Nafino Zephyr was rigid with tension as he approached Vihlae Forest. He’d finally made it here, but it meant nothing at all if he was not allowed to enter. When the much cooler, blue-green shade of ancient forest enveloped him, his spirit soared. He’d made it! In this mystical forest, he would extricate himself from his bond to Abaddon. Pledging himself to the dark god had been a colossal mistake. He would freely admit that and take any steps necessary to correct it.
Now, to find the white witches.
He dismounted and led his horse awhile, accustoming himself to the light and the rich, pleasing colors and the earthy scent. A glimpse of brief, colorful flashes of light high in the trees made him stop and marvel. “Starflits,” he breathed. He closed his eyes, beckoning silently to the witches, but sensed neither connection nor presence.
Opening his eyes again, he looked around for a landmark. One thing was certain, he needed to pay close attention to his whereabouts or he would end up irretrievably lost. His gaze fell upon a giant tree—no, it was two trees that had grown and twisted into one. A perfect landmark. He tethered his horse and walked due south.
He passed a trail and then came to gray pool of water. It was so still, it resembled a large looking glass more than a body of water. He actually had to touch its surface to be certain it was water. As the water rippled, he felt a corresponding tremor in the center of his being. When the feeling stilled, he turned in a slow circle, looking for any sight of the witches. “White witches,” he cried. “I beseech you to help me!”
There was no answer.
“I come humbly, having erred. I need your assistance and I will give anything in repayment!”
When no response came, he continued southward, battling to keep his fear at bay. He passed a series of well-tended bushes with shimmering golden berries unlike any he had ever seen. Their fragrance was sweet enough to make his mouth water, but he would neither eat nor drink without invitation. His every step and every word had to perfect. Beyond reproach.
Beyond the bushes was a narrow, moss-covered trail, and he moved toward it, hopeful he was heading down the right path. The ground was spotted with brilliant green circles of grass. He looked up, wondering how such perfectly round, perfectly spaced circles were possible, and grew dizzy from the swaying of the towering trees. Walking on, he stepped on one of the patches, and instantly felt a crushing pressure on his chest. Gasping, he stepped away, pressing a hand to his heart. He had to wait for the pressure to ease and then he gave the circles of light a wide berth.
Eventually, the path ended in a clearing and, beyond it was more woods. As he continued on, he searched for the right words, the right plea, to use when he saw the witches, but when he came upon a horse, his horse, he halted. It wasn’t possible. He’d walked due south. But there was the twisted tree. He retraced his earlier steps and saw the still, gray pool again.
They were not letting him in. But he had to be let in! Breathless with panic, he dropped to his knees. “Please,” he cried. “I beg of you! I made a contract with Abaddon and must be freed of it. It is imperative! Don’t you understand? Imperative! For all of us!”
The pool began moving, meaning he’d reached them. Finally! Zino stared unblinkingly as the water began to rise and take solid form. It was a face! A distorted, infuriated gray face with empty eyes. Zino whimpered and scrambled backwards. He hadn’t reached the white witches, he’d drawn the attention of Abaddon. It should not have been possible in a place of white magic, but he recognized the insidious, black presence. Slick, choking, cold, wet—horrible.
As deafening screeches filled the air, he was hauled up by his ankles by invisible claws that bit deep into his flesh, and stabbing pains assaulted him from all directions. The agony was so intense, he could not even draw breath to scream. Not at first.
He prayed for death, but it did not come. Perhaps unconsciousness was visited upon him because there was a lull in the torture, although it took time to realize it. He slowly became aware that the pool of water was receding. The white witches? Had they heeded his pleas for mercy? Did they have power over the dark god? The water kept receding, becoming a dark pit. A terrible, stench-filled pit that he was being pulled into. “No!” he screamed.
He would not be granted mercy. He knew this, but he could not stop himself from screaming. Still upside down, he was being lowered into the pit teeming with the foulest of life; writhing creatures so hideous in form, he could not discern what they were. They snarled and grabbed for him with sharp, blackened claws and yellowish tongues that sliced at his flesh. Their piercing shrieks nearly split his head open.
“Mercy,” he screamed. “Mercy, master!”
In reply, there was a laugh. He heard it, no, he felt it, and knew it was Abaddon. He had not been helped by the white witches. He had been betrayed by them. And he would suffer interminably.
