Chapter 21

Mirrorthorn Passage, Rainward Isles

They followed the tracks for two days, moving south across the foothills as quickly as they could. It was hard going, full of rocky drops and bramble-choked canyons, and though they had Shedara and Roshambur’s magic to aid them, the magic didn’t last. After the first few hours each morning, the climbing spells ran out and they had to make do with pursuing Forlo and his unseen army on foot.

The trail never diverted. It ran arrow-straight over the edges of stony cliffs and through the midst of iron-hard briars whose thorns could have ripped a dragon to shreds. They found not one body, though, nor a single drop of blood. Whatever had emerged from the crater of the Clovenmont, they were tougher than men or hobgoblins or even horny-skinned disir.

Yet no one spoke of those things, or even made note of how strange the tracks were. They were man-sized, or a little larger, with an even stride that never wavered, but they ran deeper than a man’s should have. Hult saw that right away: whatever followed Forlo, they were very heavy. His thoughts turned to ogres and trolls, but that wasn’t right; an ogre’s footprint would be huge, much bigger than those.

What, then? He pondered that well into the night as he sat watch on a boulder near the dell where the five of them made camp. When dawn bruised the sky, he had no more idea than before.

On the second day, the air began to change. It grew damp, carrying the tang of salt. The murmur of waves replaced the moan of wind through the gullies. The thorn bushes gave way to reeds and moss and spruce trees. Finally they reached the top of a rise and came to a beach of ash-gray dunes, scattered with tufts of hardy, brown grass. These rolled on for half a mile until they met the surface of a sea tinted the dull hue of iron beneath the leaden sky. White caps of foam dotted the water’s surface, where the wind whipped up waves that broke over sandbars and rolled gently over beds of silt to the shore.

In the distance, far across the water, rose the dark line of Aurim’s rocky coast, the black knives of mountains almost lost in the haze. Halfway across, long needles of black glass jutted at odd angles from the water, glinting in the muted daylight.

“Another leaving of the Destruction,” said Nakhil, nodding toward the dark, knife-sharp spines. “The blast melted the deserts and turned them to that. When the Rainwards broke away from shore, the glass shattered as the sea poured in. That is what remains.”

“They say you can see men inside some of those spikes,” Roshambur murmured. “Trapped forever, like ants in amber.”

“You can,” Shedara said. “There are lands like this in the west as well. I’ve been there. I expect your sailors give this place a wide berth.”

“Yes,” Nakhil agreed. “For every spike you see, ten more lie hidden beneath the waves. And it only takes one to slit open a galley’s hull, stem to stern. The seafloor is covered with bits of ships that sailed too close.”

“There’s something else,” Azar said. “There, in the silt.”

Hult looked, squinting to see what the boy had spotted. He’d had a hawk’s sight among his people, but he had to strain to make anything out from so far away. Azar’s eyes were that sharp. Even then, all he could discern were a few shapes, like large rocks mired in the ooze.

For Shedara’s elf eyes, however, there was no trouble at all. She caught her breath. “Towers of Silvanost,” she breathed. “That’s… that’s them, isn’t it? The army.”

“I see nothing,” Nakhil grumbled. “Describe it for a blind old horse-man.”

“They’re men,” Azar replied. “Men of stone.”

“Magical constructs,” Shedara added. “My people called them nala’ini. Among the men of the League, they’re known as Gulmat.”

“Ghelim in our lands,” Roshambur put in. “Some of the kings use them for palace guards. Leftovers of the old empire—the secrets have been lost since the world broke.”

“They’re still moving,” Hult said, forcing himself to make out details. “Stuck in the mud, but they’re trying to drag themselves out.”

Shedara nodded. “And they’ll keep on trying until they do it or until something destroys them. They can’t starve or drown when the tide comes back in.”

They stood silent, watching the stone men thrash in the surf. There were about twenty of them in all: casualties of a march that must have taken the rest across the sea. Hult thought of an army of such living statues, slogging across the ocean floor until they emerged on the far side, and shuddered.

“So that’s Maladar’s army,” Nakhil said. “Ghelim to obey his commands. They’d probably been waiting beneath the Clovenmont since he ruled Aurim.”

“They were,” Shedara said, her voice very soft. “I had a vision of a cave, when I first learned about Maladar. The Hooded One was there, along with… those. At the time, I thought they were just burial gifts—an army to accompany him to the afterlife, the way the old emperors liked to do. I never thought they might be nala’ini.”

“How many of them?” Roshambur asked.

Shedara shrugged. “Thousands.”

“Jijin’s beard,” Hult swore.

They watched the Ghelim struggle some more. They had been stuck in the silt for many hours—perhaps days—but they didn’t tire. They just kept fighting, trying to pull free, sinking deeper as time passed but never making a sound. The muck was merciless, refusing to let them go.

“Can they be killed?” Hult asked.

“They’re not alive to begin with,” Roshambur said. “But they can be destroyed, the enchantment in the stone unbound. A spell could do it—lightning in particular. And you can even bring them down with force of arms… though a sword’s not going to be much help unless it has a lot of magic bound into the blade. Better to use a good, sturdy war hammer.”

