The Gift
Imbecile!” shouted Narkazan, so loud it seemed to shake the walls of his chamber.
The scars on his face turned dark red, as if they were rivers of blood. “Let me understand this. You actually had him in your grasp? Right there inside the flying ship?”
“Y-yes, Master,” answered Grukarr, shuffling his boots on the vaporstone floor.
“You are certain it was him? That miserable young meddler marked by the Prophecy? The one who stole my Starstone?”
“Y-yes, Master.”
Narkazan leaned forward in his thronelike chair, thrusting out his narrow chin as if it were the point of a sword. As he peered at Grukarr, his fiery eyes burning, the pair of mistwraiths floating by his side released an angry crackling noise. Black sparks sprayed on the floor, almost scorching Grukarr’s boots.
Speaking in a voice that was much quieter—and much more frightening—the warlord asked, “And you had him under control?”
“Completely,” the former priest assured him.
Narkazan raised an eyebrow.
“Well . . . maybe not completely. But, Master, I promise you it seemed that way! I had him bound up in a net made of fibrous vaporstone, tightened securely all around his body. Why, I even had that furry blue beast of his bound up, too.”
Narkazan bared his teeth and growled, recalling the moment when that very same beast had attacked him and nearly gouged out his eyes.
Grukarr scowled. “There was no way they should have escaped. No way!”
“Except they did.” Narkazan’s eyes seemed to sizzle. “Of all the idiots, fools, and half-wits ever to serve me, you are the worst.”
Swallowing hard, Grukarr said meekly, “As you say, Master.”
“No! This is exactly not as I say!” The warlord’s shouts echoed inside the chamber—and, no doubt, in Grukarr’s head. On the other side of her cell door, Jaladay heard those shouts clearly . . . with the first hint of a grin since she’d been captured.
“I commanded you to capture him,” Narkazan ranted, “and bring him straight to me! Instead, you bungle everything and set him free again!”
The mistwraiths crackled ferociously. Black sparks flew into the air. One spark landed on Grukarr’s pant leg, instantly burning a hole in the fabric. It very nearly burned his skin, as well, but he brushed it away just in time.
Glaring at his subject, Narkazan tapped one of his bloodred tusks. “Something tells me, imbecile, that you tried to inflict a bit of torture on your prisoners. Is that right?”
Shuffling nervously, Grukarr mumbled, “Well . . . I might have tried using a few blades on them.”
“Is that all?”
“And . . . well, maybe giving them a bit of skinmelt potion.”
Narkazan tapped his tusk. “And?”
“M-m-maybe also . . . hanging them outside the ship. But that never happened! I never actually did it.”
“Because they escaped, you moron!” The warlord slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. “Your desire for vengeance spoiled everything!”
He leaned forward even more, jutting his chin. “For that, you shall suffer dearly.”
Grukarr’s face went white. “B-but, Master . . .”
“Unless,” continued Narkazan, “you can successfully hunt down that young man and his troublesome pet. Can you do that simple, straightforward task?”
“Oh yes! I most certainly can, great and forgiving master.”
“Good. Because if you fail me again . . . I shall make certain that you experience all the tortures you tried to inflict on your prisoners. That’s right—all of them.”
Grukarr made a sound like someone choking. He took a step backward.
“And, Grukarr,” concluded the warlord, “when I torture someone . . . he never escapes.”
For several seconds, Narkazan glared at his subject. Then, with a wave of his hand, he spat, “Go! Get out of my sight.”
Hurriedly, Grukarr backed away, then fled down the darkened hallway that was the room’s only entrance. As he departed, the mistwraiths crackled angrily, hovering beside their master.
“Yes, yes,” he grumbled at them. “I did let him off far too easily. But he might still prove useful to me.”
Narkazan peered at the hovering mistwraiths. “I must leave briefly to inspect my growing army. I must make certain all the preparations are in order before we attack.”
The shadowy beings crackled with approval.
“My trip won’t take long,” the warlord continued. “Until I am back, you and your fellow warriors must guard my lair. Be always alert! If any intruders dare to come near, give them the most exquisitely painful deaths you can.”
