The Castle Of Hape. Caves Of Fire And Ice. The Joining Of The Stone

They found the master of Urdd lying among boulders in a form half-dragon, half-man, the long tail twisted around jagged rocks, the human legs half formed. They could feel his waning powers as he attempted to complete the change. His breathing was shallow and quick, his face gone in a horrifying mixture of shapes. The runestones lay scattered beside him, the broken gold casket smashed beneath the bulk of dragon shoulder from which protruded a man’s puny arm, its clawlike fingers clutching at his fallen sword.

Lobon jerked the sword from Dracvadrig’s hand and pressed the tip into the firemaster’s chest. Then he paused. He could pierce the firemaster’s heart now, he had lived twelve years for this moment. And suddenly he was numb with confusion and uncertainty.

Shorren growled; her voice filled his mind. Kill him! What do you wait for! She crouched, ready to spring, to tear out Dracvadrig’s throat. Do you lose your nerve, Lobon, after all your bragging talk of how you would destroy the master of Urdd?

He steadied his hand. Something lost and empty had stirred in him. He fought it back and plunged the sword home deep through dragon’s chest and man’s. Blood spurted like a river. The bloodied eye stared up at him blindly as the pierced heart ceased to beat.

He knelt beside the creature, half-man half-dragon, mutilated and dead, and picked up a shard of the runestone and wiped the blood from it, retrieved another and another until he held all five and the starfires. Then he turned and stared at Shorren, filled with emotions he dared not examine. She knew. She saw it in him. She looked back at him steadily.

The hatred of a lifetime was satisfied. And the emptiness it left laid a terror on his heart that he did not understand.

Your quest is ended, Lobon. Dracvadrig is dead. Is your reason for being ended, too?

He stared at her, puzzled. He did not know how to answer such a question.

Finally he stirred himself, looked again at the tangled body, stiffening now to cleave around boulders in coils and twisted human limbs. Then he began to examine the stones and to read one by one the runes carven into them. But the runes were only scattered words. None, alone, made sense. He started to fit stone to stone, but something made him cease abruptly. He stared down at the stones, puzzling. “What do these words mean, Shorren? What does the whole rune say?”

Shorren did not answer.

He turned and saw her lying sprawled across her chains, her coat wet with seeping blood where a sword protruded from her chest. His shock froze him, he could not speak or cry out. He stared dumbly at the two figures that stood over her, reached out desperately for some contact with Shorren, knowing she was dead. There was no answering touch from her mind, only emptiness; and his mind, his spirit, could not believe that she was dead.

When at last he looked directly at the figures, the sense of them chilled him through. The man was dark-haired and bearded and stood crookedly: a Farrian Seer. This was RilkenDal, surely. The woman was a pale, bloodless creature, watching him as a snake watches its prey. The dark Seers moved suddenly, swords flashed; he parried, fought with terrible fury, wild at the murder of Shorren, wanting to scream out in agony for Shorren. The woman was strong as a man. The two forced him in the direction of the cell; as he struck at the woman, RilkenDal brought a blow across his neck that jarred his vision and flashed hot pain through him.

He knew no more until the woman’s cold hands lifted and forced him through the cell door. Half waking, dizzy, he knew she had the stones. He saw Feldyn lying against the cell wall bleeding, saw the woman advance on him then draw back hissing and felt Feldyn’s power and Crieba’s, driving her back. With the last of his strength Lobon forced protection for the wolf bell pressed so painfully against his ribs, and felt the wolves do the same.

She did not come near him again. Her expression alone, he thought, might easily kill. She was white with hatred, her lips pulled back. “We will have the bell soon enough, Ramad’s brat!”

She stood beside the dark Seer, just inside the iron gate. In a moment a fire ogre appeared, pushing the girl Meatha ahead of it. She seemed confused, her face flushed from the fire, her arms painfully burned. She glanced at him, pleading, then lowered her gaze. The warrior queen took hold of her arm in a grip that made her wince, and shoved her toward RilkenDal. The Seer steadied his knife against the girl’s chest, and the warrior queen lifted her hands and began to draw signs above the girl’s head.