Silhouetted at the passageway's end stood a guard, or a statue.
The entourage trudged to a halt, weary from a day's long march. Barbarians waited for orders, dumb and patient as oxen. Cursing inwardly, Johan ordered his chair lowered.
Stepping to canted cobblestones, Johan let fall his monk's disguise. Like a-candle flickering to life, he took on color and substance. Skin glowed vivid red laced with black tattoos, a horn jutted from his bony chin, two more horns downcurved from his temples to frame his raddled face. A robe of purple lizard skin hugged his gaunt form like a living parasite. His hands and bare feet and chest were also red and tattooed. This was Johan's true face, stamped by sorcery, fearful and alien, commanding and cruel. The myriad tattoos were his own doing, designed to intimidate and draw attention to his face. Other features, such as blood-red skin and horns, were accidental by-products of dabbling in black arts. Yet any well-versed mage would see immediately that Johan had juggled arcane and mystic mana and survived, so he would command respect. Inspiring awe and fear was all the wizard cared about. Now, shrugging his purple robes about his shoulders, he would mystify Shauku-if she were here. If not, he'd level this wreck once and for all.
"I'll go alone." None of his party dared question, so stood mute.
On bare feet, Johan padded down the dark passage toward the eerie silent guardian. Up close, he recognized the garb: black reptilian armor overhung with a yellow gypon emblazoned with a startling red sun. A black helmet bore only a slit exposing cold eyes and painted yellow vees suggesting bumblebee stripes. The man stood with a lean sword unsheathed and propped before a shield like a black kite. An Akron Legionnaire, Johan knew, elite troopers recruited from Corondor. Expensive to maintain as a flotilla of ships or a stable of fine racehorses. Johan wondered idly if the soldiers stoked the underground fires that dribbled smoke.
The guard issued no challenge, and for a second Johan thought he was ensorcelled, but the man's chest rose and fell. Since the guard showed no surprise at his arrival, Johan calculated, the soldiers must have spotted the party from the battlements or even in the forest. Johan would flog his huntsman halfdead for failing to spy lookouts.
Imperious, Johan announced, "I would see your master, Lady Shauku."
"You are?" rapped the guard.
"Johan, Tyrant of Tirras and Emperor of the Northern Realms."
The legionnaire lifted his sword to his eye slit in a salute, as if diplomatic visits to this wilderness occurred daily. Turning smartly, the guard called in some foreign tongue. From a distance marched an identical man who beckoned Johan to follow.
The castle's indoors was same as outdoors. Walls rose sheer for three stories, but the roof wore only seven arching beams against a sunset sky. Pines and aspen trees grew high as the walls. Broken flagstones were jumbled with broken roof slates under a carpet of leaves. Rusted iron hooks still held gray poles where war banners had rotted away. At each end yawned vast fireplaces big enough to roast an ox, though bricks had fallen. At one end, square doors led to the kitchen. In comers, windblown dirt let thrive more roses and briars and weeds. Johan saw swallows zip in a window, circle once, and flit out again. Once this mead hall housed some lord's family, a home lively with drink and dance and music and laughter. Now it housed insects and birds.
And one occupant.
At the far end stood an immense dining table, once grand, now cracked and water stained. Behind the table on a wide stool sat the most beautiful woman Johan had ever seen.
Black hair was glossy with sunset highlights. A golden face with pointed chin featured sky-blue slanted eyes wide and innocent. She wore a simple layered gown of satin so blue it appeared black, unadorned. Before her sat a plate with only grape stems and seeds and a silver goblet of spring water.
The legionnaire stamped to a halt, saluted elaborately with sword to visor, and announced the visitor. The lady smiled dimly, interested but uncurious.
Flummoxed but refusing to show it, Johan pretended all was normal. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Lady Shauku?"
"Yes." Soft and musical. "Emperor Johan. Welcome. I'm so glad you came."
Johan wasn't. But he nodded, face frozen in a polite smile.
Something was very wrong.
Adira Strongheart revived because she was freezing.
Wind sucked and slobbered at her wet hair and chilled her lax body. Every gust set her teeth chattering, but she couldn't move to get warm. People carped to hold still until she wanted to lash out and thump someone. Gradually words filtered through the fog infesting her brain.
"Not much seaway, so b-bear down! H-help me h-hold her, she's prickly as a s-s-sea robin! J-Jedit, will you?"
Adira was mashed by a sopping wet arm big as a rolled carpet. Spray stung her face, a salt chill. All this water, she fretted. Surely the ship must be sinking. Then she recalled and her eyes flew open.
"Wh'where are we?" Her lips could barely move, she was so cold. Her hand throbbed too, as if a shark gnawed it.
"M-marooned," chattered Wilemina.
"S-soon to d-die," added Simone.
Even awake, Adira couldn't see. The night sky was streaks of dark and darker gray. Wind howled all around. Spume from breaking waves spattered them like rain. Adira tried to turn, but couldn't.
Simone the Siren rasped, "Damn your eyes, Dira, stay put! There's barely room enough without you jigging like a lobster in a pot!"
Groping and floundering, Adira was pulled up half-sitting almost in Jedit's sopping lap. She croaked her feeble question again. Song of the Sea King, but she was thirsty! And the night so black!
"We're cast away, Adira." Jedit's voice was a shuddery purr. "On a rock barely big as a oxcart. Nine of us. Simone and Wilemina and Whistledove, and you and I, and four from Buzzard's Bay."
"What? How?" Adira peered at darkness. The only luminosity was the clash of sea foam on breakers. She couldn't even make out her companions. "Why not swim for shore?"
"It's three or four miles, Adira." Simone could barely speak for shivering. "We'd never make it."
"Nor can we tell direction in the dark," whimpered Wilemina. "The tide changes and the surf runs every which way. And my arm is broken!"
"We can't anchor here!" Adira's reason and strength were returning, though every time she moved her head, it throbbed as if kicked by a horse. Nor could her right hand function. "We'll shrivel from exposure!"
No one answered.
"Maybe with the dawn…" purred Jedit.
The crew huddled like puppies, packed so tightly one's shuddering shook the next. Jedit radiated heat like a sheet-iron stove compared to the fish-cold humans. The tiger seemed not to suffer in his coat of fur. Adira thanked her lucky stars and foresight for buying her crew the thick sweaters, for oily wool kept a body warm even when wet. Still, their predicament was dire.
"Maybe you should shove off, Jedit." Spray slapped Adira's face, and she almost raged at the sea. "You can swim like a squid. And those sharp ears must pick out breakers on the beach. You could fetch help!"
By appointment and nature, Adira took command and gave orders but knew they were useless. True, the tiger might reach the shore, but it was likely sheer cliff with no beach. He'd be bashed to death against stone. And the Goat's Walk was barren and unsettled. There'd be no rescue boats, ropes-or volunteers.
"The tide rises," said Simone. "We need Jedit's help just to cling to this rock. Every rogue wave threatens to sweep us off."
"At least in drowning," said Wilemina, "one feels warm. Or so they say."
"I can't believe my own Circle would give up the ghost!" groused Adira. Despite her throbbing head, she grew angry at the sea, the fates, and her wastrel crew. "You blatherskites will just sit quietly and die?"