A fountain of black sparks sprayed from the mistwraiths.
“Good.” Narkazan grinned malevolently. “When I return, I shall look in on our prisoner. And if she has not changed her mind and decided to cooperate, I shall commence her tortures.”
On the other side of her cell door, Jaladay shuddered. Her imprisonment, she knew, would soon come to an end. A most horrible end.
Suddenly another mistwraith swept into the chamber, blowing out of the hallway like a dark, menacing cloud. Approaching Narkazan, the mistwraith crackled noisily, releasing a fountain of black sparks.
Listening closely, the warlord sat bolt upright. “Are you certain? A red glow in the mist of the borderlands?”
Excitedly, the mistwraith crackled. More sparks erupted, sizzling on the vaporstone floor.
A predatory smile creased Narkazan’s face. “Well, well. The afterglow from mist fire!”
He sat back in his chair, tapping his tusk thoughtfully. “How very careless of you, Sammelvar! For now you have told me what you least wanted me to know—that the veil between the worlds is so weak you were worried enough to check it.”
On the other side of her prison door, Jaladay gnashed her teeth. The veil, she thought miserably. So weak it can no longer shield the mortal world from Narkazan. And what’s worse . . . he now knows about it!
Though she was already lying flat on the floor of her cell, she felt as if she’d slumped even lower. Her brief taste of hope had vanished. What remained in its place was the most bitter taste of all, a mixture of helplessness and despair.
In his chamber, however, Narkazan was feeling quite different. Almost giddy with this unexpected news, he chortled with delight. The mistwraiths, unsure what to make of this mood they’d never seen before in their master, huddled together anxiously.
Finally, Narkazan’s chortling ceased. “At last,” he said to himself with satisfaction, “I am getting some of the good fortune I so deserve.” With a vengeful gleam in his eyes, he added, “And now . . . I have an idea of how to give that meddling son of Sammelvar the ill fortune he so deserves.”
Leaning toward the mistwraiths, Narkazan declared, “The young man of the Prophecy seems unduly fond of the mortal world below. Have you noticed?”
In unison, the shadowy beings crackled angrily.
“A wasteful dalliance on his part,” the warlord went on, “since the creatures of that world last just a few short breaths of our immortal lives. Besides, they exist only to serve our needs.”
He stroked the length of one of his tusks, savoring his new idea. “Let us turn his fondness for mortals to our advantage! I have a gift for you to deliver to that place he so cherishes. Yes . . . a gift he will long remember.”
As the mistwraiths trembled with excitement, Narkazan explained, “This will surely make him come out of hiding and speed back to the mortal realm. Then we can find him more easily! And this time, he will not escape.”
A chorus of ominous crackling greeted his words. “The poetic justice of this plan is simply beautiful,” crowed Narkazan. “For when he goes to Earth for this gift, he will cause further damage to the veil, weakening it even more.”
The mistwraith who had brought the news about the veil shook vigorously, snapping its dark folds.
“Yes,” agreed the warlord. “By then, the veil might have collapsed completely.” In a voice drenched with sarcasm, he added, “How very disappointing.”
The mistwraiths started to rustle noisily. But the instant Narkazan thumped his fist on the arm of his chair, they halted. “Now,” he commanded, “come closer together. All of you.”
As the mistwraiths pressed together, he thrust his whole arm deep into the center of their shadowy forms. Keeping his hand inside the knot of darkness, he grimaced. Then, slowly, he pulled it out. In his open hand, he held a crackling mound of black sparks—so many that they pulsed with negative energy, like an explosive weapon.
Narkazan squeezed the sparks in his fist. Shaking with the strain, he condensed them smaller and smaller. At last, when he opened his hand again, the sparks formed a glittering black lump no bigger than a pebble. Yet that lump vibrated in his hand, sizzling with enough power to cause terrible destruction.
“There,” announced Narkazan. “It is ready.”
He chortled once more. “Now,” he commanded the mistwraiths, “while I go to the army, you go to the place whose image I have just planted in your minds—and deliver this gift.”