"Whisper Mountain is the lair of the beast," say the frightened mountain elves. "Beware the Shadow Demon, for it will hunt you down and eat you alive."

Hal and his friends weren't looking for another adventure, but this was a mission they couldn't ignore.

Whisper Mountain gets its name from the frequent cries of ghosts echoing down its slopes, the souls of victims who have run afoul of the demon. Who in their right mind would venture into the deserted elfin temple?

But, according to a crazy old soothsayer, the mountain is the "key to everything."

Miss Simone agrees that the mountain is worth investigating, but has more immediate problems to deal with: a squad of soldiers from Hal's old world has been spotted coming through the 'hole' in the labyrinth. Will this lead to a friendly integration of virus survivors, or an industrialized, technologically advanced human invasion that threatens the land forever?

The shapeshifters set off to the mountain, hoping all this talk of demons and ghosts is just superstitious nonsense. What they find there surprises everybody...

Those who have read both Island of Fog and its sequel Labyrinth of Fire will have some idea of the issues the children must tackle in Mountain of Whispers, the final part of the trilogy. But why does "the key to everything" lie on the top of a mountain?

Mountain of Whispers
A novel by Keith Robinson

Mountain of Whispers continues where Labyrinth of Fire left off, and concludes
the trilogy. This is a special preview of the prologue and first two chapters.

Prologue

The blue-skinned elfin maid burst into the queen's chambers without bothering to knock. If Queen Addylyn's father, the king, were still alive, he would have thrown the maid into the pit for such rudeness. But Addylyn was not her father, and she had too much respect for the old maid to worry about decorum when it was obvious something pressing was at hand. She continued brushing her long white hair in front of the mirror, but raised a questioning eyebrow as the maid appeared in the reflection.

"Forgive me, Your Highness," the maid said breathlessly. "We have visitors, and you must come."

The queen's brush snagged on a tangle. "My dear, whatever can be so urgent that you neglect to explain yourself?"

The maid was a good twenty years older than the young queen. She had been the previous queen's maid, tending to her even on her deathbed, and the old king's servant until he, too, had died—from a broken heart, it was said. The maid was old and loyal, and for this reason had earned the right to be blunt and forthright when necessary. "My Queen, there's no sense in explaining everything twice. Come now and hear it directly from the centaurs."

The queen paused. She studied herself in the mirror, seeing hints of blue in her hair and faint lines on her forehead. Otherwise her pale blue face was youthful and delicate. She turned toward the flustered maid.

"Let us speak with the centaurs, then."

A visit from the centaurs was rare, the queen thought as she swept out of her quarters, through the anteroom, across the great hall, and into the vast temple corridor. The centaurs had graciously built the temple for the elves just a few years prior, asking nothing in return but their friendship. A residence fit for a king and queen and all their subjects, and far better than the caves and tunnels they had lived in before. The centaurs had, and always would be, welcome visitors.

The great hall was bustling with robed elf officials, heavily armored warriors, scholars and inventors, servants and maids, and one or two visitors from other settlements. The queen strode along the center of the hall, her eyes fixed on the stunning mosaic floor as the crowds parted ahead. She was aware of her maid several paces behind, and of two officials stepping in to join her.

She spoke to the one on her right, an elderly elf who, like the maid, had served her father for many years. "What is the urgency, Aldron?"

"The centaurs come with alarming news, Majesty." Beyond that he said nothing, and Addylyn clicked her tongue in annoyance.

There were three centaurs, each respectfully aware that their hoofs would chip and spoil the vast mosaic sections of floor that the elves had taken a year to lay, so they remained outside on the temple steps. The queen strode out to join them.

The walled courtyard and gardens were spectacular, the most vibrant array of colors and the sweetest aromas in the land. It was early evening and the sky had turned crimson. If not for the walled gardens and surrounding trees, the queen would look out across the valley and see that the land below was cast in shadow, already night, whereas the temple high on the mountain enjoyed a delayed sunset. A crowd of elves had gathered, and a hush fell as Addylyn appeared.

The centaurs bowed. They looked out of breath and deadly serious.