“Which we don’t have,” Nakhil noted.

“Best get some, then,” Shedara muttered. “Next chance we have.”

“What happens now?” Azar asked. “My father’s gone. How do we go after him?”

Hult nodded, looking at Nakhil. He’d been wondering the same thing.

“We don’t,” the centaur answered. “Not directly, anyway. If his army marched across the strait, he’ll be at the edge of the Cauldron by now. Maybe farther. Whatever, he’s beyond our reach… unless we get help crossing the Burning Sea.”

“The minoi,” Shedara said, pointing. “The Pillars of Bilo aren’t far from those mountains there, if I remember correctly. The gnomes who live beneath them have iron ships that can sail through the fire.”

“So the legends say, anyway,” Roshambur replied. “If they aren’t at war with the minions of flame, we may be able to discuss the situation with them. All we’d need is a boat.”

“Two boats, actually,” Nakhil said. “The Shining Lands lie between the far shore and the minoi. A hundred leagues of melted desert that wasn’t smashed and drowned. We’ll need the help of the Glass Sailors to cross it.”

Hult shook his head. “Three boats,” he said. “We haven’t even crossed the water yet. Unless you can use one of those sending spells on us, of course.”

Shedara and Roshambur exchanged quick head shakes, then turned to Azar. The boy flushed, his face darkening into a scowl. “I can’t do it,” he said. “I can’t choose what to cast. The magic just comes to me when I need it.”

“Convenient,” Nakhil grumbled. “Does anyone have another idea?”

“Yes,” Shedara said. “We walk.”

Hult stiffened, staring at her. “Like the Ghelim? We’ll drown. Unless you have a spell to let us breathe water,” he said, chuckling.

Shedara gave him a look and his laughter died. “I do know that spell,” she answered. “As does Roshambur, I’m sure.”

The dwarf nodded, then made a face. “It won’t last long enough. We’d never make the far side before the magic gave out; we’d be about halfway across.”

“With nothing but water all around us,” Nakhil muttered. “How lovely.”

“You’re forgetting something, Roshambur,” Shedara said. “We don’t have to go under water. We don’t even have to get wet, for that matter.”

“What do you mean?” Hult scoffed. He trailed off, his mouth opening then closing as he glanced at Roshambur. A crooked grin had split the dwarf’s beard.

“Oh,” Hult said.

The mud stank of rot and death, clinging in Hult’s nostrils, making his gorge rise. It sucked at his boots, tried to pull them off, to drag him under. Not far away, one of the Ghelim continued its fruitless struggles, mired waist-deep in the slime. As he watched, it sank an inch deeper, then another. In a day or so, it would be gone. Perhaps some had already vanished into the muck, trapped and squirming, never to emerge again unless someone dug them out.

He shuddered, putting it out of his mind, and turned to watch the wizards.

Shedara and Roshambur stood apart from the others, heads bent close to each other, talking in whispers. The sun westered above, Solis already having risen on the far horizon, not quite full. Magic surged strong in the air, and Hult was surprised that he could feel it. Being so close to the elf for so long had attuned him to the moons’ power. That alone would have been enough to get him exiled from his tribe in his old life, doomed to wander homeless upon the steppes.

The two sorcerers broke away from each other and slogged back to him and Nakhil and Azar. “Are you ready?” the centaur asked, his tail twitching in annoyance. “This place reeks like a cesspit.”

“Oh?” Roshambur asked, his face sour. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Shedara grinned, and Nakhil laughed as well. “We can do this,” the elf said. “Between the two of us, we’ll hold the spell long enough to walk across. It will take half a day’s march, if the seas stay calm, so we’ll need to do it in shifts so we don’t tire.”

“And if the seas don’t stay calm?” Hult asked.

Everyone was quiet.

“Pray they do,” Roshambur said.

Nakhil coughed. A short distance away, the Ghelim sank deeper.

“There’s no other way,” Azar said. “No turning back. Suluk is too far. We don’t have the time to spare if we’re going to find my father.”

“I will pray to Jijin that the weather holds,” Hult murmured. His voice was taut, his heart slamming against his ribs. That was how his people had died: at the mercy of the sea, the merciless sea. “You should all do the same.”

“Better to pray to Zai,” Nakhil said. “The sea-bitch may not have any love for us land-dwellers, but she can be appeased. I wish we had a cow to slaughter in her name.”

“I’m sure she appreciates the sentiment,” Shedara said, her mouth crooking. “Now everyone hold still. This will feel a bit strange.”

And it did, as always. When she placed her hand on his forehead, chanting the scuttling words and wriggling her fingers, Hult felt the familiar prickle of the moons’ power flow into him. He tensed, tasting something like golden wine, just for an instant, then an unspeakably sour flavor that faded just as fast. For a moment he felt as though he had no weight at all, as if he were suspended in midair and might float away if he pushed too hard off the ground. Looking down, he saw he was rising, his feet pulling out of the clinging mud, water seeping in to fill the holes where they’d been. When Shedara was done, he stood on top of the sludge as though it were a solid floor. He raised his eyebrows, stomping his feet. They didn’t even make a splash. The mire of ebb tide might have been solid granite.

