Then all that had been set aside when Skerren’s orb had begun to vibrate in Wryth’s palm. After leaving the shores of Eitur, he had never set the crystal globe down. His gaze seldom strayed from it. His frustration grew as the orb’s tiny copper-wrapped lodestones refused to stir again to those unseen winds. He had almost given up hope—until the globe shivered with warning in his grip.
He had lifted it and saw the lodestone slivers pointing west of the mooring fields. The orb had trembled in his hand, as if it could barely withstand those forces. Still, it had taken the intervention by Haddan via skrycrow to convince Brask to drift the Pywll along the trail of those unseen winds to their source.
Skerren’s orb had led them to a tall golden crown jutting out of the smoky pall, belonging to a tree far larger than any other. It looked like a gilded island in a black sea. To spy below those dark waters, Wryth had suggested the judicious placement of a firebomb to blast the smoke away.
Through the farscope now, Wryth studied the grounds below as the warship circled that island. He saw people scurrying to and fro, panicked by the blast. Then near an open square, he spotted a bloody slaughter of horses. Amidst the ruins were bodies bearing the livery of the legion.
He stiffened, guessing who they were.
Brask’s brother and the other knights.
What had happened?
He started to pull back, ready to alert Brask, when movement in the square drew his eye. A clutch of people scrambled toward the bower of Oldenmast. He was ready to dismiss them as panicked townspeople—when a shaft of sunlight pierced the same smoky hole and glinted off a patch of bright bronze.
He grabbed the farscope with both hands and pulled the eyepiece closer. A group half carried, half dragged a bronze sculpture. His heart clenched in his chest.
At long last …
Without looking away, he called to Brask. “It’s down there!”
This was the first time since the mines of Chalk that he had laid eyes upon the ancient talisman. He held his breath.
“What do you want me to do?” Brask strode over to him. “We’re too high and the trees are too thick for us to lower the Pywll.”
“It matters not.” Wryth’s fingers trembled as the smoky pall resealed the hole under him, erasing the sight. “We cannot risk that weapon ever being wielded against the realm.”
“Then what should—”
Wryth turned to the commander. “Unload a firestorm below. All around that tree. Burn it down to its roots.”
* * *
SUPPORTING NYX UNDER one arm, Kanthe fled across the open square. Aamon tracked her other side. A continual growl flowed from the vargr’s throat. The beast’s ears lay flat against his skull after the thunderous blast overhead.
Jace stumbled alongside them with Frell. They all fled toward the group of Kethra’kai. The other party hobbled more slowly, burdened by a strange woman, who appeared to be in armor, which baffled him.
But such quandaries had to wait.
More thunderous blasts erupted all around, bursting with flame and smoke. They all ducked from the concussions and ran low. Then behind them, one of the bombs struck the doors of the Golden Bough, exploding with enough force to throw them all forward.
Kanthe glanced back. The blast had torn a gaping hole into the commons, and flames were quickly spreading.
“C’mon.” He helped Nyx off her knees.
By the time they overtook the others, the Kethra’kai had rounded the giant bole of Oldenmast. The tall, pointed doors in the trunk appeared ahead, along with the round window of painted glass above it.
A tribesman was already there, hauling open one side.
Another rushed to Xan and helped her move faster.
They all fled toward the open door. As they reached it, Kanthe heard a heavy cracking of branches overhead. He looked up—as a huge fiery barrel came smashing through the tree limbs, toppling straight toward them.
“Move!” he screamed, pushing Nyx ahead of him.
They piled through the door.
He urged them deeper. “Keep goin—”
The explosion tossed them all across the dark interior. Kanthe hit the floor hard and tumbled, tangled with Nyx. A fireball rolled over them, trailed by searing smoke. Shattered glass rained all around.
As soon as the worst passed, Jace scrambled to them and helped haul them up. Aamon growled, dancing a protective circle around the group. Across the dark chamber, the others gained their feet.
Kanthe glanced behind him. Both doors had been ripped off. A body remained on the floor, crushed under a shattered section of the giant door. Kanthe recognized the dead woman. With a wince, he tried to draw Nyx away.
But Nyx balked and stepped in that direction, rubbing her eyes, as if struggling to see.
Xan forced her back. “No,” the elder said.
“Who…？” Nyx gasped out.
Xan urged her onward.
“Who?” Nyx pressed more firmly.
Kanthe frowned, knowing Nyx would not budge. “Tell her.”
Xan’s eyes met hers. “Dala.”
Kanthe pictured the tribeswoman, a youth who could never seem to stop smiling.
Except no longer.
Nyx wove on her feet, her face dazed and heartbroken. Jace helped get her legs moving deeper into the hollow of the ancient tree. Behind them, more blasts and explosions drove them onward.
Kanthe glanced one last time through the broken doors and shattered windows.
Fires raged past the threshold.
He swore vengeance on whoever wrought such damage.
I will make you suffer.
* * *
WRYTH SHOVED THE farscope away from his face. It took him several hard blinks for his sight to readjust back to the forecastle of the Pywll—but his fury could not be so easily dispelled.
“Well?” Brask asked.
He snapped at the commander, wanting to lash out at anything near at hand. “Your brother is dead.”
“What?” Brask lunged at the farscope. “Why didn’t you tell me—”
Wryth blocked him. “It’s no use,” he said, forcing a note of sympathy. “The smoke of the bombings has washed away any view below.”
“Then we’ll blast open a new hole.”
“It’ll do no good. Those new flames are pouring smoke across the ground.” He faced Brask. “But I can tell you this. It was those thieves who killed your brother.”
The Vyrllian’s crimson features darkened into a storm.
Wryth turned to the bow windows, toward the golden crown of the ancient alder. During the bombardment, he had caught brief fragments of the view below, lit by the blast of flames. He’d had to watch impotently as the group dashed the bronze woman into that ancient woodland sanctuary, Oldenmast.
To make matters worse, through the farscope he had spotted an upraised face running across the square. Just for a breath. He couldn’t be certain, but the dark features stood out among a sea of pale Kethra’kai faces.
Plus, the conspicuous bow across his back …
It had to be.
Kanthe.
Wryth clenched a fist.
How did the prince end up with the artifact? Was this some further plot of insurrection? Did the bastard plan on wielding the weapon against the king?
For the sake of all of Hálendii, Wryth had to put a stop to it, even if it meant destroying the treasure, or at least burying it for a time. He returned to face the fury in Brask’s face and pointed to the gilded crown of Oldenmast.