The Rock of Ivanore (4 page)

“I don't mind going on,” said Clovis. “We could reach Vrystal Canyon in two or three hours.”

“The sun's going down,” replied Marcus. He was beginning to regret letting Clovis come along. Clovis released his nose, but the blood still flowed freely. He pinched it again.

“Nearly clotted,” he said apologetically. “In five minutes, I'll be ready to go—”

“I told you, we're making camp!” snapped Marcus. The moment he did so, he regretted the outburst. He looked away from the stunned expression on Clovis's face, afraid his own shame was apparent.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to lose my temper. It's just that—” He felt his cheeks grow warm. “I don't like the dark.”

He was certain that Clovis would burst into laughter. Marcus, nearly a man and afraid of the dark. But there was no laughter.

“Oh,” said Clovis, as though the news were as trivial as a fruit fly. “We'll need wood for the fire then. Shall I go?”

Marcus smiled at his companion, whose nostrils were still clamped in the vise-like grip of his fingers. “I'll go,” he said and set off to gather wood in the forest.

When he returned, he found Clovis devouring a plump slice of roasted quail, his nosebleed all but forgotten. “Mother packed it for me,” Clovis said through greasy lips. Marcus eyed the meat hungrily and reached into his satchel. Just as he had feared, his bread had turned to crumbs. He licked up a handful of the bland fragments of his dinner.

“I'll start the fire,” he said, clearing a spot of earth and arranging the kindling he had gathered. He reached in his pocket for his key. It was a simple key, just a finger-length rod of iron with a plain oval loop on one end and a notched extrusion at the other. Still, it would not be wise to judge any charm solely on its appearance.

He gripped the key in his left hand and waved his other over the kindling. “Ignite!” he commanded. Not a flicker appeared. He waved his hand again and repeated the order, but the wood remained stubborn.

“I've got flint and wool,” offered Clovis, but Marcus ignored him.

“Ignite, you stupid shrub, ignite!” When the fourth attempt was equally unsuccessful, Marcus sheepishly put away the key for Clovis's flint and wool. The fire soon engulfed the tinder and Marcus added to it three larger logs. He warmed his hands against the flames. He then removed his cape and spread it out on the ground, resting on it with his back to the fire. Beside him, Clovis did the same and was soon fast asleep.

Marcus searched the darkening night with wide eyes, but except for the small circle of light cast by the fire, the forest was as black as coal. He could see nothing but the faint silhouette of the nearest trees; the thought of what might lie beyond them made him apprehensive. To calm himself, he turned his thoughts to the quest and to tomorrow's journey. He knew of a library in Noam, a town on the other side of the mountains, and thought that might be a good place to inquire about the Rock of Ivanore.

The sound of Clovis snoring convinced him he had better rest as well. He laid down his head on his satchel and closed his eyes. Meanwhile, from the safety of a low-hanging tree branch, a pair of eyes watched him as he slept, their pupils narrowed into fine slits as they studied him.

n the opposite side of the Isle of Imaness, the sleepy city of Dokur lay atop a sprawling plateau, as content in its security as a napping lion. The claw-like rock formations encircling the harbor were as menacing as the most lethal of weapons. The great tower looked out over the rocky shores of Imaness like an ever-present sentry, and no enemy ever dared approach the island under its ominous gaze. To do so would be to play into the hands of fate toward a certain defeat by means of the royal navy.

No one escaped the Eye of Dokur.

Perched on the hill just behind the tower, the Fortress appeared from a distance to be no more than a child's toy planted on some lonely dune. But those who lived in the
settlement beneath knew the truth about its menacing power and shuddered to think of it. They preferred to go about their business as discreetly as possible, doing nothing to single themselves out from the mass or to attract the attention of His Lordship of Dokur.

Only one dared to wander from the city and stand upon the cliffs to watch the sea. Every day at twilight, the young woman lay down her bundle of kindling to stare at the vast blue horizon. Almost fifteen years had passed since she had begun this ritual—nearly a lifetime of breaking away from the ebb and flow of daily routine to which everyone else was so fettered. But no one seemed to care or even notice. Not even the Eye of Dokur wasted energy on the dark-haired woman with the distant look in her eyes, the one known only as Mouse.

She had first come to Dokur when she was five years old. A wayward child, she spent her days in the streets scrounging for food; her nights were spent on the cliffs. When people asked her about her home and her parents, she said nothing, choosing instead to meet their questions with a defiant, tight-lipped stare. At some point she began working to earn her keep. A full belly and a warm bed were temptations no child could resist. She worked long hours, often to the point of exhaustion, but no matter where she was or what she was doing, at dusk she always came back to the cliffs.

Mouse sat on her boulder with her knees to her chest and counted the stars as they appeared one by one overhead. The sun had long since descended beneath the distant
sea, and her stomach told her she had better get back to the tavern soon or there would be hell to pay. But she chose instead to wait a while longer, braving the owner's inevitable wrath.

