The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [271]
Mirda studied the rune but did not touch it. “It seems you have much to me. Remember that you do not need to defeat the Pale King, but only to hold him back until the Runebreaker can fulfill his destiny.”
A shiver coursed through Grace. “Until he breaks the world, you mean.”
“Or saves it,” Mirda said, meeting her gaze.
How could it be both? Grace still didn't understand that. But there was one thing she did know—there was no person on any world kinder or truer than Travis Wilder. He would not harm Eldh; she would not believe that he could.
“He's gone, you know.” Grace leaned her head against the back of the musty chair.
“He will return,” Mirda said.
“But how can you know that?”
“Because prophecy demands it. The Runebreaker will be there at the end.”
“But what if it's not Travis? What if it's the other Runebreaker who's there at the end?”
“Then,” Mirda said, her words as hard as stones, “all the world is doomed.”
On Earth, Duratek Corporation has been shattered, while on Eldh the Pale King and his wicked master Mohg are no more. Evil has been defeated on two worlds. For both Grace Beckett and Travis Wilder, it is a time of peace and simple joys. Until . . .
The sands of ancient Amún stir, and knowledge long buried comes to light once more: Morindu the Dark, lost city of sorcerers, has been found. At the same time, dread news flies on a dragon's wings: a dark rift has appeared in the heavens, a ravenous void that threatens not only Earth and Eldh but the very fabric of existence itself.
Now final perihelion approaches. Two worlds draw near. Together, Travis and Grace must embark on one last perilous quest: to reach the lost city of Morindu before forces of darkness can seize it, and to discover once and for all the ultimate secret of the connection between Earth and Eldh. In the final reckoning, all of existence will be saved . . . or nothingness will rule forever.
So be sure not to miss
THE FIRST STONE
the explosive conclusion to
MARK ANTHONY'S
epic saga
The Last Rune
Coming in summer 2004 from
Bantam Spectra
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The dervish stepped from a swirl of sand, appearing on the edge of the village like a mirage taking form.
A boy herding goats was the first to see him. The boy clucked his tongue, using a yew switch to prod the animals back to their pens. All at once the goats began to bleat, their eyes rolling as if they had caught the scent of a lion. Usually a lion would not prowl so near the dwellings of men, but the springs that scattered the desert—which had never gone dry in living memory—were failing, and creatures of all kinds were on the move in search of water and food. It was said that in one village not far away, a lion had crept into a hut and had stolen a baby right from the arms of its sleeping mother.
The boy turned around, and the switch fell from his fingers. It was not a lion before him, but a man covered from head to toe in a black serafi. Only his eyes were visible through a slit in the garment, dark and smoldering like coals. The man raised his right hand; its palm was tattooed with red lines. Tales told by the village's elders came back to the boy—tales about men who ventured into the deepest desert in search of forbidden magics.
Obey your father and your mother, the old ones used to tell him when he was small, or else a dervish will fly into your house on a night zephyr and steal your blood for his craft. For they require the blood of wicked children to work their darkest spells.
“I need . . .” the dervish said, his voice harsh with a strange accent.
The boy let out a wordless cry, then turned and ran toward a cluster of hovels, leaving the goats behind.
“. . . water,” the dervish croaked, but the boy was already gone.
The dervish staggered, then caught himself. How long had he been in the Morgolthi? He did not know. Day after day the sun of the Thirsting Land had beaten down on him, burning away thought and memory, leaving him as dry as a scattering of bones. He should be dead. But something