Lost City Page 11

Venk stared at Lukas’ back and motioned for Athos to join him. The two brothers stared a few moments at the newly revealed border encircling Lukas’ mark.

  “So what does it mean?” Venk demanded, turning to Maelnar as if he believed the famous blacksmith was withholding information.

  Maelnar held up a hand. “I hope to find out. A moment, if you please. Lukas, I need you to recall the day you received the mark.”

  “Burn,” Venk hastily corrected.

  “Mark,” Maelnar insisted, fixing Venk with a steely glare.

  Venk made several grumbling noises but otherwise didn’t say anything else.

  “It happened the day we attended the training seminar,” Lukas began.

  “When was that?”

  “About six or seven months ago.”

  Maelnar stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I hold seminars frequently, lad. I’m not sure that I –”

  “There were two squalling brats,” Venk reminded him.

  Maelnar nodded. “Ah, yes. The only seminar I gave where I decided to include underlings. I remember thinking then that I probably wouldn’t include underlings again seeing how of the three underlings that did attend, two got into a fight. So, young Master Lukas, can you tell me what happened the day you got that mark?”

  “I keep telling my father I wasn’t burned,” Lukas began. “I lost my balance and almost fell onto the forge. I was able to catch myself in time.”

  “Do you remember feeling anything?” Kovabel asked him. “Were you warm? Cold? Did you feel anything on your back?”

  Lukas was silent as he thought about that fateful day. Had he felt anything out of the ordinary?

  “Nothing unusual,” Lukas reported, shaking his head. “It was warm. I had wished I had brought lighter clothes.”

  “And your back?” Kovabel insisted. “Any prickling sensations, or pain, or perhaps just a sense that something was about to happen?”

  Lukas shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Did you witness anything that you found peculiar?” Maelnar prompted.

  Lukas hesitated. “Like what?”

  “Strange smells, or noises that sounded out of place, or... what is it, lad?”

  Lukas’ brow had furrowed. “I did hear something when I went to inspect the anvils, but I paid it no mind.”

  Maelnar, Kovabel, Athos, and Venk all crowded close.

  “I heard someone singing.”

  Venk appeared as though he wanted to say something derogatory, but a stern look from Kovabel quelled any thoughts of sarcasm.

  “Male or female?” Maelnar wanted to know.

  “Male. It wasn’t very loud. I remember thinking somebody must have really been bored if they were singing out loud.”

  Maelnar’s face broke out into a grin after he caught sight of Venk’s horrified expression. Lukas, however, had been staring straight at his father when he had spoken aloud. The boy’s eyes opened wide as he realized his folly.

  “No! That’s not what I mean! The seminar wasn’t boring! I thought it was very interesting!”

  “So interesting that I caught you sneaking off,” Venk reminded him.

  Lukas’ cheeks reddened.

  “What about the singing?” Maelnar gently asked, hoping to steer the conversation back on track. “Could you identify who the singer was?’

  Lukas shook his head. “The singing was soft enough that it had to be coming from right beside me, but when I turned to look, I was by myself.”

  “We must find out if anyone else heard this singing,” Maelnar told Kovabel. “If so, we’ll dismiss it. But if not, then it must be related.”

  An assistant was summoned and instructions were relayed.

  “As soon as you have anything, report back here at once.”

  His assistant, an underling barely older than Lukas, bowed. “I understand.”

  Venk raised a hand.

  Kovabel noticed instantly. “Aye, what is it?”

  “Excuse me,” Maelnar interrupted, scowling at the healer at the same time, “but in my study all questions are directed to me.”

  Kovabel bowed low. “My apologies. Your study is similar to mine and I momentarily forgot where I was. Do go on.”

  “I intend to. Master Venk, do you have a question?”

  “Just for my own piece of mind, could I inspect your forge?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I just want to see for myself whether or not there is a symbol of a hammer somewhere on the surface.”

  Maelnar shrugged. “I can save you the time and say there isn’t, but feel free to examine it in person. In fact, while we are waiting, let’s all head to my workshop. Master Venk, lead the way. It’s through that door on the left.”

  “If there will be nothing else,” Kovabel interjected, “I will be on my way. This is clearly no burn, and as such there isn’t anything I can do for the boy.”

  Maelnar bowed. “Agreed. Thanks for coming, my friend.”

