secrets so freely.
Tol’chuk straightened from where he crouched, like a boulder shifting. “We said not a word,” he grumbled.
Mogweed just sat in his chair, his eyes wide with shock. Only a small squeak of denial passed his lips as Mycelle turned in his direction.
Mama Freda scolded Mycelle. “Leave the others be. None spoke out of turn or betrayed the trust given them.”
“Then how do you know our business?”
The old healer scratched her pet’s mane. The small tamrink burrowed closer, making soft cooing sounds of contentment. “I left Tikal in the shop yesterday when I prepared the medicinal tea for your burned friend. I know my way around my storeroom and kitchen without the need of his eyes. While I was gone, the others spoke in private about you, about Elena, and about the book you seek, the Blood Diary.”
“Still, how did you—?”
“Tikal and I are not only bonded by sight.” She wiggled one of Tikal’s ears. “What one tamrink hears, they all hear.”
IN A BACK alley of Port Rawl, the creature slaked its blood lust upon the dying heart of its young prey, a girl-child just new to her first bleed. Once finished, the beast raised its black muzzle from her ravaged chest and howled to the rising moon. Its call of hunger echoed down the rows of seedy bars and brothels. Slipping into the dark shadows, the creature crept on all fours, claws digging into the filth of the alley. It wished to hunt all night—but it knew its master’s will.
None must grow suspicious . . .
The beast whimpered slightly at the thought of its master’s touch. Somewhere deep in its hungry mind, it remembered the burn of black flames and the boil of blood. It would obey. The monstrous creature scented the street beyond the alley: empty. Only the foolhardy or the drunk braved the roads of Port Rawl after the sun had set. Doors were barred and windows boarded up. The massive creature bounded across the muddy road. Though the moon was just beginning to rise, the hunt was over for this night. To delay any longer would risk awakening suspicion in those the beast hid from.
It sped across the street, catching a glimpse of itself in the moon’s reflection in a barroom window. Slathering jaws, rows of shredding teeth, bunched and corded muscles, naked skin the color of a deep bruise. Flaps to either side of its nose spread wide to drink in the sea wind. So much blood, so many beating hearts.
It dashed into the alley and followed the narrow passage to its darkest corner. The tight space reeked of urine and excrement. Finding the pile of discarded clothes, it burrowed through them to find the object hidden underneath. Using teeth, it dragged its treasure forth. It studied the object, first with one cold black eye, then the other. A shudder passed over its flesh. It resisted returning to its hiding place, wanting only to run and feast on flesh and bone. It howled once again into the night.
From out in the street, someone yelled, “Shut your damn dog up, or I’ll come down there and slice its stinking throat.”
Skin prickling with hunger, the beast took a step back toward the road, but the memory of black flames stayed its paws. It could not refuse its master’s will. The monstrous beast returned to the clothes and the long object it had dragged forth. Bending over, it ripped the cured hide off the iron of the weapon. Once exposed, the hunt ended for this night.
The beast felt the burn of flowing flesh and the warp of bone. It collapsed in the trash of the alley and writhed, its jaws stretching wide in a silent scream as its muzzle sank back to flesh and fangs receded into gums. Paws spread into fingers as claws pulled back to yellowed nails. In only a few gasping breaths, the transformation was complete.
Naked, Kral crawled up from the mud and debris. He rubbed his chin where his black beard still continued to fill in cheek and neck, then stood. His heart still throbbed with the blood of the young slain girl. He grinned in the dark alley and stepped toward his discarded clothes. His huge white teeth were aglow in the moonlight. It had been a good hunt.
Still, the moon continued to climb the night sky, and he had to hurry lest the others grow suspicious. He bent and retrieved his discarded ax. The scraps that had bound the ax head fell away: bits of purplish hide from a slain sniffer. Kral collected them up. He had found the cured skin at a fur trader’s booth in the Four Corners bazaar and had been anxious to sample its power. He had not been disappointed. The night spent hunting as a sniffer of the Great Western Reaches had stirred Kral’s blood like no other hunt. Even now his heart beat faster, and his manhood stirred with the memory. Before this night, he had used the hides and skins of dogs and wolves to incite his transformation. And though those previous hunts were exciting, none compared to this evening. The scents had been so much clearer, his muscles so much stronger, his teeth so much sharper. Kral folded the scraps of hide carefully, saving them for another hunt.
He licked the trace of blood from his lips. Kral had also spotted the silver fur of a snow panther among the wares of the trader in Four Corners bazaar. Kral’s fist clenched at the thought of wrapping his ax with that rich fur and hunting the night as a monstrous cat. His manhood throbbed with the thought. His master had been generous the night he burned away Kral’s craven spirit and forged him into one of his ill’guard soldiers. On the night of his new birth, the Gul’gothal lord had named him Legion, granting him a generous gift of black magick. Whatever skin or fur he cloaked around the black heart of his ax, Kral could assume that beast’s form and abilities. He was not one creature, but a legion!
