Possessing the Grimstone - By John Grover Page 0,62

the ship.

Jaws dropped on the Fionngall ship as they watched the creature crush the enemy. The hull tore in half, the sails collapsed. Men fell into the tempestuous sea. The creature snapped flailing men up with a forked tongue, shredding flesh with razor-sharp teeth.

The sea ran red with blood as pieces of wood sailed through the air and floated on the waves.

“By Thet, himself,” Shannara said “Look at the size of it.”

“That beast is heading right for us,” Tolan said.

The serpent thrashed its tail through the water and dove beneath the sea as the whirlpool in its wake swallowed the remains of the Brigand ship.

“Everyone down!” Tolan screamed.

Everyone hit the deck as a rumble echoed beneath them. Pim got his leg caught in the anchor’s ropes, struggling to free himself as a massive wave came at the ship.

“Pim, down!” Tolan cried. The wave was nearly upon them. Tolan jumped to his feet again and threw his body over the Wivering. The two of them crashed to the deck as the wave washed over them.

The entire ship tilted on its side. Drith hung on for dear life, his screams muffled by the salt water.

Shannara held onto the sails, her warriors hanging with her. Tolan looked up to see his last soldier swept out into the sea, gone in a flash.

A moment later, the terrible wave passed, and the ship settled back down. Everyone rolled to the other side of the ship, soaking wet, battered, and bruised. Tolan climbed up and saw the serpent in the distance, swatting its tail one last time before vanishing into the water.

“Thet has spared us today,” Tolan said.

Everyone climbed to their feet, and Pim caught his breath. Shannara wiped the water from her face and eyes. “It is a miracle,” she said.

“Land…” the captain yelled from his perpetual spot at the wheel. “The Western Isles!”

The cluster of islands was like a belt across the sea. They were half way to Norrow.

###

The sea was but a glimpse through the trees. Hundreds of horses flanked Jorrel on both sides. He drove his steed hard, a burning in his heart. He could not forget, nor could he forgive himself. How many lives were lost because he refused to believe?

He was determined to set things right, or die trying. The latter would most likely be the outcome, for the beach came up fast, and the Neshing choked the coast like locusts ravaging Wivering crops.

The Cardoon cavalry stormed the beach, rushing from the edge of the forest, thunder in their charge, just like the rumbling over the Fifling Sea.

Charcoal-sailed Neshing barges and ships flooded the waters and beached themselves along the coast. Bonfires glowed with fiery haze and gray smoke, fashioning a blurry trick of the eye laced with hallucinations and nightmares both real and imagined.

Jorrel heard himself scream before he even realized his mouth had dropped open. He smelled charred death, and even tasted it on his tongue. A hail of spears and stones greeted him and his men.

Dozens fell, bones cracked, and horses crashed into each other. Other men raised their shields, protecting themselves as the Neshing rushed to assail them. In mere moments, both men and Neshing were engulfed in green fire.

Jorrel fell from his horse, fire eating away his left arm. His screams were drowned out by a thousand men screaming in much worse agony. Nothing but ashes now, the lot of them. Jorrel crawled across the beach, its sand wet with blood and water.

He saw the circle of mages, clawed hands bent over the ultimate tool of power: the piece of the Grimstone. They drew ancient magic from it, ethereal energy surging through their bodies, slithering up and out, and feeding the dark army in all corners of Athora.

Jorrel pushed himself, leaning on his sword and charging through the chaos. Mud, blood, and weapons whipped at him. Green energy illuminated the sea. Men died around him. Some joined him fighting against impossible numbers of Neshing.

The skies ripped open, and cold rain joined the fight. Jorrel welcomed it: it soothed the stump that was now his left arm.

The circle of mages grew closer. Their power made his flesh crawl. Jorrel stumbled toward their brawny, haunched bodies, robes littered with bones rippling in the sea breeze.

Waves crashed. Thunder cracked. Jorrel eyed the piece of stone, sitting proudly on a pedestal of bone. He lunged.

He was struck back by an energy bolt; his ribs snapped, his nose bled, and his sword was thrown.

The blade cut through the air and