Maggie Furey - Shadowleague 2 - Spirit of the Stone

SPIRIT OF THE STONE - SHADOWLEAGUE 2 - MAGGIE FUREY

SPIRIT OF THE STONE

On the world of Myrial, the mysterious Curtain Walls have begun to fall and

the realms and races that have been carefully separated from the beginning

of time are now confronting each other, with terrible consequences. Hideous

winged creatures have attacked the city of Tiarond, turning its streets and

public squares into a killing ground. As bewildered groups of survivors flee

the city in all directions, others make the treacherous journey to the sacred

Temple, where the ancient power that can save the world lies hidden.

Meanwhile, two women warriors and a brazen firedrake journey to the realm

of the Shadowleague, taking with them a Dragon Seer’s telepathic

knowledge that might be used to repair the Curtain Walls. Yet not even that

will be enough.

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SPIRIT OF THE STONE - SHADOWLEAGUE 2 - MAGGIE FUREY

For before the Shadowleague can act to save a rapidly unraveling reality, it

must decide if it will trust a ruthless exile with a bloody past who can bring

order to Myrial—or hasten its harrowing descent into annihilation.

PERILOUS SIEGE

Having gradually worked her way from the bottom to the top of the house,

the silent thief emerged from a doorway in the upper story and slipped down

the hall. She had thoroughly searched the very last bedroom and could put

off the journey through the dark streets no longer.

The snick of the backdoor latch sounded unbelievably loud in the still night

air. Aliana froze in the doorway, then opened the door just a chink: enough

to check her surroundings. Seeing nothing to alarm her, she slid through the

narrow opening, moving with care, sticking to the wall of the house until she

had gained the shelter of the alley dividing the high walls of the mansion

from those of the next.

All too soon the passage opened out into the wide spaces of the Esplanade.

Normally the square was illuminated. Tonight, however, there was no one to

kindle the lamps, and beneath clouded skies the open spaces were almost as

dark as the alley.

Aliana summoned all her courage, hoisted the heavy backpack containing

her spoils higher on her shoulders, took a deep breath, and ran. She had gone

only a few steps when she sensed rather than saw the first shadow move

across the sky. Then the rooftops of the surrounding houses seemed to come

alive as countless winged shapes lifted out of the blackness into the faintly

glowing clouds.

The thief swerved and doubled back as the first of her attackers folded its

wings and plunged toward her. Terror sent ice and fire along her veins. Time

seemed to slow to a crawl. Nothing existed beyond herself and the menacing

creatures dropping with deadly speed to intersect with her. They were

gaining on her. She would never make it....

Books by Maggie Furey

Aurian

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SPIRIT OF THE STONE - SHADOWLEAGUE 2 - MAGGIE FUREY

Harp of Winds

Sword of Flame

Dhiammara

Heart of Myrial

SPIRIT of the STONE

BOOK 2 OF

THE SHADOWLEAGUE

Maggie Furey

BANTAM BOOKS

SPIRIT OF THE STONE

A Bantam Spectra Book / June 2002

SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of

Bantam Books a division of Random House, Inc.

Map by James Sinclair.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by

any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the publisher.

For information address: Bantam Books.

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SPIRIT OF THE STONE - SHADOWLEAGUE 2 - MAGGIE FUREY

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this

book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the

publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment

for this “stripped book.”

ISBN 0-553-57941-X

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random

House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the

portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and

in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New

York New York 10036.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

OPM 10 987654321

Sometimes, very special people

come into our lives, just when

we need them most.

I would like to dedicate this book

with gratitude, affection and respect, to

Professor John Deanfield

and

Mr. Victor Tsang.

CONTENTS

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

29 30

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SPIRIT OF THE STONE - SHADOWLEAGUE 2 - MAGGIE FUREY

Map

SPIRIT of the STONE

CHAPTER 1

Nightfall

Dawn was still a long way off when Seriema and her companions escaped

from Tiarond. The horses galloped through the waterlogged fields of the

townlands, threading their way between the ghastly pyres, the biggest of

which still smoldered with a dull red glow, the others extinguished by rain

and snow. As she raced away from the beleaguered city, it took all Seriema’s

self-control to keep from looking back over her shoulder. She was certain

that the horror she had left behind must be following.

It was raining: a cold, thin rain that chilled exposed flesh and penetrated

clothing like steel needles, but being wet was the least of Seriema’s

problems. On this dreadful day, the bastions of power, wealth, and privilege

she had built around herself had come crashing down, and she had turned

from the richest woman in Tiarond into a homeless vagabond, her future

uncertain and her survival hanging by a thread.