  Thirty minutes later, after running his hands over every square inch of the unlit forge’s surface, Venk was convinced. He couldn’t find as much as a slight blemish anywhere on the furnace. The forge clearly hadn’t been responsible for placing the mark on his son’s back. So what had caused it? Who was responsible?

  A different underling poked his head into the room and caught Maelnar’s attention. After handing the keymaker a note, he departed just as quickly as he had arrived.

  “This is interesting,” Maelnar reported, after he had skimmed the contents of the paper. “No one heard any singing besides young Master Lukas. However, four trainees did report seeing a brief flash of light. All four believed it was what had set off the two brothers.”

  “I had been staring straight at the underlings,” Venk recalled. “I could tell from the way they were glaring at one another that a brawl was about to happen. However, I didn’t see any flash of light.”

  “Nor did I,” Maelnar added.

  “I think jhorun is at play here.”

  Everyone turned to stare at Athos.

  “There is no other explanation for it,” Athos insisted. “My nephew didn’t get burned but he has a mark on his back. Part of the mark revealed itself when it came into contact with that Narian book. This is clearly an enchantment of some sort. We must consult a wizard. Do we know any that would be willing to help out?”

  Maelnar sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. Of all the infernal luck.

  “Aye, I know one.”

  “Do you think he’ll help us?” Athos asked.

  “Of course he will,” Maelnar grumbled. “It’d give him something to hold over me. Very well. I’ll send word to Shardwyn. Come with me back to my study.”

  Venk nodded. He and the others fell into step behind him. “The human wizard in R’Tal. Excellent choice. I hear he is very knowledgeable.”

  Maelnar continued to mutter under his breath all the way back to his office. Grumbling softly, he reached for a sheet of parchment on his desk. He handed the message to an underling with instructions to deliver it to his son, Breslin. His son was the owner of Mythryd, one of the famous Mythra weapons. Each weapon allowed mental contact with the other two holders provided they were in contact with their weapons. Rhenyon, Commander of the Royal Guards in Castle R’Tal, was another holder. Hopefully he would facilitate the delivery of Shardwyn’s message.

  Thirty minutes passed before the wizard’s response arrived. From the way Maelnar scowled when he read the reply, Shardwyn must have been delighted to lend his expertise in the matter and did not hesitate to rub it in.

  The air suddenly crackled with power. Those that didn’t have their hair woven into braids, or else tied in place, suddenly discovered their hair standing straight up. A tiny globe of light appeared ten feet away and rapidly expanded in size. A bright white light lit the entire room for a few seconds, causing everyone to either cover their eyes or else turn away. The light faded t
o reveal a tall figure wearing extravagant white robes decorated with mystical runes woven in gold thread and held together by a blue velvet belt. Maelnar was glad to see that the wizard had elected to shave off the beard he had been attempting to grow. Maelnar grunted. No one could grow a beard better than a dwarf.

  The tall thin man swaggered over to the group of dwarves and bowed low.

  Maelnar shook his head. “Really? Do you think you could have planned a more extravagant entrance?”

  A huge grin split Shardwyn’s face. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “In all the years I have known you,” Maelnar stepped close to Shardwyn and pointed at one of the golden runes on his right sleeve, “never have you worn such a garish outfit as that. Do you even know what that symbol means?”

  Shardwyn looked down at the rune woven on his sleeve and nodded. “It’s an ancient symbol of power. That one is for courage, I believe. I can understand if you didn’t know that.”

  Maelnar stifled a laugh. “That symbol is not as old as you might think. It’s one of a special set of symbols dreamt up by a group of laborers. That one means ‘wash with care’.”

  Venk and Athos snorted as they tried to contain their laughter. Enjoying this exchange between dwarf and human, both brothers looked at the wizard to see what his response would be. Would he be angry? Embarrassed?

  Shardwyn threw his head back and howled with laughter.

  “That explains so much! No wonder my tailor had such a twinkle in his eye!”

  Shaking his head, Maelnar pointed at Lukas. “Would you be so kind as to tell us what you see on the boy’s back?”

  The wizard wiped the corners of his eyes with his sleeve and approached Lukas. Still chuckling over the thought of his tailor pulling one over on him, Shardwyn knelt down to inspect the boy’s exposed back. What he saw silenced him instantly.

  Immediately recognizable was the large hammer on the crest at the top of the mark. If not for the fact that he had devoted several months late last year tutoring young prince Mikal about Nar then the importance of the upside-down hammer would have been lost to him. Now, however, having read everything in the castle’s library that had anything to do with the fabled lost dwarf city, he fancied himself an expert on the subject.

