Magnam took out a pipe from a pocket and filled it with bit of dried tobacco leaf. “More stew?”
Tol’chuk glanced to his bowl, finding it surprisingly empty. “No. I be fine. Tell me more of this Mad Mimbly.”
Magnam lit his pipe and chewed on its end, speaking around the stem. “Some three winters later, ol’ Mimbly comes down to the village of Tweentown, drawing a cart behind him like he were a mule. No one recognized the bent-backed, white-haired d’warf. His beard was wrapped around his waist, and his eyes shone with wormglow.”
“Wormglow?”
Magnam nodded. “Wherever you find heartstone, you’ll find the worms. Glowworms.”
Tol’chuk remembered the Spirit Gate of his people, the arch of pure heartstone through which he had stepped to begin this journey so long ago. The tunnels leading to the Gate had been filled with worms that glowed the green of pond scum.
“No one knows what attracts the creatures, but if there’s a vein of heartstone mined, within days you’ll find the place crawling with the squirmy beasts. There are some who say they’re actually birthed out of the heartstone itself.”
Tol’chuk glanced to his own crystal. When first he had looked into the Heart, before its recent transformation, the Bane had appeared to be a black worm, a cousin to the tunnel’s glowworms. Could there be some connection?
“Anyway, if you hang around the worms long enough, their glow creeps into your own eyes. Some say it lets you see not only this world but the next.”
“The spirit world?”
“No, the future. Glimpses of what’s to come.” Magnam waved his pipe. “But that all makes no never mind. What ol’ Mad Mimbly had in his cart was what drew everyone in Tweentown’s attention. Piled atop his cart were gems never seen before. Redder than rubies, brighter than the finest cut diamonds.” The d’warf pointed his pipe stem to the chunk of stone. “It were heartstone, the first ever mined.”
“But how come it was never found before?”
Magnam shrugged. “I guess the mountains were finally ready to let them go. Miners say you’ll never find a single jewel unless the Land herself wants you to find it.”
“What did Mimbly say? Did he explain how he found them?”
“Ah, now there’s the rub, Lord Boulder. He labored all those years, wearing his fingers to nubs—and what does he do when he finally strikes the motherlode of riches? He up and dies.” Magnam clucked out a sad laugh and shook his head. “That very night, he falls dead on his bed in Tweentown.”
Disappointment ached in Tol’chuk’s breast. “He died?”
“In his sleep. Curled like a babe.” Magnam sighed. “Fate can be cruel. But at least ol’ Mimbly proved his nose. He had scented riches and found them at last. He was also the one to lend the new gem its name. He would let no one near his cart of jewels. He claimed it was the blood of the mountains, from the Land’s very heart. Hence, its name—heartstone.”
“Blood of the Land?”
“So he claimed, but he was addled after his years alone. Talking and hollering at invisible figments, swatting at the empty air. He claimed the stones were the Land’s gift to our people, that it was all that could save them from the darkness to come. The jewels must be hidden away and protected. Everyone laughed at his babbling. Ol’ Mad Mimbly.” Magnam puffed out a perfect smoke ring and gave Tol’chuk a one-eyed stare. “But maybe he weren’t as mad as we thought.”
The d’warf kicked to his feet. “Best I return to my cooking,” he mumbled.
“Wait. What did you mean, ‘maybe he weren’t as mad as we thought’?”
Magnam nodded to the chunk of heartstone. “It guided you here, didn’t it? After he died, his load was taken, spread throughout our kingdom, and crafted into thousands of objects. It was a jewel of such beauty that it could not be simply hidden away. For centuries, other miners tried to find ol’ Mimbly’s vein. But he must have mined it all himself. No other heartstone was ever found in Gy’hallmanti, not even a sliver. Occasionally a bit was found here and there across the lands, but never a strike like ol’ Mimbly’s.”
Tol’chuk remembered his own tribe’s secret: a towering arch of heartstone hidden deep in their homeland mountains. The blood of the Land. It had sent him forth on this journey. But according to the shade of his father, the Heart of his people had not come from this arch but from Gul’gotha, from these foreign lands. Realization slowly dawned in Tol’chuk. His words were a whisper. “No other large pieces were ever found in Gul’gotha?”
