britches.'
The dwarf’s laugh turned into a low grumble that ended with him cursing under his breath. He did more than take a sip. He emptied the flask and tossed it into the sea. After a moment he pulled another flask from his boot, took a sip, and mumbled a prayer to Doon. “Let us get on with it then,' he barked when he was done.
By the time the two were under the rocky ceiling of the entrance and easing into the Serpent’s Eye, the dwarf was belligerent. Phen hoped it was true, that dwarves function better drunk, because in moments they would really be past the point of no return. The tide was already rolling back in and closing the entrance behind them.
Phen opened his mouth and went through the motions of breathing, even though he wasn't sure if his body actually drew breath or not. He was thankful that he could see the bottom of the cavern pool through the clear water. He was concerned about Oarly now, though. The dwarf was emptying a third flask while patting around on his person in search of another. When he couldn’t find one, he looked over at Phen and shrugged.
Chapter 3
The next night the moon was nowhere to be seen. All nine of the elves were gathered in the heart of the fiery tree grove. Brevan was casting spell after spell, some in hopes of protecting the main grove from the blight that affected the smaller copse, and some to conceal the presence of their activities from the spying eyes that were circling high above. Dargeon had to plead with the leaders of the order of monks to not run to the king of Salaya, or his son, just yet. If the human royalty was notified then the elves would be forced to either reveal their presence, or abandon the fiery trees to their fate. Neither choice was acceptable. Reluctantly, the monks agreed to give the elves some time to work with the trees. They didn’t like the idea of keeping the sky-born threat from their king, though. They made that clear.
Once Brevan felt satisfied that his protective spells were in order, he gathered the elves into a circle. It was awkward as they were standing among the trees holding hands with outstretched arms.
The old elven mage, with the help of the others, was about to attempt a powerful casting.
“Where do you want me?” Telgra asked.
“And me?” Corva stepped up.
“The power of the Arbor will burn you both,” Brevan warned. “You’re far too young for such a casting.”
“What little strength they can add might make the difference, Old One,” Telgra’s father argued for her.
The old elf stopped and stared at her for a moment. His luminous amber orbs were as fierce as anything she’d ever seen. She met his gaze, as did Corva beside her.
“Very well,” he snapped.
Telgra was excited, and more than a little afraid. She had only read about high magic or heard tales of it from her instructors back in the Evermore. Her father was a respected mage, but he rarely used his craft. He was an explorer at heart, and he loved nature. He’d been to the Bitter Isles northwest of Coldfrost to observe the great wolves and the ice bears that lived there. He had trudged through the southern marshes cataloging the vast array of amphibians and reptilian life there. He’d even been across the great desert and ridden the humped cullomal beasts through the gorge of fire, where the rare and beautiful tookaskas live.
It amazed Telgra that he’d done all those things, especially since he’d done them without the humans seeing him.
Her father gave her right hand a gentle squeeze. Brevan was on her left. She felt safe enough between the two of them. Poor Corva was between stubborn old Oglav, and Teverall, the expedition’s weapon master. Neither of them were particularly powerful magi, but what little craft they did know was needed. If Brevan’s worries about the magic affecting them were founded, Telgra thought, Corva would probably find out. She doubted that the foggy old elf would even remember the words to his great spell, though. He hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge the fact that she wasn’t just a foolish girl trying to get attention. She gave him a glance and a smug look as he started into his casting.
All at once a warm, electric buzz shot through her. It was uncomfortable, yet familiar. Another squeeze of her hand by her father helped slow her breathing and gave comfort. After that she was on her own as the smell of ozone and the tingling kinetic feeling of raw power came sweeping through her. She looked across the circle at Corva, at his wide-eyed, open-mouthed face. She decided that her expression was probably much the same. Then blinding lavender light erupted from her feet and her mind was washed away into a psychedelic swirl of pastel radiance. What happened next, she would never know, but the sound of it was haunting.
At first, she heard the murmur and chant of the four elves who knew what was going on, but then the hissing crackle and the deep resonance of the magical power around her forced all else out of her head. At least until the screaming started.
For a long time she tuned the sound out of her mind, afraid to know what it was that was in so much pain. She felt as if she were stuck deep down in a barrel of honey. There was no up or down, no left or right. She couldn’t breathe.
After a short time she realized it was the voices of the trees amplified in her head. They were in agony, some more than others. She heard Brevan’s voice distantly as he spoke to them, but she couldn’t make out the words. She heard her father as well. She even heard Dostin’s shrill whine. His was clear and unmistakable.
“Look, Father Malik,” Dostin exclaimed. “The elves are glowing. And the trees are on fire.”
The screaming of the trees stopped, and a relative hush descended over the thick buzz of the magic. A sound comparable to a large group all gasping in unison filled her ears. She opened her eyes to look, but was greeted by the same disorienting kaleidoscope of pastel color she had seen with her eyes closed. She was forced to shut them tightly again, lest she began to heave from vertigo.
Dostin’s voice rang out in fear. “Oh no,” he yelled. “Noooo!” Then he grunted and let out a gurgling scream that caused even the trees to cringe.
“Oh no, my love,” Telgra heard her father say sadly, then he let go of her hand.
A soft yell of surprise sounded like it came from old Brevan, but it died away in a gurgling hiss. Scuffling, and then the sound of steel being drawn, came to her ears. Telgra then felt herself being yanked up into the air by something that was causing terrible pain in her shoulders. Blackness crept into the colorful array of her vision and pain replaced the tingle of the magic. She heard her father’s desperate cry over the chaos.
“Oh, Telgra, no,” he yelled. “Please, no!” His voice was fading, as if he were getting farther away. She could tell by the clipped way he spoke that he was sobbing.
“Put her down!” her father roared. “Put her dow-” The abruptness with which his words ended, and the wet tearing sound that accompanied the instant, echoed through her brain like a thunderclap. Then there was nothing, save for pain. Eventually even that faded into nothingness.
He’d been married for only a few weeks, and already High King Mikahl Collum was fighting desperately to keep his myriad of duties from coming between him and his beautiful bride. His good friend and adviser, Lord Alvin Gregory, was working himself ragged trying to lighten Mikahl’s load. Lord Spyra and General Escott were helping as well. This day however, Mikahl had no choice but to leave Queen Rosa’s side and see their unexpected guest himself.
Borg, the Southern Guardian of the Giant Mountains, was a personal friend, and Mikahl had no intention of brushing off a chance to see Urp, Oof, and Huffa. The three great wolves had carried Mikahl, Hyden Hawk, and Vaegon the elf out of the Giant Mountains and across the Evermore Forest once. Grrr, the proud and fierce leader of the pack, had sacrificed himself to save Mikahl. The people of the realm unknowingly owed a great debt to that wolf. Had he not saved Mikahl, the demon wizard Pael would have taken the city of Xwarda and used the Wardstone to destroy all that was good.
Why the wolves were here with Borg, instead of at home with King Aldar, Mikahl didn’t know. He was glad they came, though. The messenger had arrived breathless and wide-eyed just moments ago with news of the giant’s sudden appearance at Dreen’s northernmost gate. Very few kingdom folk had ever looked upon a real giant. The half-breed giants who fought alongside the High King in the recent war against Dakahn were as close to a giant as they had seen. Borg was a pure-blooded giant. He stood over fourteen feet tall and was proportionately as human-formed as the next man, save for his huge slab of a forehead.
