Taras ignored the biting wind. The others with him pulled their cloaks tighter against the storm, but he embraced the challenge. Suffering was good for the soul. It made him strong, disciplined, determined. In the future he would recommend more outdoor training for his acolytes. A cleric’s strength of body and clarity of mind went hand in hand.

At first Aravind had balked when Taras suggested that they should all follow Thenxi and Rhae, but his concern for Meri outweighed his misgivings about their destination. Even with the soulbond, the boy wasn’t quite right. His spirit and stamina were . . . broken . . . somehow. Even simple tasks left him reeling at times. Physically, there wasn’t anything too concerning. The child had been grievously injured, but the wound would heal now that Taras had stabilized him.

Inwardly, however, he carried trauma that only a Seer—or a mother—could address.

The scent of death reached Taras’s nostrils, carried on an ill wind. Something rotten and old had died nearby, right at the foot of the tower where they would find the Stormorb. Despite himself, he shivered, closing his senses off when he smelled the fetid air. Ice seemed to creep up his bones, freeze him into an immobile statute, and melt into water, taking his strength with it.

Beside him, Aravind slowed, shoulders hunched as he stared into the ruined doorway of the tower. “We shouldn’t be here.”

“Steady, man. We are exactly where we should be. It’s not a place anyone should desire to visit, but we come here with holy intent. Steel yourself.”

Aravind didn’t respond, but he pushed onward, ushering Meri and his friends within. The boys whispered back and forth in excitement, pointing up into the darkness. If they only had an inkling of what awaited them, perhaps they would act with more decorum. Bringing Meri’s friends hadn’t been part of his initial idea, but the boy did seem in better spirits with them around to cheer him up.

Taras hoped they wouldn’t be collateral when he faced down the Heart of the Tempest.

The slow march up the winding staircase did little to dampen their enthusiasm, despite the growing pressure of evil. Perhaps he should bring them back to the temple after wrapping up this unpleasant business. Taras suspected they were made of sterner stuff than many of the acolytes he’d worked with recently; perhaps he’d been led to this place of evil for just such a moment as this. They may be just what he needed to reinvigorate his waning order.

Pounding footsteps gave Taras scant seconds of warning to throw up two barriers of holy light above and below them, just before a small mob of uniformed soldiers dashed into view, one group waiting up above them in the tower, the other hemming them off from escape back to the ground. They advanced with weapons raised. Taras frowned, calculating the odds if it came to a fight. They looked seasoned and coordinated, but if they actually had a mage in the group, he’d be surprised. I didn’t think Meri’s friends would already face mortal danger. I must prevent this from devolving into blows.

The largest of the men stepped forward, brandishing a knife with the practiced familiarity of a lifelong fighter. He pointed a hand at Taras and barked out an ultimatum. “High Cleric Taras, we’re here for your surrender. Step away from the natives, and we’ll let them go.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Taras replied, modulating his voice to keep his temper from coloring his tone. Interference with children didn’t sit well with him. “You know who I am, but I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

The big man bowed with a mocking grin. “Merv, scout for esteemed Lord Freyman.”

“Can’t say it’s a pleasure. He should still be rotting for his crimes.”

Merv shrugged. “Maybe, but coin is coin. Please come with us.”

“Don’t listen to him, friend,” Aravind cut in, keeping his voice low. “We’re not afraid of a fight with Outsiders. I’ll keep the boys safe if you burn away the rest.”

“No bloodshed if I can help it. There may be a way to resolve this peacefully.”

One of Meri’s friends drew a knife. Taras struggled to remember his name, hoping to talk him down from doing anything rash.

Meri beat him to the lecture, snatching away the weapon and whispering harshly to his friend. A scowl crossed the boy’s face, but he sheathed the knife and stepped back, muttering to Meri.

“We gotta do something,” Meri spoke up, appealing to Taras. “I don’t want you to go with them. Please. Don’t leave me all alone.”

The big scout, Merv, tapped the point of his dagger against the barrier of light. “Drop the prismatic shields, Justicar! We will be forced to engage if you don’t cooperate.”

“Sounds like a man who’s afraid to fight me,” Taras said quietly. “If you were confident of your position of power in this standoff, you wouldn’t resort to negotiation.”

One of the scouts spat. “Enough, Merv. Let’s just take them down and get this over with. I’m tired of this place.” As soon as he finished speaking, he sprinted forward and dove at Taras, a knife in his upraised hand.

The man slammed against an invisible barrier, coughing as the wind left his lungs and his knife clattered across the floor. It slipped off the edge of the steps and plummeted down the center of the tower, falling far enough that they couldn’t hear when it landed.