The eastern border of Oisenbant was a mass grave site, strewn with thousands of Leviathans. Those still in hiding watched in disbelief as the invaders, whatever they were, began suddenly dissipating in bursts of matter, the stench of it stomach turning.
Ko, a Leviathan woman, was crouched in an inside corner of a hut with a young niece and nephew. She held them to her and rocked, knowing she would have to cut their throats soon. She’d seen the invaders attack, choking the life from her kind, ripping limbs from bodies, gouging eyes from their sockets. She would not let the little ones be torn apart in such a manner. They were hiding their eyes against her and she wanted to hide, too, but she had this responsibility.
She had to know when the immortals drew close and so she disengaged herself from the clinging little ones and scooted to a place she could peek from. When she saw the first creature disappear, she thought she had imagined it. But she hadn’t. It was true. The creatures were disappearing—in as unnatural a way as they were unnatural. She made a low utterance deep in her throat, a combination of the fear, grief, and now relief, but a howling wind began in the next moment, so shrill it sounded like screams.
“Ko—” her nephew cried.
She scooted back to them, because her legs were too weak to stand. They were not out of danger yet.
Richard McKeaf looked up as the sky turned purplish and dark. Headed north with the division accompanying the Bellux-Abrian army to their home, he had never seen a sky change so quickly. A ferocious wind suddenly gusted and his horse spooked and reared, nearly bucking him to the ground. “Whoa!”
It was not just his horse. They were all spooked. He looked around and saw fear on all the faces around him. Too much talk of supernatural occurrences had them all on edge.
“Look at the clouds,” someone cried.
He looked, and a tightening of his muscles made his horse back and panic. “Whoa, whoa,” he cried, leaning forward to soothe his mount, even as he stared at the strangest clouds he had ever seen. It was if they were suddenly too heavy to hold themselves in the sky. They sagged menacingly close to the earth, taking queer form.
“…find shelt—,” Alexander Kievnall shouted to be heard over the wind.
Richard nodded, although he didn’t know how they would make it in time. The wind was blowing their hair and clothing straight back. It pulled at the skin on their faces. Men and horses alike bent their heads into it and started in search of the nearest shelter they could find.
At the same moment, Stripe and Kidder craned their necks to see out the small window in the top of their dungeon cell. The sky had grown instantly dark and now a roaring had begun and the ground shook.
“What is it?” Kidder asked.
“What’s happening?” Vincent called from across the hall where he and Forzenay shared a cell.
Ammey, on horseback, was maneuvering a steep slope carefully when it grew dark and the ground began to shake. On instinct, she slid off her horse, released the reins and crouched to the ground. And it was from that vantage point, eight hundred feet above ground level, that she saw a distant ridge of volcanoes spew red lava. All of them! Each and every volcano, all at once. She’d been told such a thing was not possible. All the people. All the people surrounding the long dormant volcanoes would be killed. Her face was a mask of grief and horror.
The world began shaking, the noise escalating to deafening, and her feet slid from underneath her. She went down, flat on her back, temporarily knocking the air from her lungs. From that position, she saw, but could not comprehend, the bizarre cloud formations. The violent quaking of the earth was too much and she began slipping down the mountainside. She twisted onto her front and clawed the earth in an attempt to stop her descent, but to no avail.
On the coast of Ghlaxmire, fishmonger Shilla Mozal’s knees failed him and he dropped forward, his mouth open in horror. The sea had risen up, not as a wave but as a monster. A wall of water was coming straight at them—one there was no possible escape from. “My children,” he whimpered.
They were the last words he spoke before the sea crashed over the village.
Sixteen year-old Rebeccah Lowe reached out and grabbed the table as everything began to shake around her. The covered bowls of bread dough came skittering toward the edge of the table. She tried to stop them, but something was terribly wrong. “Mama?”
There was screaming outside, terrified screaming.
“It’s erupting,” she heard. “It’s erupting!”
Never had two words filled her with such horror. She tried to make it to the door to see for herself, but it was difficult to move with the shaking. The ceiling began falling in around her. She cried out, wanting someone to come for her, but the sound of it could not be heard in the din.
