Xin turned to Meric, gaze narrowed with concern. “We must fly faster.”
Meric trusted the zo’ol shaman. “I will try.”
Turning back to the rail, Meric sent out a whisper of magick—not to the ship, but to the skies around them. He strove to draw the winds to his sails. But with his attention split between the ship and the skies, it was a strain on even his significant skills. He felt the crackles of blue energies dancing on his skin—or was that the ship’s hull? He became lost somewhere between.
He gathered the energy trapped in the clouds and stray winds around him, tying them into a tighter weaving. He pulled and drew upon this energy, creating a conduit for power.
Come to me, he thought urgently.
Then, like a push at his back, he felt the first tug upon his ship. Overhead, the sails slowly stretched, ropes strained. Fresh winds whistled past his ears, past the hull. Quicker and quicker, the Stormwing surged ahead. Meric adjusted the magick in the ship itself. Like a striking hawk, the ship dove down and across the forest. He used the weight of the ship to add speed to his sails.
Vaguely, Meric was aware of the others around him grabbing for handholds, stumbling under the sudden flight. Beads of cold sweat formed on Meric’s forehead as he maintained the winds. “Wh-what do you sense?” he spat out between clenched teeth.
“I’m sorry. The shadow creatures move too swiftly.” Doom trembled in the wizen’s voice. “We are too late.”
MYCELLE CLIMBED THE last few steps to the summit of the peak. Exposed atop the pinnacle, she shivered as the winds seemed to pick up. Ahead, the trail ended at a small, carved altar. Mycelle approached the sacred site. Though none knew who originally carved the altar, the site itself was still used for rituals to the Mother on solstices and equinoxes.
At her side, Fardale sniffed around the altar’s edges, nosing the strange beasts carved on its stone side. He nosed one particular beast on the north face of the altar and growled. Mycelle glanced down at the image. It was a winged lion with clawed paws raised. Mycelle frowned. A griffin, just like the rumors they had been hearing from the refugees. Was this some clue?
Mycelle circled the altar. On its south face was a monstrous rooster with the body of a snake. On the other two sides were a reptilian bird and some bullish figure with a scorpion’s tail. Mycelle turned away. She had heard nothing of these other beasts, but worry settled coldly in her chest. What did this mean? Was there some connection?
Unable to answer these mysteries, she crossed to the edge of the summit and turned her attention to the skies around her.
The blue expanse appeared empty of all but a few low clouds and a rising mist from the forest. There was no sign of any ship, flying or otherwise. Standing at the cliff’s edge, she pulled the silver coin from her pocket. She clutched it. Had the journey been for naught? Had they wasted half a day pursuing phantoms? Even now she wondered if it all had been a dream. It did not seem real.
Suddenly the coin grew warm in her fist again. An urgent voice entered her head. “They come! Beware the forest!”
She raised the coin, relief mixed with fear. She had not imagined the voice after all. “Who? Who comes?”
“Twisted creatures with diseased thoughts. They surround the Stone even now!”
Mycelle glanced back at the altar and peered over the edge at the woods below. Creatures? She saw nothing amiss. “We’re already at the summit,” she said. “I don’t see anything.”
“They are there. But we come swiftly.”
She lifted her eyes to the heavens. Still she saw nothing.
“To the east,” the voice urged, as if sensing her desire to see the ship. “Above the Willowrush.”
Mycelle swung slightly around. She squinted her eyes. Nothing.
Then the barest glint of sunlight reflected off something hanging above the trees near the horizon. As she watched, it slowly grew in size. She could just make out a flurry of sails. She stared in wonder. A flying ship! Could it be?
Fardale whined at her side. He must have spotted the strange vessel, too. She glanced briefly down to her fellow si’luran, but the wolf’s keen eyes were not on the skies. Fardale studied the darkening woods below. Though the peak’s height was aglow as the sun set, the forest below was already lost in dusk and mist.
Mycelle followed the path of his gaze. “What is it, Fardale?”
His only answer was a low growl.
“Tell me what—” she started to say. Then she heard it, too. It came not from coin or wolf, but from the forest itself.
