"Not a pleasant experience, tasting your own blood."
His eyes adjusted to the dim light. A few feet away, seated on a keg, was Greven il-Vec. He sat so still it was hard to distinguish him from the hull frames behind him. In repose, the massive warrior was no less fearsome than he had been on the open deck. Even in the feeble light, a dark glint of violence shone in his eyes.
"It's not been pleasant on your ship," Ertai said thickly.
"You were not invited aboard."
Even shrugging hurt. "I'm not here by choice."
"Why are you here, boy?"
There was no sense lying about it. "I was manning the portal, keeping it open for Weatherlight. I jumped from the control station onto the ship as she maneuvered to enter the portal. You were coming at us like you meant to board us, and they put the helm over to avoid you. The course change was so violent I missed Weatherlight completely and got caught by your rigging. If your ship hadn't been so hard on our heels, I'd've drilled my own grave in the soil of Rath."
"A sorcerer as skilled as you killed by a mere fall? I find that hard to believe."
Ertai said nothing but leaned his aching head against the mast.
"Still, I can't imagine anyone trying to plant a spy on my ship in such a careless manner-not even Gerrard Capashen."
Mention of his Weatherlight companion sent a spark of anger through Ertai. How could Gerrard have abandoned him, left him in the hands of this grotesque savage? Such ingratitude!
"We are returning to our citadel," Greven continued. "Once there, your fate will be determined by my master, the evincar."
Was that resentment Ertai heard in Greven's voice? Tired as he was, he tried to read the warrior's aura, the invisible halo of power surrounding every living thing. It was one of the first feats apprentice wizards learned, aura reading. Ertai could practically read auras in his sleep.
He closed his eyes and let the visible image of Greven fade from view. In its place came a dark silhouette, a broken outline in black on a background the color of old blood. No other forces existed in Greven's aura but strength and destruction. Not surprising. What did interest Ertai was the distinct break in the brute's aura. Instead of a complete circle of life-energy, the lines broke at Greven's neck. Something was there that absorbed the life force and did not allow it to radiate in the usual manner. Something artificial.
"-what to do with you," Greven was saying. Ertai's eyes popped open. Sweat beaded on his brow.
"What?" Ertai said.
Greven ground his teeth, a noise the crew of Predator knew to fear. "I said, you can't expect mercy from the evincar. He has no tolerance for enemies of the state. Your only hope is to cooperate with us. Then Volrath may find a use for you," he said, voice growing.
Ertai hung his head. "I see."
His compliant manner made Greven unclench his jaw. "Your friends have fled, never to return," he said, rising to his feet. He had to stoop to avoid banging his head on the deck above. "If you are as practical as you are talented, you'll make the correct decision."
Alone, Ertai glared in the direction of the departed captain. Stupid hulk. Ertai knew his kind. Bluster and violence, that's all men like Greven knew. They were the easiest types to manipulate. Appeal to their pride, yield to their anger; that was how to do it. Greven hated and feared his master, Volrath, and that was a handy foil too. Ertai began to feel a little better about his chances of survival.
He tried his best to open the manacles that bound him to the mast. Neither his physical strength nor his depleted magical abilities were up to the task, and after long, fruitless effort, he resigned himself to temporary captivity. His earlier fit of confidence faded when he found he couldn't erase the image of Greven's aura from his mind. That black, broken aura spoke of terrible, unnatural things, of a man not alive, yet not dead. He was controlled by the thing in his spine, yet aware of his own lack of free will. Such a man was like a handleless sword-no matter how you tried to grasp it, it was always lethal.
He and Greven had something in common, then. In each their own way, they were both prisoners of war.
CHAPTER 2
Darkness was his friend. It came to him intimately, enfolded him in its profound embrace. No aspect of light could ever compare to the sensual companionship of darkness. It caressed him, flowed over and through him, squeezing out the last vestiges of light he'd known. Once his being was suffused by the black void, he felt himself stretching out to infinity.
The gray orb of Rath was like an acorn in the palm of his hand. He closed his fingers around it and laughed. Near his left hand floated another, brighter world, but when he tried to grasp it, it melted between his fingers. Irritated, he tried again. His hand closed on nothing-it was like trying to grab smoke. His blood warmed, then became feverhot. He released Rath and tried to seize the evasive second world with both hands. Forming a cage with his fingers, he caught the phantom inside. Now it was his! He closed his hands together and awaited the visceral thrill of possession.
It never came. A brilliant stream of white fire forced its way through his clenched hands, pushing back the darkness with its hateful rays. He tried to smother the light, but it just got stronger. It pierced his shut eyes and speared through his brain. His back arched in torment. His jaw locked with such violence his teeth cracked under the pressure.
Let go, let go, massed voices seemed to say. Let go of it before it kills you.
"Never!" he cried. "Dominaria will be mine!"
Crovax opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of a vast hall in twilight. He leaped to his feet, heart racing. What was this place? How did he get here?
Suspended a few inches from his head was a black, spidery contraption studded with short spikes, shaped like a cupped hand. A silver, pearl-like object nestled within the "hand". At first he thought it was hard and glassy, but as he stared at it, the surface throbbed like a living thing. Crovax reached out for the strange object, but the hand whizzed away, retracting upward on a thin black cable with dizzying speed. It vanished into the cyclopean heights of the hall, leaving Crovax alone on the long, polished floor.
His hands were bleeding. He'd forced his fingernails deeply into his own flesh.
"Dream," he muttered, rubbing his stinging palms on his legs. Bright smears of blood contrasted starkly against the cream-colored leggings.
A quick check proved he was standing in his underclothes: a light jersey, matching leggings. His feet were bare. The wound on his neck where Mirri had bitten him had mysteriously healed. A smooth, livid scar covered the spot. Where were his clothes, his weapons, his armor? Without arms or armor, he might as well have been naked.
"What is this?" he shouted. Far above him, indistinct movements and soft clicking sounds responded to the sound of his voice. Crovax had the unpleasant feeling he was under observation.
He walked along, scrutinizing his surroundings. The dimensions of the hall were vast. Weatherlight could have easily navigated above the concourse. At equal intervals the vaulted roof was supported by enormous pilasters, decorated in a baroque, mechanistic style. Each pilaster featured a grotesque face of greenish black and chrome, yards across, its stylized mouth open in a silent roar of rage. In the distant recesses of the arched ceiling, unseen mechanisms clicked and whirred. Crovax could not imagine the purpose of such a mammoth hall.