Magnam shook his head and crossed to his stove. “None. That’s what makes heartstone so precious.”
Stunned, Tol’chuk reached and took up his chunk of heartstone. If Magnam’s story was true, there was only one place from which the Heart of his people could have come—from ol’ Mad Mimbly’s strike! Here was one of the very stones the ancient d’warf had mined. Tol’chuk squeezed the crystal, trying to sense its age. His father had assigned him to return the Heart to where it was first mined. He now had an answer. He stared back up at the d’warf. “The mountain of Gy’hallmanti—what else can you tell me of the place? Was nothing else ever found there?”
Magnam frowned, stirring his stew pot. “Now I didn’t say that. After ol’ Mimbly, many miners tried their hand at delving into Gy’hallmanti. They all went bust. But five centuries ago, a new strike was discovered.”
“More heartstone?”
Magnam’s face twisted into a pained scowl. “No, but like the heartstone Mimblywad discovered, it was a stone like no other. A stone the world had never seen before.”
“What was it?”
Magnam returned to his stew. His voice hushed to a whisper. “Ebon’stone. They found ebon’stone, damn them all.”
Ice crept into Tol’chuk’s veins. His mind struggled to put this horror together. Heartstone, ebon’stone—both had been birthed from the same mines. What did it mean?
Magnam continued, this throat strained. “There is only one other thing that ever came forth from the tunnels of Gy’hallmanti.”
“What?” Tol’chuk asked. His fingers clutched tight to the chunk of crystal, afraid of the answer.
“The Nameless One. From the endless tunnels of Gy’hallmanti, the Black Beast of Gul’gotha first walked our lands.”
ELENA STARTED AT Er’ril. He was dressed in a gray silk jacket over a bright white shirt. His raven hair was combed back and tied into a tail. How could she ask him to risk his life in the challenge for her hand, especially with the odds so badly stacked against him? Prince Typhon was strong and hale, and armed with both sword and dagger against Er’ril’s empty hand. What hope could there be for victory? If Elena accepted the claim of ry’th lor, she would be sentencing her liegeman to almost certain death. Yet if she refused, she would be married to Prince Typhon this night, and any hope for Alasea would die on her marriage bed.
“Make your choice, Elena,” Queen Tratal demanded.
Elena refused to turn from Er’ril. Her eyes met his storm-gray ones. He stared hard at her, then his head nodded imperceptibly. His face showed no fear, no indecision. His eyes said he would win this fight. Elena drew strength from his gaze and stood straighter. She wiped her welling tears and turned to Queen Tratal.
Clenching her fists, Elena’s words were harsh and sharply spoken. “It is upon your hands, Queen Tratal, that blood will be spilled this night. By your actions, you have doomed your nephew to his death. My liegeman will not fail me.”
“Then you accept his challenge of ry’th lor?” The queen’s voice snapped with anger.
Elena met her fury with her own. “You have given us no choice but to murder for the sake of our freedom. For this, I will never forgive you. I offer you this one moment to rescind your words. Put aside this claim of marriage, and we will part allies and friends. Insist on this course, and the blood of Prince Typhon will stain this hall’s floor.”
On the queen’s other side, a thin elv’in woman stumbled to her feet. Her eyes, full of tears, were fixed upon the
young prince. “Please, Queen Tratal . . . listen to the wit’ch.”
Prince Typhon waved the woman back to her seat and hissed, “Mela, sit down. You shame me.”
The woman would not be so easily cowed. She reached to Queen Tratal’s sleeve. “I love him, my queen. I would give him up freely to this wit’ch for the sake of the kingdom, but not . . . not to his death. I could not live with that.”
Queen Tratal snatched her sleeve from the woman’s thin-fingered grip. “Begone from my side!” she snapped. She flicked her wrist to a guard. “Take Princess Mela to her room. She seems to have fallen ill.”
“No!” the elv’in woman wailed. But two guards flanked her and took her arms. Mela fell limp in their grips, sobbing. Unperturbed, the stoic royal guards dragged the weeping woman from the hall.
