Mark Anthony - Last Rune 4 Blood of Mystery

Table of Contents

for Esther Elizabeth Anthony

In Loving Memory

breathe the wind
walk the fire
Raven be your master
chain the flesh
free the heart
Raven flies forever

FIRST PRAYER OF THE RAVEN

drink the ice
breathe the fire
Shadow be your lover
chain the mind
still the heart
Darkness rules forever

THE RAVEN REBORN

NO WAY OUT

By the Blood of the Seven, Falken said through clenched teeth. Shes led us into a trap. We have to find a way to open that door.

But it was already too late. Grace heard the echo of low grunts, the scraping of talons on stone. They froze as misshapen forms slunk into the kitchen, five, six, seven of them. Their backs were humped, their gray fur matted, their yellow eyes filled with pain and hunger. A stench like spoiled meat rose from them, making Graces gorge rise.

The feydrim arranged themselves in a half-circle on the far side of the room, looking like nothing so much as spider monkeys crossbred with wolves: feral, intelligent, tortured. What were they waiting for? Why didnt the creatures leap forward and rip out their throats? Then the half-circle parted, and two figures stepped through, one slightly in front of the other, and Grace understood. The feydrim had been waiting for their mistress.

You cannot escape, the old countess said.

The feydrim crouched, ready to spring.

PART ONE

LOST

The raven sprang from the edge of the precipice, spreading dark wings like shadows, and soared into the fiery dawn sky.

A wall of peaks fell away behind it, sharp as dragons teeth, an impenetrable barrier of stone that stabbed at the sky. A wind howled off the mountains, slicing through the ravens feathers. It seemed the king toyed with his Stone again. The raven beat hard against the blast, righted himself, and fixed his eyes on the leafless forest that clung like mist to the land below. He had a message to deliver before the day died, to one in a place far to the south, and he would not fail in his task.

The ravens name was Gauris. Eleven and one hundred times the ice floes of the Winter Sea had cracked, thawed, and frozen again since the day of his shell-sundering. Through all of those years, Gauris had served the king faithfully. True, his feathers were not so glossy as they once had been, and his beak and talons were duller. However, his black eyes were still keen, and not even the young ones of the brood, for all they puffed their sleek breasts in pride, could fly so far in a single day as Gauris. That was why this message had been entrusted to him, for it was a missive of particular importance.

Or at least, so Gauris supposed. For no one, not even the kings closest minions, could know the kings thoughts and will. His heart was made of cold, enchanted iron, and some said the mind beneath his icy crown was forged of the same stuff. One thing Gauris knew for certain: The winds of war were blowing. And like a knight sharpening his blade and searching for chinks in his armor, the king needed to be sure all of his tools were at the ready. It was one of those toolsone of the most precious of them allto which Gauris flew now.

He swooped toward the forest, skimming just above the tops of the bare, silvery trees. It was still only early Sindath, but winter had already come to this part of Falengarth, and it would never depart again if the king had his way. Gauris awaited that day with great anticipation. Surely there would be need for swift couriers in the New Times: messengers to carry the kings commands throughout his vast realm, which would claim all of Falengarth from shore to shore. And none were swifter than the kings ravens, fed with dark meats over the centuries to grant them speed and strength.

True, it was whispered by some that the king had his own master who would return in the New Times, a master whom some called the Nightlord and who had been wrongfully banished long ago. If this were so, would not the Nightlord be ruler of all things when the war was won? But surely the Nightlord would be grateful for the kings service, just as the king would be grateful for the swiftness of his ravens. Surely, in the New Times, there would be rewards for all who served on the victorious side.

The forest fell behind him, and Gauris pumped strong wings as the sun edged higher. Sere fields slipped below, dotted by lakes that flashed like coins before vanishing behind. Another range of mountains hove into view. It was a weathered jumble of rocks far lower than the wall of bitter stone that barred the way into and out of the kings dominion (and which were woven with spells of madness, so that only his ravens and a few of his other servants could pass beyond them). Gauris struck toward the line of muted peaks and followed them southward.

After a few more leagues, he spied a bowl-shaped valley in the mountains. In the valley was a lake; and in the center of the lake, on a jutting spur of rock, was a half-ruined fortress. Smoke belched up from the keeps towers, as if from arcane engines, and steam boiled from the nearby waters of the lake. A crimson flag snapped atop the keeps highest turret, its bloody field marked by a black crown encircling a silver tower. Tiny figures moved outside the walls of the fortress; light glinted off helms and swords.

Gauris didnt know exactly where he would find the one to whom he was to deliver the kings message, but he knew the signs to look for: strife and destruction; smoke and fear. Wherever she was, shadows would gather. He folded his wings and dived toward the fortress below.

Moving so swiftly that the men in the keeps main yard would perceive nothing more than a dark flicker in the corner of their eyes, Gauris darted through a gap in the side of a crumbling watchtower. He settled on a rotten beam and took care to keep to the gloom of the ruin.

In the yard below, a score of knights marched to the fierce beat of a drum. The knights wore suits of plate armor as black as Gauriss feathers. Each carried a red shield marked with the same black crown and silver tower as the flag above the keep. Broadswords slapped against their thighs.

As the dark column of knights drew near, gaunt men, women hunched in rags, and children with scab-crusted legs hastened to get out of the way, clutching buckets of water or lumps of peat to their chests, their eyes hazed in fear. Puckered brands marked the backs of their hands.

As the knights reached the center of the yard, the gates of the keep flew open, and three more of the onyx warriors thundered through on sooty chargers. The horses pounded to a stop. One of the knights on foot approached the horsemen. Cocking his head, Gauris listened.

Hail to the glory that once was, said the knight who stood on the ground, holding a fist against his breastplate, voice deep and hollow inside his helm.

One of the horsemen nudged his mount forward and mirrored the salute. Hail to the glory that will be once more.

Both men lowered their fists.

Did you find the fugitives hiding place?

The horseman grunted in disgust. The wildmen who follow him are little better than dogs. But they are clever dogs, and there are witches and workers of runes in his band of rabble. There is no telling what tricks and deceptions they have fashioned to hinder us.