With a sound like shattering glass, the illusions imprisoning them fell away, releasing Taras and the Scouts from the mind magic that had held them fast.

“That's some right strange skulduggery,” Merv muttered. He stared at the next flight of stairs suspiciously, swearing under his breath.

“The way is clear,” Taras replied. “No more odd wardings.”

“You sensed that and didn't warn us?” Merv snarled.

Taras fixed him with an imperious glare.“Warn you? Why? I'm not inclined to help you track down my team.”

Percy shouldered his way between them with a flat, annoyed look. He started up the stairs. A heartbeat later, Taras fell in behind him, leaving Merv to stew.

An ominous echo rumbled through the tower from above them. The scouts broke into a measured jog, taking the stairs three at a time. Merv loped by Taras, humming to himself, his previous rancor apparently forgotten now that he had the anticipation of a fight to look forward to shortly.

Taras sprinted up the stairs behind the scouts, doing his best not to stumble. Running with his wrists bound together wasn't conducive to either speed or balance. He craned his neck, searching for the source of the bang he'd heard earlier. Someone had slammed shut a door, as best as he could tell. A battle raged from further inside the tower. Pulses of magic played over his senses; his hackles stood on end. The Seer must have started the rites without them—he couldn’t really blame her. She didn’t know he was here.

Would she stop ever if she knew? Given the stakes, Tara's knew he wouldn't stop for her if their situations were reversed. She had to do what she believed was right. He respected her commitment. She'd earned his grudging admiration, in a way.

The stairs stretched on. Taras continued to run, despite the difficulty of pushing through the growing density of the mental fog. Finally they reached the top, where he found Aravind and the boys, locked in a desperate fight against a swirling creature of mist—a shard of the storm made manifest. The scouts had joined the fray, hacking at the arcane beast ineffectually with swords and knives.

Taras shot forth flames, engulfing the mist monster. The fire raged across the surface of the apparition, blazing brighter the longer it burned. Wisps of smoke rose, merging with the mist, as the heat discharged across the entire specter, dissolving it into the air in a sudden whoosh of dark purple sparks.

Taras unslung his shield, pouring his power into the holy symbol engraved on the boss in preparation for entering the fray. “Aravind, keep the children safe. This fight is beyond you.”

“My thanks,” Aravind said, inclining his head. “I will help them hide, but I cannot leave my wife to battle alone.”

Taras nodded curtly in acknowledgement. “Good hunting.”

He followed the scouts as they entered an oval room with a large archway on the other side. Thunder rumbled from the opening, as though the storm itself had concentrated into this one spot. A shriek of pain keened in the air, too shrill for a human. The wailing rose and thinned away, replaced by a deep roar. Taras shut the sounds from his mind, calling upon his clerical discipline to maintain a shield against the sounds of strife.

He sprinted into the hallway, seeking the heart of the storm.

Taras drew up short, a frisson of shock shooting through his chest. There, right in front of him, was the traitor Errol. Rage coursed through Taras, igniting his body with righteous flames. He started to raise his hands to incinerate the boy, but strong hands gripped his arms on either side, pinning him in place. The cold sting of a blade pricked the base of his neck.

Percy’s voice whispered in his ear, soft and smooth as silk, dripping with the poison of an asp. “Ah, revenge will have to wait until you’re out from under my watch. Freyman won’t be pleased to lose his inside man.”

Taras opened his mouth to argue, but a loop of wire slid around his neck, tightening into a deadly noose. He relaxed in their grasp and the wire loosened slightly, allowing him to breathe again. Two scouts dragged him to the back of the formation. He could only watch helplessly as the rest advanced toward Aravind, who stood in front of the boys with an upraised knife in hand, desperation etched on his face.

=+=

“On me,” Errol called out in command as soon as he saw the scouts enter the room. He strode across the chambers at the top of the stairs, relieved that he’d arrived in time. When he’d picked them up on his sensor field, he had backtracked to meet the scouts before they attacked his real team. How had he gotten ahead of them? Perhaps they’d gotten stuck in that unnatural doorway Gruvrik had forced them to circumvent. If so, they were now freed from the strange compulsion that held them there.