With his blood still surging, Kral gathered his clothes and dressed.
As he hitched his ax, he ran his fingers over the newly smelted iron. His original weapon had been destroyed, shattered upon the stone skin of the Dark Lord’s demon in Shadowbrook. That night, in the cellar, he had collected the shards of iron from the mud floor, and at a riverside smithy, he had forged his ax anew. Yet there was more than just iron in his new ax. From the mud of the cellar, Kral had also retrieved a chunk of ebon’stone. Blood from his severed finger had anointed the stone that night. Even now, his four-fingered hand caressed his ax with the memory of the stone’s oily touch. Guided by the Dark Lord’s instructions, he had melted the sliver of ebon’stone into his ax, forging a new black heart for his weapon. The original iron of his ax, still tainted with the blood of a slain skal’tum, would mask Kral’s secret from the prying eyes of any seekers, including Mycelle.
Unknowing, the swordswoman would guide him to his final prey.
Now fully dressed and armed, Kral began the long walk across the city. Disguised as a friend, he was a trap set to kill a wit’ch. His heart thundered in his ears with the thought of burying his teeth in Elena’s tender heart. She would never suspect until his claws were at her soft throat.
Be it dog, bear, sniffer, or panther—Legion would have its prey.
br /> 4
ELENA SCRAMBLED FOR the door to her cabin. Through the tiny porthole above her bed, she stared back at the pair of glowing red eyes. Even through the distortion of the crude glass, hatred and hunger seemed to flow from those slitted orbs.
Just a moment ago, she had awakened from a weak slumber to find those fiery orbs studying her. Like an itch on the skin, the gaze had drawn her from sleep. For half a breath, she had stared transfixed, frozen, until sharp claws dug at the glass. The keening scrape had ignited Elena’s heart. She had rolled out of bed, a scream bursting from her chest.
Her fingers fought the door’s lock. For a moment, she believed Er’ril had locked her inside. Then as quick as that thought came, the latch gave way, and the oaken door fell open. Elena tumbled into the passage as the scraping became fiercer, frantic. It knew its prey was escaping. Suddenly the scratching stopped. Elena glanced back into the cabin. Her eyes met those of the beast; then a sharp hissing, sibilant and furious, arose from beyond the porthole.
Elena paused in midstep. She knew that sound. She had heard it long ago and could never mistake it. It was like the hissing of a thousand serpents. Again their gazes locked, this time in shared recognition. Elena named the beast clinging to the hull of the Seaswift, her lips cold. “Goblin.”
The single whispered word broke the spell. The eyes of the beast vanished in a blink, as if it were but a fragment of a nightmare dissolving back into the land of dreams. But the echo of its hiss still filled Elena’s ears. This was no nightmare.
She ran down the short corridor, the rolling of the boat forcing her to keep one hand bumping along the wall. She reached the triple-barred hatch to the middeck and grabbed at the latch, but the door suddenly sprang open on its own. A hulking creature blocked the portal, filling the doorway.
“Elena?”
It was just Er’ril. With a gasp, she flew into the plainsman’s embrace, hugging him tight. “At my window . . . outside . . .” She fought to control her breathing and panic. “I awoke . . . and . . . and . . .”
Er’ril pulled her away from his chest, holding her shoulder gripped in one hand. “Slow down, Elena. What happened? Are you hurt?”
Elena finally noticed Joach, and the two Brothers, Flint and Moris, nearby. All were armed: Joach with his long staff and the two Brothers with short swords. The show of strength slowed her tongue and heart.
“Goblins,” she said. “I saw a goblin outside my cabin, through the porthole, staring in at me.”
“Goblins?” Er’ril relaxed his grip on her. “Elena, there’s no goblins near here.”
The two Brothers lowered their swords, glancing at each other. “Drak’il?” Moris mumbled.
“Maybe deep in the Archipelago,” Flint answered, “but not near here.”
Er’ril glanced over his shoulder, studying the empty deck and seas. “Maybe it was just the motion, the play of moonlight on the water playing tricks on you. The sound of the hull rubbing on the dock can echo strangely through a ship’s belly.”
Elena pulled free from the plainsman’s grip. “It wasn’t that!”
Moris crossed to the starboard rail and leaned over to check the side of the boat.
“It was no figment,” she continued, but did not know how to explain the strange sense of recognition shared between her and the beast. “It seeks revenge for my slaughter of all those rock’goblins in the caves below Uncle Bol’s cottage. It knew me!”
As if to confirm her words, a soft hissing suddenly arose from all around the boat. Everyone froze. It was like the seas themselves were steaming.
“On the dock!” Moris shouted. His sword was out once again. He ran to the head of the gangplank and began savagely working a winch to haul the planking away from the jetty.
Er’ril gathered Elena to him and crossed to the rail. Small dark bodies clambered from the sea onto the stone quay, tails lashing like angry snakes about their clawed legs. Though larger than ordinary rock’goblins, there was no mistaking their forms: huge eyes, clawed toes, gray skin.