  Maelnar tapped him on the shoulder. “No doubt you have noticed the Narian hammer. See the scrollwork surrounding the rest of the mark? That appeared not long ago when another reference to Nar came into contact with it.”

  Forgetting he had shaved off his beard, Shardwyn stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “A symbiotic charm. Very peculiar. May I ask which document you were referring to? I believe I have read everything there is which references Nar.”

  Maelnar retrieved Trindolyn’s storybook from his desk and presented it to the wizard.

  “This.”

  Shardwyn took the shabby little book and made a tssk tssk noise.

  “Really, dwarf, this is the best you can do? Perhaps you might be interested in touring a proper library, stocked with thousands of real books and scrolls.”

  Maelnar pressed his fingertips together and kept his expression neutral.

  “That is my granddaughter’s storybook. Ever see it before?”

  “Of course. R’Tal’s library has an extensive selection of children’s literature. Our copy is in much better condition, I might add.”

  “Mm-hmm. I held the book to that mark and the border appeared.”

  “Have you tried holding a different Narian artifact to it to see if anything else happens?”

  That brought the dwarf up short. “I haven’t.”

  “Everyone knows you own the only Narian map in existence. In fact, I see it hanging right over there. Why don’t you hold it up to the mark and see what happens?”

  Maelnar bit his lip as he turned and walked to the wall behind his desk. He gingerly lifted the framed map down from its holder and reverently laid it on his desk. He carefully pried open the frame and gently pulled the small map out.

  “Do be careful with that,” Shardwyn scolded. “There aren’t many genuine Narian documents left in existence. It’d be a shame if –”

  “Would you kindly hold your tongue, wizard? I know what I’m doing.”

  Maelnar motioned for Lukas to join him. Stepping next to the large wooden desk, Lukas rose up on his toes to get a better look at the map. It wasn’t anything spectacular. The map just showed a simple topographical view of an area east of Lake Raehón.

  “Would you kindly turn around so that we may see your back?”

  Lukas obediently spun and faced the wall.

  Shardwyn cackled triumphantly. “See? See? I told you so!!”

  “What is it? What’s going on?” Lukas inquired.

  Venk instantly appeared at his son’s side and motioned for Athos to join him. A new section of Lukas’ back, the lower left portion, had started to come into focus, but only marginally so.

  Shardwyn began emptying his pockets. Spells, parchment, quills, two bottles of ink, no fewer than a dozen bottles filled with various powders and liquids, and several tiny mechanical devices were deposited on Maelnar’s desk.

  “Can I offer you a trash receptacle?” the dwarf wryly asked.

  Shardwyn pushed aside several of the diminutive machines and selected one that had a tiny pendulum and several complicated knobs and dials.

  “What is that?” Maelnar asked, standing up on his tiptoes to peer at the tiny golden device.

  “I call it my FJT. Foolproof jhorun tester. It’ll check to see if there is any jhorun present.”

  Shardwyn held the device next to Lukas. The pendulum instantly started swinging back and forth, chiming every time it did so.

  “There you have it. Jhorun.”

  “I could have told you jhorun was present, you egotistical ninny,” Maelnar muttered.

  “But now we know for certain, don’t we?”

  “Does that thing say what type of enchantment it is?” Venk anxiously asked. “And what we have to do to break it?”

  “It does not,” Shardwyn sadly told him. “It only tells me that there is a high level of jhorun here. And it’s Narian in nature. All kidding aside, may I make a recommendation?”

  Surprised by the serious tone the wizard had adopted, Maelnar nodded.

  “Last year when I was researching Nar, I –”

  “Why were you performing research on Nar?” Maelnar interrupted, curious.

  “Kre’Mikal’s school lessons. He was asked to do a report on the subject and he enlisted my help. Anyway, we discovered there was a dwarf living amongst the Kla Rehn clan in the Selekai Mountains that claimed he was one of the last descendants of the Narian people. He claims he is the best Narian scholar in existence. Self-proclaimed, I might add. I would ask him.”

  Maelnar was silent as he considered the wizard’s proposal.

  “Bet you didn’t think I would find a descendent of Nar, eh?” Shardwyn gloated. “He is a learned dwarf with a very keen mind.”

