drew a string around the mouth of the sack, closing it tightly shut, then lashed it to her belt where it bobbed lightly.
“Now we must go over there, to that island,” Laka declared, pointing.
“How?” demanded Ankhar, gazing at the dangerous crimson liquid that seemed to surround the pinnacle of dark rock indicated by his stepmother. “Swim?”
“There seems to be a path,” Hoarst said.
The half-giant blinked, shaking his head skeptically. Nevertheless, he could see the snaking path of black rock, like the ridged back of a stony crocodile, that jutted above the surface of the lava. They might be able to walk across it without coming into direct contact with the liquid rock. And if they soaked their cloaks in water and wrapped them tightly as protection, they might be able to withstand the baking heat.
“Are you sure?” the half-giant asked, his jaw jutting belligerently. “Why can’t slave, er, ally come to us?”
“Because this is the path showed to me in my vision,” Laka replied calmly. “It is the Truth.”
There was no argument against that. Grudgingly, Ankhar stepped in front of his two companions, leading the way to the terminus of the narrow, steep-sided isthmus of rock. The heat felt searing against his face, burning his skin wherever it peeked out; he had pulled his cape over his shoulders and head, tightening it into a narrow chute around his eyes and nose.
The ridge was narrow, capped with loose and blistered rock, and each footstep kicked some of the rubble free to tumble down the steep sides and into the lake. Wherever they struck, flames erupted from the liquid. To Ankhar these snaky tendrils of flames seemed like hungry lampreys, mouths lunging upward, seeking their flesh.
The heat became a smothering blanket, wrapping him in a cocoon of pain. He could barely see through the tears that streamed from his eyes, the sweat that poured from his brow. Each breath was like a blast of fire sucked into his lungs, more pain that sustenance, and he staggered along, fearing any misstep that would send him plunging into that bubbling cauldron-promising an instant death that began to seem like a mercy.
Stumbling on loose rock, he dropped to one knee, burning his gloved hands when arresting his fall. Grimly, almost unconsciously, he pushed himself to his feet. He almost sobbed in relief as, finally, he stepped onto the solid ground of the black island. He crawled and scrambled upward, climbing away from that horrible, killing lava.
Only when he reached the summit of the hill on that conical island did he remember his stepmother and the magic-user. He spun, somewhat surprised and ashamed to see that she was gamely hobbling after him. Sweat glistened in the creases of her wrinkled face, but her eyes gleamed with a triumphant glare that could only make the half-giant feel guilty about his momentary cowardice. He extended a hand, helped her up the last steps of the incline-and was grateful for the touch of her strong, wiry fingers, the encouraging squeeze she administered as she arrived to stand behind him.
Hoarst came last. Ankhar was amazed at the Thorn Knight’s calm, even arrogant appearance. He calmly brushed his dark hair back, and looked around through narrowed eyes-as if already relegating the unpleasant ordeal of the crossing to memory.
Ankhar was busy gasping for breath, wiping the sweat and tears from his eyes, and thanking the Prince of Lies and all the other gods for his survival. Then he noticed that the clearing upon which they stood, which was only about twenty feet in diameter, had been leveled by some purposeful force-it was as smooth as the marble floor of a nobleman’s great hall. In fact, the coal-black bedrock had been polished to such a sheen that the surrounding fires were reflected in it everywhere he looked.
There were four curious features in the floor, each carved from the same black stone as the floor, and when Ankhar stepped over to look at one, he saw that it held a smooth bowl, a semicircular depression that had been chiseled out of the pedestal’s flat top. A quick glance confirmed that there were three other pedestals of similar design.
Hoarst inspected the stone pillars, touching them, looking closely at the surface around each bowl, and finally nodding as if they were exactly what he had expected.
“Fire and water, stone and air,” he explained, indicating the bizarre hieroglyphics that Ankhar had noticed etched into the stonework around the rim of the shallow bowls. Each pedestal was devoted to a different one of the earth elements.