“The shore,” Flint mumbled and pointed.
There, too, the dark creatures gathered, as if the rocks of the shoreline had come to life. Hunched forms scrabbled in the surf. Some climbed to join their brethren on the dock; others slipped into the surf to vanish under the black waves.
“What are they?” Er’ril asked.
“Drak’il,” Flint said. “Sea kin of the goblins.”
On the far side of the boat, a crash drew their eyes. Swinging around, Elena saw a huge sea goblin land on the deck. Crouched on all fours, it hissed and bared its needled teeth at them. A long tail waved in front of it threateningly. In the moonlight, a black barb as long as an outspread hand tipped its whipping tail.
Er’ril pushed Elena toward Joach. “Get her belowdecks!” Er’ril drew his silver sword and swept toward the creature.
“Beware its spiked tail,” Flint warned. “It’s poisoned!”
Joach drew Elena toward the raised foredeck, one hand on her elbow, the other on his staff. As she watched, more goblins spilled over the rails to assault the middeck. Most were smaller than the one Er’ril attacked. They seemed to lack the poisoned barbs but were heavily muscled and armed with claws and teeth.
Er’ril knocked aside the spike of his attacker and fought the beast back toward the rail.
“Release the bow- and sternlines!” Flint called to Moris, slashing with his sword. “The cove is a death trap if we stay.”
The huge black man flew toward the rear of the ship, cutting smaller goblins from his path. Flint worked to the main mast and snatched a hand ax. Keeping the goblins at bay with his sword, he attacked the ropes snugly tied to iron stanchions. As each rope was cut, its ends snapped away. Counterweights crashed to the deck as the main sails unfurled with loud pops of sailcloth and the wind grabbed hold of them.
Er’ril dispatched his adversary with a sudden savage jab. He twisted the sword and danced back as the beast gave one final lunge with its tail before falling dead to the planks. But before he could even turn away, two more of the larger drak’il clambered over the rail.
One hissed and garbled something to a group of smaller goblins that were making toward Flint. They turned to harry Er’ril from the rear as the two threatened the plainsman from the front.
“C’mon, El!” Joach urged. Elena and her brother had reached the door to the ship’s lower decks. He had let go of her elbow to shoulder the door open and now held it wide. “We need to barricade inside.”
“No.” She already had her gloves off. Her ruby hands glowed in the moonlight. “If the others fail here, we’ll be trapped.”
Suddenly the boat lurched under her feet, and she fell back into Joach. He also lost his footing, and with a yell, the pair tumbled in a tangle of limbs into the open passageway. Joach regained his footing first and reached to slam the door to the middeck.
Before the door closed, Elena heard Flint call out. “We’re adrift! I have to reach the wheel, or we’ll hit the reefs!”
Elena fought to her feet. “Don’t, Joach! They need help!”
He ignored her plea and slammed the door. Throwing the latches, he turned to her. “No, you know nothing about ships.”
Elena touched the wild magicks in her blood and raised her palms. Her hands burst with wit’chlight, bathing the passage in a ruby glow. “But I am not useless.”
Joach raised his staff against her. “I’ll not let you leave. It’s too dangerous.”
With wild magick singing in her blood, she reached for Joach’s staff, meaning to thrust it aside. Where her fingers brushed wood, her flesh burned as if she touched molten rock, and in a blinding flash, her fists flew back with such force that her knuckles crashed to either oaken wall. Gasping, she stepped away.
“Elena?”
She rubbed her fingers, making sure they had not been charred away by the flash and burn. They were still there—but not unharmed. Where her fingers had touched the wood, the ruby stain had been scou
red from her hands. Patches of white skin marred the deep ruby surface. As she watched, the stain flowed to fill in these gaps, but the overall richness of the scarlet dimmed as the white skin was vanquished.
Elena raised her eyes.
Joach was staring at his staff with wonder.
It was as if his staff had absorbed a part of her magick.
Over her shoulder, Elena heard a faint scrape of claw on wood. Hissing arose from directly behind her.
“Elena! Look out!”
Before she could even turn, Elena felt the jab of a flaming dagger bury itself deep into her back.
AS MYCELLE ASSISTED Mama Freda with Meric’s bandages, heavy footfalls sounded on the stair outside their room. Without a word, Mycelle unsheathed one of her swords and crossed to the door.
“Calm yourself, lass,” Mama Freda said. “It’s just your missing companion. The man from the mountains.”
Mycelle ignored the old healer’s words. Pulling a sword too soon never harmed the wary . . .
A loud rapping announced the visitor at the door.
As if in answer, the elv’in moaned behind Mycelle, thrashing weakly at his thin sheets. Mycelle leaned closer to the door. She probed beyond with her senses, but the planks coated with banesroot oil blocked her senses. “Who is it?” she hissed at the door.
After a short pause, a gruff but familiar voice answered. “Is that you, Mycelle?” There was no mistaking that grumbled voice; his throaty highland accent flavored the few spoken words.