Bound to time, by earth and me.
So mote it be.”
“No!” The demonic brothers roared as a fierce whirlwind of blinding light spun around them. The trio howled as the energy took them to their knees, drying away the blood, erasing the oozing black grease, and dulling the glow from their pale, gray bones.
Mathison held the searing hot wolfstone until nothing remained of the witch’s sons but three piles of ash. “To the winds with ye.” He brought down his sword and touched its tip to the ground. The whirlwind of light returned, lifting the ashes and carrying them away.
“That was not nearly as enjoyable as destroying them the old way,” Dubh said, sounding thoroughly disappointed.
“They were immortal. It had to be done this way to ensure the witch couldn’t have them rise against us yet again or take retribution against Calia.” Although Mathison agreed with his inner wolf. The three brothers had been wiped away much too quickly for his liking. He’d wanted them to suffer. “We must make haste now. Carman will sense the void left by their destruction. We must reach Calia before she does.”
“I wish I could hear Litress.”
Dubh’s worry and frustration made Mathison’s uneasiness churn even harder. “I know. I wish we could hear both of them again.” He launched himself up into the saddle and urged Horse onward as fast as the steep path allowed. He had to reach the bottom of the chasm, traveling far deeper into the narrow bit of land jutting between the cliffs to find the tunnel beneath the keep, the one that opened out onto the rocky shores of the Moray Firth. That tunnel would lead him to the heart of the Pit of Pinnacles.
During the descent, he kept Shadowmist Keep’s battlements in his sights. The lack of any activity or guards atop the castle’s curtain wall was strange, especially since Bansys had to know he would come for Calia. The closer he drew to the base of the ravine, the more the backs of his hands tingled, drawing his attention to the markings inked on his flesh by Grandsire’s scrolls. Already black and well-defined, the symbols became even sharper and easier to read. It was almost as if the ancient words of his ancestors were eager to see the quest’s goal realized.
Salt spray filled the air as the North Sea’s winds howled into the Firth and through the narrow gorge. Gulls and terns split the air with their high-pitched screeches as they circled and dove in search of food.
Mathison studied the seemingly impenetrable cliffside of great, dark gray slabs of stone that looked as if the gods had dropped them from the heavens and ordered them to stand on end like silent sentries. He needed the one striated with gleaming white streaks that resembled branches of a tree. According to the scrolls, that stone appeared connected to the cliff but actually stood out from the rest, creating a space wide enough for a man to slip through and access a tunnel system as intricate as a beehive. That tunnel system held the path he needed to get to Calia. Once he had her safely hidden in Grandsire’s cave with the Weavers seeing to her care, then he would return and deal with the witches and false chieftains. He had over three hundred years of cursed living to seek vengeance for—longer than that if he included the time spent being played for a fool by Aluwyn.
The obelisk he sought jumped out at him. Even though the tide had raised the level of the sea to half the natural monument’s height, the white branches within the stone were unmistakable. He dismounted and patted Horse. “Stay where ye feel safe from the wind and the waves. Listen for my whistle.”
With an amiable grumble, the mighty beast tossed its head and retreated to higher ground.
“Reckon the tunnels be flooded?” Dubh had never been bothered by a good soaking with rain, sleet, or snow, but Mathison’s inner wolf hated the sting of seawater in open wounds—namely, wounds that might be received while fetching Calia.
“There’s sure to be water in those passages closest to the shore, but according to the scrolls, as I go deeper into the cliff, the correct tunnels rise. They should be drier.” He braced himself as he waded into the iciness of the waist-deep water. It didn’t matter. Nothing would keep him from his dear one. He squeezed in behind the marker stone, barely able to force himself through the tight space that led to the tunnel entrance.
As he slogged deeper into the earth and lost the light, he unsheathed his sword and uttered, “Illuminare.” The blade hummed with renewed energy and took on a blue-white glow, lighting the way. Each time he came to a fork in the tunnel system, he trusted what he had seen in the scrolls and the tingling of the marks on his hands to lead the way.
Just as he’d thought, the tunnels rose at a gradual incline and shifted to a cloying dampness rather than knee-deep seawater. Unsure of the extent of Calia’s injuries, he had no doubt about carrying her to safety, but wasn’t sure about getting her through the narrow space at the mouth of the cave on shore. Teeth clenched at the thought, he shook the uncertainty away. He would get her out—somehow. The way of it would come to him when the time came.
“I smell smoke,” Dubh said. “But it’s nay wood that burns and creates it. ’Tis bones.”
“I dinna ken if that be good or bad.” A fire would warm her and help her heal, but burning bones? Whose bones? And who had lit them?”
“Could be a dragon’s lair. Did yer father not tell stories of one that lived within Shadowmist lands?”
“’Twas a pair, actually. Noirgarth, Protector of the Weak, and his mate, Bresag, Gentleheart.”
“Shifters?”
“No. Dragons as old as time itself. Father used them as a warning to keep the young of the clan from exploring the caves and tunnels beneath the keep. I never knew for certain whether or not they were real.”
“If they are real, hopefully their dispositions earned them their names.”
“For the most part, dragons are more honorable than many beings we have met in our lifetime. Humans take issue with them because they want the dragon’s gold. They dinna understand the true majesty and valor of the beasts.”
“Did ye hear that, Noigarth?” whispered a decidedly feminine voice. “Our visitor speaks of our majesty and valor.”
“I heard, dear Gentleheart. I heard.”
The faintest tinge of sulfur filled the tunnel, making Mathison’s nose twitch. Most definitely the scent of dragons. Perhaps this pair possessed the ability to hover between dimensions to keep from being seen. “Forgive me for intruding,” he said to the pair he only knew from childhood tales. “My grandsire suggested this route to the Pit of Pinnacles, which he and his sorcerer created.”
“Yer grandsire?” Noigarth repeated. “Ye are not Cain Shadowmist? In the shadows, we would swear it was our brother risen from the grave and come to visit.”
“I am Mathison Shadowmist. Grand Chieftain Cain Shadowmist was my grandsire.”