"What concerns you?" Addylyn asked, sensing a need to skip pleasantries on this occasion. Her translator, a young bearded elf, appeared as if by magic and repeated her elfin words in the centaur tongue.

The lead centaur gave a bow and began to speak. Eyllis picked up the thread immediately and translated his words: "Queen, we have unearthed a prophecy that greatly concerns you. You must evacuate the temple at once—tonight—before a demon rises out of the depths of the mountain and devours you all."

The queen felt goose bumps rise on her arms. She glanced at Aldron by her side. He gave a nod to indicate that he believed this was very real and serious.

"If you were not centaurs," the queen said, "I would very much doubt the sincerity of your words, not to mention the accuracy of this prophecy you mention. However . . ." She pursed her lips, feeling dozens of eyes watching her. "A demon, you say? Can we not fight it?"

As her words were translated, the three centaurs shook their heads vigorously. "The prophecy warns of a demon so monstrous that it will fill the width of the temple corridor. We fear the best course of action is to evacuate immediately. We can assess the situation later. Perhaps we can send in warriors to tackle it. But right now we must consider the safety of your people."

Addylyn was respected for her decisiveness. Her father had always taught her to consider her options carefully but quickly, and to announce her decision with the utmost conviction no matter how uncertain she felt inside. If her decision ultimately turned out to be wrong, then it could be altered, again with conviction, because situations often changed and demanded a reassessment. It was important that she appeared to know what she was doing; nobody would follow her commands if she showed uncertainty.

So she gave a curt nod and said loudly, "Then we evacuate. The lives of my people will not be put at risk for the sake of one night in the open air. Aldron, see to it immediately. We will stay at the old village down the mountain."

And her simple command turned into a full-scale evacuation of just over a hundred elves. The maid hurried to fetch a number of essential things from the queen's chambers while the rest of the elves bustled out of the temple doors and through the courtyards, most of them quivering with fear.

Addylyn worried that she had not thanked the gods enough. Every nine days she and her people chanted, and every full moon a sacrifice was made—usually a goat, but occasionally a volunteer from the infirmary, someone already on his deathbed, prepared to throw himself into the pit in one final moment of glory. Once in a while a villain was offered as punishment for his crimes. The humans called this sacrificial ceremony barbaric, but Addylyn knew better; the gods had to be appeased on a regular basis or bad things happened, and a sacrifice every full moon was a small price to ensure happiness and prosperity for the rest. But now she wondered if it was enough. Had she missed something? Were the sacrifices not suitable? Not frequent enough?

When the evacuation was complete, just a handful of her warriors and aides remained, along with the three nervous centaurs. Addylyn resolved to wait in the courtyard, but the centaurs insisted she leave—that they all leave. Reluctantly, Addylyn agreed and set off down the mountain with her aides and the centaurs, to join her people at the old village.

She didn't sleep much that night. For one thing the bunk was extremely uncomfortable. Still, at least she had a bunk. It was hard to imagine that her people had once been travelers. Growing old and weary, the king and queen had claimed the mountain and built a small village. Many elves continued to sleep under the stars, as they had always done. Then they had discovered the caves and tunnels farther up the mountain, and years later, the temple had been constructed.

Restless, Addylyn took a horse and four of her bravest warriors back up the mountain to the temple. She arrived in the courtyard just in time to hear a muffled thump from inside. She froze, and her four warriors reached for their bows.

Moments later the overhanging trees, which had until now been completely still, began to thrash wildly as a terrible wind rushed through the courtyard. It tugged viciously at her robes and hair, causing her to stagger. Branches snapped and limbs fell in a shower of leaves and twigs.

Her warriors ran for the temple, perhaps thinking they would escape the storm. But Addylyn sensed that this was a mistake. She hurried after them, calling them back, but they disappeared inside. The temple doors stood wide open, buffeted by the wind, and inside was total darkness. All the torches that lined the vast hall, torches that were never extinguished, were out.

Breathing hard, the queen stood in the doorway at the top of the stone steps, peering into the dark hall. Her warriors were somewhere deep within, shouting and screaming. Terrified, Addylyn ventured into the hall and discovered that the wind was actually worse inside than out. Only the forces of evil could cause such a thing, and she knew in her heart that the feared demon had arrived, risen from the bottomless pit in the heart of the mountain.

