Hinterland

A WRAITH IN THE WIND

“Calla,”Krevan ordered, “Keep the boy safe!”

Still addled, Brant allowed himself to be shoved toward the stairs as the icy apparition stood within the fractured gate. The jostled climb up out of the cellars had revived Brant enough to stand on his own-though his legs remained numb, and there remained a hole in his memory. He remembered nothing beyond the old woman with the skull.

What had happened?

Calla, the ash-faced woman, took Brant’s shoulder and guided him toward the stairs. He climbed dully, trailed by Sten. The others remained below with the warden and a clutch of knights. Orders were shouted. Brant searched the milling group below, then the stairs above. Someone was conspicuously missing.

Where was the giant Dralmarfillneer? As huge as his name, his massive form should be easy to pick out.

Brant stopped midway toward the landing.

“Keep moving,” Calla ordered, giving him a slight shove.

Brant twisted away and stumbled down a step.

He bumped into Sten. “Where’s Dral?”

The captain mumbled, shared a glance with his gray-cloaked escort, then shook his head. He scooted past Brant, anxious to climb higher.

Calla grabbed his elbow. “Dead,” she said simply.

“What…?” The shock rattled through Brant, but it also helped to further center him. “How?”

“No time.”

She again tried to force him higher, but he had regained his footing. He broke her grip and fled down to where Rogger stood at the foot of the stairs. He joined the bearded man, needing answers.

“The skull?” he asked.

Rogger patted a satchel slung at his shoulder. It was weighted down. Brant felt a slight warming of the stone at his throat. They had recovered it. But at what blood price?

Before he could inquire, Rogger pointed down the hall. “We have bigger problems at the moment.”

They had a clear view from the raised step as the woman approached, awash in icy mists. With each stride, the torches along both walls sputtered out, one after the other, sinking the hall in darkness. Frost skittered in spidery traces across the walls. Ice swept ahead of her across the floor, glassy smooth, like spilled water.

One of the knights who had been guarding the far gate attempted to thwart her with his diamond-pommel sword. The advancing ice reached his toes first. At its touch he stiffened, a hand clutched at his throat-then he toppled, stone-solid, and struck the floor like an upended statue.

Brant remembered the hare he had examined during the blizzard in Oldenbrook. Frozen solid. From the inside out. Here was the dread power of the storm given flesh.

“Take her down!” the warden cried to the phalanx of knights that now blocked the hall’s end.

A flurry of crossbows twanged, and a volley of bolts shot down the hall. Attesting to the knights’ marksmanship, each bolt struck true-only to shatter against the rime of frost that coated the woman.

With nary a blink, she pressed on with the same silent and deliberate pace.

“Flames!” the warden shouted. “Burn her!”

A waist-high barrel of oil was kicked down the hallway. Both ends were lit with fiery rags. The blast blinded Brant. He instinctively covered his face with his arm. Flaming barrel staves rained down, reaching back even to the blockade of knights.

Still, out of the flame and smoke, she appeared. She strode through the ruin, ushering ice and frost ahead of her. Fires ebbed and died around her.

“Back!” the warden ordered.

The knights below pushed toward the stairs. Rogger and Brant were driven higher, all the way up to the first landing. Tylar and the castellan joined the warden, knotted in the center of the knights that now mounted the steps.

From his higher vantage, Brant still had a view of the central hall below. The massive wyrmwood gate stood closed, sealing off the Masterlevels and the horrors below. But the flames in the giant braziers flanking the gate guttered out. The red iron cooled to black, cracking from the sudden loss of heat. Ice swept the floor, extinguishing the last of the flaming staves.

Into the hall strode the source, the storm given flesh.

She appeared below, marching to the center of the floor. The ice continued deeper down the next hall, evident by the torchlights dimming along that direction.

She stopped and faced the gathered audience on the stair.

Expressionless, she spoke. Frozen lips cracked, blood welled and iced again. “Godslayer…bring us the Godslayer.”

Tylar stood, flanked by Argent and Kathryn. All their offenses had failed. Icy darkness had consumed the entire first level. The cold wafted from the hall, chilling the skin and turning their breath white.

Argent stared at Tylar. “What are we to do?”

Tylar shook his head. He eyed the wyrmwood gate. Fire and warmth were their only true weapons against Mirra’s dark legion. If the storm could so easily strip away their defenses, what hope did they have of resisting the black army below? They were trapped between ice and shadow.

“We must get those fires back up,” Kathryn said.

“Bring us the Godslayer, he whom we name Abomination, and we will leave your towers in peace.”

Eylan’s voice was her own, but Tylar had no doubt who manipulated her like a stringed puppet. He had seen the god’s face in the storm. Ulf of Ice Eyrie. Along with whatever cadre of gods he had rallied to his cause. The conjoining of their powers would be almost impossible to fight.

“You have one bell to hand him to us. Or suffer the death of all. The Abomination must die, one way or the other. The choice is yours.”

Eylan crossed her arms, prepared to wait.

Argent spoke to his men. “Stay here. Send word if she moves.” He pointed to one of the knights near the top landing. “Call the masters down here. Get them to study and test the Grace that protects the woman. We must find a way to break its blessing.”

Obeying, the man fled upward.

Argent met Tylar’s eyes. “We need to speak. In private.” The warden waved for Kathryn to follow, then motioned for a path to the next level. Knights parted out of the way.

Tylar spoke to Krevan as he climbed up. “Keep with Rogger and the boy.”

He nodded.

Moments later, Kathryn and Tylar entered an evacuated room off the second level. It was a squires’ lodging. Four beds were stacked one atop the other near the back. The hearth was cold, and the place smelled of sour ale and old sweat. Pitiable surroundings to decide the fate of Tashijan.

Argent closed the door. “What are we to do?”

“We can’t give them Tylar,” Kathryn said, dropping to the lowermost bunk.

“They hold all of Tashijan in ransom.” Argent paced the room’s narrow length. His sword smacked his leg with every turn. He rested his hand on the diamond pommel to quiet it. “We must consider the greater good.”

Kathryn opened her mouth, but Tylar cut her off. “The warden is right.” He ignored the fire that flared in her eyes and flushed her cheeks. “We must make a choice between sacrificing one person or risking the fall of Tashijan, a loss that would threaten all the Nine Lands during this dark time. Even my life is not worth such a price.”

“But will they truly take only your life?” she answered heatedly.

Both men frowned at her words.