  “I’ll tell Tristofer you said so.”

  This time it was the wizard who was shocked.

  “I never said his name!”

  “You didn’t need to say his name.”

  “You know him?”

  “He is the only Narian scholar, wizard. Of course I know him. As to whether or not he’s a genuine Narian descendant, I wouldn’t get too cocky.”

  “Eh? What’s that?”

  Ignoring Shardwyn, Maelnar continued. “When he arrived in person to request access to the Archives, who was I to deny a scholar? I’ll summon him to see what he thinks.”

  “It’ll take a long time to get from the Selekais to here,” Shardwyn observed.

  “Perhaps. In this case, however, I’ll give him about ten minutes.”

  “Unless you have Lady Sarah tucked away here somewhere, I’d say not, dwarf.”

  “That’s how long it takes me to get here from t
he Archives,” Maelnar explained.

  “He’s here? Now?”

  “Aye. He never left.”

  “What has he been doing all this time?”

  “Research.”

  “For three years?”

  Maelnar gave the wizard a smug smile. “We dwarves are very –”

  “Stubborn?” Shardwyn guessed.

  “No. We are very –”

  “Obstinate?”

  “I was going to say methodical.”

  “What are you standing there for? Send for him, dwarf! I’m just as keen as everyone else to see what this mark means!”

  Giving Shardwyn a speculative glare, Maelnar sent word for the visiting scholar to join them. He had said it would take around ten minutes to for someone to come all the way from the Archives. Once the scholar learned about the nature of the request, he made it there in five.

  A middle-aged dwarf wearing a dark brown tunic with matching trousers, complete with a floor length khaki jacket lined with numerous pockets bursting with papers and scrolls, burst into the room. As soon as he skidded to a stop his spectacles slid down the tip of his nose and became tangled in his gray-streaked beard. As to be expected, he was completely out of breath. There were at least five bags slung over his shoulders into which more scrolls and books had been jammed. Every one of the bags was threatening to spill its contents out onto the floor. More than likely a paper trail had been left all the way from the Archives.

  “Is it true? A new Narian clue has been unearthed? Where is it? Who has it? You must show it to me!”

  Keeping his face expressionless, Maelnar handed the thin storybook to the wheezing scholar who was trying to extract his glasses from his beard.

  “Very well. Here you go.”

  Confused, the scholar opened the book as he put on his glasses. He stared at the crinkled pages.

  “Is this a joke, Master Maelnar? I know you think my work is laughable, but I swear to you it is no laughing matter. I cannot fathom why –”

  The scholar trailed off as Maelnar handed him his glass paperweight.

  “Now I’m really confused. What am I supposed to do with this?”

  Maelnar gently pulled the book from Tristofer’s hands and placed it on his desk. Selecting the illustration depicting the catastrophe, Maelnar set the glass down on the tiny figure of the king.

  “Tell me what you see.”

  “This is a children’s book,” Tristofer complained. “You cannot possibly expect me to think that... Heavens above, is that a Narian power hammer? Who wrote this? Why do I not know anything about this book? Where did you get it? How long have you had it?”

  “This is my granddaughter’s storybook,” Maelnar explained to the flustered scholar. “I have read this book so many times that I could recite it word for word if I had to. As to how long it has been in my possession, I cannot say for certain, only that I’ve had it for a very long time.”

  “Castle R’Tal has a copy as well,” Shardwyn added, drawing the scholar’s attention. “I cannot say for certain how long, either.”

  “Who is this human?” Tristofer asked, eliciting a squawk of outrage from the wizard.

  Maelnar tried, but failed, to hide his smile.

  “This is the wizard from R’Tal, Shardwyn. Shardwyn, allow me to introduce Tristofer of the Kla Rehn. He has been scouring the Archives in the hopes of finding a piece of evidence that has thus far been overlooked and will, once deciphered, present him with the location of Nar’s main entrance. Does that about sum it up, Master Tristofer?”

  Shardwyn frowned at the scholar. “What makes you think you will be successful where others have tried and failed?”

  “I am different,” Tristofer declared. “Never will you find anyone with more dedication and perseverance than I.”

  Maelnar nodded. “Perseverance, aye. No arguments there. Now, I asked you here to get your professional opinion on that.”

  Tristofer turned and followed Maelnar’s pointing finger. He saw Lukas, still facing the opposite wall. The scholar went very quiet. He slowly approached Lukas and leaned down to inspect his back.

