The Cerulean Storm

TEN THE FORSAKEN VILLAGE

The two inixes stood in the center of the dusty plaza, their saddles empty and their reins hanging loose. Having battered down the bone railing that enclosed the village well, the great lizards had stuck their horny beaks into the dark hole as far as their stocky necks allowed. Apparently, they could not reach the water, for they were bellowing angrily and snapping their serpentine tails from side to side. The beasts’ riders, four Tyrian scouts, were nowhere in sight.

Magnus stood at the edge of the plaza, his dark eyes searching for some sign of the missing riders. He counted fifty-two stone huts ringing the plaza, each shaped like a beehive and covered with a scaly roof of gorak hide. He did not see any villagers peering out of the door ways, nor any of their herd-lizards roaming the dirt alley ways between the shacks. The place looked deserted. Even the scouts seemed to have disappeared without leaving any footprints by which to track them.

The unnatural quiet disturbed Magnus even more than the lack of visible activity. As his big ears swiveled around the plaza, he heard nothing-not a child whimpering, not a gorak scratching at a stone wall, not a stifling wind hissing through the streets. The place was as noiseless as death.

“Do you think this is Samarah?” asked Rikus. The mul whispered his question, apparently reluctant to disturb the eerie tranquility of the place.

The windsinger shrugged. “It’s in the right place,” he replied, starting toward the well. “But the inhabitants seem to have abandoned it.”

“Or been driven away,” said Sadira. Her voice was loud and sharp as she stepped from a narrow path between two huts.

“What do you mean?” asked Neeva. She was clutching her battle-axe in both hands, as if she expected to be attacked at any moment. Caelum and Rkard were not with her. When the scouts had not returned, she had sent them with what remained of the Bronze Company to examine the village’s southern perimeter. The Tyrian legion was circling around in the opposite direction, inspecting the north side. “Did you find something?”

The sorceress shook her head. “No, but I’m worried about what happened to Sa’ram.”

“Then tell us why,” Rikus demanded. “This is no time to make us guess.”

Sadira scowled at the mul, but Magnus interposed himself between the two spouses before she could retort. “Perhaps we should have something to drink first,” he said. “Thirst is making all our tempers short.”

The windsinger was not being very honest, and they all knew it. After the battle against the Raamins, the coolness that had come between Sadira and Rikus had warmed slightly for about a day. Then something had gone wrong, and now they could hardly speak without quarreling. From what the windsinger had gathered, Rikus had tried to make love to Sadira, and that had angered the sorceress, who was still mourning her other husband’s death.

As they moved across the square, Rikus peered around the windsinger. “I’m sorry, Sadira. That was uncalled for,” he said. “What were you going to say?”

Without acknowledging the apology, Sadira explained, “Jo’orsh said that Borys wanted him and Sa’ram because their magic was still hiding the Dark Lens,” she said. “But that was before Sa’ram was destroyed.”

The company neared the well, causing the inixes to look up and hiss. Magnus ignored their threats and began to examine the tackle on their backs, at the same time keeping his enormous ears turned toward the sorceress.

“So you’re worried that by destroying Sa’ram, you ruined the enchantment that had kept the Lens hidden all this time?” the windsinger asked. He pulled a heavy waterskin off an inix harness.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sadira said. “It’s been ten days since the battle with Abalach-Re. If the Dragon suddenly found himself able to locate the Lens, that would be more than enough time for him to come here and take it-along with the villagers, Tithian, and anyone else who happened to be here.”

“That’s true,” Magnus said, opening the waterskin in his hands. The liquid inside smelled too much of leather and lime to have come from the well. “But that doesn’t explain the absence of our scouts. Wherever they went, they didn’t take their waterskins. In fact, they didn’t even change water.”

Sadira and the others scowled. Anyone who traveled the Athasian desert knew to keep a waterskin handy, and it was a rare man who did not fill that sack with the freshest water available. That the scouts had not done this suggested they had not lingered at the well for long.

“There’s only one way to find out what’s going on here,” said Sadira. “We’ll have to search the village.”

“Right, but first things first,” said Rikus. He pushed an inix aside then retrieved a rope and bucket tied to the toppled rail. “I’m thirsty.”

The mul tossed the bucket into the pit. After falling for a moment, it struck the bottom of the well with a muffled sound somewhere between a splash and a thud. Rikus allowed the weighted pail a moment to sink, then pulled it up. He stepped away from the inixes and tipped his head back, closing his eyes in anticipation of a cool drink.