She sighed in exasperation. “This cadre of gods worked up a storm and sent it against us. And we know they already employ Dark Grace.” She waved vaguely toward where Eylan awaited their decision. “We cannot discount the possibility that these gods are in league or perhaps just manipulated by the Cabal. Look at the choices we are offered by their emissary. Lose you or see Tashijan fall. Both ends serve the Cabal. And the threat below-Mirra’s black legion-only compounds the danger. We must ask ourselves an important question before we decide how to answer their demand.”

“What’s that?”

“Is there a connection between Mirra below and the storm without?” She glanced to Tylar, then to the warden. “Consider how these two forces are conjoined so perfectly. Is it happenstance alone-is Mirra merely taking advantage of the situation? Or is it something more insidious? Does the Cabal control the gods, too? Openly or secretly. Either way, if we hand Tylar over to them, his death might not be all they seek. Could they turn Tylar and his powers against all of us? If they somehow enslaved him like the Wyr-mistress below, he would be a weapon that could take down not only Tashijan but all of Myrillia.”

Argent had stopped pacing and stood with his arms crossed, studying the floor. Tylar leaned on the edge of a small table. He stared down at the crook of his broken finger. It ached all the way up to his elbow. He used the pain to keep him sharp.

“To gain Tylar as a weapon would be the Cabal’s ultimate victory,” Kathryn continued. “Better to hold strong here. If we bend to their demands now, we’ll be forever at their mercy. Tashijan must be defended.”

“But what if you’re wrong?” Argent said. “What if these storm gods only want to end Tylar’s abomination? We’d risk Tashijan.”

“Tashijan is already at risk,” she answered. “And always will be until the Cabal is destroyed. Our towers stand tall, for a reason. To attract those who seek to bring Myrillia low. We are the first defense. We must not fail.”

Argent looked little convinced. He continued his study of the stone floor. “If only we knew the truth…”

Tylar mumbled to himself, “There is one who knows.”

The warden lifted his face. “Who?”

Tylar had not meant to be heard, but he had no choice but to answer. “The Wyr-mistress. Eylan. She’s been to the storm’s heart and back.”

“But she’s lost to us,” Kathryn said.

Tylar nodded. He could not argue against that. Eylan was buried deep in that black melody of seersong. He pictured her eyes, flinty and cold, as dead as a frozen lake. Seersong proved impossible to resist.

Even for him.

He shuddered at the memory. All will and wit had been stripped from him in a moment. Though he had remained aware, all his focus had narrowed to the point of a needle, centered on the next note, ready to do anything to hear it, deaf to all else, obedient to one.

Only for a moment had he been able to shake the thrall. When he had feebly attempted to warn the others to flee.

Go…run…

How had he managed that?

“We are chasing shadows,” Argent said. “We must make this decision based on what we know, not what we might imagine. In one bell’s time, the storm gods will freeze our towers. And if that doesn’t kill us, Mirra’s daemons will follow in their wake. There is only one way to stem such a tide-even if such an act only buys us more time to rally, we must give them Tylar.”

“Let us not make such a decision rashly,” Kathryn argued.

Tylar let their words drift to the back of his mind. Other words rose, his own words. Go…run… He remembered uttering that warning, breaking free of the song for just that moment. He’d been trapped in song before and after. Up until now, harried by daemons, he’d not had the time to ponder it further.

He did so now.

Go…run…

He went back to those words, to the song, to the moment before he spoke those words. Though deafened to all but Mirra’s seersong, something had reached him. A discordant note had pierced through the lilting spell, not loud, but enough to jar him momentarily loose. He heard an echo of it now.

It had been a single word moaned in pain: No…

And he knew who had uttered that word.

Tylar shoved off the table and back to his feet.

“The boy.”

Out in the hall, Brant sat with Rogger on the stone floor, backs against the wall. In simple words, he learned the fate of his friend Dralmarfillneer, how the giant had been struck down by a poisoned dagger.

“And the witch still lives,” Brant said bitterly.

Rogger placed a hand on his knee. “Aye, she does. Evil is too stubborn to die easily. But your friend’s death saved all our lives.”

Brant shaded his eyes to hide the welling tears. “I must get word to his brother.”

“Time enough for that, young man. No need to rush to break someone’s heart.”

The door down the hall finally opened. Steps away, Krevan straightened from where he had been talking with Calla. Rogger rose from his seat on the floor. The dagger in his fingers vanished back into its sheath.

Brant stood, too.

The regent led the others out the door. Plain from their faces, some decision had been made. The warden passed Brant, casting him a strange glance with his one eye.

“I’ll clear the lower stair,” he said and continued on.

Tylar stopped in front of them. He waited until the warden had vanished away. He turned to Castellan Vail. “How is Gerrod managing?”

“He’s struggling his best to follow the orders you left with him. He’s not sure he has enough humour.”

“We’ll have to do with as much as he can muster. We may not have much time.”

“I know.” Kathryn headed down the hall.

Rogger spoke. “So can we assume that the warden isn’t going to just toss you arse-bared into the winter storm?”

“Not for the moment.” The regent clapped Brant on the shoulder. “We have one hope.”

A moment later, Brant stood three steps from the icy floor of the lower central hall. His breath huffed white into the frigid air. Tylar stood a step below. Rogger shared Brant’s perch, kneeling, the bile-wrapped skull resting on his lap. Krevan stood guard behind them with Calla and Kathryn. Upon the warden’s order, the rest of the stairs had been emptied back to the landing.

“What am I supposed to do?” Brant asked.

“Just call her name,” Tylar said. “When you feel the burning, you must keep talking. Anything. As long as you don’t stop.”

Brant stared out to the frost-covered woman. She stood as if unaware of their presence. Eyes unblinking, toes frozen to the ice. It did not appear she even breathed. No breath steamed from either nostrils or lips.

Still Brant sensed something studying them, wary and watchful.

He clutched the stone at his throat. “I know nothing about breaking curses,” he mumbled.

Rogger explained. “If Tylar is right, your stone seemed to counter the seersong in the skull. At least you were able to break its hold momentarily on Tylar. The why and how of it all will have to wait for now.” The man shrugged. “And if it doesn’t work, no harm done.”

No harm…

Brant remembered the burn. He glanced to the skull in Rogger’s lap. The tainted bone had ruined his home and traveled half the world to haunt him again. Did no one understand it was best destroyed? He had to resist kicking it from the man’s thighs and stamping it to crumbles. But would that truly end its curse? Perhaps a cleansing fire…

Rogger seemed to read his intent. “Your friend gave his life to help steal this from the witch below. Pay back a small part of that blood debt. Use the stone and skull to strike back at them.”

