Chapter 14 #3
It was a good thing she had reminded him.
In his haste to get to Calia, he’d nearly left the cave with them.
He unrolled the first one and groaned. Grandsire had written his notes in the old language of the wolf shifters, an ancient dialect rarely, if ever, used anymore.
Even though Mathison didn’t particularly like trying to remember the correct pronunciations, he understood why Grandsire had used it.
The words were so steeped in old magic that, as he read them aloud, they rose from the pages and created realistic pictures of the tunnels, leading him into the darkness of the Pit and allowing him to study the way as if he were already inside them.
Once he finished with that scroll, he pored over the second, which described the traps to avoid on the way out of the intricate, icy hell created by his grandsire and the sorcerer.
As he handed the scrolls back to Mairwen, a series of symbols—the knots and whorls of the wolf clan’s ancient tongue—appeared on the backs of his hands as though tattooed there for an age. He rubbed the marks, but if anything, they only became darker. “’Tis the maps.”
“Good. The markings will help ye remember.” Mairwen resealed the scrolls and took a step back. “May the goddesses be with ye.”
“Goddesses or no goddesses, I shall return with my Calia. Be ready to help her heal.” Mathison left the cave, burning for vengeance against those who had made his mate suffer. Horse stepped forward, just as eager to charge into battle.
Mathison settled into the saddle and scoured the view below.
Shadowmist Keep and its grounds seemed eerily quiet.
This time of year, early spring, the place and its surrounding glen should be aswarm with activity.
It was time to see to the land and prepare for the season of bounty.
Well, it didn’t matter. He would make it active enough when he stormed the place and made those witches regret the days of their creation.
As he descended the cliff overlooking the keep, he willed Calia to feel his presence, to know he was on his way. He longed for her to reach out to him again just so he would know she hadn’t given up.
“She’ll not give up,” Dubh said. “A more stubborn woman does not exist.”
“I’ll be sure and tell her ye said that.”
“That stubbornness will keep her alive.”
As they rounded a sharp, blind turn, the wolfstone burned so hot against the base of Mathison’s throat that he flexed his neck and shifted the amulet to a different spot.
Then he understood why the necklace had reacted as it had.
The witch goddess’s evil sons blocked the way.
The sight of Carman’s spawn pleased him immensely because while searching through the many scrolls and tomes stored in Grandsire’s cave, he’d come across a particularly powerful spell—the spell of fatal mortality—and the wolfstone would amplify its effects.
It likely wasn’t strong enough to destroy Carman, but it would handle her sons nicely.
“Mum sent us to greet ye,” the dripping, greasy Dub said.
“Aye, she be gladder than glad when we bring her yer head.” With a fling of his hand, Dother splattered a puddle of blood directly in front of Horse’s feet.
The loyal stallion didn’t flinch or cower, just lifted his muzzle and gave a warning grumble.
Dian rattled his axes and swords against his pale bones. “I gets to do the beheading. Lucky for ye, I just sharpened me blades.”
Mathison dismounted and unsheathed his sword. Lust for the demons’ deaths pounded through him. “I admire yer belief in victory. What a shame it is wasted—unless ye’ve realized I shall be the only one who walks away from this battle alive.”
The empty eye sockets in the vile ones’ elongated skulls shone with a deeper, deadlier red glow. Dub jutted his bony chin higher and made a snuffling sound. “I dinna smell fear, brothers. Only a bloodlust that be far stronger than our own.”
“Bloodlust—scha! No one possesses more lust for blood than I.” Dother opened his mouth and spewed a crimson river.
The stuff oozed from his eye sockets and ear holes, dripping from his skull to stream down his abhorrent form of sinew and bone.
He clacked his blades together. “Let’s get to the killin’. ”
With his left hand gripping the wolfstone at the base of his throat, Mathison lifted his sword with his right and allowed his mystical energies to set it aglow. Then he growled the mortality spell:
“By stone and sea, by breath and bone,
I call the thread of life alone.
Ancient fire, yer ageless claim—
Be quenched, be stilled, return to name.