The water that flowed from the bucket was cloudy and pink. Rikus gulped down a mouthful, then made a sour face and threw the bucket across the plaza. “It tastes like blood!”

“That’s what it looked like-”

Hundreds of frightened voices cried out from the north side of the village. The screams lasted for only an instant, then faded away in a single, strangled croak. By the time Magnus and his companions had spun around to look toward the disturbance, Samarah had fallen silent again. They saw nothing but a hillside of orange stones rising above the scaly roofs of the empty village.

“We’d better see what happened,” said Sadira, leading the way across the plaza.

Magnus followed the others. They crossed the plaza in silence, the thick dust cushioning their footsteps, and entered a crooked lane running northward through a small borough of huts. Here, they had to plow through waist-high silt drifts filling the alley with gray clouds of dust. Neeva and Rikus began to choke and cough, but Magnus simply closed his mouth and breathed only through his huge nostrils. Deep within his nose, several membranes kept his airway clear by filtering out fine particles of dust.

The group emerged beside a small pasture that lay between the huts and the village wall. A blanket of undisturbed silt covered the ground, the jagged shapes of upturned stones visible beneath the gray shroud.

“We should be able to see the legion by now,” Magnus said. He pointed across the pasture.

The village wall rose only chin high. If the Tyrian warriors had been standing on the other side, it would have been an easy matter to spot their heads protruding above the crest. Magnus saw nothing but a slope of rock and dust.

“Four hundred warriors don’t just vanish,” Rikus said.

“The scouts did,” Magnus reminded him.

The mul grunted an acknowledgment, then said, “Let’s go and have a look.” He drew the Scourge, which had grown back to its original length.

Magnus pulled the mace from his belt, and the small company started across the field. The stones beneath the dust were loose and often shifted as soon as any weight was put on them. The companions had to move slowly, picking their way carefully to avoid turning an ankle.

Sadira reached the wall first. She peered over the top and cried out in alarm. The sorceress gave the barrier a hard shove and stones flew in all directions. She slipped through the resulting gap and stared at the ground with a horrified expression on her face.

Magnus and the others followed her through the breach. Along the base of the wall lay the Tyrian legion, still in column formation. Most warriors had fallen with their heads uphill. All were curled into the fetal position and clutched at their stomachs in agony. Their faces were twisted masks of anguish, except that their gaping mouths seemed more astonished than pained, and their vacant eyes uniformly stared at the same spot on the slope above. Although none of the bodies were moving, they looked more paralyzed than dead.

Magnus kneeled beside a red-haired woman whose hand still gripped her half-drawn sword. He leaned over her head, cocking one of his ears to cover her mouth and nose.

“Well?” Rikus demanded.

“Her lips no longer sing the song of being,” the windsinger said. He placed a hand on her torso. The flesh remained soft and warm, though it was as still as stone. “Nor does her heart carry the beat of life.”

“There are no wounds,” Neeva said, rolling a black-haired man over. “What happened?”

“Their life force was drawn from their bodies,” said Sadira. She climbed up the hillside to where the warriors’ dead eyes were fixed. “And this is where Borys was standing when he did it.”

Magnus and the others joined the sorceress. She stood beside a pair of three-toed footprints such as a bird might make-save that these were a full two paces across. The windsinger had no doubts about who had made the tracks, for he had seen the Dragon attack Kled and recognized the prints from there.

“You were right, Sadira,” Magnus observed. “Borys has beaten us to the Dark Lens.”

“So let’s take it back,” said Rikus. He studied the ground, looking for an indication of where the Dragon had gone. There were no other tracks, only the ones Sadira had discovered. “If we can find Borys.”

“I have a feeling he’ll find us,” said Magnus.

“Or my son!” gasped Neeva. She pointed across the village. A short distance beyond the south wall, the sun’s rays glinted off the bobbing figures of armored dwarves. “If he knows of the banshees’ prophecy, he’ll try to kill Rkard.”

The warrior had hardly spoken before a gaunt figure as tall as a giant appeared behind the Bronze Company, emerging from thin air as though stepping from behind an unseen curtain. He was the color of iron, with a chitinous hide equal parts flesh and shell. His head sat atop a serpentine neck and resembled that of a sharp-beaked bird, with a spiked crest of leathery skin. He had long, double-kneed legs, and his gaunt arms ended in knobby fingers with sword-length claws. The beast crept up behind the dwarves so silently that they seemed unaware that it was following them.

“Caelum! Behind you!” Neeva yelled. She started down the hill at a sprint.

