Outtakes from MLTF (Part 5 of 5)

Today wraps up the chapter from Magic Lost, Trouble Found that didn't make it into the final version. It features Karl Cradok, the crime lord of Mermeia, and more of Quentin. In streamlining the book, my editor and I decided that the Karl/Quentin subplot had to go. But both Karl & Quentin are still in reserves as characters to be included in future books. Karl's a slippery one, and Quentin's known for getting into everything -- so who knows where they'll turn up?

If you want to read the entire chapter in one sitting, just scroll down to Monday's post and work your way up. Enjoy!

Karl's hideaway in The Ruins was in a sprawling compound that was in better shape than many of its neighbors, which is to say it still had walls and a roof. Janek was right. The grounds and interior of the house were littered with bodies. I knew they wouldn't be there for long. We were in The Ruins, so anything eatable would be gone within the hour if not sooner.

Janek and those who went with him had already scouted the house. He had told me that Quentin wasn't there--alive or otherwise. That wasn't what the tracking stone was telling me. I picked it up loud and clear as soon as we within sight of the buildings. I stood still, listening intently, trying to get a fix on the stone's location.

Mychael appeared at my side. "Anything?"

"I'm getting something from inside."

"The tracking stone, or something else?"

"Both."

Mychael didn't ask what that something else was. He knew, and so did I. It was obvious from the moment we stepped through the front door. A Gate had been opened here. I went straight through the house, Mychael and the others close behind. I stopped in a central room, a hole in the domed roof opening it to the night sky. Four hallways radiated off from it. None of the choices looked very promising, and all looked entirely too dark. Mychael stepped a few paces into each of them, his lightglobe bobbing at his right shoulder. All were clear as far as I could see. My shoulders suddenly tensed.

"Mychael?"

He sensed it at the same time.

The air brought something foul, and it hadn't been there long. Mychael took the lead and I let him, his steps cautious now, his shielding spell covering us from wall to wall. I followed close behind, a protection spell of my own poised on my lips.

"Little seeker."

The voice floated around me, soft and silken--and inside my head. A voice belonging to Sarad Nukpana.

"Stop," I told Mychael, grabbing his arm.

"He cannot hear me. Only you."

The goblin sounded very pleased with himself. I reached out with my mind to strike--and hit what felt like a wall. Unlike his shaman who'd contacted me yesterday morning, Sarad Nukpana was safely cocooned in wards. There wasn't a thing I could do to reach him. Warm fingers caressed my throat. I gasped. Nukpana obviously wasn't having the same problem.

The goblin laughed, a low, rich echo in the air around me.

Mychael tensed. "Where is he?" Apparently he couldn't hear Nukpana's words, but he could feel his presence.

"I've left you a gift, little seeker."

Then he was gone, but he left behind a sickening certainty. I ran to the end of the corridor. There was no danger. The danger had come, gone and taken Quentin with it when it left.

In spite of the cool night air, I had broken out in a sweat. The price paid for wearing leather armor. The sickly sweet stench grew stronger, as did the sense of the other. It was slight. There was barely anything left, but it was there, and unmistakable.

A Gate, or at least the remnants of one, and it hadn't been closed for long.

What I did find was partially opened door to a small room--a room that until a few minutes ago had held my friend. The body of one of Karl's men blocked the entrance. He hadn't even lived long enough to get the door completely open. Sarad Nukpana had been that fast. The Gate had been small. The goblin grand shaman had known where he was going and what he wanted. He had come, taken and left. Quick and all too easy.

I froze. There were two objects on the cell floor, deliberately placed, one on top of the other, precisely where I couldn't help but find them. I recognized one immediately; the other took a moment longer to register. The first was Quentin's tracking stone. The second sent a wave of pure panic flooding through me, leaving in its wake an icy, numbing fear. Carefully placed on the stone was a simple russet-brown feather.

A feather from a nightingale.