Maylin's Gate (Book 3) Read online

  The door groaned and protested but relented and slid open wide enough for a single person to slip through.

  "Nobody move." Jeremy motioned and shields appeared around each person in the group.

  Sir Alcott's eyes glimmered. "Thank you Knight Jeremy, now let's see what the fuss is about shall we?"

  "Maybe you should let me go first?" She said.

  "And let you take all the glory?" Sir Alcott grinned. "I think not." The scholar grunted and wheezed then disappeared inside the opening.

  She pushed her way through after him and froze.

  Blue shield light bathed a room shaped in a perfect circle. Strange symbols, like those in the passageway, decorated the walls from top to bottom. Flickering light danced on a single floor-to-ceiling drawing.

  Smooth unbroken stone dulled by the hand of time paved the floor and ceiling. At the room's center a metallic object rested on a raised stone platform.

  "Don't touch anything," Sir Alcott said.

  Arber and Jeremy slipped through the opening and took up positions beside her and Sir Alcott.

  Her gaze locked on the drawing and her pulse accelerated. "Sir Alcott, the drawing." Dryness constricted her throat and her lips turned bone dry. A slick sheen of sweat formed on her palms and she stepped forward on rubbery legs.

  "Stop Danielle. Traps might litter the room," Sir Alcott said.

  She slipped past the platform and stopped before the drawing. Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She crumbled to her knees and gasped.

  The mural depicted a circular doorway suspended in midair. The doorway stood between three spheres held together by a triangulation of steel beams.

  The door opened to a world unlike any she'd seen. Strange creatures flew in the sky carrying humanoid riders. In the distance, a mountain range made up of active volcanoes spewed lava into a blood red sky.

  In the drawing's foreground, appeared hundreds of heartwood trees.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ransacked

  Broad couches lay toppled and their split frames revealed gashes of white pine. The furs covering them scattered the cabin's wood floor. The dining table, nestled in a nook before the lodge's bay window, lay on its side. A pewter plate lay upside down, its uneaten food splattered against an overturned chair.

  Ronan's pulse quickened and he nudged the front door open wide. "Moira?" He raised his voice loud enough to carry through the lodge.

  General Demos's tongue flickered. A low hissing sound came from the general's chest.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Violence." General Demos surveyed the wreckage.

  He didn't need a forked tongue to figure out that piece of information. He moved deeper into the room stepping over a toppled broom and a splintered coat rack. "She might still be here."

  General Demos tossed aside a fur blanket and moved toward the stone hearth heaped with gray ash.

  A cooking pot lay on its side and its congealed contents oozed onto the hearth. Iron fireplace tools lay in a haphazard pile beside the tipped-over cooking pot.

  General Demos knelt by the fire and prodded the blackened coals.

  Beneath the ash, embers glowed with a faint orange light.

  He stepped over the cooking pot and knelt beside General Demos. "Judging by that ember, this happened less than a day ago."

  General Demos pointed toward the ceiling. "Look at those markings. What do you make of them?"

  He followed General Demos's outstretched blade.

  Long trenches of white pine appeared in the beams supporting the ceiling.

  "I don't know." He tracked the strange marking until it ended a foot short of the wall. Moira could've made them in dragon form, but would've split the cabin apart. "I'm going to look in her bedroom."

  He pushed aside a toppled end table and stepped over a fallen chair. He worked his way toward the bedroom near the cabin's rear tossing aside furs and blankets as he went.

  General Demos followed then paused before a picture window. The general's gaze turned upward.

  He stepped in beside General Demos. "That's Dragon's Peak."

  Dragon's Peak, hidden by clouds, appeared as it had when he left the Adris.

  "What's in a name?" General Demos hadn't directed the question to him. The general’s gaze fixated on the cloud-draped peak.

  "In this case, exactly what it sounds like. There's a dragon's nest atop that peak."

  General Demos's eyebrows raised. "Might we find your dragons there?"

  "Even if we could, an avalanche destroyed the path to the top." He turned away from the window and walked into Moira's bedroom.