Brant scowled at him, recognizing when someone was trying to ply his emotions. He hated the man for the attempt-mostly because it worked. He had to try.

For Dral.

He nodded.

“Ready yourself, then,” Tylar said.

Brant ignored him. There was no preparing.

Rogger studied Brant a moment longer, then reached and peeled back a flap of bile-caked sailcloth. A peek of bone showed. It was enough.

He gasped as the stone ignited between his fingers, melting fat, burning flesh. Flames roared into his chest. He moaned, trying his best to expel the heat. His legs went weak.

Tylar caught him and lowered him to the stairs. “Speak her name,” the regent said.

Brant tried, but fire seared his throat. It was agony to breathe. Sweat poured like molten fire into every crease.

“You’re killing him,” he heard the castellan warn. “There must be another way.”

Brant rocked on the stairs, seeking some way to escape the pain.

“Her name…” Tylar said.

Brant knew only one way. He let the fire build. He squeezed the stone with one hand. The agony stoked until he could stand it no more. He screamed. “EYLAN!”

He felt a slight ebb of the pain. Tears blurred his vision and trembled the woman’s form.

“She’s moving,” Rogger said.

It wasn’t just illusion. The woman stumbled a step, almost losing her footing on the slick ice. Then she seemed to catch herself and began to stiffen again.

“Again…” Tylar said. “Anything. Each word will help break through the seersong to reach her.”

Brant searched deep inside himself, seeking something to fortify him against the pain, to free his tongue. But all he found were more flames. They burnt through all his memories, stripping years. Page after page of his life turned to ash. Finally a memory appeared, one long lost and buried by a tide of days. A thatched room, hard arms cradling him, rocking him…and a lullaby gently sung to the moons, sung to hold back the night.

It was a mother’s tune, but he’d had no mother.

This memory refused to burn, shielded by grief and lit by flames.

In that moment, he recognized all he truly lost so long ago. Had he ever truly mourned more than the hunter who was his father? He listened to the lullaby and grabbed the grief that he had unknowingly carried with him all these years, as buried as this lone memory.

He let the flames carry forth his anguish.

He started haltingly, words dissolving into gasps and moans, etched with agony. But he refused to stop. He continued to sing-not for Tylar, not to break curses, not even for his lost father. He sang for the boy who wanted those hard arms around him one last time.

Tylar did not even recognize when the boy had begun to sing. Brant lay on his side, curled on the stairs, moaning. Then Tylar saw Eylan stir again out in the ice. She hobbled a step toward them…then another.

Only then did Tylar perceive a whisper of words from the boy’s pained lips. “‘Come, sweet night…steal the last light…so your moons may glow.’”

Below, Eylan lifted an arm, trembling, confused.

“The seersong’s grip is loosening,” Rogger said, rising with the skull under one arm.

Krevan slipped down to join them. Kathryn went to the boy, kneeling and lifting his head into her lap. She stroked back the lanky hair that had plastered to his forehead with sweat.

He whimpered, then continued, thready and weak. “‘Come, sweet night…hide all our worries…so our dreams will flow.’”

“He’s burning up,” Kathryn warned, glancing to Tylar.

“But it’s working,” he countered.

Eylan lifted her head toward them. Ice still clouded her eyes, but the depth had melted. Lips parted and cracked. Blood flowed.

“No…” she moaned. “Stop…”

Hands rose to her ears. But against whom was she warding? Her new masters out in the storm or their attempt here?

Eylan took another step in their direction. Cakes of frost fell from her arms and legs. “Must stop…”

Blood dripped from her chin and splattered to the ice, steaming and hot. The seersong’s hold was plainly melting, releasing her.

“Eylan,” Tylar said. “Tell us about the storm.”

“Must stop them…”

He was still unsure whom she meant.

Behind Tylar, the boy continued his tinny whisper. “‘Come sweet night…protect all the children…’til the cock’s first crow.’”

Eylan’s eyes found his. Tylar read flinty glimpses of clarity. Her face twisted in a rictus of agony, baring too many teeth.

“Help them,” she keened out at him. “Free them…”

The words echoed Brant’s earlier words, when he’d held the skull down below. Tylar glanced back to the boy, remembering the strange discourse.

HELP THEM…FREE THEM…FIND THEM.

The boy had no memory of what he had been saying. Tylar turned back to Eylan. But here was someone who might know.

“Find them…” Eylan gasped out, finishing the same chorus.

“Who?” Tylar shouted out to her.

She fell to one knee on the ice. Blood now poured from both nostrils. The war for her mind was tearing her apart.

“It’s killing her.” Rogger confirmed it at Tylar’s side. “The seersong has its hooks deep in her mind and spirit. Ripping them out is destroying her.”

Out on the floor, she sank to one buttock, supported by an arm on the ice, weakening rapidly.

“The boy’s almost gone,” Kathryn said behind him.

He had no choice.

“Who?” he called again to Eylan. “Who are we supposed to find?”

She lifted her face. “The rogues… find the other rogues…chained and forced…” She suddenly coughed, spewing crimson across the ice.

“Forced to do what?”

Eylan opened her mouth to speak, but only blood flowed. Tears streamed down her face. She lifted her arm and pointed toward the wrecked gate.

“The storm?” he asked quietly.

Her only agreement was the sagging drop of her arm. Her head sank heavily, too.

“Where are they? How do we find them?”

Eylan did not stir, seeming deaf to him now.

“The boy’s stopped breathing!” Kathryn gasped out and stood. She hauled the boy up in her arms and faced Rogger. “Cover the skull!”

Hesitating, Rogger glanced to Tylar. Both of them knew they needed more answers.

“He can’t speak any longer!” Kathryn screamed at the both of them. “Rogger, cover the skaggin’ skull!”

Recognizing the truth of her words, he finally obeyed and whisked the sailcloth back over the skull. He shrugged an apology at Tylar.

A scrape drew Tylar’s attention back out on the ice.

Eylan’s fingers scratched at the ice. Her head lolled like a broken doll. Then an arm pushed, a leg shifted. She began to rise.

“The song is claiming her again,” Rogger said.

White frost climbed her calves and scrawled up from her wrists, coating her again, collecting up its lost puppet.

She lifted her head. Her eyes found Tylar. He read the clarity before it drowned away. Her lips moved and one word escaped, an answer to his last question.

“Hinterland…”

Then her eyes iced over.

Before he could grieve, a sharp twang startled him.

