This attacker was a guardian drawn from the very air. Now it swirled like a tornado, sucking at them with winds so powerful, they were almost forced off the ledge and into the bubbling, churning lake. Rising taller than any of the other elementals, this air guardian screamed like a tortured goblin, wailing all around them, leaning in close.
Ankhar’s strength saved them, for he planted his feet, crouched low, and wrapped a brawny arm around the shoulders of each of his two companions. The gale whipped and pulsed and whirled. Like the other elementals, the creature of air had taken a physical shape, and it appeared like a tornado with whirling tendrils that reached out, tried to suck and pull the mortals apart from each other, drag them forward into the lethal, bubbling magma.
Hoarst pulled some kind of powder from his pocket, blinking at the dust that flew up and stung his eyes. The wizard gritted his teeth and spat out the words to the spell, finally spreading his hands wide and stepping forward into the very heart of the cyclone’s suction. The air elemental almost lifted him up and away-only Ankhar’s strong hands held him in place-until, at last, Hoarst’s magic sparked into being. The bright flash of light utterly dispelled the enchanted creature, leaving only a series of random gusts swirling across the lava lake, churning up smoke, blowing futilely at the tiny rivulets of fire.
Laka produced a small suede sack, supple and empty and very tightly sewed. She waved it about with both hands, capturing one of the errant gusts and trapping it inside so it puffed out the bag like a balloon. She quickly drew a string around the mouth of the sack, closing it tightly shut, then lashed it to her belt where it bobbed lightly.
“Now we must go over there, to that island,” Laka declared, pointing.
“How?” demanded Ankhar, gazing at the dangerous crimson liquid that seemed to surround the pinnacle of dark rock indicated by his stepmother. “Swim?”
“There seems to be a path,” Hoarst said.
The half-giant blinked, shaking his head skeptically. Nevertheless, he could see the snaking path of black rock, like the ridged back of a stony crocodile, that jutted above the surface of the lava. They might be able to walk across it without coming into direct contact with the liquid rock. And if they soaked their cloaks in water and wrapped them tightly as protection, they might be able to withstand the baking heat.
“Are you sure?” the half-giant asked, his jaw jutting belligerently. “Why can’t slave, er, ally come to us?”
“Because this is the path showed to me in my vision,” Laka replied calmly. “It is the Truth.”
There was no argument against that. Grudgingly, Ankhar stepped in front of his two companions, leading the way to the terminus of the narrow, steep-sided isthmus of rock. The heat felt searing against his face, burning his skin wherever it peeked out; he had pulled his cape over his shoulders and head, tightening it into a narrow chute around his eyes and nose.
The ridge was narrow, capped with loose and blistered rock, and each footstep kicked some of the rubble free to tumble down the steep sides and into the lake. Wherever they struck, flames erupted from the liquid. To Ankhar these snaky tendrils of flames seemed like hungry lampreys, mouths lunging upward, seeking their flesh.
The heat became a smothering blanket, wrapping him in a cocoon of pain. He could barely see through the tears that streamed from his eyes, the sweat that poured from his brow. Each breath was like a blast of fire sucked into his lungs, more pain that sustenance, and he staggered along, fearing any misstep that would send him plunging into that bubbling cauldron-promising an instant death that began to seem like a mercy.
Stumbling on loose rock, he dropped to one knee, burning his gloved hands when arresting his fall. Grimly, almost unconsciously, he pushed himself to his feet. He almost sobbed in relief as, finally, he stepped onto the solid ground of the black island. He crawled and scrambled upward, climbing away from that horrible, killing lava.
Only when he reached the summit of the hill on that conical island did he remember his stepmother and the magic-user. He spun, somewhat surprised and ashamed to see that she was gamely hobbling after him. Sweat glistened in the creases of her wrinkled face, but her eyes gleamed with a triumphant glare that could only make the half-giant feel guilty about his momentary cowardice. He extended a hand, helped her up the last steps of the incline-and was grateful for the touch of her strong, wiry fingers, the encouraging squeeze she administered as she arrived to stand behind him.
Hoarst came last. Ankhar was amazed at the Thorn Knight’s calm, even arrogant appearance. He calmly brushed his dark hair back, and looked around through narrowed eyes-as if already relegating the unpleasant ordeal of the crossing to memory.
Ankhar was busy gasping for breath, wiping the sweat and tears from his eyes, and thanking the Prince of Lies and all the other gods for his survival. Then he noticed that the clearing upon which they stood, which was only about twenty feet in diameter, had been leveled by some purposeful force-it was as smooth as the marble floor of a nobleman’s great hall. In fact, the coal-black bedrock had been polished to such a sheen that the surrounding fires were reflected in it everywhere he looked.
There were four curious features in the floor, each carved from the same black stone as the floor, and when Ankhar stepped over to look at one, he saw that it held a smooth bowl, a semicircular depression that had been chiseled out of the pedestal’s flat top. A quick glance confirmed that there were three other pedestals of similar design.
Hoarst inspected the stone pillars, touching them, looking closely at the surface around each bowl, and finally nodding as if they were exactly what he had expected.
“Fire and water, stone and air,” he explained, indicating the bizarre hieroglyphics that Ankhar had noticed etched into the stonework around the rim of the shallow bowls. Each pedestal was devoted to a different one of the earth elements.
“Here, take this,” Laka said, handing a piece of stone to Ankhar. He recognized it as one of the shards of the rock elemental that he had shattered with his spear. The shaman looked at the wizard expectantly. “I cannot read the signs-tell me which is which.”
“That is the bowl for the stone,” Hoarst said, pointing to the pedestal nearest to the half-giant. “And these others,” he gestured to each in turn, “are for water, fire, and air.”
“Good.” Laka took out the three sacks holding the scraps of the other elements. She set each beside the appropriate bowl then glanced solemnly at the Thorn Knight. “Now you must be ready with those bracers. You will have only a short time to clasp them onto our slave.”
“What if there isn’t enough time?” Ankhar asked.
“Then we will all be killed, and our bones will be devoured by the fires in the belly of the world,” Laka said with a shrug.
“Be ready!” the half-giant ordered Hoarst unnecessarily as the dark wizard bore a very serious mien as he took out the manacles and held them in his hands, watching Laka warily.
“Now follow these instructions,” the shaman continued. If she was as worried as her companions, she was giving no outward sign. “Place the stone in that bowl. Good. Now the water.” Ankhar spilled the muddy contents of the pouch into the depression on the second pedestal. He glared at it expectantly, but nothing much seemed to be happening.
Laka herself rolled the glowing remnant of the fire elemental into the third bowl. Ankhar’s hand nervously clutched the haft of his spear as she readied the fourth sack, the puffy balloon of air. Hoarst’s eyes followed the shaman’s every move.
The ancient shaman held the sack of air over the fourth bowl and abruptly compressed the bag, forcing the little gust into the depression. Immediately Ankhar sensed a new, ominous presence. That was the only change, except perhaps for the ember of the fire elemental, which flared brightly, as if it had been fanned by a bellows. The half-giant spun on his heel, looking to the right and left, hardly realizing that he had raised his spear before his chest and was holding it at the ready in both of his big hands.