Merved shot a look toward an open doorway on the far side. “You found the others, eh? They’re inside already, I’ll wager.”

Errol nodded, not denying anything. “Remember, we need the Stormorb; don't interfere until their mission is a success.”

“Not the way I heard it,” Merv said flatly.

Percy saunted forward, stroking his chin. “Me neither. Sounds like something an Imperial operative would say. Sure we can trust this fellow?”

Errol shrugged. “Go ahead and take the Stormorb yourself. Not my problem if you die to its poisoned power.”

Percy looked to Merv, who sighed, motioning them onward.

“Got permission from your handler?” Errol teased.

Percy scowled at him, a brooding expression twisted his face into a grimace. “Freyman isn’t going to be happy if we don’t bring it back. Doesn’t mean I want to touch the foul thing. We do it your way, Eel.”

“Good. Then let these people go,” Errol demanded, gesturing toward the boys huddled behind a man with a knife. He assumed they were Bridge people. They looked similar to the boys he’d seen playing in the streets. One of them peeked out from behind his guardian, eyes wide, and Errol recoiled as if he’d been burned.

That’s the boy I thought I killed. He’s alive!

The scouts drew weapons. One of them in the front summoned a weak energy barrier, a one-time shield against arrows or a surprise attack. It wouldn’t hold back much, but it might give them a few extra seconds to defend themselves against an ambush.

The sudden movement shattered Errol’s thought. Numbly, he fell in line as they rushed forward in a tight formation, ready for violence.

They didn’t ask Errol to scout ahead; Merv simply took the lead. He didn’t know whether to feel slighted at the decision, or to appreciate the chance to stay safe a little longer. After a few twists and turns, they burst into what Errol assumed was the central control room of the Bridge. Fierce battle raged within. Suddenly, he was glad he was in the back.

Tendrils of dark smoke reached toward the scout team, twisting into vague, featureless human shapes of mist and magic. The storm-warriors braced spears and charged.

The first spear shattered on the magic barrier, dissipating into an inky splotch. The next struck home, however, and one of the scouts cried out in agony, staggering back and collapsing to the ground. He clutched his stomach, crying out as he tried to stem the flood of blood gurgling around his fingers.

Errol stepped forward. He formed a shock lance and hurled it into the middle of the pack. It branched apart in mid flight like a lightning strike, searing the air with the smell of ozone. The soldiers swelled in size wherever the lances struck them, absorbing the energy hungrily. The lightning crackled inside their incorporeal limbs, sparking out to drop another scout instantly.

Horror tightened Errol’s throat. He’d fed the storm, and now they might all pay because of his stupidity.

Merv howled a battle cry and leaped into the middle of the storm, slashing in a wide arc. He cast a cleave ability, slicing three of the warriors in half with one stroke, then threw himself into a roll to avoid a counterattack.

Beside him, Percy conjured another weak shield to give them more cover. He scowled at Errol. “You’re supposed to be the expert here. Protect us, Eel!”

Errol opened his sensor field, questing toward the enemy. The storm-warriors glowed in his mind’s eye, wreathed in fire. He reached out and touched one. The power of the storm laced through him, crackling like a lightning strike, overwhelming his ability to identify each individual. On a hunch, he opened his sensor field further, pushing it past its limits. He peeked at his ring’s readout, confirming his suspicion that his energy stores were overflowing their boundaries—the storm-warriors power seemed to temporarily overcharge his own strength.

Focusing on the fight, he dropped the connection to the vital ring. Errol drew in as much power as he could from the manifestations of the storm, draining the storm-warriors into a vapor that soon evaporated. They misted away into nothingness.

Merv nodded at him, knife at the ready. “Nicely done. Let’s finish this mission.”