  “The decorative scroll of the Second Age! Where did you... How did you... Look! Another Narian power hammer! I think I need to sit down.”

  Athos slid a chair from across the room towards his brother, who deftly caught it and flipped it around to get the chair under Tristofer’s rear before he could collapse to the floor.

  “This is very important, Tristofer,” Maelnar gently told him. “What does this mark tell you?”

  Ignoring the question, Tristofer pointed at the lower left section of Lukas’ back. “Do you see that? Do you see the area that’s trying to come into focus?”

  Maelnar, along with Shardwyn and Venk, squatted down next to the scholar. Athos elected to remain standing.

  “What is it?” Venk asked. “Do you know what this mark is?”

  Tristofer nodded excitedly. “It’s a Questor’s Mark!”

  Maelnar, Shardwyn, Venk, Athos, and Lukas all said the same thing at the same time: “A what?”

  “It symbolizes a beginning of a quest!” Tristofer said excitedly. “In essence, what we’re looking at here is a complex, multi-layered spell which tells a person what to do! Do you have any idea how rare these are?”

  Venk scowled. The last thing he needed to hear was the mark on his son’s back was a Narian To Do list. “Are you certain of this?”

  “Very. The Kla Rehn’s Archives contains several volumes of books about the Narian culture.”

  “Allegedly contains,” Shardwyn murmured.

  “One of these volumes spoke in great length about the lost art of layered spells and how the Narian people were quite fond of them.”

  “Allegedly spoke of,” Shardwyn again murmured.

  Maelnar nudged the wizard with his right shoulder. The mutterings ceased. Maelnar tugged on Shardwyn’s right sleeve and nodded his head towards the Questor’s Mark.

  “Shardwyn, have you heard of a multi-layered spell?”

  Shardwyn nodded. “I have, aye.”

  “Perhaps you could explain how a layered spell works. Several of us here, myself included, are not familiar with the process.”

  Delighted to be of help, Shardwyn bowed. “Absolutely! My apologies for not suggesting it before. Now, where should I begin?”

  “How about from the beginning?” Athos grumbled. Venk chuckled and received a wink from Maelnar.

  “A layered spell is a combination of more than one spell,” Shardwyn began. “The first spell is invoked by the caster. Its effectiveness dictates the behavior of the second. And if there’s a third, it will base its own behaviors on the second, and so on. Let’s say –”

  Venk held up a hand and coughed loudly.

  “May I ask a question before you get too much further?”

  Shardwyn clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. “I would encourage you to ask as many questions as you can, dear boy. What do you wish to know?”

  “First off, I am much older than you are, wizard,” Venk began, “so stop calling me boy.” Athos swallowed a laugh.

  Shardwyn nodded.

  “Second, we dwarves are known for not meddling with jhorun, yet several times now you have spoken of enchantments and casting spells. A dwarf wouldn’t dare cast a spell and dishonor themselves.”

  “Ah! Not all dwarf clans think the same, do they Master Venk?” Shardwyn pointed out.

  “Every clan we’re aware of will never touch the stuff,” Athos stated. “Unless you are unlucky enough to be born with it.”

  “Very true,” Maelnar added. “Thankfully jhorun-wielding dwarves are very rare. The last one I knew about restored a fossilized egg which hatched a female guur, and I can’t begin to express my sadness on how unpopular he was with his fellows when everyone learned what his jhorun had done. If not for Sir Steve and his fire throwing jhorun, we would have be
en driven from our home by now.”

  “Be that as it may,” Venk argued, “why are we hearing about spell casting and jhorun being performed in Nar? Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s a dwarf city. No one should be practicing jhorun there.”

  Surprised, Shardwyn turned to Maelnar and raised an eyebrow. “He brings up a good point. What were the Narian people doing practicing jhorun?”

  The corners of Maelnar’s mouth turned upwards in the beginning of a smile. “Perhaps one day we will know. Now, what else were you saying about the mark? How difficult are these layered spells to cast? Have you ever tried?”

  Shardwyn sighed. It was a fair question.

  “I have tried only one. And I will say that I was successful, but it was probably one of the more difficult spells I have ever cast. The spell had two components. You see, I lost my hat once and I decided to cast a spell to search for it. Then I added in a conjuration spell to bring it to me.”

  “You cannot summon anything if you do not know where it originates from,” Maelnar explained to the dwarf brothers.

