“Okay. Move fast. The queen’s not happy.”

Immediately there came a clatter of heavy boots going down the stairs. They heard a sniff of broad, clogged sinuses, then a disgusted spit.

“What’s up?” asked an ogre.

“Some humans running around outside,” replied another. Kerrick and Moreen exchanged looks. “Somebody come in by the cistern. They found muddy tracks.”

“I hope them humans come this way,” said the first. “My blade is thirsty!”

Crude chuckles followed. Kerrick glanced at Moreen, whose one good eye was bright, staring at him. “The Alchemist is up those stairs!” she whispered.

He nodded. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by the reality of the challenge they faced. What could the two of them do, against so many hulking guards? What had he expected? That the Alchemist would be alone in his room and invite them in? The elf slumped against the wall, overwhelmed. To come so far and be defeated. It was too much!

• Moreen touched his arm, then gestured. The gesture was clear. The Arktos chief wanted him to put on his ring.

He knew that was exactly what he had to do. Nodding, he reached into his pocket and slipped the golden circlet over his finger. Immediately his fear and weariness fell away, replaced by a vibrant energy fueled by rage, hatred of the two ogres who stood between him and his objective.

With a quick smile at the chiefwoman he drew his sword and raced through the archway to confront a pair of very startled ogres. One died, stabbed through the heart, with the surprised look still etched on his face. The other marshaled a great shout and lowered the haft of his stout spear, holding the weapon crossways to block the attack.

The elf’s heavy blade whistled down, cutting the spearshaft cleanly in two. The ogre gaped at his broken weapon and was still gaping as the sword slashed back through his throat, leaving his head barely dangling from his gashed neck. With a gurgle, the ogre toppled backward.

Unfortunately, he had been standing at the top of the stairs. The limp body smashed down the steps with a clang of armor and weaponry. The ogre’s metal helm, slick with blood, also tumbled down the stairway. The clatter was more alarming to Kerrick than a hundred bells or a thousand clarion horns.

“Come on!” cried Moreen, racing past Kerrick, tugging at his arm. Without a backward look, his sword still red with gore, he turned and raced after her up the stairs leading to the top of the keep, and the laboratory of the Alchemist.

* * * * *

“You’re right-that’s the king himself!” Strongwind said, when they got close enough to recognize the enormous ogre wearing the black bearskin cape. The golden breastplate was the same one the ogre leader had worn at the battle of Brackenrock-the Highlander could even see the hole where Kerrick’s sword had pierced it.

“Let’s go! We’ll take him in a rush!” Strongwind urged boldly. They could strike quickly, maybe even hurt the king himself, then break up the hill. He felt giddily hopeful that he and his companion could distract the ogres with the crazy attack proposed by Mad Randall.

“Let’s go, then,” said Randall cheerfully. “There’s only twenty of the bastards. Shouldn’t be much of a problem.” Strongwind noticed the twitch of his old friend’s lip, saw the light of war come into his eyes. The madness of battle-frenzy was coming over him now.

The two men burst from concealment, sword and axe upraised, racing down the hill. “For Kradok!” shouted the Highlander king, invoking the name of his people’s god. “And for all the Icereach!” he added, allowing himself one last, fond thought of Moreen. Randall’s voice rose in that shrill, ululating scream that had terrified so many opponents of the past, as if a great predatory bird swooped down on the ogres.

They ran full tilt toward Grimwar Bane and his band of stunned, disbelieving ogres.

* * * * *

“They’re in the north tower!” came the cry, as the Dowager Queen scurried through Dracoheim’s great hall. She was ahead of her bodyguards, who were still buckling on their swords. She herself carried a massive cudgel, a heavy weapon of cold, black iron, the studded head imbued with the crushing power of the Willful One himself.

She came to the base of the winding stairway to find a group of guards standing around staring at a bloody helm and nearby a still form sprawled across the steps.

“It’s Bonebreaker,” one ogre guardsman said. “Head mostly cut off.”

“By an elf?” grunted another, astonished.

“Not just an elf-an enemy my son has battled for eight years!” snapped Hannareit. “Today, he dies!”

With a roar, she started up the stairs, heartened by the sounds of a dozen of her warriors rushing close behind.

* * * * *

Moreen’s lungs strained for some fresh air. Her limbs were leaden, her eye stinging with the sweat trickling off of her forehead. Her already blurry vision was reduced to a small patch of light before her, and in that light she seemed to see only an endless string of steps leading upward.

Kerrick was at her side. When she stumbled he reached out, finding the strength to bear them both. She remembered his ring and dreaded the price he would pay for this magical sustenance, but she also understood that, for now, it was their only chance to reach the Alchemist.

They had to stop and catch their breath. It was then that they heard shouts from below and the unmistakable sounds of pursuit-heavy boots clomping on the stairs, weapons clattering, butts of spears cracking against the flagstones.

Kerrick was looking at her oddly, his expression remote. She drew a breath, steadied her nerves. “Let’s keep going,” she said. “I can keep up.”

“Wait,” he said abruptly. “We have to slow them down somehow.”

“How?” she asked. He went to a large stone table, one of several placed at the various landings. It must have weighed a few hundred pounds, but he pushed against it and toppled it over, then shoved it across the floor until he had wedged it firmly atop the flight of stairs. Giving it a final push, he fixed it in place as a barrier. He turned and gave her a grin.

Once more they flew up the steps, around corners, one after the other, until they came to a landing. There were two arches leading to a sunlit outer parapet and one door in the opposite wall. Most importantly, there were six ogres standing in front of the door, staring at them in shock and disbelief, scrambling to lower spears and draw swords against an attack they had clearly thought inconceivable.

Kerrick didn’t hesitate. He rushed forward across the narrow landing, his sword raised. Two ogres were slain in quick stabs. The other four roared and closed in, spears thrusting, blades chopping. One by one they howled with pain, falling to the whistling blade, the steely determination of the elven Messenger. In a few seconds four of the ogres were dead, and the other two were crawling away, bleeding and moaning.

Kerrick thrust the sword through his belt and raised his fist, furiously prepared to smash the door down. Only then did Moreen rush forward, restraining him. She reached out, lifted the latch, and pushed the unlocked door open.

The elf rushed into the room, Moreen at his heels. The chamber was thick with shadow, smelling of arcane fumes. She saw a man seated at a cluttered bench looking up at them. There was a large globe of pure, immaculate gold just behind him, the only brightness in the room. The chiefwoman couldn’t read the expression on the thin, withered face, but slowly the man, on wobbling legs, stood to face them.

“Are you the Alchemist?” she demanded.

“I am called that, yes,” he replied. His voice was weak and reedy, yet somehow familiar. His features were also distinctive, vaguely reminiscent of… what?