It was a simple chain, shaped of common brass. The charm that hung from it was crafted of shining, silver- blue steel. It was shaped like two teardrops, touching tip-to-tip-the symbol of Mishakal.
He had given her the medallion many years ago, so long it seemed another man’s life. It was called a Forever Charm, and it was both a sign of the goddess and a token of his neverending love. She had never given it to him before. He looked up through clouding eyes to ask her, “Why?” But she had already disappeared into the chieftain’s lodge.
While the rest of the villagers watched their chieftain ride out through the gates, Goldmoon sat alone in the chieftain’s lodge. She did not cry, but rather picked up an old, worn lute, nestled it gently in her arms, and set her fingers to her strings.
She played an old song, laden with memory. She had sung it for the first time many years ago, at the Inn of the Last Home. She sang it today, for what she hoped would not be the last time.
Chapter 7
The eastern tip of the Goodlund peninsula had never been what humans and their ilk would call hospitable. Only the most stubborn trees and bushes had clung to the barren, gravelly steppes. Dry, dusty wind had gusted through its narrow canyons. Water had been hard to come by, save for the Heartsblood River, and even that had been tainted, stained rusty red in grotesque mimicry of the sea to the north.
To Kurthak’s people, it had long been home. The grasslands to the south had provided livestock and slaves for plundering, as had the Kenderwood to the west. The steppes were shot through with veins of copper, iron, and silver, ripe for mining. Sometimes, when a ship foundered on the rocky outcroppings along the coast-a treacherous stretch of shoreline mariners called Land’s End-the ogres had waded out to them through the surf, to slaughter their crews and loot their holds.
Kurthak and Tragor stood at the edge of the Heartsblood, in a place where it had once flowed quick, wide, and deep. Now, though, it was nothing but a meager, muddy trickle, seeping down the middle of what had been its bed. The Black-Gazer stared hard at the feeble rill, his brow furrowing as if he could will the flow to return to its former strength. His champion scratched his pockmarked jawline, confused.
“The land’s changed,” Tragor said.
Slowly, as if reluctant to do so, the Black-Gazer nodded. “I’d thought I was imagining it. It’s been many weeks since Lord Ruog led us west, to the kender lands.”
“You imagine nothing,” Tragor declared, shaking his head. “I have forded the Heartsblood here many times. The current was nearly strong enough to drag me off my feet.”
Kurthak considered the muddy creek a moment longer, then looked around. “The river’s not the only thing that’s changed. Speargrass and eaghon trees used to grow here.” He glanced around, looking for some sign of the sharp-thorned plants that once had clustered thirstily along the riverbanks. The earth, though, was barren. He looked up, squinting north, and pointed a hairy finger. “Do you know what lies ahead there?”
Tragor followed the gesture, past the Heartsblood toward the far-off, dust-cloaked horizon. Some five leagues away, a mass of jagged, stony crags groped toward the sky. Above them hung a black, hazy pall, as might swathe a burning city.
“Mountains,” Tragor said.
“Mmm. But that isn’t what should be there.” Kurthak regarded his companion, his single eye boring deep. “Think, Tragor. Do you recall what the humans call the lands beyond the Heartsblood?”
“I don’t-” Tragor began; then his jutting brows lifted. “The Hollowlands!” he exclaimed, his eyes on the towering peaks. “They called that place the Hollowlands.”
Kurthak nodded gravely. “Not so hollow now, are they?”
“Black-Gazer!”
Both ogres looked toward the voice, which came from the far side of the riverbed. The black-cloaked form of Yovanna emerged from a cleft in the rocks there. Her hood was up again, hiding her blasted face from the glaring red sun-and from the ogres’ eyes.
Reflexively Tragor scowled, reaching up to probe his face with thick fingers. He touched the great, swollen knot where her knee had smashed his nose, then growled, his hand straying toward the hilt of his sword.
Kurthak saw this, and laid a staying hand on Tragor’s arm. His champion hesitated, then relented.
Yovanna had followed Kurthak’s band and its captive kender back from Myrtledew to the valley where Lord Ruog’s horde camped. Once they were there, she had come to Kurthak’s tent at midnight, night’s shadows forming a second cloak about her.
“Malystryx awaits,” she had said.
Kurthak had wasted no time. Gathering his traveling gear, he summoned Tragor and followed Yovanna into the night. He had told Lord Ruog nothing, and the hetman was doubtless ready to gut him by now for abandoning his post.
They had walked for nearly a week through the wasteland. Yovanna would disappear ahead of them, moving swiftly and surely among the crags and boulders, then would reappear a short time later, beckoning the ogres urgently on. Now she called them forward, over the river’s drying bones, toward the towering mountains of the Hollowlands.
“Quickly,” she urged. “The place for meeting my mistress is not far. Come!”
Kurthak gave the river and the peaks beyond it One last suspicious glance, then turned to Tragor and nodded ahead. They slogged on, over the dying Heartsblood, red mud sucking at their boots as they went.
They walked for hours, not even slowing their pace when the sky began to darken with dusk. Yovanna had not so much as paused before leading them into the towering crags. Both ogres, who knew much about highlands, had noticed how new these mountains appeared. They showed no sign of weathering or erosion. Instead, they were all sharp angles and deep cracks, as though someone had pulled them up from the earth’s bones.
The crags were all around them now, stretching leagues in all directions. In the distance, one peak loomed above the rest. Its tip was burning.
“Is that Blood Watch?” Kurthak asked.
Yovanna did not look at him, nor did she break stride.
“It is,” she answered, her voice cool and toneless as ever. “Though the ruins that gave it its name are long since gone. Now it is my mistress’s lair. She has chosen to keep the name.”
They clambered up a razorback ridge, Yovanna moving nimbly from rock to rock. The ogres climbed with greater care, sending rocks the size of their massive fists clattering down the steep slope behind them. When they crested the top, they saw that the ridge was the edge of a great, bowl-like crater. The bowl’s sides were streaked with yellow dust, and the stench of brimstone hung heavy in the air. A black cleft in the crater’s center hissed unclean-looking, brownish steam that rose in a column hundreds of feet high. The ground rumbled faintly beneath their feet.
Wrinkling his nose, Tragor shrugged and started to pick his way down into the crater. Before he could take two steps, though, Yovanna’s black-gloved hand shot out and clamped tight on his wrist. Though her arm was like a reed next to his own, oaklike limbs, he still winced at the tightness of her grasp. He stopped.
“Go no farther,” Yovanna said, releasing him. “We wait for her here.”
“Here?” Kurthak repeated, surprised. “I thought we were bound for Blood Watch.”
She shook her hooded head. “You thought wrong, then, Black-Gazer,” she told him. “Do not worry. My mistress will not be long.”
The ogres looked around. Kurthak squinted at the burning spire to the north. He could see the red glow of
