stop, and it did.
A grayness overtook it, and its terrible skin armor became a gray tide rising on its fleshy beach. Its chest, head, legs, and arms became as stone.
Something was wrong. The tide of mineral gray did not stop with the monster but extended to the victim caught in the giant’s cruel grapple. He’d caught Thanial in his stony gaze.
The entire edifice of stone, man and monster, swayed. The creature had transitioned from flesh to mineral while in mid-step. Down it came, tons of weight slamming down upon the courtyard cobbles. The crash of the shattering, pulverized stone caught the attention of every creature, both attacker and defender, that was not already aware of the dramatic reversal of the ogre’s fortune. A rain of pebbles pelted Marrec, followed by billowing dust. No piece remained whole. Only rubble remained.
He’d slain his mentor.
The ogres, leaderless and afraid, fled, giving Marrec a wide berth.
He’d slain the one person who trusted and understood him.
Shira the great wolf fixed him with an accusatory stare, then leaped away, howling in sorrow.
He’d proved Thanial wrong. His heritage was suspect, and his ability evil. With heavy footsteps, Marrec turned to face the forest. He knew not where he would go, what he would do, or to whom he would pledge himself, but one promise he made immediately and aloud.
“While breath remains to me, my heritage will never again reveal its devilish glare. By this vow, Thanial shall be remembered.”
^a amp;mmelech rubbed at one of his empty eye sockets, disgorging a gobbet of ooze. He’d thought he’d felt some sort of vermin wriggling around in there, but no, it was just an abnormally large accumulation of slime.
When the blackness birthed itself from the air, Anammelech stepped back, alarmed. The void had the shape of a halberd. The blightlord recognized it. It was Gloomgate. It was the signature weapon his brother-blightlord, Gameliel. It’s presence could mean only one thing.
“Gloomgate?” inquired the blightlord. Upon being named, the weapon began to whisper urgent secrets.
Listening to Gloomgate’s tale, Anammelech’s suspicions were confirmed. The weapon’s appearance indicated that Gameliel had fallen. Gloomgate was his. Anammelech permitted himself a malicious grin.
Who were these enemies of the Rotting Man Gloomgate whispered about so fiercely? A clericof Lurue? Anammelech raised an eyebrow. What a strange coincidence.
What’s this? The ‘Child of Light’, too?
Yes. Gloomgate’s silken, silent voice was insistent The Child of Light and the Keystone were both heading toward Yeshelmaar. It was a little too perfect. Fate was conspiring to hand Anammelech quick advancement in the Rotting Man’s empire. Gameliel was dead, and his only other real rival, Damanda, was too close to the Talontyr’s heels to effectively advance the Rotting Man’s agenda. Damanda thought boot-licking would get her ahead, but if Anammelech delivered the Child of Light to the Talontyr, Damanda’s favored position would be his. His sister blightlord, once out of the direct graces of the Rotting Man, would be subject to Anammelech’s long-planned vengeance for past slights, but first things first.
Time to activate one of his most carefully nurtured assets in Yeshelmaar. If he planned it right, he could have the Child of Light delivered to him at the edge of the Rawlinswood without fuss or muss.
Elves were not as difficult to lure into evil as was commonly believed.
CHAPTER 13
The next day, all the visitors to Yeshelmaar were summoned to the Spring Court. The court was held in a wide sublevel, delved from living rock below the surface of the tor. Thin shafts tunneled upward to the surface, back down which beams of morning light fell, illuminating the chamber with golden light. A pool of crystal water filled the center of the chamber. In the center of the pool rose a great throne of pale stone. Subtle designs of leafs, vines, and other growing things seemed to slowly swirl and grow throughout the rock, despite being relief carvings.
The Nentyarch sat his throne with calm dignity. He wore a long linen robe of Lethyr green, his symbol of a golden leaf shining on his chest. The sleeves and neck of his robe were trimmed with snow white cotton, which was also the color of the belt girding his waist. On his head was the fabled Circle of Life: a living wooden crown bearing green leaves and slender twigs that held jewels. The jewels glowed with light that waxed and waned over a period of just a few seconds, like breath. The Nentyarch’s eyes were silver, and his dark hair was likewise touched by silver at the temples. He was an elf who had tarried long in the world.
Around the far outskirts of the clear pool was assembled the high druids, the Circle of Leth. Elves, humans, and a single dwarf made up that group, each seated on a stone bench, eyes wary and watchful as Marrec, Ash, Gunggari, and Ususi approached.
Standing out before the pool were several of the elves who had greeted the travelers when they’d arrived at Yeshelmaar. Elowen was also there, but so too was sour-faced Fallon.
It was the Spring Court, too. Marrec had learned that since the Nentyarch’s coming, Yeshelmaar had become the informal capital of the Great Dale, or at least the eastern half. The folk of the lonely clanholds of the region held a deep reverence for the Nentyarch. Many were in attendance today, seeking the Nentyarch’s advice. Perhaps a dozen druids of various ranks and twice that number of rangers, hunters, and foresters were assembled in the back of room, along with a handful of Dalesfolk who had come to seek the Nentyarch’s advice or assistance.
Marrecleading Ash by the handGunggari, and Ususi were ushered past all those who were there before them, up into the very presence of the Nentyarch, just short of the still pool. The hunters at the head of the hall drew aside to let them pass, and Elowen left their number to join the travelers.
The Circle member to the right and behind the Nentyarch rose, saying, “The Nentyarch is occupied with a fierce contest for the souls of two great forests against Talona’s Rotting Man. We have heard how all of you have become entangled in the Rotting Man’s designs. Please, tell us more.”
The Nentyarch’s face remained solemn, kingly even, as he nodded.
As Marrec prepared to speak, Ususi seized the initiative, saying “Great druid, I bring you the token of Briartan. It is the Keystone, long held in safety by the Mucklestones Druid. We could not prevent his fall, but we were able to salvage this relic of a bygone race.” She held the Keystone up for all to see.
The Nentyarch spoke, the timbre of his voice a pleasant tenor. “Briartan’s fall is known to me. It is with great sadness that I accept the Keystone back into my keeping. The Mucklestones Druid will be greatly missed Few can hope to tread the path upon which he journeyed, to our loss.”
Fallon approached, holding a very small a gold-lined chest with an open lid. With poorly concealed regret, Ususi placed the Keystone into the chest.
The Nentyarch said to the mage, “Your integrity is beyond recall. You, more than any other, have a claim to the stone, yet you return it to me despite that. When we have finished with our business here, I will show my gratitude.”
Ususi’s frown hesitated before smoothing away. Marrec wondered what the Nentyarch meant by his comment about the mage’s claim to the Keystone, but then it was the cleric’s turn to speak.
Marrec addressed the Nentyarch, internally reminding himself that the elf was due his respect, “Honored one, I am the servant of Lurue, the Unicorn Queen. I have been on a road long not only in length but also in years. I hope that you may have the answers I seek.”
“Your quest is not unknown to me,” said the Nentyarch. “My hunter, Elowen, whom we missed in her long absence, has explained your plight and your quest.”
Fallon, still standing nearby with the chest holding the Keystone, shot Elowen a frown. She favored him with a small shrug in return, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
Marrec responded, “Then can you tell me for what reason my path has led to this girl, Ash, and now to you? Do you know what her significance is, and… can you tell me what ails Lurue?”
“I can try. Let the girl come to me.”
Marrec guided Ash a little closer to the pool, then released her hand.
The Nentyarch studied Ash for a good minute. Quiet reigned in the hall, save for a few small coughs in the back. Finally the Nentyarch said, “I can see there is something more to this girl than meets the eye. If what I