A cry rose with the wind from the woods below. The wind itself? Mycelle knew better. She stared harder. Near the base of the peak, trees began to twist and curl, tortured by something unseen in the shadows below. Mycelle now knew what the speaker from the coin warned against. Twisted creatures. Not the mythical beasts from the altar, but something worse.
It was the Grim!
Mycelle stepped along the summit’s edge. All around, trees writhed and limbs flailed, leaves grew brown and drifted on the twilight breezes. It was as if the cry from below was the scream of the tortured trees themselves. But Mycelle knew it came from the wraiths—hundreds of them!
From here, she spotted shadows shifting among the misshapen trunks. She did not understand this strange gathering. The wraiths were generally solitary creatures, seldom found in more than a pair. What had drawn them all here? And what stayed their hands now? Below, they simply milled and churned. As swiftly as they moved, they could be atop the summit in only a few moments. But they tarried in the forest below, contorting the trees in which they roosted. What kept them at bay?
Mycelle glanced back to the altar. Was there some ancient magick here? For the thousandth time since beginning this journey, she wished she still retained her seeking skill, an ability to read the magick around her. She felt as if a vital sense had been stolen from her.
She lifted the coin and spoke. “I see the creatures, but they hold back for now. Hurry, before their numbers give them the courage to assault the peak.”
A fading whisper came. “We hurry . . . Be ready . . .”
She turned and found Fardale’s eyes upon hers. Images formed: A snowy-feathered bird taking wing from the peak and flying high into the sky, away from the twisted forest.
“No,” she answered him aloud. “I will not abandon you.”
Fardale shrugged and turned away, as stoic as a real wolf.
Mycelle returned to studying the forest and sky. The wail of the Grim echoed off the cliffs. There were so many. Suddenly the ground shook under her feet. She fell to her knees to keep from tumbling over the edge. Crawling closer, she peered below.
Around the pinnacle, hundreds of trees had uprooted themselves, many of them thousand-year-old giants. In packs, they attacked the Stone’s base with their gigantic roots, digging into cracks in the granite.
Mother above! The forest was attacking the Stone of Tor, trying to tear it down.
In the branches of these twisted trees, Mycelle spotted the reason for the assault. The shredded shadows of the Grim perched in those warped branches. The wraiths rode the attacking trees like riders on horses. The ancient trees dug and attacked the rock, yanking chunks with shuddering blows from the side of the pinnacle. As she stared, she suddenly understood how the Northwall had been sundered. Even that ancient shield wall, also of granite, could not have sustained such an attack for long.
Mycelle, on hands and knees, backed away from the edge. She eyed the skies. With the sun setting behind her, the expanse was still bright. She could easily spot the ship’s sails now. It lay no more than a league away. In the darkening sky, its keel glowed like a dull coal, ruddy and bright. Even without her seeking ability, Mycelle could almost smell the magick. It was this glowing energy that kept the vessel afloat in the air.
She clenched the coin. “Hurry,” she urged.
No answer came, but in truth, what words could make any difference? Either the ship would arrive in time or not.
&n
bsp; Mycelle crouched upon the altar as the rock shook under her. For a moment, she entertained Fardale’s idea: to shift into the shape of a large bird and wing away from the danger. It was tempting. She did not want to die. She had done so once before and cared not to repeat it. But even a shape-shifter had limits. Most could only summon enough energy for a major shift once a day. And she had already shifted twice this day—from woman to wolf and back again. She had no energy for another change.
She stared at the large treewolf as he steadied himself on wide-placed paws and maintained his vigil on the assault below. Even if she could shift and fly away, she would not. She could not abandon her last companion. She had failed too many others, and that pain was worse than any fear of death.
Biting her lip, Mycelle turned her attention to another matter of the wraiths. What had drawn the Grim here like moths to a flame? If she had that answer . . .
The ground lurched again. The whole peak tilted. Mycelle grabbed the altar’s edge to keep from rolling.
Nearby, Fardale dug in claws and scrabbled to keep his footing, but he was losing his battle and slipping toward the edge.
The Stone was toppling under them!