Taras flicked his hand and a flame shot out, engulfing his body. The other scouts rushed over, dampening the inferno. They dragged him back down the stairs once the fire extinguished, to put some space between him and Taras.

“Anyone else?” Taras taunted them. “Or should we do this my way?”

The scouts shared nervous looks, the first sign of their composure cracking. Before any of them could speak up, however, Merv waved them back. “We’re listening now. What do you propose, Justicar?”

Taras readied his shield just in case they were planning an ambush. “I’ll hold the barrier here for ten minutes. My friends will make their way further up the tower unimpeded. Then I will surrender myself if you honor the agreement not to pursue them.”

A slim man stepped forward to argue with Merv in hushed tones. Finally they turned to Taras and nodded. “We have no quarrel with children. I’ll tell the advance scouts to move aside and let your friends go by. Ten minutes to the second, then you drop your barriers and promise not to kindle any flames—or else we attack immediately. We know what you’re capable of, Justicar of Flame.”

“An old title. I’m hardly worthy of it anymore,” Taras said more bitterly than he’d intended.

“A story to tell on your way home,” Merv said, a smirk playing on his lips. He turned his glare toward Aravind, Meri, and their friends. “You’ve already used up thirty seconds. Run!”

Aravind herded them upward, despite Meri’s protests. They dashed up the stairs, their footfalls soon fading from hearing. The dark tower swallowed them whole.

Taras switched his gaze back and forth between his retreating allies and scouts who’d demanded his surrender. The group stayed still as they waited. That wasn’t a good sign—a bit of nervous energy or dissension in the ranks would improve his chances. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

As the time ticked down, Taras reluctantly relinquished control of the barriers he’d set up to protect the crèche-dwellers. The scouts lowered their weapons, but not a single one sheathed a blade. He kept his hands upraised, visible at all times, movements slow. The scouts produced a pair of manacles, easing them over Taras’s wrists. He wondered if they’d jump if he barked at them like a dog, but he resisted the temptation.

After he was restrained, they started to march upward, following Aravind. Taras strained against his bonds, hissing at Merv to release him. “You gave your word! They’re ignorant of any schemes back in Laurentum. Let the innocent go.”

“It’s not about them,” the man next to Merv answered. He glided over to Taras, his feet not even making a whisper. While the bigger man looked like a brawler, this one seemed more dangerous to Taras. “The rest of your team is up there already, minus the halfdragon. He’s been dealt with already. And if you don’t want to join him in an unmarked grave on the Bridge, then you will cooperate.”

“Jarkoda was a good kid,” Taras growled, pulling his arms apart to no avail. The bands on his wrists held fast.

“That’s the problem,” Merv replied smoothly. “Our dossier on the monk made it clear that he was likely the most idealistic and least flexible of your team. Can’t be reasoned with, unlike Errol. Now he’s a good kid. Understands the big picture. He’s been a great help to us so far.”

The image of Meri’s mangled body flashed through Taras’s mind. “He’s been working for you this entire time?”

“Either that, or your Eel sweet-talked the Captain into taking off his manacles for no good reason. Or explain why he helped us hunt down your halfdragon if he wasn’t playing both sides? We watched him take out the monk with two point-blank shock lances to the face. Nasty way to go.”

Taras hung his head for a moment, mourning the monk. He was young, overly idealistic, and brusque, but Taras recognized something of his younger self in the halfdragon. Anger rose, closing off his throat. If he lived long enough to find Errol, then the arrogant young Eel would see firsthand why Taras had earned the title Justicar of Flame.

Heat started to writhe along Taras’s wrists. He quenched the fire. Time for that later.

A door slammed shut somewhere far above them, echoing through the staircase. Merv swore and yanked on the chain connected to Taras. They ran up the remaining stairs, pushing themselves onward. Foul air pressed against them, but Taras drew on a tiny trickle of the power reserve he kept in his shield. He’d refilled it last night while the others rested at their camp, but he’d hoped to save it for the fight to come.

The stairs ended abruptly, giving way to a glimmering gateway. Purple tendrils of power pulsed over them, gut-twisting and unnatural. Merv shouted for the men to enter. Taras called out a warning, trying to dig in his heels, but it was too late. They plunged through the portal and the entire world flashed white.

=+=

Rashana flickered in and out of existence. Somewhere, an echo of her human side struggled to correct the thought: she flickered in and out of consciousness. Rashana rejected the concept in the interest of truth. She ceased to be when her life force drained. She was either alive, or she was swallowed up in oblivion.