Immortal heart, nor mortal be,
Bound to time, by earth and me.
So mote it be.”
“No!” The demonic brothers roared as a fierce whirlwind of blinding light spun around them. The trio howled as the energy took them to their knees, drying away the blood, erasing the oozing black grease, and dulling the glow from their pale, gray bones.
Mathison held the searing hot wolfstone until nothing remained of the witch’s sons but three piles of ash. “To the winds with ye.” He brought down his sword and touched its tip to the ground. The whirlwind of light returned, lifting the ashes and carrying them away.
“That was not nearly as enjoyable as destroying them the old way,” Dubh said, sounding thoroughly disappointed.
“They were immortal. It had to be done this way to ensure the witch couldn’t have them rise against us yet again or take retribution against Calia.
” Although Mathison agreed with his inner wolf.
The three brothers had been wiped away much too quickly for his liking.
He’d wanted them to suffer. “We must make haste now. Carman will sense the void left by their destruction. We must reach Calia before she does.”
“I wish I could hear Litress.”
Dubh’s worry and frustration made Mathison’s uneasiness churn even harder.
“I know. I wish we could hear both of them again.” He launched himself up into the saddle and urged Horse onward as fast as the steep path allowed.
He had to reach the bottom of the chasm, traveling far deeper into the narrow bit of land jutting between the cliffs to find the tunnel beneath the keep, the one that opened out onto the rocky shores of the Moray Firth.
That tunnel would lead him to the heart of the Pit of Pinnacles.
During the descent, he kept Shadowmist Keep’s battlements in his sights.
The lack of any activity or guards atop the castle’s curtain wall was strange, especially since Bansys had to know he would come for Calia.
The closer he drew to the base of the ravine, the more the backs of his hands tingled, drawing his attention to the markings inked on his flesh by Grandsire’s scrolls.
Already black and well-defined, the symbols became even sharper and easier to read.
It was almost as if the ancient words of his ancestors were eager to see the quest’s goal realized.
Salt spray filled the air as the North Sea’s winds howled into the Firth and through the narrow gorge. Gulls and terns split the air with their high-pitched screeches as they circled and dove in search of food.
Mathison studied the seemingly impenetrable cliffside of great, dark gray slabs of stone that looked as if the gods had dropped them from the heavens and ordered them to stand on end like silent sentries.
He needed the one striated with gleaming white streaks that resembled branches of a tree.
According to the scrolls, that stone appeared connected to the cliff but actually stood out from the rest, creating a space wide enough for a man to slip through and access a tunnel system as intricate as a beehive.
That tunnel system held the path he needed to get to Calia.
Once he had her safely hidden in Grandsire’s cave with the Weavers seeing to her care, then he would return and deal with the witches and false chieftains.
He had over three hundred years of cursed living to seek vengeance for—longer than that if he included the time spent being played for a fool by Aluwyn.
The obelisk he sought jumped out at him. Even though the tide had raised the level of the sea to half the natural monument’s height, the white branches within the stone were unmistakable. He dismounted and patted Horse. “Stay where ye feel safe from the wind and the waves. Listen for my whistle.”
With an amiable grumble, the mighty beast tossed its head and retreated to higher ground.
“Reckon the tunnels be flooded?” Dubh had never been bothered by a good soaking with rain, sleet, or snow, but Mathison’s inner wolf hated the sting of seawater in open wounds—namely, wounds that might be received while fetching Calia.
“There’s sure to be water in those passages closest to the shore, but according to the scrolls, as I go deeper into the cliff, the correct tunnels rise.
They should be drier.” He braced himself as he waded into the iciness of the waist-deep water.
It didn’t matter. Nothing would keep him from his dear one.
He squeezed in behind the marker stone, barely able to force himself through the tight space that led to the tunnel entrance.
As he slogged deeper into the earth and lost the light, he unsheathed his sword and uttered, “Illuminare.” The blade hummed with renewed energy and took on a blue-white glow, lighting the way.
