Page 273 of The Cradle of Ice
She needed all her concentration to bind that scream, to forge it into a weapon. The sigil of a bright brand burned in the back of her mind, gifted to her by the horde-mind. It was as much a map as the path through the icy Fangs—but this chart was one of ancient fire and control. She wanted to deny it, to will it away, knowing what it portended.
She flashed to a mountaintop with a red moon falling.
So be it.
She reached a tendril of golden fire, frosted with emerald corruption and fueled by the last energies of an ancient mind—and touched the burning sigil.
It ignited as she reached the barge.
She gave herself fully to the map of that brand, letting her body follow the code written inside her. The method, the words, a flow of power beyond her understanding.
Bashaliia dove below the height of the barge, then streaked high again in front of it. He heaved to a sudden stop with a swoop of his huge wings. Ice broke from their tips in a glittering cascade. The sudden halt threw her high off his back into the air, lifting her before the windows of the barge.
Ancient words, written in fire, burst from her lips. She swung her arms high, breaking ice from her body. Her hands clapped above her—the first note of a dreadful song.
She opened herself and screamed into the frigid night. A song of hatred and fury and madness. She had already hardened her power into a weapon, but the ancient sigil inside her turned power into purpose.
She stated it loudly, repeating her earlier promise, giving it form and substance.
Never.
Her scream struck the barge—and crashed into it. Boards exploded. Draft-iron cables ripped from tethers. The entire barge split in half before her, shattered by her scream, by her power, by the gift of an ancientness that sought redemption.
Below her, Bashaliia screamed, too, lunging higher, neck extended. While they were still bridled together, a fraction of her force blasted out of him. As it did, the steel helm ripped from his skull, spinning and glinting under the starlight into the night.
She smiled coldly, refining her promise.
Never again.
She gazed with lowered brows at the ruins of the barge and gave one last surge as she began to fall, casting the last of the fire out of her.
Even empty, she wanted this to never stop.
At the back of her mind, a black abyss wailed the same desire.
She drove her madness through to the barge’s forges and ignited their potency with her fury. The explosion was a flaming sun in the dark night.
She savored the destruction.
Then she felt the heat of the blast washing over her. With it came a backlash of fiery madness, striking her at her weakest. She could not stop the storm from filling her, blinding her, spreading to all her now empty places—even down into her dark abyss.
Her head lolled backward as she fell through the night, limp and lost, plummeting into darkness.
Somewhere over the ice, Bashaliia keened and screamed.
She recognized that wail of despair.
The madness had found him, too.
94
DEEP IN THE Shrivenkeep, Wryth leaned next to Shrive Keres. Before them, the crystal globe of the listening device glowed. A small red blip blinked in stuttering starts and stops, sharing Skerren’s message.
The two had been following the details of a battle at a coppery structure deep in the Wastes. Wryth’s hands were tight fists. Tension thinned his lips to hard lines. Skerren’s forces had invaded a dome and discovered the enemy. More of the infernal bats plagued their efforts—until Skerren dispatched Kalyx.
Wryth had spent months destroying the will of the imprisoned Mýr bat, employing a fiery method developed by a fellow Iflelen—Shrive Vythaas—before the man died. The latest report from Skerren announced the success of Wryth’s brutal efforts with the bat.
The enemy had been subdued.
