"Long ago, in the early days of the Black Company," said Blackthorn. "The Councilor invited me to his home, to convince me that I should return to the Royal Guard rather than form a legion of my own—that a military body separate from the Britannian Guard would not be welcomed by the Council. Even then, the mage thought that I might endanger their hold over Britannia." Another scream, abruptly cut off by a gargantuan roar. "This keep was different then. The walls were of light marble, the floors tiled white. The portraits and statues were beautiful." He caressed the neck of a savage, feline creature carved in stone. His gloves came back coated in soot. "I do not remember sculptures like this."

"'Twas not like this hours ago," answered Flain. "The keep changes even as we speak, twists and corrupts itself. Look." He stopped, and pointed at the statue of a robed councilor. White marble had turned gray, and black veins of some mineral crept forward across its face, deforming it, stretching a contemplative frown into a hideous grin. "The walls pulse with this black substance, and whatever structure it touches, darkness takes hold. What Windemere knew as his home will be no more come the dawn." They turned away from the statue, and proceeded forward. "When thou didst send me that scroll, I knew the spell within was of the most powerful sort, for it would have taken me decades to unravel how the magic had been bound to the parchment, much less created. But I never imagined . . . There was a blaze of light. The very earth shook. I thought us all doomed, but no one was hurt, save for the keep itself." He peered inquisitively at his lord. "I wonder how thou didst come across such magic. Is it how thou didst raise thy fortress so quickly on the island near Serpent's Hold?"

Blackthorn did not answer, absently speculative. He did not recall any such scroll or spell, much less orders to construct a fortress. The spell . . . 'Twas certainly the detonation he, Lord Malone, and Sir Simon had witnessed from afar. He could only imagine what it would have been like to stand at its heart.

They passed a fallen brazier. Its coals lay scattered, simmering. Flain spoke again. "Though the spell harmed no one, it demoralized Windemere's men, and it gave Elistaria time to summon her allies into the very heart of the Keep. I and the dark mages not controlling the ocean beasts then assailed the Keep with our own, lesser army. 'Twas not long before we broke down the doors." From a niche along the side of the hall, the beady eyes of an enormous rat peered up from the body on which it chewed. A second rat nipped at the first, then both suddenly squealed and fled as something took flight from an alcove near the ceiling. Blackthorn had thought it a grotesque gargoyle. Flain followed the creature's flight as it disappeared down the hall. "And as thou dost see, other things besides ourselves have joined this cause, things I cannot name. They are like small men, but winged, and more primeval in nature. I do not know from whence they came."

They rounded a corner, confronting a small party who had been fleeing in the opposite direction. Forming a perimeter around a noble man and woman were four soldiers, tabards with the shepherd's crook draped over their chain mail. They all drew to a halt, fear encompassing each as they realized who they faced. The woman clutched the infant she carried tighter to her breast. Blackthorn had never met the noble man and his family, but the features of the woman were unmistakable. Windemere's sister, perhaps? A cousin? He did not know.

Flain raised a fist. A powerful aroma leaked through his fingers, a nauseating mix of nightshade, mandrake, and sulfur. The mage murmured four words, the air around his hand contracted, expanded, burst forth in a dark wave. No one had a chance to scream. The hall trembled.

Moments later, Blackthorn and the mage stepped over bodies. "And what of Elistaria?" Blackthorn asked.