She wanted to make it outside, and, suddenly, she was outside because their lodge had collapsed. Coughing and confused, she pushed debris off her and saw thick black smoke and, through it, jagged flashes of red flying upwards and also down the sides of Mount Alajgeem. She choked on the acrid smell in the air and panicked at the sudden heat radiating. It was alive in the air. “Mama,” she screamed, and then coughed.
She struggled to her feet and felt the heat more intensely. It pushed her back a step. She turned and ran mindlessly, just as everyone else seemed to be doing. The volcano was exploding, it was deafening, and there was such screaming!
She reached a tree and began to climb it, gasping for air. Where had the air gone? It was so hard to breathe. She could not get a breath and the heat—
She looked over her shoulder and saw everything bursting into flames as the lava reached it. She could not breathe and she could not hang on. It was too hot. Clinging sideways with the last of her strength, her last conscious thought was that it was pretty . . . all the red . . . and the waves of heat—
As residents of the villages of Toller and San Gray fled, desperately trying to distance themselves from the volcano’s wrath, gruesome, vaguely-human looking creatures with massive blue-black wings circled above in a delirious frenzy, drawing closer and closer with each circuit. Their wingspan was awesome, their faces repulsive, with deep set eyes, beak-like noses and wide mouths filled with sharp teeth.
The humans crying out in mortification drove the demons into a frenzy, and they began descending with ear-splitting screeches, claws outstretched. They plucked up their prey indiscriminately by limbs or hair or skulls. Demons fought demons over prey in mid-air. Screams split the air and blood sprayed as human bodies were ripped apart. Some demonic creatures hit the ground and ran. Their wings retracted and their faces turned to and fro as they scouted for prey.
Barbara recoiled as a body was snatched from right in front of her.
“Keep moving,” Raphael said, coming up behind her. He grabbed her hand and propelled her forward. “Keep your head down and keep moving!”
Barbara tried to obey, whimpering as she ran.
“We’ve got to make it to the woods,” Raphael called.
Barbara focused on the dark tree trunks ahead, but a hard blow to her back sent her flying forward. She landed hard and could not catch her breath. Lifting her head, she saw Raphael make it to the woods. He looked back at her with wild anguish on his face and then she felt sharp claws on her back. They pierced through skin and muscle. There was movement as her head was snapped backwards and then . . . nothing.
Outside the communal lodge of Ice Creek, the wind howled as if in great pain. Inside, Sho sat in the center of the circle muttering indiscernibly. He was surrounded by his clan, all of whom rocked back and forth in a state of deep meditation. In the back of the lodge, Marko and Mehr stood and watched in dread fascination. The quaking had subsided, but the people of Ice Creek seemed oblivious to that fact.
Marko felt ill thinking of Ammey out in it. She ought not to have left him. When he got her back again, they would return to the palace, and he would not let her out of his sight again. His fists clenched in determination. The truth was that she had been allowed far too much freedom in her life, probably because, as the daughter of the McKeaf, she’d been thought untouchable. But she wasn’t. That had been proven again and again. They had both suffered because of it.
Perhaps she would resent him at first for curtailing her freedom, but once she was with child, that would change. Everything would change.
When the room grew black, devoid of all light, he gasped. For an instant, he thought all the light of the world had gone out, but when a woman appeared before him, dreamlike in quality, he knew it was something else. The woman had long, dark hair and a soothing grace. “Marko Corin,” she said. “I know what you long for. This is the only time I will appear before you, so listen well. Grant the daughter of the McKeaf the freedom she needs to fulfill her destiny. I know that you will do this with a full heart, but understand this. Even the merest possibility of having her in your life requires that you first release her. This sacrifice is required.”
The vision faded, his vision restored, and only then did Marko realize Mehr had taken hold of his arm. “Are you alright?” Mehr asked urgently.
Marko nodded stiffly although he’d been shaken by the vision. He had not liked the message conveyed, and yet he felt the truth of it. He felt it deeply and from the core of his being. “I need to sit.”
The seidh, gathered in the sacred circle, prayed for help. Milainah, the seidhkona, lifted her face toward the blackened sky, trying to make sense of the cloud formations. All she knew for certain was that a dark and powerful entity was lashing out in fury and the gods of light were unmoved by their plight.