Errol trembled with energy. He turned and raised his right arm, pointing at the remaining scouts. “No. Life for life. I saved you. In turn, you’ll stand down. Tell Freyman you ran into the storm itself. You were outmatched. Feed him any story you want, but stay away from my team or I’ll put you down like dogs.”

Merv spat to the side. “That’s not going to happen. Orders from on top. Last chance to walk away from this.”

Percy shoved the big scout back a half step. “Listen to him, Merv. We aren’t getting out of this one alive if he decides to duel. We’re alive three times over thanks to his abilities.”

The two glared at each other for a moment before Merv relented. He sheathed his knife and glowered at Errol. “Don’t track us down later. Cross paths and you die, Eel or not.”

Percy rolled his eyes, but let the statement stand. He bowed slightly toward Errol. “Your people are in good hands. Thank you for traveling with us a little way.”

Errol nodded at Merv, still channeling a shock lance just in case. “I can live with that, Merv. We don’t need to see each other again.”

He turned back to Percy. “I’ve got no quarrel with you. It was good to meet you, friend. If you ever want to seek me out when we return to Laurentum, I won’t turn you away. Stay safe on the way home; the Bridge is still a scary place.”

The few remaining scouts fled, nursing wounds. Percy paused, however. “Beware, Eel. The Justicar of Flames seeks your life. I cannot restrain him any longer.”

Errol nodded in acknowledgement, but Percy was already gone, ghosting away to rejoin the ragged remnant of the once-proud elite scouts. Shouts and the clash of arms demanded his attention. He pushed farther into the room, clearing through the haze of thick, dark smoke, and almost collided with Jarkoda. The halfdragon greeted him with a clap on the back, rolled under a blast from a storm-warrior and launched forward with a flurry of triple-strike claw slashes, slicing his attacker into nothingness.

Rhae poked her head around the corner of a desk and waved at him. She started to rise, smiling despite the chaos surrounding them. Fear suddenly flickered across her face. Her horns pulsed red then went bone-white. Her eyes widened and she gasped, flinging her hand over her mouth.

A moment later, Errol’s world erupted in flames.

=+=

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Flames roared by her head. Thenxi panted, pressing herself against a wall in the antechamber to the central control room, dodging a column of white-hot flames. The fire painted the walls, staining stone.

She ducked lower to find fresh air below the layers of plasma and smoke polluting the room, gasping for oxygen. The temperature in the chamber rose higher and higher as Taras lashed out over and over again at a dark-haired young man. The newcomer ducked and twisted, one step ahead of the fiery darts, no matter how fast they flew. He always seemed to sense the incoming attack and take evasive action, but the terror in his wild eyes betrayed him. He couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

The others snatched at Taras’s robes, holding him back, trying to talk him down from any further violence. Rhae had collapsed on the floor, sobbing, screaming for Taras to stop, to leave Errol alone. Ah, so that was the missing leader Rhae had mentioned. Strange that his own clan disapproved of his claims of justice. What happened between those two? Why is he trying to murder this man?

Taras shoved aside the Halfdragon, who stumbled but held fast. The old man screamed at the interloper. “Traitor! Murderer!”

They seemed to know each other—the boy fought defensively, calling for the older man to listen to his pleas for mercy. He didn’t attack, although Thenxi could sense immense power within him, crackling like a living shard of the storm itself. How had an Outsider become storm touched? It’s my people’s birthright, not theirs! Maybe this thief deserves to die.

“Ach!” the short, burly man roared, his voice shockingly powerful for his small stature. “It pains me to admit it, but that coward Stefano may be right about the corrupting power of this place. No wonder he scurried off again. The lot of ye are infected with madness! Stop fighting each other and focus on our mission.”

Despite his loud, booming voice, no one paid him any heed.

To her right, Telyim crouched beside the locked control panel, hair plastered to her head with sweat. The younger Seer’s labored breathing betrayed her fear. She stared at the fighting and the swirling mists, eyes growing wider. Something inside her seemed broken by the horror all around her.