Elena noticed the pained expression on Prince Typhon’s face. He had taken a step in Mela’s direction when she had first swooned, but a stern glance from the queen had frozen his steps.
The queen lifted her lightning scepter. “The claim of ry’th lor has been accepted. Let the way be cleared for the challengers to the hand of Elena Morin’stal.”
Quickly, tables and chairs were pulled back from the foot of the raised dais. The celebrants now all stood, ringing a wide, empty space before the pair of thrones. Even the serving staff moved inside to cluster in corners or stand on chairs to view the coming battle.
Elena turned to Er’ril. Guards stripped him of his sword.
Queen Tratal lifted her voice to the crowded hall. “The challenger must meet the challenged with no weapon but the clothes on his back.”
Elena’s legs grew numb. Er’ril could not even don leathers to protect him. Only silk and linen. Yet despite the threat, Er’ril seemed little fazed. He merely stepped around the royal table and leaped to the cleared floor.
The elv’in queen raised her left arm. “The challenged will be allowed the traditional weapons to defend the hand of his bridemate. Sword and dagger!”
Prince Typhon already had a sword strapped to his waist. He climbed off the dais to the other side of the floor. After shrugging out of his own jacket, he pulled free his sword and swept his thin blade in a deadly flourish before him, practicing, loosening his arms. The sword was a blur of silver. Polite clapping met this display of skill and swordsmanship.
Er’ril watched all this with dispassionate eyes.
Queen Tratal turned her head slightly in Elena’s direction. Her voice was a whisper meant for Elena’s ears only. “My blood is not so much ice as to refuse you one last chance, Elena. Dismiss this challenge and Er’ril will be spared.”
Elena wanted desperately to take the queen’s offer. What hope lay between honed steel and bare flesh? As if sensing her faltering heart, Er’ril turned to stare up at her. His eyes shone with pride and determination. All across the lands of Alasea and throughout the War of the Isles, he had been her protector and her champion. But since the war, Er’ril’s role had drifted into the background. And she had sensed his ill ease at this new role. But no longer. Here was the old Er’ril, the man she had known during the long journey to this moment. As much as she feared for his life, she could not take this challenge from him.
“I will not decline the claim,” Elena whispered back to the queen. “I will mourn the death of your kin.”
The only evidence of the queen’s anger was the flare of energy that burst along the iron scepter’s length. “So be it.”
Queen Tratal lifted both arms. “Let the strength of hearts now judge whose hand will be joined to Elena’s this night! Prepare yourselves!”
Prince Typhon repeated his sword’s flourish, moving now. He spun and twisted, weaving around him a deadly cloud of steel. More applause greeted his performance.
Er’ril watched for a moment, eyes narrowed, judging his opponent. Then he simply pulled out of his gray silk jacket and slowly stripped off the crisp shirt. Bare chested, he cracked the kinks from his neck and worked knots from his muscles. With hardly a concern, he wrapped his jacket around his left forearm, then twisted his shirt into a long whip. Once done, he simply stood still, staring across the way toward Prince Typhon.
The prince finished his bow to the audience, then faced his queen. A long tense moment of silence stretched. Finally, Queen Tratal brought her scepter down. “Let the challenge begin!”
ER’RIL WAITED FOR his opponent to come to him. Around the hall, the crowd cheered, and coins exchanged hands as bets were made. He forced it all away, focusing his full attention upon Prince Typhon. The elv’in swordsman crossed the polished pine floor with confidence, striding purposefully, the tip of his sword steady and aimed at Er’ril’s heart.
“I will make your death clean,” Typhon called as he approached. “I bear you no animosity.”
Er’ril did not answer. His only response was the narrowing of his eyes. He studied his opponent’s movements: how his swordpoint dropped when he led with his left leg, how he was easily distracted by the crowd—his gaze flitting to the side when a celebrant yelled his name. Typhon had probably never fought amid the chaos and screams of a true battlefield. Isolated as the elv’in were, it was unlikely the young prince had ever even killed a man.