Strength returned to her, but in a slow drip when she needed a flood. Here in this casing of steel, within this fleshless body, she found her entire universe bound up in the margins of her morality. Rip into the soft beings next to her and she could roar back into her power . . . she felt a cold, crippling fear that she’d suffer a fate worse than oblivion if she betrayed them, however.

The sensation of going in circles cracked her self-restraint. She dipped a little into her reserves to open her eyes and look around her new surroundings. They trudged up steps built into the wall of a dark, spiraling tower. Faint purple light from wall tiles broke up the monotony of the inky-black, in-between spaces.

Jarkoda carried her in a sling. He stretched his scaled hand, palm up, toward Rashana when he noticed that she was awake. "Drink," his sonorous voice commanded.

Rashana consumed the little trickle of his offered life force, savoring the temporary surge of power and recovery. She slipped out of the sling, almost tripped on the stairs, and slammed a hand into the wall, fracturing the stone as she righted herself.

“Welcome back,” Telyim said, passing her on the steps. The Seer’s vitality had returned. She sprang up three stairs at a time. “Not a drink from me, rustbucket.”

“I’m glad to see you’re recovering,” Rashana finally managed. How had Telyim bounced back from death’s door overnight? Oh, right. Siphon life.

Maeda caught her gaze and tsked her tongue. “Not everyone's a vampire, Rashana, but Teylim is closer than you are.”

“But can she do this?” Rashana teased, fashioning her teeth into fangs.

Jarkoda held up a hand, cutting off Maeda’s retort. He pointed above, eyes narrowing to slits in his scaled face. Voices echoed in the sudden silence, muffled and unintelligible.

Rashana focused on the timbre of the muted tones, searching her memory for a match. “Rhae’s up there. We’re close to rejoining the rest of the team.”

“March quickly,” Errol commanded, “but watch for Freyman’s scouts. They’re likely still ahead of us, since we didn’t encounter them on the trail back here.”

They ran up the stairs, trying to catch Gruvrik. Despite his short stature, he managed to set the pace. Jarkoda and Maeda followed close behind. The inquisitor winked at Rashana as they passed by. Rashana edged away from her. Based on the information she’d gleaned from Errol, Maeda was likely the most dangerous individual she’d ever encountered.

As they neared the top of the stairs, Gruvrik skidded to a halt. Jarkoda pirouetted out of the way, narrowly avoiding a collision with the wall. The dwarf growled low in his throat, tensed and ready to move. His hand twitched to the cudgel he’d acquired in the fight with the warriors of the Eastern Crèche. Jarkoda joined him, staring at the swirling void of empty air in the center of the gateway, his short wings half unfurled as though prepared to flee—or fight.

“Warded, and with a nasty aura,” Gruvrik rumbled as quietly as he could.

“Smells of rotting things,” Telyim agreed. She quested forward with her fingertip, recoiling with a sour look when she touched the edge of the doorway. “This is an abomination. We should destroy whatever we find within.”

Errol poked at it and shrugged. “I’ll defer to your expertise. I’m not skilled with this sort of arcane investigation.”

Gruvrik paced back and forth in front of the gate, muttering under his breath. He clapped his hands together suddenly. Waves of leaf-shaped lights grew toward the gateway, encircling it like a laurel wreath; it shimmered and warped away from view, revealing a doorway behind the strange portal. He drew his cudgel and jutted out his chin, a grim look replacing his usual smile. “After me, lads and lasses. Strike hard, strike true.”

They rushed into the room at his heels, fanning out and turning as they ran to protect their flanks. Telyim wove her hands in the air, fingers clutching bones, although Rashana didn’t see any tangible result. Gruvrik paced the pack again, cudgel at the ready, while Jarkoda spun a staff he’d unfolded from his pack. Rashana hummed to herself in approval. If she didn’t have the ability to change her form, a folding weapon would be useful.

Rashana forged her hands into twin rapiers and sprinted forward, scanning the room for threats. At first glance, the long, open room appeared mostly empty, but then Rashana noticed Rhae sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, strumming her harp and humming along to a song. A thin, scruffy man she didn’t recognize clapped to keep the rhythm. Between the two, a woman with gray streaks in her hair sat in chains, a bemused expression on her face.

Rhae glanced up just then. She squealed when saw them enter, jumping up to wave with one hand. “Uncle Gru! Come sing with me!”

Telyim lowered her bone charms. She turned back toward the group, her brow furrowed. “This horned child is your relative, dwarf?”