Thenxi padded over to the young woman. She took Telyim in her arms and sang an old chant, imploring the Mother to intercede on Telyim's behalf.

The Seer flinched away, glaring at her.

Memories of Eastern’s predations on Western paraded through Thenxi's mind. Telyim couldn’t be held personally responsible for her ancestor’s actions, but her undisguised hostility even now, when they should be allies, sent a spike of resentment through Thenxi. In a heartbeat, she remembered why she hated Eastern. She slammed Telyim's head against the wall until the younger woman collapsed. This was Western’s best chance at flipping the balance of power. Thenxi clenched her fist. She only needed Telyim’s key, not her allegiance.

Thenxi slid her hand around to the back of her rival Seer's neck, feeling for the knot in the leather strap Telyim used as a necklace to hold the key. She fumbled with the tight knot and finally settled for drawing one of Telyim’s bone knives and slicing the strap. A quick yank and she pulled out the key from within Telyim’s robes. She retied the knot and slipped the key over her own neck as she sneaked toward the control room.

With any luck, they won't notice me. Help me, Mother. This is our chance at salvation.

Errol crashed into the floor in front of Thenxi, trailing fire as he skidded into a doorway. His body twitched, smoldering in half a dozen places, but he hauled himself to standing upright, his hands still held out in a conciliatory fashion. Words rasped out of his throat a few at a time. “Forgiveness! I beg. Taras.” He wheezed and lurched forward, trying to catch his balance but crashing into the corner of a desk. “Please. Believe. . . . Mistake.”

A stream of flames roared toward Errol. He flung himself sideways, barely evading the worst of the heat, but his hair was singed off the side of his head. He coughed and spat blood, crouching unsteadily.

“Stupid boy. He’s blocking off the door,” Thenxi muttered to herself, edging toward the conflagration. She didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire of a battle between these terrifying monsters; their magic far exceeded her own. A stray fireball would kill her instantly.

Taras drew himself up, shaking off Jarkoda and Maeda. He raised both hands, shouting as a pure-white orb of glowing fire coalesced in front of him. He shook with the effort, struggling to control the power. The incandescence magnified, shining brighter and brighter until Thenxi flinched away with a cry, squinting her eyes shut against the brilliance of a naked sun.

Thenxi clutched Telyim’s bone knife, her knuckles cracking with the intensity of her grip. She whipped her hand forward, whirling the knife at Taras in a blind attempt to stop the ferocity of the fire. He cried out in sudden pain. The fervent heat winked out of existence.

Still blinking from the afterimage of the blazing corona, Thenxi stumbled toward the arch, determined to enter while the others still fought. She’d try both keys together. The portal would open this time. It had to. She couldn’t fail now, not so close to her journey’s end.

A hand clutched her ankle. She shuddered and pulled away. Errol held on tighter as she kicked. She tried to run toward the portal, dragging him with each step, but he refused to let go, looking up at her with pleading eyes. Blood streaked down his narrow face, which had taken on a skull-like, unsettling gleam since his eyebrows had burned off completely.

She kicked him free with the other foot and plunged forward to the portal, thrusting out the keys in front of her. The keys hit the surface and rebounded, flinging Thenxi away. She cried out as she tumbled across the stone floor, crashing into Taras in a tangle of limbs. She landed on top of him, slamming him into the floor.

Taras absorbed most of the impact. She rolled off, extracting herself from the jumble of legs and arms, and turned to look at the old man. He lay unmoving, a trickle of blood seeping across his forehead.

“It’s not fair!” Thenxi screamed, slumping back against the wall. “The way should not be shut to a child of the Mother. I’ve served her my entire life!”

Rhae rushed over, already strumming a song on her harp. She touched Taras’s temple, her brows furrowed in concentration, and his cuts closed over. He coughed, chest heaving. His eyes opened.

“You fool,” he spluttered, glaring at Thenxi. “You don’t know what he’s done!”