War of Glory
Jaladay crawled slowly across the vaporstone floor of her cell. She grimaced, realizing how much more effort that required than it did when Narkazan’s mistwraiths had first captured her, however many days ago. Now even the simple motion of crawling made her feel dizzy and exhausted.
All part of his plan, she reminded herself. He wants to weaken me—first my body. Then my resolve.
Indeed, the crumbs Narkazan had allowed her to eat were just enough to keep her functioning. Barely. He knew that even an immortal’s body needed some sustenance, but he wasn’t going to give her more than the minimum. After all, she’d only use her added strength to try to escape.
Or to try to send a message, she thought grimly.
Weakly, shoulders trembling, she crawled toward the wall that held a door—a door that had opened only rarely since she’d arrived. Even in this utter darkness, with her second sight deadened, she knew exactly where to find that door. How? From the faint rays of light that filtered through the narrow food slot. And also from the hint of fresh air that wafted through that small opening.
Right now, it was the promise of better air that had motivated her to move herself across the cell. Her prison felt more stifling by the hour, so tightly enclosed that she had trouble breathing. Yet again—she knew that was part of the warlord’s plan.
Survive, she told herself firmly. Must survive! For as long as I can.
But even as she made that vow, she wondered how much longer that could be. For as Narkazan knew, the worst kind of starvation came not from lack of food—but lack of hope. And here in this cell, with nothing to stir her senses or her second sight, with barely enough air to breathe, with no one to talk with, and no way to escape . . . hope could not last long.
Why should I try so hard to stay alive? What’s the point? Discouraged, she ran a hand through her straggly hair. Maybe it’s best for everyone if I just . . . die.
Panting, she reached the food slot. Lowering herself flat on the stone floor, she turned her head toward the thin opening. The faint wisp of air that flowed over her face struck her like a plunge into a cold lake.
She knew, of course, that a little bit of air really wasn’t much of an improvement. But for the moment, at least, it revived her. Not enough to do anything remarkable, since she was still so weak she could hardly stand. Yet . . . enough, perhaps, to shift her thinking.
After all, she was still alive. Still herself. And still aware of Narkazan’s plans for war—what he called my war of glory.
That war would begin very soon. Forces were getting ready. Battle plans were being finalized.
She’d heard, through this very slot, a few scattered clues about those plans. Nothing detailed, unfortunately. But she’d learned enough to know that the whole spirit realm was about to explode in chaos and wrath. The wrath of Narkazan.
Mistwraiths had gathered secretly in the Caverns of Doom.
A vast army had assembled somewhere behind a spell of concealment.
The warlord had offered a huge bounty on the lives of Sammelvar and Escholia. And a far greater one on her brother, Promi.
I don’t know what to do with all this, she thought. But maybe I can still do something that could help!
Lying by the bolted doorway, she clenched her jaw. For she’d remembered exactly why she needed to stay alive.
Suddenly, she heard Narkazan shout angrily at someone. Then, as that person spoke, she caught her breath. For she recognized his voice—a man who had battled Promi and Atlanta fiercely on Earth, and who now served his master in the spirit realm.
Grukarr.
Pressing her ear as close as she could to the food slot, she strained to hear. She didn’t want to miss a single word they said.