  Moira's bed lay undisturbed beneath a mountain of furs and blankets. A desk along the far wall lay on its side. No sign of Moira appeared amid the wreckage.

  He exhaled and surveyed the damage. "I don't see her." He walked around the bed and stopped before the desk's overturned contents.

  Blank paper lay scattered across the floor. A toppled bottle leaked violet ink across the floorboards.

  General Demos slipped past him and grabbed the desk using one over-sized hand. With a sharp tug, the general yanked the desk upright.

  Objects inside the desk shifted and rattled. Glass popped and wood splintered until the desk grinding to a stop.

  He gaped. If he couldn't get a handle on his disjointed magic, General Demos could snap him like a ripe apple.

  General Demos knelt above the desk's exposed contents. "What's this?" General Demos scooped up a cracked figurine buried beneath a stack of loose papers.

  He knelt beside General Demos and smiled.

  General Demos held a golden figure of a dragon with its tail broken at the tip.

  "That's our ticket out." He extended his palm.

  General Demos handed him the figurine. "How so?"

  "You'll see." He closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around the statue. As an afterthought, he peeled open one eye and peered at General Demos. "I hope."

  He closed both eyes tight and focused on the figurine. Warmth spread through his palm followed by a slight tingle. The sensation faded. He opened his eyes and stood. "We should build a fire."

  "That's it? I thought you —"

  "Patience," he said cutting the general off.

  General Demos held his gaze for a long moment and nodded.

  "Now, let's go see about that fire," he said. "I'm starving."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Stowaway

  Boulder-sized ice chunks battered Tara's three-man skiff. Greasy light poured from oil lamps and slid across the icy street running along the canal. Light draped the water in a dismal sheen and unmasked her boat like a thief caught in the act.

  She leaned into the long pole and pushed.

  The skiff glided ahead.

  Her breaths came in short rapid pulls and puffs of steam billowed from her mouth in rapid succession. If she could escape the canal, she might bury herself in the bowels of one of General Demos's ships. General Demos's crew would provide her sanctuary.

  Behind her, heavy armor rattled in the distance, and panic, like a dead man's grip, clutched her chest. She groaned and stabbed the long pole into the canal.

  Frozen mud churned along the canal's bottom.

  Her arms trembled and her muscles ached, but she pushed through the pain and pressed the boat forward.

  A long low hiss came from the cobblestone street behind her, and the rattling stopped.

  She dared a short peek over her shoulder and fear, cold and clammy, raced down her spine.

  A baerinese assassin clad in black leveled a crossbow at her. Two more assassins raced along the street their bodies a blur of motion.

  Even if she'd wanted to take their lives, her magic couldn't reach the assassins from here. Why hadn't she held at least one of her pets behind at the pass? With one pet she could bend these traitors to her will. One pet could've prevented the fire.

  An exchange of low hissing sounds passed between the assassins. One of the three scu
rried away racing toward the shipyards between the canal and the docks.

  She strained against the long pole and pushed her skiff through a wedge of broken ice.

  Behind her, the first assassin issued a short command.

  Adrenaline pumped through her arms and legs. She'd earned a fate far worse than a crossbowman's bolt. She understood their hatred, but she wanted to live.

  The hard click of a crossbow trigger came from behind, and the unmistakable hiss of a hurtling bolt split the air.

  She flung her body low and the long pole slipped from her grip. Her body slammed into the wooden seats forcing air from her lungs.

  A flurry of crossbow bolts raced overhead missing her by inches.

  She scrambled forward lurching over the boat's frozen deck.

  The long pole bobbed atop the water a foot ahead and rattled against a slab of sea ice.

  She flung her body halfway over the boat's edge straining to reach the pole.

  A second set of bolts cut the air. The first raced an inch over her back while the second landed with a hard thunk in the skiff's frozen hull.

  She plunged her hand into the canal's frozen water and gasped. Cold, unlike any she'd experienced, wrapped its icy grip around her fingers leaving them numb. She scooped the long pole under her palm like a shovel and pulled it free of the canal.