Rikus followed instantly. Magnus was only a step behind when he felt Sadira’s fingers digging into his shoulder. “You go to the well.”

“But you’ll need help-”

“Do it, Magnus!” The sorceress looked across the village. Outside the wall, the Dragon had almost reached the rear ranks of the Bronze Company. The dwarves, who were too far away to have heard Neeva yell, seemed as oblivious as ever to his presence. “I’m not going to leave Rkard in danger!”

Sadira gave Magnus a gentle shove, and he found himself running down the slope. The windsinger glanced back and saw the sorceress looking toward the Bronze Company, one hand searching her cloak pocket for spell components. He faced forward again and rushed through the gap in the village wall.

Magnus crossed the rocky pasture at a full sprint, stones clattering and slipping beneath his pounding steps. He almost fell as he entered the narrow lane between the stone huts, knocking several holes in the walls as he bounced from one side to the other.

At last he emerged in the square. He saw Borys’s gaunt form looming above the huts on the south side of the village. The Dragon was hardly moving at all, simply staring down at the ground. Magnus feared the beast had already destroyed the Bronze Company, for he did not hear so much as a shield clanging outside the wall.

The windsinger rushed across the plaza, his huge feet crashing down on the dusty stones. The inixes looked up and hissed, then slowly backed away from the well to reveal Caelum and Rkard. The two Kledans sat on the ground, looking dazed and frightened.

“Don’t worry. Sadira used a spell to move you,” Magnus called, still fifty paces from the pair. “The Dragon destroyed the Tyrian legion, and now he’s after the Bronze Company.”

Rkard was on his feet instantly. “Then why’d she move us?” he demanded. “I can’t kill Borys from here!”

Outside the village wall, Neeva’s distant voice called, “Bronze Company, halt! Face to the rear!”

Billows of orange smoke poured from the Dragon’s nostrils, streaming out of sight as they passed behind the huts on Samarah’s south side. Dozens of warriors cried out in anger and fear. They began to cough and choke, but the windsinger did not hear the clang of any armored bodies falling to the ground. Neeva shouted a harsh command, ordering the dwarves to attack.

Rkard drew his sword and started toward the battle, but Caelum grabbed the youth’s shoulder to hold him back.

From outside the village came the clatter of dwarven axes striking stony flesh. Borys roared in anger and raised a clawed foot so high into the air that Magnus saw it above the roofs of the huts. The Dragon slammed his heel down. The windsinger heard death screams and crumpling metal.

Rikus screamed in anger, then Sadira’s voice rang out with the mystic syllables of a spell. A low growl rumbled through the ground, ending with a tremendous bang. The Dragon stumbled back. The dwarves gave a mighty cheer, and Magnus heard them tramping forward. Sadira called out another incantation, and a black bolt of magic energy blasted a hunk of scaly flesh off the beast’s shoulder. Borys sprayed glowing sand toward the village wall and retreated.

Neeva yelled the order to charge, and the clamor of running feet filled Magnus’s ears. The windsinger could also hear Rikus disparaging Borys’s courage in a futile attempt to lure him back to the fight. At the same time, Sadira was shouting for the company to spread out so that the Dragon could not use a spell to make an easy counterattack.

As Magnus joined Caelum and Rkard at the well, the boy looked up at him. “What are they doing?” Although the Dragon’s towering form had already retreated so far that it was no longer visible behind Samarah’s huts, the young mul’s eyes were still turned southward. “Jo’orsh and Sa’ram said I’m the one who’s going to kill the Dragon.”

“Perhaps, but we should not complain if your mother and her friends succeed now,” said the windsinger.

“Besides, I doubt that this battle will be our last one with Borys,” said Caelum. “He is a powerful enemy and will not be slain so easily.”

A hut at the plaza’s edge suddenly collapsed, spraying stones halfway across the square. Magnus looked toward the sound and scowled. “What caused that?”

“Whatever it was, I don’t like it.” Caelum raised his palm toward the sun.

“I’ll go take a look,” Magnus offered.

The windsinger gripped his mace more tightly and started toward the ruined building. He moved across the square cautiously, his dark eyes searching the narrow alleys for some man or creature that could have destroyed the hut. A cloud of silt hung in the air around the fallen shack, but the haze was thin enough that Magnus could see that there was no one lurking inside.

Finally, when he had crossed about three-quarters of the plaza, he heard something clatter across a cobblestone ahead. Less than three paces away, a swirl of silt rose off the ground with no apparent cause. Normally, he would have attributed the disturbance to the wind. But the day was a still one. There was not even a faint breeze, and he knew that no air current had caused the sound or the puff of dust.