Was it the anxious churning in her chest that anchored her there tonight, or was it the ever-increasing hopelessness she felt? She thought if she could somehow hold on one moment longer, she just might catch a glimpse of that fading hope on the horizon. Yet it was not to be. With a slow, disheartened sigh, she hefted her bundle to her shoulder and made her way down the path to town.

arcus fell into a deep and comforting sleep. In his dreams he smelled the scent of fresh leather, felt the stiff edges of a fine strap between his fingers. He imagined that inside his new satchel he carried the most delicious fare: hot corn fritters bathed in sweet Willenberry sauce, dried pears, and squares of rich fudge. As he prepared to devour this feast, a loud screech shattered his vision.

Marcus sat up abruptly. He rubbed his eyes, still cloudy from sleep, and searched the darkness for the source of the sound, but all was now quiet. Only a cricket's lullaby and Clovis Dungham's rhythmic breathing reached his ears.

He stabbed at the remains of the fire with a stick. The orange coals spit hot sparks back at him. He watched the
ever-changing flames while absentmindedly fingering the key his master had given him. It felt smooth and cold—and strangely comforting.

With heavy eyes, Marcus was about to lie back down when the screech tore through the night once more. The high-pitched shriek sounded almost human, as if someone had cried out in pain—or fear.

The screech sounded a third time. “Watch out!” it screamed.

Marcus leapt to his feet and spun around. There, above the glow of the dying embers, were two yellow eyes. At first it appeared as if the two glassy spheres hovered in the darkness, but as they began to sway back and forth and came forward into the light, Marcus saw that the eyes belonged to the biggest snake he had ever seen.

The snake slid through the glowing embers, its thick body seemingly endless as it curled itself into an enormous coil directly in front of Marcus. Its massive forked tongue flicked at the air as if tasting it. Then, to Marcus's surprise, the serpent spoke. “The foresssst issss no place for man,” it said. Its voice was a deep, drawn-out whisper, not like the shriek Marcus heard before. “Perhapssss man isss losssst?”

Marcus tried to hold himself steady despite the fact that his entire body trembled with fear. “I'm not lost,” he said. “I'm only passing through this part of the forest.”

“Passssing through?” The snake's pupils dilated and then narrowed to slits again. “Alone?”

Marcus glanced at Clovis sleeping on the ground. Had the serpent not noticed him?

His stomach felt queasy. He was afraid his knees would buckle at any moment, but he managed to remain standing. The snake met his gaze and held it for a long while before rearing its head high in the air. Its gaze bore down on Marcus's quivering frame.

The snake responded to his own question. “Yessss, alone. On a long journey. Ssssoooo no one sssshould missss you for ssssome time.” The snake opened its jaws so wide that Marcus could have stepped inside without hitting his head. Though Marcus was inclined to run, the absolute terror of the moment glued his feet to the ground.

The snake lunged forward, and as it did so, Marcus instinctively threw his hands over his face. To his surprise, Zyll's key grew hot in his hand, so hot it burned him, and he nearly dropped it from the pain. At the same moment, the embers from the fire flared up, and a pillar of flame spiraled upward, scorching the serpent's tender underbelly. The snake shrank back in pain but quickly prepared for another attack.

Suddenly, from out of the darkness a figure leapt at the snake, the hilt of a dagger flashing in the fire's glow. There was a struggle, a low, deep moan—and then silence.

When Marcus opened his eyes he found the snake half-coiled and dead at his feet. A trail of blood ran out of its mouth, soaking the earth.

Marcus peered through the darkness. “Wh-who are you?” The figure stepped forward, firelight casting dancing shadows upon his golden hair and fine features.
“Kelvin Archer!” cried Marcus. All at once he felt relieved—and embarrassed.

“I heard you scream,” said Kelvin. He wiped his dagger clean with a handful of leaves and nodded toward Clovis, still sleeping soundly.

“Remind me not to call on him for help if ever the need arises,” he said, sliding the dagger into a leather scabbard strapped about his waist. Clovis mumbled something incoherent and rolled over onto his side. Oblivious, he continued to snore long into the night.

he high branches of the forest trees formed a tight green canopy overhead. So entwined were they that only the most persistent rays of sunlight had broken through, casting thin, yellow beams of light through layered shadows. But now that day had turned to night, the forest seemed an eternal abyss of darkness.

The Agoran half-breed held his cloak tightly around him to prevent it from getting caught in the thorny underbrush. Using his sword, he continued to hack his way through the forest one step at a time. Though he had traveled all day, his progress was much slower than he had hoped. He knew the trail led directly to the mouth of Vrystal Canyon, the only known passage between the west and east sides of the island. However, the path proved a
greater obstacle than he had anticipated. Even with his keen eyesight, the Agoran struggled to follow the trail, which had long since been shrouded by vines. The trees seemed to close in on him, suffocating him, until every part of his being screamed for him to turn back in defeat.