Only pride sustained her. She was angry, hurting, and afraid; she wanted to

weep, to curse, to shriek like a harridan—but no matter what setbacks the

world might hurl at her, she was determined to face them with courage and

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SPIRIT OF THE STONE - SHADOWLEAGUE 2 - MAGGIE FUREY

determination. Seriema would rather walk barefoot over broken glass than

give way to weakness and fear before her new companions, but it was hard

to keep up her mask.

Disconnected images from the last few hours kept flashing through her

mind. Pain and terror. The taste of blood and the stink of her own fear. The

face of the man who had attacked her, contorted with rage and hatred. The

hideous winged creature that had hurtled through the shattered window,

moving preternaturally fast, its fanged maw agape and dripping gore.

Marutha, the old housekeeper who had played such a significant—and

vocal—part in her upbringing, lying dead on the kitchen floor, her grey hair

clotted with blood, brain, and bits of bone. Seriema stifled a sob. She had

sent the old woman away in the midst of a quarrel, and the last words

Marutha had heard from her beloved mistress had been harsh, and spoken in

anger.

“Don’t think about it,” Seriema ordered herself. If she fell apart now, she

would be lost. “Concentrate on practicalities—like where that trader is

taking us, and what he plans to do when we get there.” That was better. She

could do nothing to change the past, but her future, no matter how uncertain,

was something she could influence. Urging her horse onward through the

gathering gloom, she went to speak to Tormon.

My child. My child. My child. My child. The hooves of the racing horses

pounded out the words. Tormon held tightly to the blanket-wrapped form in

front of him: so small, so infinitely precious.

I have you back, my little Annas. I’ll keep you safe. So long as we’re

together, nothing else matters. Who cares what happens to their accursed

city?

Bold words—yet a shudder ran through the trader as he remembered the

winged abomination in Lady Seriema’s mansion, and the unclean swarm of

its brethren thronging the sky. His mind replayed the screaming as the

helpless Tiarondians were slaughtered, trapped in the enclosed confines of

the Sacred Precincts like sheep in a pen. Tormon clutched Annas even

tighter, until the child whimpered and wriggled in protest.

Why should I trouble myself about their fate? They killed Kanella, my

lifemate. They deserved to die.

In his heart, however, he knew it wasn’t true. Those Tiarondians were

ordinary men, women, and children. They had not murdered Kanella. Zavahl

had done that—at least, he had ordered her death. And now the Hierarch

himself was surely dead. Elion, the mysterious young man Tormon had

encountered on the trail last night, had planned a rescue for reasons known

only to himself, but the trader was sure he had no chance of succeeding. No,

Zavahl must either have been sacrificed on the pyre to appease an angry god

or killed by the monstrosities that even now assailed the city. Tormon hardly

knew which he would prefer. Death by fire must be an agonizing end—but

in this climate, the smoke from damp fuel would suffocate Zavahl before his

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SPIRIT OF THE STONE - SHADOWLEAGUE 2 - MAGGIE FUREY

flesh could sear. Perhaps the skyborne invaders were the better option. He

imagined the Hierarch writhing and screaming, his body ripped open, the

feral creatures clawing out his eyeballs and quarreling over the glistening

lengths of his gut...

Once, the trader would have been shocked to the core by such bloodthirsty

thoughts. Not anymore.

Night had fallen. The hooves of the laboring horses splashed through the

thick mud that stretched beyond the city. Tormon tried to keep his eyes fixed

directly in front of him, for on either side the great pyres loomed, their

smoldering glow casting a dim, smoky light into the darkness. The charred

remains of bodies were still hideously distinct, despite the gathering gloom.

He tried to protect Annas from the dreadful sights, turning her face into his

chest and pulling up her blanket to form a shield.

A shadowy shape loomed up at his side and resolved itself into Lady

Seriema, astride the great black horse that was the twin of his own. In his

preoccupation, the trader had almost forgotten the companions of his flight.

Presvel, the Lady’s assistant, shivered in stylish city clothes that were as

unfit as their wearer for such a journey. He rode double with a young lass,

unknown to the trader, whose hair was a mass of silvery-blond curls. Then

there was Scall, the long, skinny youth who had attached himself to Tormon

for good or ill. And, of course, the Lady Seriema herself, until today the

most powerful merchant in Tiarond.