“Fardale!” She thrust out an arm, reaching from where she clutched the altar. Fardale slipped farther away from her hand, his hindquarters tumbling over the edge. “No!”
She willed the flesh of her arm to meld and stretch. She had no energy for a full change, but maybe this small shift . . .
She concentrated, straining. Slowly the burn of melting bone answered her silent plea. Her arm thinned and lengthened. Her fingers crawled across the rock.
Fardale’s eyes went wild with desperation as he struggled to keep his precarious perch. Then he lost the battle and slid away.
“No!” She lunged with her flowing arm. Her fingers clamped on the wolf’s forelimb as he slipped over the edge. “Hold on!” she urged between tight lips.
She fed some of her torso’s bulk into her thinly stretched arm, building muscle to aid her grip. In her mind’s eye, she became just two arms—one gripping rock, one gripping her friend’s flesh. Nothing else mattered. She fed her will with all her strength, her heart thundering in her ears. How long she struggled like that, she did not know, but slowly she forced her flesh to pull back to its original form. She maintained her grip on Fardale’s leg as her arm shortened, dragging the wolf back over the edge and to her side.
Once near enough, she shifted her grip, pulling Fardale tight under her arm. Exhausted, she finally realized that the Stone had ceased its topple and rested dangerously askew, the summit tilted at a steep angle. A lucky reprieve, but for how long?
Already the wail of the wraiths rose again from below.
Mycelle could not worry about that. With her eyes squeezed closed, she fought to keep her position on the slippery granite. If she lost her grip on the altar’s edge, they would both be lost.
As she concentrated on the muscles and fibers of her limbs, she felt loose hairs, those not braided in place, rise over her head. The smell of the air changed, as after a summer’s thunder shower. Energy! Mycelle opened her eyes and cried out in a mix of shock and relief.
Overhead, the sky was gone, consumed by a vast wooden hull and a shining iron keel. As she watched, a hatch opened on its underside. A long rope snaked out, the end of which fell to hang tantalizingly close above her. If she stood, she could easily grab the rope. But that was impossible. If she shifted even a single muscle, she feared tumbling away.
The rock under her, as if to remind and scold, shook again. The pinnacle tilted farther.
Sweet Mother . . . So close!
A thin figure appeared in the hatch’s opening, clearly an elv’in. The slender man had the rope looped around his belly. He dove from the hatch and rolled down the rope, using the loop’s friction to slow his descent. Still, as fast as he fell, Mycelle was sure he would tumble from the rope’s end and fall to his death. But at the last moment, the agile elv’in sailor hooked a twist of rope around his knee and ankle and dropped to a stop, hanging upside down from the rope’s end by only one leg.
Long-fingered hands grabbed the leather of her jacket. “Don’t struggle,” the man warned with little warmth. “And keep hold of that dog.”
As soon as he had her gripped, the length of hemp began reeling back into the hatch above, dragging the elv’in and his wards upward.
Mycelle was afraid to trust both their weights to the thin sailor. But what choice did she have? She reluctantly released her grip on the altar and hugged the large tree wolf to her chest with her two arms. They were drawn slowly upward.
As her heels lifted free of the rock, a massive crack exploded from below. She gasped at the sudden noise, almost losing her hold on Fardale.
Under her toes, the pinnacle toppled away, falling at first slowly, then more rapidly, like a felled tree. Time seemed to slow as the length of stone crashed into the forest. A muffled roar accompanied the collision. Leaves and bits of shattered trunk blew into the sky as high as the flying ship itself. Water exploded far into the air as the felled pinnacle crashed across the Willowrush, damming the river and diverting its flow.
Tilting her neck, she eyed the opening of the hatch. It seemed a league away. The tackle and pulley that strung the rope from the hatch slowly turned, and she found the eyes of the elv’in sailor meeting hers. He seemed unconcerned about the destruction or danger, his expression bland as if he were merely hauling dry goods to a shop. But Mycelle noticed the sheen of sweat on his forehead from the strain of their weights.
