Free The Dark Arts of Blood by Freda Warrington Page A

exploded and foamed around his feet. The sheer effort of fighting the storm drove all fear out of him. This was hellish – yet he’d never felt more
alive.
    All was black but for the faint lights of the ship. By this dim glow he saw a figure moving, black on charcoal. Perhaps twenty feet away from him, the figure had a long robe, a staff in one hand and a mask like a giant skull. It looked exactly like Kastchei, the evil sorcerer from
The Firebird
. Hunch-backed, this apparition glided along the far side of the deck as if untouched by the storm.
    Emil stared. Had Mikhail donned his stage costume in order to play some mad practical joke? No – Mikhail was in his bunk, with more sense than to risk such a prank. What maniac
would
take the costume from its trunk in the cargo hold in order to parade around in this tempest?
    No one.
    The moment was like the trance he’d experienced on stage, magnified tenfold. He’d stepped into a shadow world full of incomprehensible horrors. Telling himself that this must be an illusion did not work. There was no sense to be made of this. Reality itself changed, lifting a scrim to reveal a sinister dimension no mortal should ever see.
    The figure appeared dry, unaffected by water or wind. It moved without effort as if gliding across a flat stage – or like a character on film. A ghost, then… yet King Kastchei looked as solid as had Mikhail in the role. And he moved with purpose.
    In his deranged state, Emil was convinced that Kastchei was pursuing the Firebird herself. He was hunting Violette.
    “No,” Emil gasped. Sea-water whipped into his face. He wiped his eyes, panting. “Hey, you! Wait!”
    He released his death grip on the rail and started across the treacherous, plummeting deck. With every step he skidded and swayed. Twice he fell to his hands and knees. Kastchei drifted on, oblivious to him. Fire appeared to smoulder dark red within the huge bone skull. Then the sorcerer stopped, confronted by a small black figure – Violette?
    Emil could barely see through the gusts of rain and spray, couldn’t tell if his own eyes were deceiving him, but the two appeared to be fighting.
    Both gripped the staff two-handed, wrestling each other for possession. He struggled towards them, fell as the deck leaned, regained his feet. Panting for breath, he pushed wet hair out of his eyes and saw them with brief but absolute clarity.
    The sorcerer towered over the small dancer. The long bone staff leaned at an angle between them as they both held on tight, Violette trying to seize the weapon – or to hold him back. An aura shone around them, the red of hot iron. How could she possibly match Kastchei’s strength? Although the sorcerer couldn’t break her hold, he was forcing her back towards the ship’s rail. She dealt a kick to the side of his knee and he staggered, only to straighten up again and roar his anger.
    Violette roared back. No – the gale itself sounded full of human voices. Kastchei twisted the staff, trying to throw her off balance. She dug in, her feet in a wide, stable stance, but he raised the staff higher and began to bend her backwards with such power that her body curved like a taut bow.
    “No!” Emil yelled, his voice carried away by the gale. “Take your hands off her!”
    Regaining his poise, he charged at them. As he ran, the liner tilted and plunged down a cliff-wall of water, flinging him towards the far rail. His momentum carried him at uncontrollable speed. No chance to save himself. The rail whacked hard across his stomach and he tipped straight over, beyond the point of no return. The ocean roiled below, a furious black chasm yawning to swallow him…
    Then a pair of small, strong hands caught him.
    One gloved hand grabbed his shirt, the other his arm. Helpless, he dangled – then felt himself being yanked back over the rail. He landed hard. Sprawling on the wet planks, he coughed and swore, shaking, nearly convulsing with shock. Then the same hands pulled