A howl of red fury flowed from Kral’s throat. He leaped with all the muscles in his limbs—and still the d’warf king did not flinch, but merely motioned with one hand.
Kral instantly knew his error. His body contorted in midair: claws sank away, fur vanished in a breath, sharp teeth blunted. Thrown off balance by the transformation, Kral’s leap fell short of his true target.
He struck the steps that led to the Ice Throne, shattering his collarbone as his shoulder hit.
Gasping, Kral rolled to his feet naked, a man again. The leopard was gone. He tried to touch the beast within, but nothing was there. He swung around as swords encircled him.
A d’warf warrior stood in the center of the chamber. In one hand, he held Kral’s discarded ax—and in his other, the pelt of the snow leopard that had wrapped its iron head. He lifted the exposed weapon toward his king.
“You need a pelt to transform, don’t you?” the d’warf king said behind him. “Without an animal’s skin around your ax, you’re nothing but a man.”
The warrior tossed the leopard skin atop a torch borne by another d’warf. The fur caught flame. Clenching his fists, Kral watched any hope of winning here burn away. He fell to his knees on the granite floor, defeated, hopeless.
The d’warf king cackled on the throne. “Do not despair, Brother. You’ve brought a bevy of elementals to my doorstep, additional kindling for the Dark Master’s flame. Where you have failed, these will be made into unbending instruments.”
Kral turned to see the ancient king creak up from his seat and step over to the monstrous winged statue. A wrinkled hand ran along the black stone, tracing one of the silvery veins in the rock with a fingertip. “You’re also in time to see the Master’s ultimate victory. As you’ve lost hope, so will all.”
AS D’WARVES RINGED the group with ax and sword, Meric watched the game play out by the throne. He leaned closer to Lord Tyrus and Mycelle, who stood with their own weapons drawn. Both sustained bloody wounds from the recent skirmish. “We must not be captured,” he said. “I’ve withstood one assault by the Dark Lord’s twisting flame. I doubt I could withstand it again.”
Nee’lahn agreed, clutching the babe tighter to her breast. “I’ll not become like Cecelia. Neither will I allow the child to be taken.”
“What are you saying?” Mycelle asked.
Tyrus answered. “The elv’in is right. All the elementals, myself included, must be slain. We cannot risk becoming tools of the Dark Lord.”
Mycelle hissed back at them. “In my lifetime, I’ve poisoned scores of elementals to keep them from the Dark Lord and called it a kindness. I understand your sentiment . . . but . . . but . . .”
Meric recognized the pain and guilt in her eyes.
“We can’t lose hope. Not yet,” she insisted. Turning, she muttered pained words only meant for herself, but Meric’s sharp ears heard her. “Sweet Mother, don’t ask me to do this. My hands are stained with enough blood.”
Meric stepped back to Nee’lahn. “If she can’t do this, we must.”
Nee’lahn nodded.
Meric stared across the room crowded with d’warves. Overshadowed by the monstrous Weirgate, Kral was being trussed in iron shackles. What hope was there?
Nee’lahn touched his arm. “Hand me my lute.”
Meric still had her instrument slung over his shoulder. He shrugged it off and peeled back its wrappings. “What are you planning?”
“The only thing I can to protect the baby.” She pulled aside a bit of blanket from her seed child and exposed his small arm. In her other hand, a dagger appeared. Before Meric could stop her, she sliced the little one’s palm.
The babe’s scream echoed off the walls, drawing all eyes in their direction. Nee’lahn smeared her fingertips in the child’s blood, then took the lute from Meric’s stunned arms. Without pausing, as the child continued to wail, she strummed the lute’s strings with her bloody fingers. Music and wailing wafted throughout the room, sailing out high windows and through open doorways.
“What are you doing?” Mycelle hissed back at her.
“Calling for those who would protect the child—calling to the one who would recognize his cries.” Nee’lahn met Meric’s gaze. “I’m calling for his mother.”
Meric’s eyes flew wide. She was summoning the Grim.
NEE’LAHN PLAYED HER lute with all the energy in her body, weaving the babe’s sobs with chords of Woodsong, striving to open a path to her sisters of the forest. “Come to me!” she sang in the ancient tongue. “Protect the child.”