  “Imagine building a child’s playhouse out of parchment,” Shardwyn told them. “Whereas it can be done, it’s difficult and prone to fail as the structure isn’t sound. That’s what this spell was like. I could have just as easily searched the entire castle in the time it took me to get the results of the first spell accepted by the second spell so that I could not only learn of my hat’s location but to also get it to appear at my feet.”

  “So it really isn’t worth the trouble,” Athos guessed.

  Shardwyn nodded. “Correct.”

  “Can you determine how many layers are in this one?” Tristofer asked the wizard.

  Shardwyn leaned close to Lukas’ back and began mumbling to himself, at times selecting several of the tiny instruments from the table and holding them next to the mark.

  After ten minutes, Shardwyn straightened and motioned for Tristofer to join him. Maelnar and the two brothers also joined them. Forgetting, or possibly ignoring, the fact that others were present, Shardwyn singled out the scholar and began reporting what he learned.

  “I see evidence of locator spells. Since part of the mark revealed itself when it came into contact with another item suggests a symbiotic charm is in effect. The mark was clearly given to the boy, so there are traces of a messenger spell. Those are just the three I can see, and I’m certain there are many more layers involved. Remember the paper analogy from earlier? This... this would be the finest crystal. Only a wizard could have cast this.”

  “How do we get this part to reveal itself?” Maelnar asked Tristofer, pointing to the section of the mark that had started to come into focus. “If this is a Questor’s Mark, as everyone believes it to be, then what is the next step?”

  “We, or namely the holder of the mark, must accept the quest,” Tristofer answered.

  “And if he doesn’t? What then?” Venk wanted to know.

  Tristofer sighed and tugged on his beard, more to relieve an itch than to suggest any cognitive distress.

  “These marks are rare. The only mention of them that I know about tells us what to do should one of these arrive. I do not know what would happen if the mark were refused. I would imagine it would simply stay there until either the quest was accepted or else death takes the holder of the mark.”

  Athos raised a hand. “If my nephew undergoes this quest, and is successful, then the mark will vanish?”

  The scholar nodded. “In theory, aye.”

  “In theory?” Venk repeated, frowning.

  “This is a civilization that existed thousands of years ago,” Tristofer cautioned. “Whether or not we’re right could be anyone’s guess.”

  “Can you determine when that spell was cast?” Venk asked. “Is this a remnant from ancient Nar or did someone actually cast the spell this year?”

  Everyone turned to the wizard.

  “The boy received the mark earlier this year, am I right?”

  Venk and Athos both nodded.

  “Then it was cast this year.”

  “Are you aware of anyone that could have created the mark?” Maelnar asked.

  Shardwyn shook his head. “I have no qualms in revealing that I could not have cast that spell. It is beyond me.”

  “Does that mean there’s a more powerful wizard out there somewhere?”

  Shardwyn shrugged helplessly. “I certainly hope not, master dwarf. Whether there is or isn’t, I will need to inform the king.”

  “How do I accept the quest?” Lukas suddenly asked.

  “You don’t,” Venk told him flatly.

  “The mark is on me, father. I was given it for a reason.”

  “You will let someone else determine that reason,” his father told him.

  “If you want the mark removed from his back, and I know you do,” Athos told his brother, “then we should see this through.”

  Venk rounded on his brother. “And are you prepared to... to... we don’t even know what we would have to do!”

  “Irrelevant. If this is what it’ll take to remove that mark from my nephew’s back, then so be it. I’m ready.”

  Venk sighed and turned back to Shardwyn.

  “Very well. What do we have to do?”

  Tristofer raised a hand. “I believe I can answer that question. The answer can be found in the history books. Those that were lucky enough to get a Questor’s Mark would say, in a loud voice, ‘challenge accepted’. Then it is said that the first leg of the journey would be revealed.”

  Lukas looked at his father, who nodded in return. The boy cleared his throat.

  “Challenge accepted.”

  The lower left quadrant of the mark shimmered and suddenly leapt into focus. A series of wavy lines appeared. Centered in the midst of the lines was the outline of a humanoid head. Long, flowing hair was splayed out to the right.

  Venk tapped the image of the head. “Is this supposed to be a human’s head? In the water? How does that help us?”

  Just as baffled as the rest of the group, Maelnar grunted. “I’m not sure. Does this mean anything to anyone? How this is supposed to –”