From Eylan’s forehead, a small puff of feathers bloomed-then seeped blood. A crossbow bolt. Her head fell back, followed by her body. She crashed to the ice.

Dead.

Tylar turned.

Krevan lowered his crossbow. He matched Tylar’s stare-then turned and climbed the stair. It was a cold act, but the right one.

For Tashijan, for Eylan.

Still, Tylar remained silent as Krevan left. He had noted how much the pirate’s arm shook as he lowered the bow.

Kathryn led the others, sweeping up the stairs toward her hermitage. Behind her, Krevan carried Brant. The boy had begun breathing again, but it remained shallow, and he’d yet to wake.

Fury helped fuel her course. She had cradled the boy as he had come within a hair of dying. Though she understood Tylar’s desire for every bit of information, there were lines between necessity and cruelty. To use the boy so harshly bordered on as black an art as those they fought practiced.

Still, he breathed now-and none had noted her tears as she’d held him. A part of her felt foolish, and a good amount of her anger was directed at herself. Had she not seen enough death? Why did this boy’s life warrant tears when the loss of so many others had not? But she knew the answer. She knew the source of those hot tears.

They rose as much for the son she had lost long ago as the boy here this night, churned up by her fury at Tylar for risking Brant. That anger stoked embers within Kathryn that she’d thought had long gone cold. But a fire remained, a buried resentment toward Tylar for his role in the loss of their child. He had willingly plied with the Gray Traders, opening himself up to accusation and misuse. A path that eventually led to a bloody bed and a tiny body in her palms.

Brant moaned in Krevan’s arms. A hand rose. At least this boy would live.

She took a shuddering breath and continued onward.

As if sensing some dam had broken inside her, Tylar pushed up to join her. “Argent will be furious,” he said.

“I’ll deal with him,” she said coldly.

And for the moment, the warden was anything but furious. Jubilant was more the word to describe him after he discovered that Eylan had been slain. He had been more than willing to allow them all to flee up into the highest levels of Tashijan, their duty done. With the storm’s deadly emissary gone, the ice had melted and receded from the lower hall.

But for how long?

They needed to be prepared.

Argent took over the refortification of the first level. Fires had to be relit, stations posted, and the broken main gate repaired. He had Master Hesharian leading a group of masters to discern some defense against another attack. They didn’t know how long a respite was bought with Eylan’s life, but all knew the war was not over.

“Have you heard any further word from Master Gerrod?” Tylar asked.

She shook her head. “I sent a runner up to let him know our urgency. Dart should be ready as well.”

“We’ve shaken them up,” Tylar said, referring no doubt to the powers that wielded the storm. “But it won’t last long. We must take advantage of it.”

She nodded.

As they rounded another landing, a booming shout rose to their right. “Master Brant!” From the hallway, a massive shape pushed out on the stair. A loam-giant. “What have you done with Master Brant?”

There was an equal amount of threat as grief in his voice.

Tylar held up a palm. “He lives. We’re taking him to the healers up in the castellan’s hermitage.”

“I’ll take him, then.” The giant pushed toward Krevan.

Once his shoulders cleared the hall, Kathryn spotted a gathering of others, hanging back, plainly curious for news. She also saw the Oldenbrook guard who had accompanied Tylar into the cellars. He stood next to a lithe woman in a silver nightrobe.

“Back to your rooms!” she ordered them.

There was a small motion back, but she was mostly ignored. She had no time to argue and turned to the giant, ready to give him the same instructions.

Rogger, though, touched her arm. He whispered. “That is the twin brother of the giant that died below.”

Kathryn let her angry breath sigh out of her. Only now did she note the watery pain in the giant’s eyes, still angry, needing something to do. Apparently the Oldenbrook guard had brought word of his brother’s demise.

She waved to Krevan. “Let him come.”

He took the boy up in his massive arms with surprising gentleness.

Brant stirred, jostled. His eyelids opened. “Mal…” he said hoarsely.

“I got ya, Master Brant.”

A feeble hand rose and touched the giant’s chin. “Dral…”

“I heard…I know, Master Brant.” The giant nodded for them to continue. “We’ll get our blood from them yet. Then we’ll mourn.”

They wound the rest of the way to the top of Stormwatch, reaching her hermitage again. The remainder of Krevan’s Flaggers still guarded her door. All had been quiet, they reported.

Such seemed impossible after all the chaos below, but she took them at their word and led the others inside. Dart and Laurelle shared chairs by the hearth, while the young wyld tracker napped against the curled bulk of the bullhound.

They all rose, one after the other as the party pushed inside.

Dart’s eyes widened as she saw the giant carry in Brant’s weak form. A hand rose to her throat with concern.

“He’ll live,” Kathryn promised her. “Can you show him to the healers? He might have to share the bed with Lorr.”

“Not this night, my lady.” A form hobbled in from the back room, drawn by their arrival.

“Lorr-what are you doing out of bed?”

Though barefooted, he had donned his breeches and had a loose shift open. His left arm was swathed with bandages, but his face was uncovered, baring his burns. The blistered flesh had already settled to a pinkish hue across his cheek and in a goathorn curl up the side of his head.

“The work of your fine healers…masters of Grace, they are.”

A grunt discounted his words as Healer Fennis rounded behind him. “Stubbornness of this prickly tracker, more like it.” He waved the giant over to him. “And a fair amount of quickened healing due to his Grace-blessed nature.”

Lorr shrugged.

Healer Fennis followed the giant into the next room, calling to his wife. “Don’t put away the whistlewort yet, my dear.”

“They’ll have to manage as best they can,” Tylar said. “Weak or not, we must be gone with the boy in the next quarter bell.”

Kathryn understood.

“We leave so soon?” Dart said.

Kathryn turned to her. “Do you have your bag ready?”

“I helped her,” Laurelle said and nodded to a stuffed sack-cloth beside the hearth.

Tylar turned to Krevan. “Can you send Calla above? Have her check with Master Gerrod on how long until the flippercraft is ready?”

Krevan obeyed, then returned. He knew of their plan, plotted before they’d ever ventured into the cellars, but he did not know everything. “How can we hope to pierce the storm? Won’t the storm suck the air alchemies from the ship?”

“Tylar and Gerrod have worked something out,” Kathryn said. “The better question is what to do after you make it through?”

The plan had been simple before. To get Tylar and Dart out of Tashijan. They could not risk Rivenscryr falling into the Cabal’s hands, especially with Dart here, too. And once through the storm, Tylar could rally the gods of the First Land and whatever forces could be brought to bear.