“Here, take this,” Laka said, handing a piece of stone to Ankhar. He recognized it as one of the shards of the rock elemental that he had shattered with his spear. The shaman looked at the wizard expectantly. “I cannot read the signs-tell me which is which.”
“That is the bowl for the stone,” Hoarst said, pointing to the pedestal nearest to the half-giant. “And these others,” he gestured to each in turn, “are for water, fire, and air.”
“Good.” Laka took out the three sacks holding the scraps of the other elements. She set each beside the appropriate bowl then glanced solemnly at the Thorn Knight. “Now you must be ready with those bracers. You will have only a short time to clasp them onto our slave.”
“What if there isn’t enough time?” Ankhar asked.
“Then we will all be killed, and our bones will be devoured by the fires in the belly of the world,” Laka said with a shrug.
“Be ready!” the half-giant ordered Hoarst unnecessarily as the dark wizard bore a very serious mien as he took out the manacles and held them in his hands, watching Laka warily.
“Now follow these instructions,” the shaman continued. If she was as worried as her companions, she was giving no outward sign. “Place the stone in that bowl. Good. Now the water.” Ankhar spilled the muddy contents of the pouch into the depression on the second pedestal. He glared at it expectantly, but nothing much seemed to be happening.
Laka herself rolled the glowing remnant of the fire elemental into the third bowl. Ankhar’s hand nervously clutched the haft of his spear as she readied the fourth sack, the puffy balloon of air. Hoarst’s eyes followed the shaman’s every move.
The ancient shaman held the sack of air over the fourth bowl and abruptly compressed the bag, forcing the little gust into the depression. Immediately Ankhar sensed a new, ominous presence. That was the only change, except perhaps for the ember of the fire elemental, which flared brightly, as if it had been fanned by a bellows. The half-giant spun on his heel, looking to the right and left, hardly realizing that he had raised his spear before his chest and was holding it at the ready in both of his big hands.
Then he heard a fresh sound, a faint roaring, like a distant gale that gradually swelled in volume and power. The lump of stone quivered, and the little puddle of dirty water shimmered and shook. It seemed as though the ground under his feet were vibrating. The shaking caused several large pieces of the cavern’s ceiling to break free. These shattered on the rocky wastes or splashed into the lava lake, raising great spumes of liquid fire into the air. Debris rained down, barely missing the three intruders.
But this random bombardment was all but forgotten when the tangible presence of something massive, magical, and monstrous took shape on the little clearing atop the island. Ankhar lifted the spear, but there was nothing to strike, no tangible foe.
Yet, undeniably, something was there.
Amid the noise that howled around them like a hurricane, Ankhar felt a faint tickle of something, like a breath of wind, caressing the back of his neck. He spun around, stabbing with his spear, then felt the same eerie touch behind him. The sensation raced down his arms and along his spine, and he imagined invisible ants crawling all over his skin. He glared at his companions, wondering if they felt the same disturbing sensations. Laka’s eyes were aglow, her thin lips drawn back, revealing her irregular yellow fangs in a grotesque caricature of a smile. She threw back her head and crowed exultantly, a ululating cry that was almost overwhelmed by the cacophony swelling in the air.
Hoarst stood still, the slender metal bracelets in his hand. Ankhar wanted to curse the Thorn Knight for an inept fool-how could he think those little trinkets could contain even a fraction of the palpable, fundamental force that was drawing in on them like a cloak, a noose.
A physical presence pushed against him, shoving Ankhar almost to the lip of the steep slope. He pushed back, and though he couldn’t see anything, he felt resistance, as solid and palpable as a rock. The half-giant pushed as hard as he could, but it was like trying to push away a mountain; not only did the unseen presence fail to budge, it barely responded to his exertion.
Ankhar saw that Laka and Hoarst, likewise, had been pushed to the perimeter of the small clearing by the