The woman who now approached the trader, her white face blotched with

ugly bruises and spattered with mud and gore, her coarse brown hair flying

loose in a witch’s tangle, was unrecognizable as the well-groomed, richly

clad head of the Mercantile Association and Miners’ Consortium. Her

dishevelment was scarcely surprising, however. Not an hour ago, she had

been attacked in her own home by a madman. She had been beaten and

almost raped. Her city had been conquered by ravening monstrosities from

the skies. Seriema had lost everything: wealth, home, rank, and empire.

Everything but her life and her indomitable pride, Tormon realized, noting

her sword-stiff spine, her steely gaze, and the hard, grim set of her mouth.

She had mastered her emotions as tightly as she held in the powerful horse

she rode, and the trader shuddered at the effort it must be costing her.

Seriema’s voice betrayed no sign of the strain she must be feeling. Pulling

her horse abreast of his own, she leaned across so that she could be heard

over the thin whine of the rising wind. The trader could almost see the

question on her lips.

Oh, please don’t ask me what we’re going to do now, Seriema. Why should I

be able to answer that any better than you can?

“Where are we going, Tormon?” The words came slurred from her bruised

and swollen mouth. “Do you have a plan in mind?”

Why in Myrial’s name does it have to be me who comes up with a plan?

Up to this point, the trader had been concentrating on what he did not want.

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SPIRIT OF THE STONE - SHADOWLEAGUE 2 - MAGGIE FUREY

He never wished to see Tiarond again. He didn’t want his child to be put at

any further risk, and he had absolutely no desire whatever to lay eyes on any

more of the fell creatures that had attacked the city. All reasonable goals, as

far as they went—but it had taken Seriema to remind him that he needed

something positive to put in their place.

Away. Go far away. The rest could wait. All Tormon wanted right at that

moment was to put as much distance as possible between himself and

Callisiora’s capital city, with its politics, its arcane ceremonies, its secrets

and intrigues—and its Hierarch, who thought nothing of murdering a young

wife and mother in cold blood. He hoped this rain was also falling higher up

the mountain, for even now it would be sluicing away the snow that had

choked the pass the previous night. Maybe, for once, the wet weather might

actually work in his favor.

The trader called the others to him. “I’m taking Annas over the Snaketail.”

Even as he spoke, the plan took shape in his mind. “We’ll be safe among the

reivers of the eastern hills. You can ...” He realized that Seriema was no

longer listening. Instead, she was looking back over her shoulder, her

expression a peculiar mixture of relief and dismay. Tormon, following the

direction of her gaze, felt his heart contract with dread. Unbelievable as it

might seem, given the utter chaos in the city, they were being pursued.

Glancing back, Seriema saw a cluster of bobbing lights as a knot of

Godsword soldiers, each one bearing a smoking torch, burst out of the city

gates. Even at this distance, it was clear that they were following the muddy

track of the fleeing travelers, and moving at a tremendous pace. The reins of

her horse began to slip through hands that had suddenly turned damp, and

she clenched her fingers tighter round the slippery leather. Surely that was

Blade? She squinted, trying to peer through the murk of drizzle and smoke.

A curse on this imperfect eyesight!

She was torn at the thought of encountering the Godsword Commander.

How can I face him, looking like this? was the first thought that shot into her

mind, followed by a blaze of anger at her own stupidity. You fool! He

doesn’t care what you look like. Why should he? You’ve served your purpose

now.

Seriema writhed at the memory of such gullibility. Blade had used her as a

cat’s-paw in his vendetta against the Hierarch and she—or rather the plain,

lonely old maid concealed beneath her veneer of confidence and power—

had let him. Flattered by the attentions of the powerful, charismatic

Commander, she had walked into his trap with open eyes.

How can I face him after I let him make such a fool of me? Yet despite her

mortification, there remained a part of her that observed the approach of the

Godsword troops with relief. It’s all right now. I’m safe. Lord Blade will

deal with this crisis. He’ll take care of me.

Tormon’s curse cut across her deliberations. It was the first time she had

ever heard him swear. There was fear in his eyes when he glanced down at

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SPIRIT OF THE STONE - SHADOWLEAGUE 2 - MAGGIE FUREY

his daughter—but that oath had contained a good deal of anger, too. Seriema

felt an unaccustomed stab of guilt. She had been so preoccupied with her

own selfish concerns, she had forgotten that Blade represented danger to the

trader and his child. Though she had no idea what lay behind his actions, the

Suffragan Gilarra had told her that the Godsword commander, together with

the Hierarch Zavahl, had been responsible for the murder of Tormon’s wife.

Tormon glanced behind once more, and shook his head. “It’s no good.

They’ll catch us in no time. The Sefrians are built for sustained power, not

bursts of speed.”