But now matters had become more complicated, with the skull, with the boy, with the dying words from Eylan.

“We must find the rogues,” Tylar said. “We knew the storm out there had to be fed by more than one god. Ulf alone could not wield such forces from Ice Eyrie. We assumed he had the support of a cadre of gods, more of the Hundred who sought my downfall.”

“It was a reasonable assumption,” Kathryn said. “No one considered rogue gods might be involved. They are wild and raving creatures, beyond such masterful manipulation of vast amounts of Grace.”

“Unless they were enslaved,” Tylar said. He glanced to Rogger, who had the skull wrapped up in his satchel. “Like Keorn must have been, trapped in seersong. Somehow he was able to escape, to flee into Saysh Mal, sacrificing himself to bring a warning out.”

“And carrying with him a means to free his trapped brethren.” Rogger nodded toward the next room. “The stone…bonded to the boy.”

“I’m not sure that all is so simple,” Kathryn said. “There is more going on. But either way, does any of us doubt the Cabal is behind the enslavement of these rogues?”

No one voiced a dissent.

“Then that answers my earlier question. Mirra’s forces and the storm were brought against us as a unified strategy. A coordinated attack to capture Tylar and gain the Godsword. Mirra may even know about Dart. And once they gained such power, Tashijan would surely be torn apart, not only destroying the bastion for all of Myrillia, but murdering a good portion of the Hands that serve the gods around here. In one move, we could lose this entire Land.”

“Artful strategy,” Rogger said. “You have to respect that. They must have been planning this for years.”

“Or even longer,” Krevan said. “I fear that, like the Wyr, the Cabal’s plots are stretched over centuries.”

“And if the castellan is correct,” Rogger said, “it’s all the more reason to get Dart and Tylar free of here.”

“And what of the rogues?” Krevan asked.

Tylar rubbed at the corner of his eye, almost tracing his tattooed stripes. Kathryn recognized it as a gesture of intense concentration. She also noted the wrapped digit of the same hand. She had heard that it had not healed. Tylar had dismissed it earlier, but Kathryn feared that the Dark Graces flowing through here threatened the complicated spell that bonded naethryn to man. Yet another reason to get him clear of Tashijan.

Tylar finally spoke. “If the enslaved rogues are fueling this storm, then we can end this siege by finding and freeing them. As Eylan warned.”

“Simple enough,” Rogger said. “But that depends on two things.”

All eyes turned to him.

He held up a finger. “First, Tashijan must hold out that long.”

Kathryn nodded. That was her duty. To remain behind and rally the towers as best she could. To hold firm until Tylar could bring in additional forces-or find some way to free them. It wasn’t only rogues that were ensnared by the Cabal.

Rogger held up a second finger. “And more importantly, we must find this coven of song-cast gods.”

Tylar nodded. Here was his duty. “Eylan has offered us one clue. Hinterland.”

“Not exactly a map, now, is it?” Rogger said. “Half of Myrillia is still unsettled hinter. We can spend a lifetime or more to find them.”

“Maybe not,” Krevan said. “The skull came from Saysh Mal. The Eighth Land’s hinter is the trickiest maze of them all, and the most wild and dangerous.” The pirate glanced to Tylar. “Not one shadowknight has ever set foot in there and returned to tell about it. If you’re going to hide something from Tashijan, that would be a good place to begin.”

“And it was in that hinter that Keorn was captured,” Tylar said.

Krevan nodded. “The Wyr had tracked him there, then lost him. Only to have him appear again in Saysh Mal.”

“Then that’s where we’ll begin our search,” Tylar said.

“We may have one other ally to aid us,” the pirate said. He pointed to Rogger’s burdened satchel. “Wyrd Bennifren waits just outside of Saysh Mal, in the neighboring hinterland, for the skull. The trade still stands. We can ransom it against the Wyr’s knowledge.”

“Not a bargain I’d trust,” Rogger said.

“But we have little choice,” Tylar said. “And in some small way, perhaps it’s a debt we owe to Eylan.”

No one argued against that.

Rogger finally spoke. “I forgot one last item that stands between us and success.” He raised his hand and now held up three fingers. “Before any of this can begin, we have to get our arses out of here.”

After several matters had been settled further, Tylar stepped into the back room. They could wait no longer.

“It is time,” he told the healers.

Healer Fennis and his wife bustled on either side of the bed, shoving last bits of balms and wraps into an overstuffed pack. “Are you sure that’s everything?” Fennis asked.

His wife gave him a look that seemed equal parts exasperation and certainty.

Fennis held up a hand, acquiescing. Wise man.

Lorr crossed and picked up the pack.

“There’s extra wrappings,” Fennis said, fingering at the dressings on the man’s arm. “If you’ll need them.”

Lorr batted him away. “Don’t mind me. Get the boy ready.”

Tylar studied the wyld tracker. He had agreed to let Lorr join their search. His hunting and tracking skills could prove useful out in the hinterlands. It would be foolish to refuse such experienced service. The man hauled the laden bag with ease, little fazed by his burns.

Brant, though, looked little better, burnt as well, but on the inside, where it was harder for balms to reach. His bronze skin had yellowed and stretched thin across his bones. And though his breathing was stronger, when he tried to lift himself up on an elbow, he failed.

Tylar caught the healer’s eye.

“He’s been well-draughted,” the man assured him. “Addles a bit. By midday on the morrow, he’ll feel half his oats again.”

He nodded. Morning was not far off, but it seemed like a fanciful dream, a hope that one did not really expect to attain.

Kathryn hurried inside, slightly breathless. “I heard word. Argent has gotten wise to what we’re planning.”

Tylar clenched a fist.

“I’ll get Master Brant,” the giant said.

The loam-giant rose from a crouch on the far side of the bed and plucked away the bedsheet. He gently collected Brant out of his nest of pillows with a regretful expression.

Brant startled, clutching at the man’s neck.

“Just Mal, Master Brant.”

The boy’s eyes focused and searched the room. “We’re heading out?” he asked through thin lips.

“We must,” Tylar said and led them back to the main room. The others were already waiting.

“I’m coming with you,” Mal said.

Tylar thought to argue, but the giant’s brother had died to gain them this vantage. Plus the man was plainly strong and could prove his value. An objection arose, though, from another corner.

“No,” Brant mumbled. “The whelpings?”

“I locked ’em up in your rooms,” the giant said. He pulled a key from a pocket as proof.

“Who’s going to-?” Brant coughed away the last of his words, but the worry shone in his wan face.