Tied to her music, she felt the song swell out and beyond. As she plied her strings, the lines of force in the room became apparent, scintillating in the air. Near the Griffin Weirgate, strains of magickal energy swirled in a tight vortex around the statue, unable to escape, eddying down into the black well. Nee’lahn sensed its sucking hunger, and for a moment, she sensed the malevolence at the heart of the griffin.
Reeling back in horror, she glided her music away from the Weirgate, but found she was unable. Hooked like a fish, she was trapped. Her music jarred to a stop, but it was too late. Lines of force now connected her to the Weirgate. She sensed that all that was elemental in her heart was being drawn into the statue.
“Nee’lahn,” Meric said at her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“The Weirgate,” she gasped, weakening on her feet. The lute fell from her trembling fingers, but Meric caught it. “I touched it with my magick. I . . . I can’t break free.”
Meric caught her under the arms. “What can I do?”
She shook her head. The room began to grow dark. “I . . . I’m lost. Save the child . . .”
A darker shadow swept across her vision. Nee’lahn thought she was fading away—until a sibilant voice pierced through to her. “Is this how you protect my baby?”
Meric yanked her away.
The dark mist coalesced into the figure of Cecelia, the wraith ill’guard. “I will not let them harm my child—not even to avenge the Land’s cruelty.” Her words balanced between madness and grief. “Sisters, join me!”
From the chamber’s shadowed corners, wraiths unfolded into the room, drawn forth upon the strands of Nee’lahn’s music. The bits of darkness sailed free, flitting and flapping on unseen winds. Where they passed, screams arose. D’warves fell dead to the floor. Bodies tumbled from the galleries, crushing others.
And still the darkness continued to flow into the chamber. More and more of the Grim fell upon their prey. D’warves twisted and writhed on the floor. Across the hall, guards circled the throne, protecting their king.
Mycelle and Tyrus pulled closer to the others, backing from the wraith Cecelia.
Nee’lahn suddenly swooned to her knees, dragging Meric down with her.
“What’s wrong?” Mycelle asked.
“She’s dying,” Meric answered, then faced Cecelia. “Can you stop this?”
Cecelia swung on Meric. “Why should I?”
Meric stood up and pointed to the griffin. “The statue is drawing Nee’lahn’s power from her body, from her lute, from her spirit. Not only will she die, so will the last spirit of your trees. And with both gone, the babe will surely perish. If you love your child, if you love the future of your people, then stop what is happening to her.”
Cecelia’s darkness swelled out like a foul cloak. Her voice rose to a tortured scream. “I . . . I don’t know if I can.”
“Just try!”
Nee’lahn reached a hand and touched the baby’s head, which peeked from his blankets. “Please . . .”
Cecelia stared down at her. A dark arm reached out. Nee’lahn was too weak to move away. An icy coldness brushed across her cheek. “You’re so beautiful,” the wraith whispered. “I ache to look upon you.”
Nee’lahn had no words left. She pleaded with her eyes.
Cecelia turned away. “No matter the cost, I would rather my child grow as bright as you, than as dark as his mother.”
The wraith swirled
back into a dark cloud and shot up toward the vaulted ceiling, wailing the cry of the Grim. Around the chamber, the myriad shadows froze for a breath, ignoring their sprawled and twisted prey. As a group, they swept up to join their leader. The billowing darkness grew to fill the arched ceiling.
Throughout the room, d’warves cowered near the floor.
From the darkness, words sailed forth. “Sisters, it is time to end our suffering. We are not meant for this world.”
Nee’lahn, tied to her sisters by bonds as old as her tree, understood what was about to happen. “No!” she struggled to yell, but her voice was a weak whisper. Her dry lips cracked, and blood dribbled down her chin. She was almost spent.
“Ride with me into the flames, Sisters! Allow us this one act of penance for all we’ve become, for all the sins of our past.”
A howl rose from the gathered Grim.
Around Nee’lahn, her companions fell to their knees, palms pressed to their ears against the crushing noise. Even the d’warf king collapsed by his throne.
Despite the cries, Nee’lahn heard Cecelia’s voice. “For the sake of Lok’ai’hera—for the sake of the last seed child—follow me!”