Something hard and knobby struck Magnus in the chest. Though the jolt lacked the sharp impact of an attack, its force was powerful and unyielding. The windsinger’s feet left the ground, then he crashed down on his back a short distance away. The air over his face stirred faintly as something unseen passed over him. The ground trembled slightly as something heavy settled down just a short distance from his head. Then everything was once again still and quiet.

Magnus regained his feet and rushed toward the well. “Something’s coming, Caelum!”

The windsinger’s warning was hardly necessary. Caelum’s palm was already glowing brilliant crimson. The dwarf pushed his son behind him, then pointed his hand at the ground and traced a circle around himself and Rkard. A scarlet glow washed over the cobblestones, sending waves of heat pouring into the sky.

Magnus was twenty paces away, and Caelum’s spell scorched his tough hide even from that distance. Tongues of orange flame began to lace the shimmering wall, though the dwarf and his son showed no sign of discomfort inside their protective fire circle. The windsinger’s mace burst into flame. He barely managed to toss it aside before it burned his hand. At the well, the bone rails surrounding the pit turned black and began to smoke, then abruptly vanished in a fiery flash.

Unable to endure the terrible heat of the sun-cleric’s spell, Magnus stopped. The fiery curtain around Caelum and Rkard waved as though something were passing through it. Even before the windsinger saw the flames outline the shape of a gaunt figure, he knew the awful truth. The Dragon had created a double of himself to lure Rikus and Sadira away.

Magnus burst into song, summoning a hot gale that swept across the plaza and fanned Caelum’s spell. The flames flared white. Glowing cobblestones shot from the ground like lightning bolts, trailing blue fire and filling the air with ear-piercing whistles. The rocks rattled off the Dragon’s legs and bounced away with no effect.

Borys passed inside the circle. The only effect the flames had on him was to coat his body in soot, rendering him more or less visible. Caelum raised a glowing hand and sprayed the blackened Dragon with crimson fire. The flames bounced off the beast’s chest and curled back.

Magnus rushed forward, ignoring the searing pain that washed over him with each stride. As he ran, he sent a wind-whisper to Sadira. “Borys has tricked us! Come to the well at once!”

Even as he committed the words to the wind, the windsinger worried about all the things that could keep the message from reaching the sorceress. If Borys’s magic had caused today’s eerie stillness, Magnus’s breath would be muffled long before it left the village. Or, if the battle had drifted too far east or west, the wind-whisper would bypass her. And if the words did reach the sorceress, it would take a little while for her to disengage from the fight with the fraudulent dragon and return to the well. By then, Rkard might well be dead.

Inside the fire circle, a loud thud sounded as Borys kicked Caelum in the chest. The dwarf shot into the air, his limp hand still trailing flame. He crashed down on the far side of the well and did not move.

Magnus reached the circle of fire and tried to hurl himself through. He slammed into the flames as though smashing into a stone wall, then his leading flank erupted into blistering pain. The smell of scorched hide filled his nostrils. The windsinger fell away, bellowing in agony and madly slapping at the embers flaring to life on his thighs. He slammed to the ground and rolled. Once he managed to get control of himself, he returned to his knees, already singing a lyric that would ease his pain.

Magnus looked up in time to see Rkard diving forward. The boy’s sword flashed, hit the Dragon’s scorched leg, and snapped. The young mul cried out in disbelief, then rolled through the fire wall and came up facing Borys. He stood about a quarter of the way around the circle from Magnus, less than a dozen paces away.

The Dragon stepped into the fire curtain and stooped down to pick up Rkard.

Magnus pushed himself to his feet and stumbled forward, his legs protesting each step with fiery pain. “Rkard, over here!” he yelled.

The young mul looked toward the windsinger. When Borys’s hand flicked down to cut him off, the boy dodged away and began to run, fleeing toward a hut on the opposite side of the plaza.

The Dragon turned to chase the boy.

Suddenly, on the other side of the fire circle from Magnus, a gnarled mass of bone stood between Borys and the boy. The lump was almost as tall as the Dragon himself, with glowing orange eyes, a long gray beard, and stiff branches of bone protruding from its shoulders. Magnus shook his head, unable to understand where the banshee had come from. The thing had appeared in a flash, standing where there had been only empty air an instant before.

“I won’t let you slay our king again,” said Jo’orsh.

“I have no intention of killing him,” Borys replied. “I’m taking him to Ur Draxa, where I’ll return him to you-in return for the Dark Lens. Now, stand aside.”