Mal’s brow furrowed into deep-plowed tracks, caught between two duties.

He was saved by a hand plucking the key from his fingertips. Lorr tossed the key over to the young tracker beside the bullhound. “Kytt and Barrin will look after them.”

The young tracker bumbled the iron key, and it fell with a clatter.

Laurelle retrieved it as it bounced to her toes. “I’ll help, too.”

Mal sighed with relief. “They’ll take good care of the mites.”

Brant still wore a troubled expression, but he did not object.

With such matters settled, they set out. Dart gave her friend Laurelle a final teary-eyed hug. Then the group was on its way at a quick pace, herded close, led by Kathryn.

Halfway down the hall, a long-limbed man in blue livery, spotless and unwrinkled, blocked the way. “The warden sent word that no one is to leave this floor!” he scolded.

“Out of our way, Lowl,” Kathryn said, stiff-arming him aside. Luckily all of Argent’s forces were occupied down below, leaving only this manservant to attend his orders here. “I’ll take it up with the warden when I get back.”

Chased by the man’s objections, they hurried to the stairs and fled up toward the top of the tower. A cool wind wafted down to them. Tylar heard the pound of hammer on wood. That could not be good. With Argent below and the storm without, they had no time for delays.

Tylar found Captain Horas just inside the door that led out to the flippercraft dock atop Stormwatch. He had a stick of coal in one hand and had been calculating on the wall. Numbers and symbols lined from floor to eye. Some crossed out, others circled.

The man wore the yellow-and-white uniform of his station, but it was stained and smudged. From the smell, not all of it was coal.

“Won’t work…” the captain muttered, scratching his head with his sliver of coal.

Tylar joined him and waved the others out on the dock.

Captain Horas had to squeeze against the wall to allow Malthumalbaen to pass. His eyes tracked the giant, then back to Tylar. “He’s not going, is he?”

Tylar nodded.

“Sweet aether…” The captain scratched a line of calculations. “A dozen, that’s the most we’ll be able to ferry through the storm. If we can ferry through the storm.” He laughed, but it held no mirth. “And I need three men to crew…and that giant…that’s two men right there.”

Tylar took the charcoal from his fingers and turned the man toward the open door. “We’ll have to manage.” He gave him a push out into the freezing bite of the storm’s heart.

Outside, the others gaped at the state of the flippercraft. The woodwrights had proven their mastery. The stoved ship seemed to be patched well. Details were fairly smeared away.

Lorr held a hand over his nose. Tylar did not blame him. The reek was overpowering even in the open.

“Black bile,” Krevan said with a shake of his head.

One of the dockworkers, masked against the stench, swabbed a sodden mop over the outer planking of the ship’s bow, smearing more black bile over a thin patch. Shouts echoed. Ladders were being hauled aside.

Tylar hurried to the others.

Rogger stood with his fists on his hips. “A ship of shite…now that’s a boat fit for a regent.”

Gerrod crossed toward the group, expressionless behind his bronze armor. He was followed by a welcome figure. Delia was bundled in a heavy coat, also splattered with bile.

“You had enough humour?” Tylar asked the armored master.

“Barely. We’ve emptied all of Tashijan’s storehouses.”

“And a few privies, I’d imagine,” Rogger said.

Gerrod ignored him. “Mistress Delia has proven to be an able alchemist. She had some suggestions for heightening the Grace with tears. It will not last long, but hopefully long enough to get through the storm.”

Delia stood to the side with her arms crossed. Her eyes flitted to Kathryn and back to him, her face unreadable, smudged with bile.

Gerrod continued, “Her suggestion allowed us to thin the coating across the flippercraft, while still hopefully blocking the storm’s ability to draw Grace out of the ship’s mekanicals as you pass through it. But even bile has its limits. You will have to gain as much wind as you can before attempting to spear through the storm’s ring.”

“We’ll make it,” Tylar said. They had no other choice.

A shout by the stairway door reminded them that Argent was on his way.

“Everybody aboard,” Kathryn said.

Tylar waved them toward the open hatch. Captain Horas and two of his men had already boarded, all wearing expressions of doom. Tylar watched the others climb inside. They looked no more confident, except Rogger, who was whistling.

The last to leave, Tylar turned to Kathryn and Delia. Gerrod had already clanked off to oversee something near the stern tie-down.

The two women seemed to suddenly become aware they were alone together. Kathryn broke the spell first. “I should get below. Argent will need much calming. And we have our towers to ready.”

Delia stepped off after her. “And I should see to Laurelle and the other Hands.”

Tylar lifted an arm, to object, to offer some more intimate farewell.

But he wasn’t sure to which woman he raised his arm.

Before he could decide, the pair retreated back toward the warmth and light of the open tower door. Left out in the cold, Tylar turned toward the waiting ship. A frigid breeze swept through him. His broken finger ached, and behind the palm print on his chest, something deep inside him churned with distress.

Rogger stood at the open hatch to the flippercraft and waved him to hurry. Ducking against the wind, Tylar headed toward the ship.

He did not whistle.

Dart held tight to the belt that secured her seat as the flippercraft lifted from its docking cradle. A tremble passed underfoot and under her buttocks. The mekanicals had been set to full burn. In her belly, she felt the world fall away under her.

Pupp stood near her seat, legs wide, spiky mane sticking straight out around his face. Dart swore she could hear him whine in the back of her head, but maybe it was the mekanicals ratcheting up into higher pitches, where the normal ear could not discern but only felt in the bones.

She glanced to the porthole window beside her head, but there was nothing to see. Even the windows were coated with bile.

Across from her sat Calla, the gray-cloaked Black Flagger. Despite the ash on her face, Dart read the worry. She kept glancing to Krevan, her leader, who stood at the door to their tiny cabin braced in the opening, ready to ride out the storm on his feet. He had argued earlier to join Tylar and the captain in the forward controls, but he had been refused. Captain Horas was in no mood to argue, and Tylar supported him.

“His ship, his command,” the regent had said.

Past Krevan, another cabin stood open to the hall. Malthumalbaen filled an entire bench by himself. Brant was propped up next to him, his head hanging, asleep or despondent. The giant rested a massive hand on his shoulder. On the opposite bench, Lorr sprawled on his back, knees up, as if they were all afloat on a sunny river.

Rogger spoke beside her. “Best you blink a few times, lass. Your eyeballs will dry out if you keep staring like that.”

Dart leaned back. Her fingers remained clenched.

“We’ll get through this storm,” he assured her.