A bit of shadow broke from the flock and shot toward the statue. It hovered a moment. Nee’lahn sensed a gaze falling upon her from the dank mist. Words whispered in her ear. “Protect my child, little one.” Then the shred of shadow shot at the statue, diving through the open jaws of the griffin with a scream. “Follow me!”
This final command of the last keeper of Lok’ai’hera could not be ignored by the Grim. A flow of shadows swept down from above in a continuous black waterfall.
“No!” the king of the d’warves yelled, gaining his feet. “Stop them!”
But who could stop a shadow? The Grim swept down the black maw of the beast. Its hungry throat swallowed them all, feeding, slaking upon their elemental energies, consuming them entirely.
“Stop!” the king yelled again.
Nee’lahn sensed the thin cord of power that linked her to the statue begin to burn away as the surge of energy swept through the Weirgate. As more Grim fled, wailing, into the griffin’s maw, their flow of power sliced her free, tossing her back against the wall as the tether snapped. Gasping, she rolled to her knees. “They’re sacrificing themselves!” she yelled as the last of the wraiths were swallowed away. “They’re burning themselves away so I might live. All my sisters . . . gone . . .”
Meric touched her shoulder and whispered, “I think it’s what they ultimately wanted: an end to their pain and a chance to secure a hope for the future.”
Nee’lahn stood up, determined to honor their sacrifice.
Across the hall, the d’warf king glowered at the gathered party. An unearthly fire shone in his eyes. “You thought to destroy the griffin. But your efforts have only made the Weir stronger. I will burn you all upon the Master’s altar and see the Land destroyed!”
Nee’lahn’s eyes narrowed. The d’warf king had no understanding of the battle that had been won here. “Beware the Gate,” she warned her companions. “Do not let your magick touch it.”
One of the king’s guards blew a horn, and the scattered d’warf forces slowly edged back into the throne room, wary of the dead bodies scattered across the floor.
Mycelle stepped forward, still in her d’warf form. “We’ll only have this one chance. We attack now or be overwhelmed.”
Tyrus stepped to her side. “What’s your plan?”
“You all lead the attack against the d’warves. Leave the gate to me.”
“What are you going to do?” Mogweed asked.
Mycelle’s gaze fixed on the chained and defeated mountain man. “I have a plan.” She turned to Lord Tyrus and spoke rapidly. “But I’ll need Kral’s ax.” She pointed to where the weapon lay, clutched in the hands of a dead d’warf.
He nodded. “I’ll fetch it.” He set off across the floor, running low, sword at ready. But so far the d’warves were slow to regroup and offered little challenge.
As Meric stepped to Mycelle’s side, a flash of movement caught Nee’lahn’s eye. “Meric!” she yelled in warning.
The elv’in swung around, lifting an arm crackling with energy. But he was too slow to stop the arrow’s flight.
The barb flew true, ripping through Mycelle’s throat. Blood gouted from the wound as the swordswoman fell backward. She hit the floor, sliding, her blades clattering away.
Nee’lahn dove to her side, while Fardale joined Meric in raising a defense. Fierce winds blew a warding around them as the elv’in danced within the gale, sword in hand. At his side, Fardale ripped into any who drew too near. Even Mogweed recovered one of Mycelle’s swords and knelt on the other side of the wounded woman.
“How is she?” Mogweed asked.
Mycelle struggled to sit up, but Nee’lahn held her down. “Don’t move.”
Mycelle opened her mouth to speak, but only blood flowed out. Mycelle clutched Nee’lahn’s arm frantically, tugging her closer.
Nee’lahn leaned down.
Mycelle coughed to clear her throat, spraying Nee’lahn with gore, and managed to choke out a few hoarse words, waving toward the statue. “A sacrifice . . . like your sisters’.” Blood again filled her throat, but she coughed. “The ax!”
Nee’lahn turned and saw Tyrus had recovered the mountain man’s weapon. He was returning with it in hand. “It comes,” Nee’lahn said. “But I don’t understand what good it will do us.”
Mycelle scrabbled with her other hand and slipped out a dagger. She pressed its hilt into Nee’lahn’s hand and squeezed, struggling to get her to understand. Nee’lahn stared into the woman’s pained and sorrowful eyes. Mycelle’s lips moved, but no sound came out.