With his arm of stiff bone, Jo’orsh slashed at the Dragon, opening a long gash in Borys’s snout. Boiling yellow blood spilled from the wound, hissing and popping as it splashed off the cobblestones.

Magnus circled around Caelum’s fire curtain, ducking his face behind his shoulder to shield it from the blazing heat.

Borys tried to sidestep his foe, and Jo’orsh moved to block his path. The Dragon struck, driving a fist through the banshee’s gnarled ribs. A deafening crack reverberated across the square, and the banshee burst apart. Shards of white bone rained down on the plaza from one end to the other.

As soon as they hit the ground, the fragments astonished Magnus by slowly tumbling back toward the place where Jo’orsh had been standing.

Swallowing his shock, Magnus lowered his shoulder and charged. Though he was not foolish enough to believe he could injure Borys, he hoped to slow the beast down long enough for Rkard to escape.

Borys stepped away, forcing the windsinger to change courses and rush after him. In two paces, the Dragon crossed to the hut where Rkard had gone. He ripped the hide roof away and tossed it across the square. Apparently, the young mul had left through a back window, for the beast did not reach down to pluck him out of the building.

“Where are you, little boy?” the Dragon slapped the hut in frustration.

The building exploded into flying stones. Less than a dozen paces away, Magnus had to stop running and duck to shield his head. When the windsinger looked up again, the beast was tearing the roof off the next building. Again, the Dragon smashed the shack, then he ripped the hide off a third shack.

This time, a red flare shot up from inside and engulfed Borys’s slender head inside a glowing likeness of the sun. Unconcerned, the Dragon reached into the hut. When he pulled his hand out, it was curled into a tight fist, with Rkard’s head showing out of the top.

“No!” Magnus roared.

The windsinger sprinted the last few steps to the plaza edge. He threw himself at the Dragon’s bony shin and wrapped his massive arms around it. Borys started toward the tiny silt harbor east of the village, smashing his foot through the nearest hut.

The windsinger grimaced from the impact but held on easily. His thick hide was as tough as a lirr’s, and it shielded him from all but the most serious blows. He began to sing in his loudest voice, calling up a gale from the Sea of Silt. Borys dragged him through another hut, then another and another. Magnus continued to sing, and soon the sky above was filled with gray clouds of dust. Yellow bolts of lightning crackled out of the gathering storm, each striking the Dragon’s head. The windsinger was not foolish enough to think his windstorm could harm the beast, but he hoped it would draw his friends’ attention to Rkard’s danger.

Borys chuckled then slammed his foot through the village wall and stepped into the harbor. Magnus sank beneath the silt. He closed his eyes and mouth, trying to breathe through his nose. The membranes protecting his nasal passages were clogged by dust, but at least the filters kept him from swallowing the powdery loess and choking. He would not suffocate for a few more moments.

Holding his breath, Magnus pulled himself up Borys’s knee. The storm would continue for a few moments without his ballad, but if he wanted to keep it going, he would soon have to raise his voice again. The windsinger reached up, searching for a handhold on the Dragon’s thigh.

Magnus felt a hand slip around his torso. The claw pulled him free and lifted him out of the silt. The windsinger saw that the Dragon had already carried him and Rkard out of the harbor. They were heading toward the heart of the Sea of Silt.

Above Magnus, Rkard had managed to work an arm free of the Dragon’s grip and was trying to bend a clawed finger back to free himself. The windsinger knew he would not succeed. Even a mul child could not be that strong.

Magnus snorted, clearing his nostrils, and raised his voice in song. A peal of thunder cracked over the Dragon, and a dozen forks of sizzling energy stabbed at his head. Borys’s eyes flashed even brighter than the lightning.

“Your noise makes my head throb,” the Dragon hissed.

Three sharp claws pierced the windsinger’s hide, cracking his massive ribs like a storm snapping faro branches. His ballad changed to a howl. He felt the Dragon’s arm whip outward, then Magnus found himself soaring over the pearly sea. His black eyes clouded over, and he began to arc downward, the wind singing in his ears.

Neeva found her unconscious husband next to the well, one armed draped over the side. The flesh had been scraped off one side of his skull, and a dark streak on the cobblestones marked where he had been dragged across the plaza to the pit. Strangely enough, the wound itself looked clean, as though someone had taken the trouble to bathe it before abandoning him.

“Caelum! Wake up!” She kneeled at his side and shook his shoulder. When his eyes failed to open, she slapped his cheek-not lightly. “Tell me what happened to Rkard!”