  Sharp throbbing pain flared in her hand and wrist. The assassins would not miss a third time. She pulled on the precious magic in her core. Magic that grew weaker each time she drew from it.

  The first assassin barked another set of commands. The assassins raised their weapons for a third time.

  A void curtain appeared around the skiff. The incoming bolts disappeared into the nothing.

  She pushed the boat forward through the ice wedge and the craft groaned.

  Ice clawed at the boat's hull as it slithered past and into the harbor's open water. The lamplight faded and left her wrapped in blessed shadow.

  Towering ships clogged the harbor. The invasion force commanded by Demos, Andreas, and Pietro. Each general commanding a separate fleet of ships led by a juggernaut. Not every ship in the fleet could fit in Ripool's harbor, but the flagships were an exception.

  She peered through the darkness giving her eyes a moment to adjust. General Demos's fleet anchored nearest the dock. Both a blessing and a problem. She wouldn't have to guide her skiff into the harbor's deepest water. But, she would leave herself open to attack beneath Ripool's harbor lights. She needed to board a juggernaut before the assassins reached the dock. She could hide in any of a hundred places inside a flagship.

  She sank the long pole into the black water and stumbled catching herself on the boat's lip. The long pole, while fine in the canal, couldn't reach the harbor bottom. She searched the boat for a set of oars or anything that might pull her through the deep waters. Nothing.

  Slabs of ice floated past her skiff banging against its thin hull. Water seeped through the hole where the crossbow bolt had struck near the waterline.

  If the assassins didn't kill her, the frigid water would. The skiff wouldn't survive long in the harbor's deep water. She picked up the long pole and scuttled to the skiff's rear. She surveyed the harbor's icy field and an idea came to her.

  Holding the pole in her good hand, she wedged it against a slab of floating ice and pushed.

  The boat slid ahead moving past heavier ice chunks and silent towering ships.

  She guided the skiff forward making quick progress in the soup of melting ice and slushy water.

  On her right, the shipyard slid past where the hulks of half-finished ships sat abandoned. Like the rest of Ripool's citizens, the ship masters had fled during their assault of Bawold.

  That seemed like a century ago. How had it come to this? She would find General Demos. He would know how to fix this mess.

  The harbor lights slid into view between two of Pietro's transport ships.

  She pushed her long pole off a ship's hull and squeezed through a space just wide enough for her skiff to drift through.

  Demos's flagship sat anchored less than fifty yards from the pier. Cursed light bathed its decks. Soldiers, armed with heavy longbows, lined the pier. They stood in a ready position facing the harbor leaving no doubt to their purpose.

  Her stomach sank and her legs buckled. She sank into the skiff's center seat. A half-inch of water swirled beneath her bare feet. Feet wrapped in the blanket from the tailor's shop.

  She'd been foolish to think she could outrun elite baerinese troopers pushing a skiff. But, she had nowhere else to go.

  Pietro's ships held her like a mouse trapped in a glue.

  Her eyes shifted from Demos's juggernaut to the ships anchored behind it. She might reach one of them and stay hidden in the shadows. With a grunt, she shoved away from one of Pietro's cutters and stole a glance toward its decks.

  Nothing stirred aboard the baerinese cutter or any of Pietro's ships. Skeleton crews manned many of the ships in the harbor. A fact that would change with dawn's light.

  She pushed the skiff ahead and navigated using floating ice chunks and anchored ships.

  The skiff rubbed up against an empty transport ship near the spot where the crossbow bolt jutted from the hull. A short snap sounded and the bolt broke free exposing a thumb-sized hole near the waterline.

  She stared frozen at the hole.

  Lapping waves washed through the hole into the skiff.

  An inch of near frozen water left her covered feet numb and she hopped onto the skiff's wooden seats. She crouched low and turned her gaze to the harbor bathed in light.