Still, Nee’lahn recognized the word she struggled to speak.
Shape-shifter . . .
Nee’lahn’s brow crinkled for a heartbeat. She stared at the dagger in her hand. Then her eyes widened with understanding and horror.
“Oh, Sweet Mother . . . no!”
MERIC HEARD NEE’LAHN’S outburst. “How fares Mycelle?” he called back as he lashed out with a gale of winds, blowing away any who neared.
“Her wounds are mortal,” Nee’lahn answered. “She dies.”
Meric held his sword out in front of him. It was his fault. He had let his guard down, let the deadly arrow through. “What can we do to help her?”
Nee’lahn did not answer. He risked a glance over a shoulder. The nyphai held a dagger in her hand. He recognized it as Mycelle’s. Nee’lahn leaned over the shape-shifter.
A growl drew his attention back around. Fardale pointed. Lord Tyrus returned, hacking through any who stood in his path. The man’s eyes were lit with wildfire, the pirate shining through the prince.
Meric did what he could to help, blowing away any arrows aimed in the Mrylian lord’s direction while maintaining the whirlwind around the others. Tyrus fought through the last of the d’warves, then dove forward.
Meric lowered his winds to allow the man inside, then cast them back up.
“How are you all doing?” Tyrus asked.
Meric opened his mouth to answer—then Tyrus saw Mycelle and dashed to her side, dropping Kral’s ax.
“Mycelle!” He took her hand.
Backing a step, Meric closed his winds tighter. His magick was not infinite. Eventually it would ebb away, and the winds with it. The d’warves must have sensed his already-weakening state and held back, waiting like wolves upon a wounded deer.
“Mother above!” Tyrus yelled. “What have you done?”
Meric turned as Tyrus elbowed Nee’lahn aside.
Meric now saw what the nyphai had been doing with Mycelle’s dagger. Shocked, his winds whirled wildly.
Mycelle lay on her back, her belly and chest bare. Her chest still moved, and blood bubbled from her lips and nose. But from her rib cage down to her navel, her skin had been flayed loose by the dagger wielded by Nee’lahn. To Meric’s horror, he realized the nyphai
had been skinning the shape-shifter as he had guarded over them.
Knocked away, Nee’lahn still held the bloody dagger. “It’s what she wanted,” the nyphai mumbled. Only now did Meric see the tears running down Nee’lahn s face. “We can’t win here on our own.”
Mycelle reached out to the nyphai and nodded, her face a mask of agony. She was too weak to speak.
“I don’t understand,” Tyrus said. “What is going on?”
Nee’lahn pointed to the mountain man’s ax. “She wants us to free Kral with her own skin.”
With dawning horror, Meric now understood. He had heard the d’warf king’s revelation of Kral’s ill’guard nature. The mountain man’s form was bent with a black magick that allowed him to assume the form of whatever beast’s pelt wrapped his ax. Mycelle wanted to use her own skin to grant the mountain man the full gifts of the si’lura, the shape-shifters.
“But he’s an ill’guard,” Tyrus argued.
“And one who hates the d’warves’ purpose here as much as we do,” Meric said, gleaning Mycelle’s goal. “Free him and he’ll destroy all in his way.”
“Including us,” Tyrus said.
Mycelle motioned the Mrylian closer. He leaned his ear to her lips, then straightened, paler than a moment before.
“What did she say?” Mogweed asked on the far side, clutching one of Mycelle’s swords.
“Prophecy,” Tyrus said. “ ‘She who would give her blood to save the Western Reaches.’ ”
“What does that mean?” Meric asked.
“It is what I told her back in Port Rawl. I was sent there by my father’s prophecies, to bring you all here: three shape-shifters and the woman who was both Dro and not Dro.”
“Mycelle,” Meric mumbled.
Tyrus took the shape-shifter’s hand. “My father said her blood would be the key to saving the lands from corruption. She means to see this foretelling come true.”
Everyone grew silent.
Tyrus held out his hand to Nee’lahn. She knew what he was asking for and placed the dagger’s hilt in his palm.
He bent over Mycelle. “It was my father’s prophecy.”