"Take that, Cho-Arrim bastard!"

Orim shucked her healer's cloak and wrapped it around the spurting limb, applying pressure. "Damn it, Klaars! Put down the sword!"

"Get away from him!" Klaars shouted.

"He'll die!"

"Get away from him, or you'll die!"

It was too late anyway. The bulky warrior went to his knees and collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor.

Klaars stared avidly at the two bodies. "Let's go, Orim."

She knelt, struggling to stanch the blood flow. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Suit yourself," Klaars spat. He strode out the door and began climbing toward the forest floor.

Meanwhile, Orim checked the guard. Pools of red life lay on the floor of the chamber. He was dead-irretrievably dead. But Is-Shada…

Orim reached the young woman. Her neck was not broken. Orim rolled her onto her back. Neither was she breathing or her heart beating. Orim pounded thrice on the young woman's sternum, tilted her head back, inhaled deeply, and filled IsShada's lungs with the breath of life.

"Live, damn it. Live."

As she compressed Is-Shada's chest again, Orim whispered, "Is-Shada, Orim 'stva o'meer. Is-Shada, Orim 'stva o'meer…"

The killing had ended by morning. Klaars had slain two warriors, a young man, and an old woman before he had finally been wrestled to the ground. Now he knelt there at sword point. Beside him knelt Orim. She had been discovered in the cell, bloodstained beside the body of the first guard. IsShada lay unconscious but alive nearby. Without the ability to explain her appearance, she seemed as guilty as Klaars.

Morning had come-the time for executions.

Ta-Spon was the executioner, a hulking man as tall as Gerrard and as muscular as Tahngarth. A mane of long black hair spilled back from his head to his shoulder blades, and a crimson mask covered his features. He bore a wickedly sharp and heavy blade, which just now he held at Klaars's throat.

"They were always planning to kill us, you know," Klaars whispered to Orim. His eyes hatefully raked across the whiterobed crowd that surrounded them. Cho-Manno stood in their midst, returning the man's vicious glare. To his right, in the space where Is-Shada would have stood, there was only an unsheathed sword. Klaars spit toward the chieftain. "At least I killed some of them before they killed me."

"At least I saved one of them," Orim answered stoically.

"Yes, but the one you saved can't save you," Klaars noted.

As if understanding the conversation, Ta-Spon glanced at Cho-Manno.

The chieftain nodded.

Steel flashed. It hummed in air. It sliced through skin, muscle, and bone as though through water. Klaars's head bounded free.

Orim saw no more. She buried her face in her hands and wept. The sound of her sobbing spread out through the hushed throng. The slump and spatter of her comrade only fueled her cries.

Ominously, Ta-Spon stepped up beside her. His blade cast a crimson light across Orim.

She did not lift her head. If he would kill her, he could do it easily enough as she lay there.

Ta-Spon seemed to wait for the signal. His feet shifted.

The sword rose into the air. Utter silence gripped the forest.

Then came the hum of the blade… and another sound- someone rushing up the path. A great weight fell on Orim's neck-not the weight of steel, but of arms. Someone crouched over her, weeping.

"O-reem, Is-Shada 'stva o'meer… O-reem, Is-Shada 'stva o'meer…"

Chapter 3

Gerrard himself dug the new graves. Whoever had stolen Weatherlight had killed three of his sailors-and abducted three more. He wondered if he ought to be digging six holes in the gloaming hillside. It was a solitary penance. Others had volunteered to help him, but Gerrard felt he owed it to these crew members- and to all the others he had lost.

"Dig them deep," came a warm voice in the chill morning.

Gerrard glanced up, flinging another shovelful of dirt onto the mound. Atop shifting soil stood Takara. Her flame-red hair blended with the crimson sky… what was the old saying?-Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.

"Dig them deep, Gerrard. The dead have a way of rising to haunt you."

Gerrard shook his head grimly, and droplets of sweat pattered across his bare shoulders. "Is that what's next? Black magic raising the dead?"

She nodded and smiled. "Yes, black magic. The blackest magic there is. Regret. You've become a master of it."

It was as though she saw right into his soul. With a grim laugh, he said, "I've had lots of occasions like this to practice it."

Takara grabbed a shovel that had been abandoned in the pile of dirt and dropped down into the grave beside Gerrard.

"I don't want any help."

"I know," Takara said, even as she flung a shovelful out of the hole. "But you don't want the others to help because they don't understand what you are doing. They tell you to let go of guilt and regret, but I know you can't. I know you can't because I couldn't either. I survived Rath not by letting go of guilt, regret, and anger, but by clinging to them. They are powerful magic, indeed-black and powerful. You can't get rid of them, Gerrard, so you have two choices- you can let them rule you, or you can rule them."

He paused and stared amazedly at Takara. Rivulets of sweat ran down his back.

She returned his gaze. "Every time I think of Father, of the man I loved, who was stolen away from me by a spoiled and vengeful monster, my hatred strengthens me. Hatred and fury. They perfect me, prepare me to kill that monster." She lifted her hand, fingers forming a trembling claw just before Gerrard's neck. "And when the black magic is complete, I will rip his throat out!"

Gerrard stared into Takara's eyes. They blazed like twin furnaces-steel and fire. "Yes," he said, nodding. "Yes. I have the same score to settle. I will use my anger. I will use it to get back my ship and escape this strange world and defend my own world. I'll use it to kill Volrath."

Takara's eyes narrowed, and she drew back, lowering her hand. "That's right, Gerrard. Take possession of your hatred. It will refine your soul-"

"What's going on?" came a new voice above-Atalla. The lad stood silhouetted against the morning. His homespun work trousers and patched tunic riffled in the breeze. "I thought you didn't want help."

"I changed my mind," Gerrard said, glancing at Takara, "about help, and about other things."

"So, I can go with you to Mercadia?" Atalla asked hopefully. "We're not going to Mercadia. We're going to-what was the name of that forest you spoke of?"

"The Rushwood-land of the Cho-Arrim," the boy replied.

"Right. That's where we march, as soon as I'm done here."

A call came up over the hill. Atalla turned, cupping a hand behind his ear. He relayed the message. "They say there are riders approaching-a whole army."

"Damn," Gerrard said, planting his shovel in the dirt and hauling himself forth. "Sorry about my language, kid." Atalla looked affronted. "I'm not a damn kid!" Gerrard laughed a bit at that. He slipped his waistcoat over sweating shoulders and buckled on his sword belt. Takara's words rang in his head as she, too, armed herself. Gerrard felt anger like a forge fire stoking within him. "Let's go see who's coming."

With Takara and Atalla beside him, Gerrard headed out across the encampment and to the edge of the farm.

Karn stood there, watching the east. Beside his motionless form huddled the tiny green shape of Squee. The goblin clung to one of the golem's great silver legs, cowering almost out of sight.

On the dim horizon stood a strange shape-a gigantic, inverted mountain. When they had first glimpsed Mount Mercadia yesterday-a huge conic stone with its tip embedded in the wide plain-Gerrard had been sure the vision was a desert mirage. It must have been a normal mountain, its image flipped by a trick of the hot air. Tavoot had assured them that Mercadia was indeed inverted, and so were all its dealings. Now, from the shadow of the mountain came a cloud of dust, approaching fast. Within the dust storm rode a large contingent of soldiers.