Before he could inquire, Rogger pointed down the hall. “We have bigger problems at the moment.”
They had a clear view from the raised step as the woman approached, awash in icy mists. With each stride, the torches along both walls sputtered out, one after the other, sinking the hall in darkness. Frost skittered in spidery traces across the walls. Ice swept ahead of her across the floor, glassy smooth, like spilled water.
One of the knights who had been guarding the far gate attempted to thwart her with his diamond-pommel sword. The advancing ice reached his toes first. At its touch he stiffened, a hand clutched at his throat-then he toppled, stone-solid, and struck the floor like an upended statue.
Brant remembered the hare he had examined during the blizzard in Oldenbrook. Frozen solid. From the inside out. Here was the dread power of the storm given flesh.
“Take her down!” the warden cried to the phalanx of knights that now blocked the hall’s end.
A flurry of crossbows twanged, and a volley of bolts shot down the hall. Attesting to the knights’ marksmanship, each bolt struck true-only to shatter against the rime of frost that coated the woman.
With nary a blink, she pressed on with the same silent and deliberate pace.
“Flames!” the warden shouted. “Burn her!”
A waist-high barrel of oil was kicked down the hallway. Both ends were lit with fiery rags. The blast blinded Brant. He instinctively covered his face with his arm. Flaming barrel staves rained down, reaching back even to the blockade of knights.
Still, out of the flame and smoke, she appeared. She strode through the ruin, ushering ice and frost ahead of her. Fires ebbed and died around her.
“Back!” the warden ordered.
The knights below pushed toward the stairs. Rogger and Brant were driven higher, all the way up to the first landing. Tylar and the castellan joined the warden, knotted in the center of the knights that now mounted the steps.
From his higher vantage, Brant still had a view of the central hall below. The massive wyrmwood gate stood closed, sealing off the Masterlevels and the horrors below. But the flames in the giant braziers flanking the gate guttered out. The red iron cooled to black, cracking from the sudden loss of heat. Ice swept the floor, extinguishing the last of the flaming staves.
Into the hall strode the source, the storm given flesh.
She appeared below, marching to the center of the floor. The ice continued deeper down the next hall, evident by the torchlights dimming along that direction.
She stopped and faced the gathered audience on the stair.
Expressionless, she spoke. Frozen lips cracked, blood welled and iced again. “Godslayer…bring us the Godslayer.”
Tylar stood, flanked by Argent and Kathryn. All their offenses had failed. Icy darkness had consumed the entire first level. The cold wafted from the hall, chilling the skin and turning their breath white.
Argent stared at Tylar. “What are we to do?”
Tylar shook his head. He eyed the wyrmwood gate. Fire and warmth were their only true weapons against Mirra’s dark legion. If the storm could so easily strip away their defenses, what hope did they have of resisting the black army below? They were trapped between ice and shadow.
“We must get those fires back up,” Kathryn said.
“Bring us the Godslayer, he whom we name Abomination, and we will leave your towers in peace.”
Eylan’s voice was her own, but Tylar had no doubt who manipulated her like a stringed puppet. He had seen the god’s face in the storm. Ulf of Ice Eyrie. Along with whatever cadre of gods he had rallied to his cause. The conjoining of their powers would be almost impossible to fight.
“You have one bell to hand him to us. Or suffer the death of all. The Abomination must die, one way or the other. The choice is yours.”
Eylan crossed her arms, prepared to wait.
Argent spoke to his men. “Stay here. Send word if she moves.” He pointed to one of the knights near the top landing. “Call the masters down here. Get them to study and test the Grace that protects the woman. We must find a way to break its blessing.”
Obeying, the man fled upward.
Argent met Tylar’s eyes. “We need to speak. In private.” The warden waved for Kathryn to follow, then motioned for a path to the next level. Knights parted out of the way.
Tylar spoke to Krevan as he climbed up. “Keep with Rogger and the boy.”
He nodded.
Moments later, Kathryn and Tylar entered an evacuated room off the second level. It was a squires’ lodging. Four beds were stacked one atop the other near the back. The hearth was cold, and the place smelled of sour ale and old sweat. Pitiable surroundings to decide the fate of Tashijan.
Argent closed the door. “What are we to do?”
“We can’t give them Tylar,” Kathryn said, dropping to the lowermost bunk.
“They hold all of Tashijan in ransom.” Argent paced the room’s narrow length. His sword smacked his leg with every turn. He rested his hand on the diamond pommel to quiet it. “We must consider the greater good.”
Kathryn opened her mouth, but Tylar cut her off. “The warden is right.” He ignored the fire that flared in her eyes and flushed her cheeks. “We must make a choice between sacrificing one person or risking the fall of Tashijan, a loss that would threaten all the Nine Lands during this dark time. Even my life is not worth such a price.”
“But will they truly take only your life?” she answered heatedly.
Both men frowned at her words.
She sighed in exasperation. “This cadre of gods worked up a storm and sent it against us. And we know they already employ Dark Grace.” She waved vaguely toward where Eylan awaited their decision. “We cannot discount the possibility that these gods are in league or perhaps just manipulated by the Cabal. Look at the choices we are offered by their emissary. Lose you or see Tashijan fall. Both ends serve the Cabal. And the threat below-Mirra’s black legion-only compounds the danger. We must ask ourselves an important question before we decide how to answer their demand.”
“What’s that?”
“Is there a connection between Mirra below and the storm without?” She glanced to Tylar, then to the warden. “Consider how these two forces are conjoined so perfectly. Is it happenstance alone-is Mirra merely taking advantage of the situation? Or is it something more insidious? Does the Cabal control the gods, too? Openly or secretly. Either way, if we hand Tylar over to them, his death might not be all they seek. Could they turn Tylar and his powers against all of us? If they somehow enslaved him like the Wyr-mistress below, he would be a weapon that could take down not only Tashijan but all of Myrillia.”
Argent had stopped pacing and stood with his arms crossed, studying the floor. Tylar leaned on the edge of a small table. He stared down at the crook of his broken finger. It ached all the way up to his elbow. He used the pain to keep him sharp.
“To gain Tylar as a weapon would be the Cabal’s ultimate victory,” Kathryn continued. “Better to hold strong here. If we bend to their demands now, we’ll be forever at their mercy. Tashijan must be defended.”
“But what if you’re wrong?” Argent said. “What if these storm gods only want to end Tylar’s abomination? We’d risk Tashijan.”
“Tashijan is already at risk,” she answered. “And always will be until the Cabal is destroyed. Our towers stand tall, for a reason. To attract those who seek to bring Myrillia low. We are the first defense. We must not fail.”
Argent looked little convinced. He continued his study of the stone floor. “If only we knew the truth…”
Tylar mumbled to himself, “There is one who knows.”
The warden lifted his face. “Who?”
Tylar had not meant to be heard, but he had no choice but to answer. “The Wyr-mistress. Eylan. She’s been to the storm’s heart and back.”
“But she’s lost to us,” Kathryn said.