“How do you know?” She coughed to chase the tremulous keen from her words.

“We’re covered in shite. What storm god would want to snatch us from the air? Probably part the clouds themselves so we don’t smudge their snowy whiteness.”

She offered a weak smile.

“We’ll make it through,” he promised.

She took a measure of strength from his confidence, but not all her worries were buried in the storm. We’ll make it through. But what then? Though she appreciated Rogger’s company, she was all too aware of the burden he carried in his satchel. It rested beside him tied to his wrist.

The skull of the rogue god.

She had been trying her best to ignore it, to dismiss it as some cursed talisman, none of her concern. Even the others continued to avoid mentioning the more intimate history of the bones.

The rogue had a name.

Keorn.

After so many years wondering about her mother and father, dreaming her childhood fantasies, here was her reality. Her father was no faceless rogue. In one night, she had gained not just a father, but an entire lineage.

Chrism’s son.

That made her Chrism’s granddaughter.

It had been Chrism who had forged Rivenscryr and sundered the gods’ homeworld in the first War of the Gods. And now a new war was starting here on Myrillia. Ancient enmities, drowned in the naether, were rising again.

And she stood at the heart of it.

Chrism’s granddaughter.

That was enough to unsettle her, to make her want to run and keep running. But that was not the primary reason for her bone-deep unease. She had long come to accept her heritage as the progeny of rogue gods. Even this new revelation of her heritage, she could come to acknowledge. In fact, she had already unburdened her fears to Laurelle and Delia. After an initial surprise, Laurelle had readily accepted her heritage.

“It makes no difference,” Laurelle had said and hugged her to prove it.

But it had been Delia who truly helped return Dart’s footing. “It doesn’t matter,” she had said. “You are not your father, nor your grandfather. And I should know, being the daughter of Argent ser Fields. Blood does not dictate the woman. Only your own heart does. You must remember that.”

And she would.

But that sentiment did not soothe another reality, one more solid than fear. She stared at the satchel. After so long being mere myth and dream, here was her father. The last of his bones. All that was left, all she would ever truly know. And despite the curse, she longed to touch them, to make at least that much contact, between daughter and father.

And deeper below this desire lay a well of grief.

Her father was dead. And if the stories were true, he had sacrificed himself to bring forth word of his enslaved and tortured brethren. This was also her heritage. And it both warmed her and filled her with sorrow.

Who was her father?

Even a name did not fully answer that.

She tried searching out the window to distract her, but there was nothing to see. We’ll make it through. Then what? From there, they would follow the last footsteps of her father.

But where would they lead?

Around her, the flippercraft shuddered, from bow to stern.

“We’re entering the storm,” Rogger said.

Tylar crashed against the railing. He clutched at the grip, earning a protest from his wrapped hand. He stood at the foot of the spar that led out to where the pilot had been belted to his chair. Like the bowsprit of a deepwhaler, the man’s perch protruded from the deck and overhung the wide curved glass Eye of the ship.

Nothing could be seen below. Blinded by bile, the pilot had to trust the calls of fathoms from his crewmate who manned a steaming curve of mekanicals locked in bronze to the left. The mica tubes and vessels bubbled with the churning alchemies. The mate, a short, bandy-legged man, kept a continuing report of the ship’s health and course.

On the far side of the deck, to the right, Captain Horas stood before another curve of mekanicals. He danced across the jarring deck as if it were as steady as stone. Tugging at his forked beard, he monitored his stations, becoming another mate of the three-man crew. At the same time, he did not forsake his role as captain.

“Two turns to port!” he shouted to the pilot. “Catch the wind on the aft flippers!”

This was his ship. He seemed to read its every bump and roll with more intent than the mekanical soundings. Tylar kept out of his way, out of everyone’s way. He was here only in case his blood was needed. Through his veins, raw Grace flowed. It bore the aspect of water, not air. But power was power, and if it proved necessary…

The ship heaved up on one side. Tylar slid down the smooth rail, hanging by his hands. Terror rang through him.

Captain Horas came running down the tilted deck. He skidded next to the smaller mate and clapped him on the shoulder as if greeting him on the street. “Feed a flow here…and here…” He tapped at two mica tubes that steamed and hissed.

“Will it hold?” the other asked, but he was already turning bronze knobs.

“It will have to,” Captain Horas said as the pilot corrected the roll and evened the deck. He crossed to Tylar on his way back to his original post. Their eyes met.

Tylar pulled on the rail to gain his feet. “How are the alchemies holding?”

“We’re losing air.” Horas read the concern in Tylar’s face. “Not air Graces, just air. The storm gods know what we attempt. I can practically sense their Dark Grace swirling around us, seeking some crack to suck the power out of our alchemies. But as long as we keep a full burn, the mekanicals are holding steady.”

The flippercraft suddenly dropped beneath Tylar’s feet. Someone screamed from the back of the ship. Then the deck came crashing back up, knocking Tylar to a knee.

Captain Horas landed lightly. He waved an arm outward, at the sky, at the storm. “The storm gods have grown wise to our artifice. It is not only Dark Grace we must fight. Bile can’t block a wind. The storm turns its winds against us, seeking to drag us out of the skies.”

“What can we do?” Tylar said.

“Fly, your lordship. That’s what my ship was made for!” He said this last with a savage grin. “We’ll keep flying until the ground stops us.”

Tylar gained his feet.

The pilot called from his spar. “Captain!”

Tylar and Horas turned to the man. He motioned below.

Tylar leaned over the rail. Below, the black Eye was now streaked with white. “We’re losing bile,” he said.

“Snow and ice…stripping us…” Horas shoved away from the rail and hurried back to his station.

The ship rolled, first to one side, then the other. Though still blinded, Tylar felt the pressure in his ears.

“We’re losing Grace!” Horas called. “They’re breaking through! Open all taps! Full flow!”

As Tylar watched, a large swath of bile washed off the Eye. Through the rent in their protection, the storm swirled white. He searched below, expecting a dark eye to form, to peer inside. Instead, far below, globes of light floated and rolled near the bottom of the storm, like luminescent fish at the bottom of the Deep.

As he struggled to discern the source, the pressure continued to squeeze his ears. They were plummeting into the depths of the storm. The strange lights below grew larger.

Captain Horas passed him again, drawing his eye. “The more power we burn,” he called as he passed, “the more Grace they steal!”

Tylar followed him across the deck. “Then stop burning Grace!” An idea grew in him. He joined the captain and the mate at the wall of mekanicals.