Each time he came to a fork in the tunnel system, he trusted what he had seen in the scrolls and the tingling of the marks on his hands to lead the way.
Just as he’d thought, the tunnels rose at a gradual incline and shifted to a cloying dampness rather than knee-deep seawater.
Unsure of the extent of Calia’s injuries, he had no doubt about carrying her to safety, but wasn’t sure about getting her through the narrow space at the mouth of the cave on shore.
Teeth clenched at the thought, he shook the uncertainty away.
He would get her out—somehow. The way of it would come to him when the time came.
“I smell smoke,” Dubh said. “But it’s nay wood that burns and creates it. ’Tis bones.”
“I dinna ken if that be good or bad.” A fire would warm her and help her heal, but burning bones? Whose bones? And who had lit them?”
“Could be a dragon’s lair. Did yer father not tell stories of one that lived within Shadowmist lands?”
“’Twas a pair, actually. Noirgarth, Protector of the Weak, and his mate, Bresag, Gentleheart.”
“Shifters?”
“No. Dragons as old as time itself. Father used them as a warning to keep the young of the clan from exploring the caves and tunnels beneath the keep. I never knew for certain whether or not they were real.”
“If they are real, hopefully their dispositions earned them their names.”
“For the most part, dragons are more honorable than many beings we have met in our lifetime. Humans take issue with them because they want the dragon’s gold. They dinna understand the true majesty and valor of the beasts.”
“Did ye hear that, Noigarth?” whispered a decidedly feminine voice. “Our visitor speaks of our majesty and valor.”
“I heard, dear Gentleheart. I heard.”
The faintest tinge of sulfur filled the tunnel, making Mathison’s nose twitch.
Most definitely the scent of dragons. Perhaps this pair possessed the ability to hover between dimensions to keep from being seen.
“Forgive me for intruding,” he said to the pair he only knew from childhood tales.
“My grandsire suggested this route to the Pit of Pinnacles, which he and his sorcerer created.”
“Yer grandsire?” Noigarth repeated. “Ye are not Cain Shadowmist? In the shadows, we would swear it was our brother risen from the grave and come to visit.”
“I am Mathison Shadowmist. Grand Chieftain Cain Shadowmist was my grandsire.”
“A fine man.” The mighty dragon’s golden eyes appeared, but the rest of the beast did not. “Ye are truly the image of him, and I sense yer heart is just as courageous—unlike the one placed on the throne after him.”
“Aye, my father was a coward and did not treat his subjects well.” Mathison refused to make excuses for the man who had sired him.
“We heard of yer curse,” Bresag said. “Was it yer father who cursed ye?”
“No. The witch. Bansys.”
Both dragons snorted, filling the tunnel with flames.
Mathison jumped back a pace to keep from getting singed.
“Do forgive us.” Noigarth snorted again, but shot his flame the other way. The tunnel filled with his impressive form, his iridescent blue-black scales glistening like rare gemstones. “The witch deserves no mercy. Not from us nor anyone else.”
“I dinna intend to offer her any.”
“Good.” Bresag appeared in the adjoining fork in the tunnel, her folded wings and breastplates glittering with the colorful whiteness of priceless opals. “If we might be of service, call upon us. We valued yer grandsire’s friendship.”
“First, I must rescue my mate from the Pit. Bansys and the witch, Carman, imprisoned her there. Then, I intend to seek my vengeance.”
Both dragons slowly nodded as if seeing the wisdom in his words.
“Again, call upon us should ye need us,” Noigarth said, then gradually faded from view. “We will hear ye. No matter where ye might be.”
“Ye have dragon blood in yer ancestry,” Bresag said as she, too, began to disappear.
“Yer grandsire mixed his with ours in an ancient ritual of allies known to dragons since the beginning of all the ages. We are yer brethren.” She chuckled.
“We would be happy to honor the rite by helping ye spill the witch’s blood. ”
“I am honored, mighty ones.” Mathison thumped his fist to his chest in the warrior salute he meant from the bottom of his soul.