But there was nothing she could do to help, so Mycelle glanced back down. The view was lost in a cloud of debris and mist. She saw no sign of the wraiths. Again she wondered what had drawn so many of them to this peak. Were they after her? Fardale? The ancient altar? Somehow Mycelle sensed it was none of these. Something else had drawn them here. But what? What were they after? What had driven the wraiths to such odd behavior?
Staring up again, she saw they neared the hatch. Hands grabbed them as they were hauled inside. At last, Mycelle found firm decking under her heels. She set Fardale down. Their elv’in rescuer clambered free of the rope and landed deftly on his feet. He gave them a cold bow of his head and strode away, as if their salvation were of no significance.
Mycelle shook her head at the strangeness of the elv’in and stared below one last time as the hatch was closed and sealed.
There was a mystery to the Grim that had yet to be answered, and she was sure the path to winning here in the north lay within that riddle. But such answers must wait on another day. For now, she was free, safe, and with new allies.
“Well met, Mycelle,” a voice said behind her.
She turned toward a familiar lanky form standing in a doorway. Relief flooded through her. “Meric!” She crossed over and hugged the elv’in tightly.
“It seems we’ve much to discuss,” Meric said as he was finally let free. He gave Fardale a pat of greeting, then searched around the crowded hold.
With an eyebrow raised, he faced Mycelle. “But where are the others?”
6
KRAL AWOKE TO chaos. Winds screamed, thunder unlike any he had heard before shook the ground. He jerked awake, snapping up, banging his head into the roof of the rocking cart. A growl escaped his throat. He reached to his waist but found his ax gone. Then his memories returned in a flood of light and screams. The attack by d’warf raiders . . .
He twisted around and spotted Mogweed, a tiny mouse of a man, huddled in the corner.
“Where are we?” Kral asked gruffly. “What is going on?” His eyes quickly attuned to the darkness. Though his iron ax with its ebon’stone heart was missing, Legion still lived inside Kral, caged in this human form. His nostrils flared, sniffing the air with the senses of this inner beast. His ax was near, still sheathed in the pelt of a snow leopard. With the pelt in place, Kral had access to the leopard’s form and nature, but he dared not reveal his shape-shifting abilities—at least not yet. br />
Nearby, Nee’lahn lifted her face, pushing aside a fall of honey-colored hair. On her knees, she leaned over the still form of Lord Tyrus, her expression pained. “We’ve been captured and travel north.”
Kral frowned. A mix of conflicting feelings jangled through him as the nyphai’s violet eyes pierced to his bones. Her beauty stunned him. Her lips were a blooming rose on virgin snow. Her form was all curves and valleys. His senses drank her in, but he kept his face and voice stone. “What caused the ground to quake?”
Already the splintery roar was echoing away, and the tremble under the wagon’s wheels calmed.
Nee’lahn cocked her head and remained silent for a few moments. “I . . . I hear mourning in the woodsong, but can tell nothing more. Broken trees, drowning waters.” She shook her head. “Some disaster. I don’t know its meaning.”
A whip cracked overhead, and the cart jolted forward, moving faster. Off balance, Nee’lahn toppled into Kral’s side. He caught and gently righted her. She straightened the cloak about her shoulders, nodding in thanks.
Her scent filled Kral’s nose: musky loam and honeysuckle. His rocky countenance threatened to shatter. He turned away.
Lord Tyrus groaned where he lay at Nee’lahn’s knees.
“How fares the prince?” Kral asked, turning his attention.
Nee’lahn touched the wounded man’s shoulder. “He lives but swims in sick dreams. He won’t wake.”
“Yet he’s always crying out,” Mogweed added, edging closer to them. “Bloodcurdling wails.” The man shivered, hugging his thin arms around his chest.
Kral eyed his two conscious companions. They were too few for him to lead an assault on their captors, even if he could break out of the wagon. Had the prince been hale, Kral would have attempted it. He had seen the man fight, a flurry of steel. Tyrus was surely his father’s son. Ten generations ago, it had been an ancient king of Castle Mryl who had helped Kral’s clans escape during the D’warf Wars. A blood debt was owed to the Mrylian royal family. So even though Kral was bound to the Black Heart, he had not refused the prince’s call for arms at Port Rawl’s docks. How could he?