“Then we’ll fall to our deaths that much sooner,” Horas said.

Tylar kept his voice fierce. “You said this ship is built to fly! Then fly her! Cut the flow of Grace. Use the winds for as long as you can. Convince them we’re lost-flying Graceless.”

He read a growing understanding in the captain’s eyes. “You’re mad…”

“Gain as much distance as you can.”

The captain nodded. He waved for the mate to obey. Together the pair began shutting valves and turning knobs. The bubbling in the mica tubes slowed.

“Captain!” the pilot cried, sensing the sudden loss of Grace.

“Keep her nose up! Into the wind. True south!”

Tylar backed a step as the mate and captain stifled the flows. The tubes still steamed, but all that bubbling died.

“Keep the mekanicals stoked,” the captain said. “Hot and ready. Wait for my word.”

Horas led Tylar back to the rail. The deck tilted nose down. The pilot fought to pull her up, shoving the bow of the ship into contrary winds. The craft jarred up momentarily, gaining a bit more distance, a few breaths where the ship rose instead of falling. But it was a doomed struggle.

Down the nose went again.

Tylar bent over the rail. The floating lights grew as the land rose. The lights, azure and scintillating with power, grew clearer. Globes of lightning, trapped in the heart of the storm.

The plunging flippercraft sailed across a wide field of the glowing orbs, stirring them up with the wake of their passage. Below, the hills of Tashijan sped past, lit by the deadly cold fire.

But the hills weren’t empty.

A vast army spread across the hills.

“Wind wraiths,” Horas said, recognizing the spindly forms as they spiraled into the air, men and women born under alchemies of air, like loam-giants and wyld trackers.

But even from this height, Tylar saw the twist of their bodies. He remembered the tortured figure that had attacked them from the air in Chrismferry. The same here. Wind wraiths corrupted by Dark Grace into beasts.

“They’ve been ilked,” Tylar said.

A shout from the pilot warned them back from their dark observations. The hills climbed toward them. The captain watched, studying.

“Be ready!” he yelled to all.

Another breath…the ground rushed up at them.

“Now!”

To the side, the mate yanked a large bronze lever. Flows, boiling and pent, were finally released again. The mekanicals gasped with a thick wheeze of steam.

The pilot hauled on his controls, leaning back, as if by muscle alone he could pull the nose back up. But it wasn’t just muscle that powered the flippercraft now.

Grace slammed through the mekanicals.

A tubing exploded with a spat of flaming alchemies.

Horas rushed to aid the mate. Tylar kept his post by the rail.

The hills continued to rise toward them, snowswept waves ready to accept the keel of their craft. The army of wraiths vanished behind them, along with the globes of lightning.

The flippercraft raced across the frozen landscape.

Slowly…slowly…the nose lifted to an even keel. They flew no more than the height of a man over the hills. Then began to climb. Caught by surprise, the dark forces were sluggish in bringing their Dark Grace to bear. The churning alchemies remained steeped in the air aspect.

The pilot tilted their nose up, shooting back into the skies. The land dropped away, vanishing into the swirling snow.

Then in one breath, they were through the clouds and shot out into open air, like a bile-streaked arrow. The world opened and stretched ahead of them. Moonlight and starlight cast the world with a silvery gloaming.

“We made it,” Captain Horas said, making it sound more like a question.

“We did,” Tylar mumbled.

He turned to stare toward the stern of the flippercraft, but his eyes did not see the ship any longer. He pictured the wraith army-and the towers lost in the heart of the storm.

But mostly, he pictured two women’s faces.

Despite his fear for them, he turned his back on the storm. He had no choice. He had his duty.

Off to the east, the night sky purpled, heralding dawn and another day.

“Head south,” he ordered the captain.

“Aye, ser.”

The flippercraft swung toward the open sea. They would stop at Broken Cay, to wash their ship and freshen their alchemy. Tylar would send ravens flying in all directions. The First Land must rally, but he knew it would not be his war.

The skies continued to brighten to the east as the world turned, oblivious to the struggles of man and god.

Another day.

It was all a man could truly hope for in life.

One more day to make it all right.

Tylar stared south, beyond the curve of the world. He had escaped, but it was only a small victory. Saysh Mal and the hinterlands awaited. There were battles yet to be fought.

Still, something troubled Tylar.

Something he had forgotten.

Far below Tashijan, she sat in a stone chair. A spider, blanched white by a life beyond the sun, crept across her veined hand. Its legs suddenly curled, its body dried to a husk, and it rolled from her flesh.

Mirra did not move. She remained very still until a thin smile stretched her lips. Then she slowly rose to her feet.

“So he has slipped our noose,” she said to the darkness that surrounded her. The only illumination came from her stone seat, a melted drape of volcanic flowstone. It shone with a soft sheen of putrefaction and decay. She trailed one finger along its arm as she stood, sensing the whispers of her naethryn masters.

“No matter. Tashijan will fall all that much faster.”

She crossed to where the putrefying glow met the darkness. In that border, her creation abided, her last and most perfect. Twelve others circled this margin between corruption and darkness. They would serve their new master.

“Perryl,” she whispered, naming her finest creation.

No reaction. Eyes stared into nothingness.

“You know what you must do,” she whispered to him.

He lifted his sword in acknowledgment and stepped back into the darkness. He drifted into the shadows, his white face fading as if he were sinking into a black sea.

The others followed.

Her black ghawls were creatures of Gloom. They flowed through more than mere shadows. Just as these few had drifted between the glow and the darkness, they could also sail between the world of substance and the naether, spaces misted with Gloom, slipping between the cracks of the world.

Into one and out another.

No place was beyond their reach. Throughout Myrillia, such dark cracks existed, where Gloom seeped and leached into this world: down in sunless caverns, in the midnight depths of the sea, beyond sealed doors of forgotten crypts, even under the roots of ancient forests. Wherever Gloom bled and trickled, her legion could travel.

“Go,” she whispered to the fading figure. “Hunt them all down.”

As the ghawls slipped away, Perryl’s sword was the last to vanish, sheathing slowly into the Gloom. She reached for its tip, lanced through with malignant green fire. The Godslayer thought he had escaped-he remained blithely unaware of his own doom.

Her smile widened.

Though his naethryn had avoided the full kiss of Perryl’s blade, it had not remained unscathed. A nick was more than enough.

As the blade sank into the darkness, whispering with emerald fire, she named the poison within the sword, a venom without cure, already instilled in naethryn and man.

“The blood born of hatred…the blood of Chrism.”