  Archers and troopers piled into skiffs lining the pier. Pietro's men filled the two lead boats while Andreas's men climbed aboard the next two.

  The generals had conspired against her. Had Andreas's and Pietro's quarrel on the juggernaut been an act for her benefit? Her gaze fell on the final two boats in the forming convoy and her blood ran cold.

  Troopers wearing General Demos's colors scrambled for position. The archers leveled their longbows across the harbor.

  A sickening knot tightened in her chest and pounded like a war-bringer's drum. Had General Demos's own men colluded against him? Their act of treason would bring a swift execution on Baerin's shores. But, they'd traveled far from Baerin and these were desperate times.

  Two inches of water stood at the skiff's bottom. The boat's owner surely never intended it to hold against a baerinese crossbow bolt. Water rushed through the hole at the skiff's bow. In minutes, the boat would sink.

  She pressed her long pole against a slab of crusty sea ice and the skiff, burdened with water, progressed an inch. She would have more luck mounting a pregnant draco than moving the skiff another inch forward.

  A sharp hiss came from the advancing skiffs teaming with baerinese soldiers. They progressed a dozen yards into the harbor. A trooper bathed in shadows stood aboard one of Demos's boats.

  "There," the trooper said and pointed an accusing finger toward her skiff. Toward her, clad in a frozen slip half-naked amid a sea of strangers. They would have their revenge.

  She fell forward and flattened her body across the skiff's seats.

  Arrows raced overhead. A dozen more peppered the skiff like popcorn heating over an open fire.

  She held her breath and rolled. With a splash she hit the water and cold, like a million stinging needles, drove into her flesh.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Ancient Mystery

  Head spinning, Danielle braced against the stone floor. Her gaze flickered over the alien drawing and she drank in every detail and color.

  A strong hand gripped her waist and Jeremy’s comforting voice followed. “I’m here.”

  Jeremy’s sharp clean scent of mint soap mixed with a tinge of wood smoke grounded her. She clung to Jeremy’s hand like a life preserver caught in a summer gale. “Am I dreaming? Do you see it too? Please tell me you see it too.”

  “I see it. Those are heartwood trees, but for the life o
f me I don’t know how.”

  Sir Alcott knelt beside her and placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay my dear?”

  She gave a short nod and the room stopped spinning. “I think I can stand.” She glanced to her left. “Jeremy, don’t go far, okay?”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Nervous flutters rolled over her stomach, but helped chase away the shock. She stood on wobbly legs. The mural pulled at her. It beckoned for her attention and she submitted turning her gaze upward.

  Sir Alcott’s brow furrowed. Meranthia’s preeminent historian studied the drawing as a master artist would his greatest creation. “Extraordinary.”

  She found her balance and straightened her back. “Those are heartwood trees.”

  “Yes.” Sir Alcott nodded in agreement. “But, that’s not the extraordinary part.”

  “What is it?” She said.

  Sir Alcott motioned around him. “This entire section of ruins predates the first heartwood tree, and not by a little mind you. From what I’ve gathered, this entire level is at least three thousand years old.”

  “That can’t be,” she said. “How would those people know about heartwood trees? Lora created them.”

  “How can you be sure?” Jeremy said.

  “Her own notes said as much,” she said.

  “That’s not entirely true,” Arber said. The guardian’s eyes wandered over the mural as if soaking in every detail. “Lora’s notes mentioned the discovery of the heartwood. But, she never said how or, more importantly, where she made that discovery.”

  “What are you insinuating?” She said.

  Arber glanced sideways eyebrow raised.

  She folded her arms and pursed her lips.

  “I meant nothing sinister,” Arber said. “Ayralen scholars have made broad interpretations of Lora's writings. Some have taken those opinions as fact.”

  “This mural would tend to support your argument,” Sir Alcott said.

  “What do you make of those creatures?” Jeremy pointed to the winged beasts flying above the treetops.

  “I’ve not seen their like. Not in paintings or ancient text,” Sir Alcott said. “But, I could say the same of those beings commanding them.”