“One of the less attractive members, on account of no beard, but we claim her anyway,” Gruvrik said.

“I question her choice of company,” Telyim said, gesturing toward the chained woman. “Thenxi is my, ahhh, counterpart in Western. How she came to be in this place is a tale of great interest to me.”

Rhae giggled. “I’ve had such an adventure! I can’t wait to tell you all about it after I meet you. I’m Rhae—what’s your name?”

“Telyim. I, uh, work with Thenxi.”

“‘Work’ is a rather charitable way to put it,” Thenxi snorted. “But we are drawn here by forces we cannot withstand. For once, I am glad of your presence. Unchain me and we’ll begin.”

The rat-faced man stepped in between the two women. “That’s not possible, unless you each swear to leave this place. Your lives hang in the balance.”

“Who are you?” Telyim demanded. “You stand in our sacred space, chain my sister, and dare to command us—by what right?”

“My name is Stefano. I guard what cannot fall into mortal hands.”

Telyim spat. “Except yours?”

Stefano’s face contorted into a grimace. “I won’t touch that wicked thing. But I am one of the few who can withstand its corruption, so yes: I have appointed myself to stand guard.”

Jarkoda stepped forward and bowed. “Thank you for your service. Your guard has come to an end. We will rid the world of its tainted presence.”

Stefano shook his head, an eerie look on his face. “With respect, you’re more likely to be consumed and cast aside like an empty husk. You don’t know what you’re up against.”

“And you don’t know me,” Jarkoda replied, bristling. “I am the envoy of dragons. We will not permit such an abomination to master us.”

“You’re the Dell’Atti heir!” Maeda blurted out. “There’s a price on your head, you know. We could solve all of this trouble nicely by taking you back with us. No one standing in our way, and a tidy payout at the end.”

Stefano stepped away, hands held out chest high, palms facing Maeda. “My father sent you? He’s always ruining everything. You don’t know the disaster that will be unleashed if we’re not vigilant.”

“I’m getting tired of all these arguments,” Gruvrik grumbled. He knelt down and placed a seed on the stone. He breathed on the seed, and it sprouted, growing up into a vine. Humming, he closed his eyes. A tendril reached for Thenxi’s chains. The scandent plant reached into the links and swelled, flush with living power. The vine grew in size, its green skin gaining vibrancy. Chains broke off Thenxi’s wrists as the threads intertwined with the metal and reduced it to dust.

Thenxi stood and rubbed her arms, staring at the dwarf. “A friend of Rhae’s is a friend of the Western Crèche. I thank you, little man.”

Gruvrik shrugged and said, “The storm’s coming. Can’t waste time bickering.” He turned on Stefano. “That goes for you, too, ya runt. You think you’re special or something? Ya ain’t. We need to retrieve the Stormorb before the big storm hits. You can help us with that, if you’ve got resistance like you claim. Or I can squash you like a cockroach. Up to you!”

Rashana stifled her laughter. A note of such sheer joy had crept into Gruvrik’s voice by the end of his speech that she almost hoped Stefano gave him problems just so she could see the dwarf let loose. He deserved to have some fun.

Stefano swallowed twice. His breathing grew quick and shallow. “I knew this day would come. You’re full of righteous intent, certain of your path forward. But you’ve got it wrong. This is the same problem that Indara had. Every time we argued about the Bridge, she was so sure she prevent the evil from taking over. But she can’t do it! I know her too well; she’s burning up with insatiable ambition. It will gnaw away at her until her resolve gives way. No. I’m staying, and you’re leaving.”

Jarkoda chuffed, blowing smoke from his nostrils. “You’re like a child trying to hold back a flood with a dam made of mud and sticks.”

“Mud and sticks works pretty well for beavers,” Gruvrik said, elbowing the halfdragon.

Jarkoda hunched his shoulders. Flames grew cloudy in his eyes. “That’s not my point.”

"We get it,” Gruvrik said. “The problem is too big for just one man. Question is whether the rich boy gets it."

"I'm not rich," Stefano said. "I forfeited my position when I left. Father was furious, and I’ll never see a coin—"

"Congratulations. You're back in favor," Maeda interrupted. "Now let's get moving before this place splits my skull. The pounding is almost unbearable."

Rhae strummed her harp. "I can help with that."

Lights bloomed above her head while she played, darting and bobbing in playful patterns of lurid polyrhythm. Rashana studied her companions. Their faces smoothed, creases fading as tension lifted. Even the set of Stefano’s shoulders seemed to relax. The oppression of the place didn’t affect her quite the same, so she assumed their weakness was related to flesh. Still, some unknown weight pressed down against her spiritual senses. In her weakened state, she had to fight the temptation to feed on her companions.