Seriema knew he was right. The Godswords, on their lighter, faster mounts,

were catching up already. She turned back to speak to the trader, but he had

dropped behind to ride with Scall, who was still insisting on leading

Tormon’s ridiculous donkey. The two drew close together for a moment,

then the boy fell back, seeming to melt into the dusk, and vanished into the

shadowy, smoke-wreathed area between the pyres.

When the trader turned back to Seriema, his arms were empty. There was a

bleak look on his face as he loosened his sword in its sheath. She realized

that having done all he could to save his child, he was determined to take his

revenge on as many of the Godswords as he could manage: perhaps upon

Blade himself.

No! Don’t hurt him.

Yes! Let me help you.

How she cursed her ambivalent heart.

Then there was no more time for thought. The Godswords were upon them

in a blaze of torchlight, the hooves of their racing horses throwing up gouts

of mud to either side. Seriema gasped in utter disbelief as a voice cried:

“Clear the road, you rabble.” Then her horse was shouldered aside by the

sheer press of riders as the column of soldiers barged past the travelers

without a second glance. Within moments the Godswords were gone,

hurtling up the road toward the pass.

The little mud-spattered band was left by the roadside, staring at one another

in bemusement. Presvel frowned. “What was that about?” He was aware of

the trader’s plight, Seriema knew, owing to his unfortunate habit of

eavesdropping on her business. She suspected that his feelings were

somewhat similar to her own: glad that Tormon and his daughter had

escaped Blade’s notice but also partly dismayed at Blade’s departure. The

Godswords represented authority, security, and order, all of which had been

the keystones of Presvel’s existence and her own.

There was a stir of movement among the shadows, and Scall slipped out

from between the smoking pyres on his little chestnut mare, the tired donkey

trailing after. He returned a scowling, rumpled child to her father with an air

of relief. Annas, wriggling herself comfortable in Tormon’s arms, appeared

to share his sentiments. “He put his hand over my mouth,” she complained

shrilly. “And it was all dirty.”

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“Well, you wouldn’t keep quiet,” Scall said defensively. “Anyway, a little

bit of dirt never hurt no one.”

Annas was not to be quashed so easily. “You taste horrible!‘

“If you hadn’t bit me, you wouldn’t know that, would you?”

The child had spoken! Seriema glanced at Presvel and saw her own relief

and surprise mirrored on his face. While Annas had been in their care, she

had never spoken a single word, and they had worried lest her mind had

been permanently damaged by witnessing her mother’s death. In that

moment, Seriema made a decision not to tell Tormon.

Too much has been happening for him to even realize that the little one had

never spoken. Thank Myrial he will never need to know how close she came

to losing her wits. The poor man has burdens enough without that.

Catching Presvel’s eye once more, she gestured at the trader and put her

finger to her lips.

Tormon had been completely unaware of the unspoken exchange between

Seriema and her assistant. As the soldiers had rushed by, he had glimpsed

the rearmost rider, who rode a little more slowly than the others, apparently

because he had difficulty managing his horse. Elion? Out here with Blade?

What is going on? His thoughts followed the Godswords up the trail, until

the squabble between Scall and his daughter jerked him back. “Quiet,” he

growled. “This is no time for your nonsense. I’m trying to think.” He nudged

his horse closer to Seriema’s mount. “You see a lot of Lord Blade. Have you

any idea what he’s up to, my Lady? I don’t understand why he should go

tearing off up the mountain like that when the city is in danger.”

Seriema drew herself up in the saddle. “What makes you think that I have

any connection whatsoever with Lord Blade?” Her voice was whetted steel.

“Whatever you may have heard, it’s a pack of lies.”

The trader looked at her in surprise. What ails the woman? Well, whatever it

might be, he had no time for it now. He had a decision to make—but was

there really anything to decide? Since Blade was at large in the vicinity of

the Snaketail, Tormon and his party had run out of alternatives. He turned to

the others. “This changes everything. It will be too dangerous to go over the

mountain now. I’m taking the cliff road down from the plateau to the

lowlands, but the rest of you may want to take your chances elsewhere. The

way will probably be guarded, and it’ll be a nightmare in the dark, but...”

“Tormon, what are you saying?” Seriema interrupted. “You can’t take the

lowland route. Didn’t you know? The floodwater draining down from the

plateau has turned the trail into a torrent.”

The trader turned cold. “Are you sure? Maybe it’s not as bad as you think. It

could be passable with care—”

“We don’t know. The folk who tried it never came back to report. We

presume they were swept away to their deaths,” Seriema told him flatly.

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Maggie Furey - Shadowleague 2 - Spirit of the Stone

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