The dwarf’s eyes did not even flutter.

Behind her, Jo’orsh’s bones continued to clatter as they tumbled toward each other. Neeva looked toward the noise and shuddered. The banshee had reconstructed only about half of his gnarled body, most of the torso and one leg, and somehow he looked even more hideous than before.

Rikus and Sadira appeared at the edge of the plaza, leading the five haggard survivors from the Bronze Company toward the well. The rest of the command, nearly thirty warriors, had perished in the battle with the counterfeit Borys. At the time, with its claws ripping through steel breastplates and its heels smashing thick dwarven skulls, the beast had seemed real enough. It was not until the fight had ended and the Dragon had shrunk into a frightened, battered gorak that they had discovered the creature’s true nature.

It was then that they had noticed the dust storm drifting out to sea. For a moment, it had seemed to Neeva that she saw a red light in the heart of the tempest, but the others had not been able to find it when she tried to point it out to them. Finally, even she could not see the glow, and the squall had moved out of sight. They had rushed back to the village, finding it as quiet as when they had first arrived.

“How is he?” called Sadira.

Neeva shook her head. “Alive, but that’s about all,” she reported. “Any sign of Magnus or Rkard?”

The sorceress shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

Neeva cursed. “I want to know where my son is,” she said. “Why doesn’t Magnus send a wind-whisper to tell us where they are?”

“He may have,” Sadira replied. “But if he did it after the battle began to drift eastward, we wouldn’t have been there to hear it.”

“Or maybe he didn’t have time,” Rikus suggested. “If it came down to a choice of protecting Rkard or warning us, I’ve no doubts that he’d defend the boy.”

“As long as he was able-which may not have been that long,” Neeva said. She picked her husband up and carried him a safe distance away from the well. “But what happened isn’t as important as how we’re going to find my son again.”

“Maybe Jo’orsh will be able to tell us something,” Sadira suggested. She glanced toward the banshee, who had reassembled his complete torso, both legs, and an arm. “He must have seen what happened.”

Rikus nodded. “Until then, maybe this can tell us something.” The mul kneeled at the side of the well. He pointed at the dark streak marking the path along which Caelum had been pulled. “Could Rkard have been the one who dragged his father over here?”

Neeva shook her head. “He’d just carry Caelum,” she said. “You know how strong he is.”

“Unless he was hurt and looking for a place to hide,” Rikus said. He grabbed the well rope and handed the end to Neeva. “I’ll go see.”

Neeva barely had time to loop the line around her back and sit before the mul stepped into the dark pit. The rope bit into her waist, and she waited in tense silence while the mul descended. The warrior did not know what she wanted him to find. If Rkard had been injured and had dropped into the well, he might well have drowned. On the other hand, she could not bear the alternative-that Borys had taken him and disappeared. She found herself placing all her hope in Magnus, praying that the windsinger had taken her son and had hidden where neither Sadira nor the Dragon could find them.

The rope slackened as Rikus took his weight off it. The mul groaned in disgust, then cried, “You!”

A muffled thump echoed up from the well, then a bloated head came flying out of the pit. He had coarse hair pulled into a tight topknot, with puffy cheeks, eyes swollen to narrow dark slits, and a mouthful of broken teeth. His leathery lips were caked with fresh blood-no doubt licked from Caelum’s head wound.

“Sacha!” Sadira cried.

The head regained his equilibrium and hovered in the air, regarding them with a malevolent sneer. “It’s high time you arrived,” he said. “Your king has nearly starved to death!”

Neeva ignored the head and leaned over the pit. “What’d you find down there, Rikus?”

“Our scouts-dead,” came the reply. Neeva heard the mul grunt, then there were several splashes as he pushed their bodies aside. “And Tithian-at least I think it’s him-with something that could be the Dark Lens.”

Although this news should have delighted her, Neeva could not rejoice yet. “Anyone else?”

“Rkard’s not down here,” answered the mul.

“Of course not,” Sacha sneered, drifting over in front of Neeva. “If you want to see Rkard again, you’d better hurry and get Tithian out of that hole.”

Neeva lashed out, catching the head by his topknot.

“Why?”

The head slowly spun around, facing the Sea of Silt. “Because the Dragon is taking Rkard to Ur Draxa, and I don’t think Jo’orsh is going to wait very long for you to follow.”

Neeva followed his gaze. Having returned his gnarled head to his lumpy shoulders, Jo’orsh was moving toward Samarah’s harbor in long, silent strides.