Shedara was a little paler, a little weaker when she was finished, but they all stood on top of the mud. Nakhil smiled, pawing the ground with his forelegs, then dug the butt of his halberd into the mud. It sank in, and he had to yank it back quickly to keep from losing it altogether.

“Not bad,” he said. “Let’s see how the water is.”

Like that, before anyone could stop him, he broke into a half, then a full, gallop. He left no tracks in the mud as he ran across it, swerving around a Ghelim whose head and left arm were all that remained above the muck. He didn’t even break pace when he got to the shoreline but instead pushed himself even faster, leaping forward and landing on the breaking waves.

He should have gone down, straight to the bottom. Everything Hult knew, everything sane about the world, told him that much. But Nakhil lit upon the water without so much as a drop of spray. His laughter carried back to them, and he shook his halberd in the air as he charged out in a wide arc, curving back to shore. By the time he got there, Hult and the others had moved out to the water’s edge, and he came to a halt upon the surface, ripples eddying out from his hooves. Little fish darted beneath him, unconcerned. Hult made a face at the sight. That wasn’t right, not at all.

“Well,” Nakhil said, “shall we start walking?”

They did, though it took every ounce of Hult’s will to take that first step… and the second… and the third. For the whole first hour, in fact, he couldn’t raise his eyes to look at the others; he kept his attention fixed on the water beneath his feet and the shapes of the sea creatures that went about their lives beneath him, oblivious. Even a huge gray shark, running deep after a school of darting green fish, didn’t pay them any mind.

Jijin, Hult prayed, I will kill a hundred goats in your name. Just get me across this water alive.

So they went, eyes on the far shore, leaving the foundering Ghelim well behind. The ocean grew deep, the bottom fading from sight as soon as they got past the sandbar. Birds wheeled above, squalling at them as if wondering what they were doing there, occasionally dropping from the sky to plunge into the water—the very same water that bore Hult and the others up—and lunge free again, little silver minnows wriggling in their beaks. In time they left even the birds behind, and the Rainwards dropped away into the twilight, vanishing from sight.

The halfway mark came and went. The far shore became the near shore. Roshambur took over the spell, murmuring an incantation to draw control away from Shedara. She stumbled to her knees when the power left her, the water’s surface bowing beneath her weight. Hult and Azar were at her sides at once, each taking an arm and raising her up. She leaned on them, breathing hard, as they walked on.

Dawn came. They bent their course westward, into the heart of the glasslands. The coast was jagged and sparkling, riddled with cracks. Huge knives of obsidian loomed above them, too sharp to give purchase for the seabirds. The waves smashed against them, shredding into spray. As they drew near, Hult saw a great shelf of glass that had collapsed, sagging without breaking down to the water. He pointed, shouting to make himself heard above the surf.

“Is that a way up?” he asked, leaning close to Shedara.

She followed the gesture, then shrugged. “How should I know?” she replied. “I’ve never been here before. None of us have!”

Azar stared at it, brow furrowed. “It will serve,” he said. “We’d best get onto land soon. If we’re caught out here when the storm breaks, we won’t stand a chance.”

Hult frowned. Storm? he wondered. What—?

A great, roaring peal of thunder smote the air. They all looked up. Huge, anvil-shaped clouds, streaked with green fire, towered above them. They moved like an avalanche, pouring across the sky, devouring the morning light. There was no way the storm was natural, as they all realized instantly. None needed speak Maladar’s name.

“Mother of the gods,” Nakhil swore. “Move! Now!”

They ran, pelting toward the glass shelf as fast as they could while the wind whipped the water into frothing peaks. Rain began to fall, first in spattering drops, then in sheets. Lightning flared, striking a nearby spire and blowing it to flashing splinters. Hult felt one of them cut a furrow in the back of his leg, and he heard the others yell as well. One scream cut through the rest.

“Roshambur!” Nakhil cried.

The spell began to buckle as Hult turned to see the dwarf go down. There was a great sliver of glass, two feet long, lodged between his shoulders. He fell face-first onto the water’s surface, blood pouring from his mouth. Nakhil pulled to a halt, then twisted and charged to the wizard’s side. Leaning down, he caught Roshambur by the collar of his robes and scooped him up onto his back. Then he charged again, galloping toward shore. Water sprayed from his flying hooves.

“We’re sinking!” Azar cried. “The magic’s giving way!”

Hult swallowed, looking down. His feet dipped into the water as he ran now, about an inch… then two. He shook Shedara, feeling panic rise in him. “Hai!” he yelled. “You’ve got to take the spell back!”

“I don’t have the strength!” she answered. “I’m spent, Hult!”

He looked down. He looked at the shelf. He was three inches into the water… then four, deeper with every step. His grip on Shedara’s arm grew iron hard. They weren’t going to make it.

“Try,” he rasped. “Or we’re dead.”