Gruvrik strode over to Stefano, somehow managing to look dignified despite their height differential. He took the man’s hands in his own. “Come. It’s time to share your burdens.”

Stefano nodded and let Gruvrik lead him meekly away, across the room from where they had entered. Rhae’s music seemed to calm him. They all huddled together instinctively, keeping close to the illumination provided by Rhae’s lightsong. The tiled floor didn’t click or echo with their steps; it seemed to absorb the sound of each footfall, lending an eerie, preternatural air to their passage.

Even with the harp driving away the darkness, the weight of the place pushed down on Rashana more strongly with each step. A quick glance at her companions confirmed that their hands had found their way to knife hilts and cudgels. Even Jarkoda struggled to put one foot in front of another, his powerful frame swaying slightly with the effort of forcing himself deeper into the Darkstorm’s inner realm. He gripped Maeda’s shoulder; she nodded back at him with a grim set to her jaw. Sweat beaded on Stefano’s brow.

Maeda leaned over to take Rashana’s forearm. She’d allowed the limb to revert back to a roughly humanoid arm shape instead of a sword. “I don’t trust Telyim or this Thenxi. When we reach the temple sanctum, follow my lead.”

Rashana probed the situation in her mind, turning it over and running simulations with an eye toward survival. “Too many variables at play currently. Reducing complexity will work in our favor. We are in one accord.”

With a nod, Maeda drifted back to Jarkoda, presumably to repeat her appeal. Jarkoda leaned close as she spoke and seemed to murmur in agreement. Good, they had avoided a power struggle. Gruvrik may have taken a shine to the Dell’Atti heir, but the others all saw what she saw: no one here could be trusted.

Rhae and Thenxi led the way forward, drawn by the power of the command center. The young Qeren’s light shone on a strip of red bricks that lined the pathway deeper into the maw of the maelstrom. Gruvrik and Stefano pressed close at their heels.

As they approached the archway, Stefano cried out and broke away from Gruvrik’s grip. He sprinted ahead of them into an alcove near the door and slapped his hand against a script carved into the wall with some crude instruments—probably some failsafe he’d invented. Power flowed through the rune script. Although the lines were crooked and poorly drawn, they did their job. A heavy door slammed shut across the archway, cutting off the stragglers from the others who had gone ahead. Rhae and Gruvrik and Stefano simply disappeared.

Meada rushed forward with a curse, smashing her fist into the wall, but it was too late. They were locked out.

=+=

“I’ve lost Rhae and Gruvrik,” Grimhilt announced.

Indara snapped her fingers, a habit that Grimhilt only observed when she was agitated about something. She spun to glare at him. “Status?”

“Alive, as far as I can tell. No death reports, no injuries—an abrupt end of transmission.”

“Something’s interfering with the signal,” Indara said, tapping her finger against a horn. “I suspect they’ve reached their destination, in that case. The only question is what happened to the others. Did they split up?”

“Sounds suicidal. A squad needs to stick together,” Grimhilt said.

Indara shook her head. “Better this way. More chances of success. We’re likely to lose a few of them, as much as it pains me to say it, but perhaps the rest will pick up the slack.”

“You should have let me send a bigger force. What if they fail? We should have shipped an entire regiment to the Bridge.”

“They won’t fail,” Indara declared, her jaw set.

Grimhilt had seen that determination from her before. Arguing wouldn’t win him any favor, but worry compelled him to speak. He commanded her guard, after all. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “But if they do?”

“Then we’ll reassess. We can’t let the news get out yet. If we ship off a battalion, like you want, then there’s no way to hide our intentions from the Archduke. We’re not yet ready for war. I’m confident in Rashana, however.”

“I’m not well suited to cloak-and-dagger operations. Sometimes secrecy simply adds an unnecessary layer of complexity. And I hope you know what you’re doing, Indara. Treason isn’t what I signed up for.”

Indara reached up to pat his shoulder. "Your time will come. We'll need to draw swords before this is over."

“You sound excited.”

“Oh, yes, I am. My dear Captain, you have no idea.”

Grimhilt grew still. “Should I be worried? I was joking about treason.”

“You know I serve the empire. Trust me on this, captain.”

“Of course, chancellor,” Grimhilt replied, bowing stiffly. “I trust you.”

For now, at least, he added silently. What had she gotten them into this time? The Archduke would find out, one way or another. When the day of trouble arrived, he'd simply have to do his best to keep her safe.