The same could not be said of Er’ril. He had slogged through battlefields muddied with blood and muck. He’d had friends die at his side as he fought with sword or ax. The number slaughtered upon his sword were too many to count. Er’ril felt a twinge of pity for this young prince. Though he himself bore no edged weapon, he knew they were in fact evenly matched. And the lack of understanding in his opponent would be the elv’in’s downfall.
Typhon paused when only two steps away. He steadied his sword. “I will honor your memory.”
Er’ril tightened his grip on the rolled linen shirt. Typhon took a deep breath as he prepared for the fight. But unknown to the boy, the battle had already begun. Er’ril flicked his wrist and snapped the tip of the shirt at the prince’s face.
Typhon, caught off guard, danced back.
Taking advantage, Er’ril leaped forward. He knocked the boy’s sword aside with his jacket-wrapped left arm and spun past the youth. With a deft grab, he relieved the prince of the dagger at his belt and was away before Typhon could turn with his sword.
The young man’s blade swept through empty air.
From a step away, Er’ril spun the dagger’s hilt in his hand, testing its weight and grip.
The prince’s eyes grew wider in surprise as he realized the dagger was now in Er’ril’s possession. A twinge of concern entered Typhon’s gaze—but not fear. The boy was still too green to know when to be properly scared.
The crowd around them grew hushed by the turn of events. From the corner of his eye, Er’ril saw Elena still standing beside the elv’in queen. From this distance, side by side, Er’ril recognized her elv’in blood: the high cheekbones; the long, graceful neck; eyes as bright as ice in sunlight. Elena met his gaze, a fist held at her throat with worry.
He did not have time to acknowledge her. With a hiss, Typhon leaped at him. Er’ril was barely able to parry the blade with his dagger. The elv’in moved with unnatural speed now, tapping into the elemental energies inherent in his family. His blade was a blur.
Er’ril danced back, reacting with pure instinct.
The attack continued.
Er’ril saw no opportunity to turn defense into offense. Though the young prince was green in actual battle, he was a skilled swordsman. He offered no break in which Er’ril could slip through with the dagger. Er’ril simply waited. He knew from Meric that this artificial speed taxed an elv’in. The boy could not maintain this level of swiftness forever.
Still, neither could Er’ril. The prince’s sword sliced through his own defense, requiring Er’ril to block a fatal blow with his jacket-wrapped arm. The blade’s edge sliced easily through the silk material, biting deep into the meat of Er’ril forearm. Hot blood immediately soaked through the ruined jacket and ran onto the floor.
 
; Er’ril grimaced, not with pain but frustration. Did this boy never grow tired?
Around them, the crowd began to grow boisterous again. Stirred on by the crowd and whetted by the sight of Er’ril’s bloody arm, Typhon fought more savagely—again proving his inexperience. He leaped at the wounded tiger, anticipating a kill, abandoning his art to attack with broad strokes.
Er’ril ducked under the sword and dove forward, driving his shoulder into the elvin’s knee. Both men went down. Er’ril doubted the prince had much experience with simple brawling. Er’ril spun and found the prince had managed to keep his sword in his grip. Typhon roared, twisting, and hacked his sword at Er’ril.
But Er’ril was no longer there.
Er’ril rolled clear as the sword struck the pine planks with a thunk behind him. Before the prince could pull the sword away, Er’ril rolled back over the blade, laying atop it now, his dagger held between his chest and the sword’s edge, pinning it to the planks. Typhon tried to yank free his trapped sword. Steel screamed on steel. Er’ril had only a moment. He slammed the elbow of his bloody arm into the prince’s nose. Bones cracked. A cry of alarm burst from his opponent.
Er’ril next brought his elbow down upon the prince’s fingers, crushing them against the hilt. The sword fell free as the prince abandoned his last weapon. Nose bloodied, he tried to roll away.
Er’ril followed, kicking the sword well away with the toe of his boot. Before the prince could gain his knees, Er’ril leaped onto his back and drove him back to the planks, knocking the air out of the boy’s lungs. Now pinned under Er’ril’s heavier weight and weaponless, the prince began to sob, gasping, sensing his death to come.