Each member of their order was protected inside the circle, but all around them, the earth was being destroyed. Lives were being destroyed. Demons had been unleashed upon innocent humans who had no means of self-protection. Somehow, the gods of light had to be reached. Appeased, if necessary. Perhaps a worthy sacrifice had to be made. Milainah raised her hands out and up, silently offering herself.
“No,” a distressed young woman cried out, but the sound was small in the thunderous cacophony.
In consideration of her offer, Milainah’s body was slowly lifted into the air. The terrified seidh prayed audibly and with an even greater fervor. Many of them dropped to their knees, crying—their appeals for all of humanity, but specifically and passionately for their leader.
Milainah floated, her body limp. It moved higher and higher. There was a momentary blast of stinging, icy air and then Milainah dropped to the ground, hitting with a sickening thud. The wind and the quaking of the earth abruptly stopped, leaving an eerie silence. None of the seidh were capable of movement or speech as they realized Milainah was gone. All that was left of her was the frail corpse of a very old woman.
Ammey made contact with a shrub and was finally able to stop her descent. She was breathing hard, cut from sliding down the rocky slope, but alive. The earthquake had stopped, at least for the moment, but she tensed at a different sound and sense of motion. She looked up and saw an avalanche of rocks coming toward her. She whirled about and began a barely-controlled tumble down the mountain. She had to get beneath a ledge or she would be crushed.
A rock hit her shoulder with sickening force. Another hit her thigh. She veered left, toward the only protection she saw, a boulder jutting from the mountain. She maneuvered beneath it, as rocks rained down. If the boulder held, she would survive. If it gave, she had no hope. Unfortunately, the surface beneath her was slippery. She tried to dig in with hands and feet, but she was slipping. She would be crushed from a thousand falling rocks. Her fingertips were bloody from her attempt to cling, but it was no use. She slid, choking on the dust, knowing these were her last moments.
Vincent stiffened sensing that Ammey was in grave danger. Somehow, somewhere, she was in the midst of a catastrophe. He bolted to the steel bars that caged them, grabbed hold and screamed in agonized fury.
Forzenay, too, felt the imminent danger Ammey was in. Not only that, but the talisman he wore around his neck, the one Milainah had given him, had gone ice cold. Something truly terrible had occurred.
When Ammey’s feet hit solid ground, she hunched forward and ran as best she could. Her right thigh was throbbing, her shoulder felt broken and she stung all over. She could not see for the dust cloud that enveloped her. She covered her mouth and nose and kept stumbling forward. Rocks were still hitting all around her.
When she reached a fallen tree, she collapsed onto the ground behind it, gasping for air. She maneuvered as close as she could to the trunk, curled onto her side and covered her head with her good arm. She was hurt, but alive. Hurt, but alive. She thought it over and over again.
When the rockslide ended and the dust began clearing, she sat, but the pain in her shoulder was intense. She groaned and leaned forward, feeling the pull of nausea. When it passed, she got to her feet, then had to wait for the lightheadedness to pass. When it did, she saw the horse nearby and nearly laughed from sheer relief, despite her pain.
Slowly, clumsily, holding her right elbow to keep her injured shoulder from moving any more than it had to, she made her way to the horse. She leaned against the mare’s neck. “Some ride down,” she breathed.
Somehow, she managed to mount, although she could not sit upright once she was in the saddle. The pain in her shoulder was too intense and blood was seeping through her clothing from the gash in her leg. “Go,” she begged. She only had strength for a light tap on against the horse’s broad neck, but the mare began walking.
By the time she crossed the shallows of the Rhannalinx River, Ammey was able to sit straighter. She entered the village of Mundoira where lodges had been leveled and injuries sustained. Ordinarily, people would have come to her rescue at once. Now, she was just one of many who needed assistance. She dared not dismount, for fear she would not be able to get back on again.
A middle-aged man hurried toward her. “Do you need help?” he called.
“Do you know if there’s fighting nearby?” she asked weakly.
He shook his head. “No, it’s over. The McKeaf stopped them.”
The words lent her strength. “Do you know where they are?”
“Who?”
“The McKeaf. The army.”
“Part of them went north, part south. Let me help you down.”
“No, I . . . thank you.” She had to keep going. “Draven—”
“It’s not far. Not more than a half day’s ride, but you really should let us—”
She got the horse moving forward again. She had to keep going.