She listened long enough to hear the dying screams of her warriors, and stared into the pitch-black temple until she saw a gigantic pair of unearthly eyes staring back at her. She backed away. The demon must be as large as the centaurs had said, filling the width of the hall. It hissed at her as she turned and fled.

From that day on, the elves stayed clear. A few more warriors volunteered to tackle the demon, but they never emerged afterward. The deathly winds continued to rage in the temple grounds even though the air was calm everywhere else. "It's the ghosts of the dead," one of the elves started to say over evening campfires, "warning us to stay away. If you approach the temple, you'll hear their whispers in the trees. The temple is cursed, and we are banished forever."

Addylyn refused to leave the mountain. Despite growing up a traveler, always on the move, now she couldn't bear the thought of abandoning what had become her home. She decided to be patient. One day the demon that lurked in the shadows would be vanquished and the temple restored.

Heroes came and went over the years. It seemed that only human warriors were brave or stupid enough to venture inside the temple. It was as if they relished the challenge. Or perhaps they had simply heard the rumors of elfin treasures left behind during the evacuation. In any case, only a few heroes returned, and these came screaming from the temple claiming that the demon had burned them with its evil eyes. They died shortly after.

As time passed, the ramshackle village grew. There was always a temporary air about the place, because hopes still lingered that the temple would be returned to the elves one day.

Sure enough, over a decade after the Shadow Demon had risen from the pit, help arrived. At first glance they were a most unlikely group of heroes.

But, as though sent by the gods themselves, they descended from the sky . . .

Chapter One
From bad to worse

"Maybe some of you kids should wait outside," the petite but stern doctor said, folding her arms and barring the doorway. Judging by the look on her face, this was a command rather than an idle suggestion.

"But this is important," Hal insisted.

"We have something to tell her," Lauren said.

"And it takes all eight of you to say it?" The doctor pushed her small brass-rimmed spectacles back up her nose and peered at the children clustered on her doorstep. "Lady Simone needs rest. And even if what you have to say simply cannot wait, and you wake her . . . well, the room is barely large enough to swing a cat. I'll allow two of you in, and that's it."

Hal sighed and turned to the others. "I guess Dewey should go in, then."

Dewey paled. "I'm not telling her! You tell her."

"It's your news, squirt," Fenton said rudely, giving him a hard jab in the back. "You're the one that saw everything in the glass ball."

"But—"

"I don't mind telling her," Robbie interrupted. "I'm not scared."

Abigail snorted. "You? And what will you tell her, exactly? The truth, or the special Robbie-embellished version?"

An argument broke out as Robbie rounded angrily on Abigail and anyone else who dared suggest he had a tendency to exaggerate. But even Hal had to agree that his best friend was the last person he'd trust to give Miss Simone the news. He felt Dewey should be the one; after all, it was Dewey who had uncovered the plot. But Hal knew all too well that the small boy would become flustered and Miss Simone would get impatient with him, making matters worse. Maybe Abigail should go in, he thought, watching her goad Robbie into a rage. She could be a pest sometimes, but was forthright and bold.

He glanced at Darcy and Lauren, but they were standing aside, keeping out of it. Emily, however, was raising her voice and suggesting that she might be best suited for this—but Fenton quickly shot her down with a less-than-polite comment that caused her face to redden.

Dr. Kessler came out onto the doorstep, pulled the door shut behind her, and snapped, "Will you be quiet!"

Everyone fell silent.

Hal instantly felt ashamed, even though he hadn't really been part of the argument. The truth was that they were all very worried, and the strain of knowing what they knew, without sharing the information with anyone else, was beginning to take its toll. For two days Miss Simone had been out of action, unconscious after tangling with Thomas the manticore, and the children were at a loss. Emily had suggested telling their parents, but they worried about a stampeding mob of angry adults doing something rash in Miss Simone's absence. Lauren had suggested telling Gristletooth, the goblin that always seemed to be at Miss Simone's side, and at first that had seemed like the sensible solution . . . until they came face to face with his dark, beady eyes and scowling pig-like features.

Then word spread that Miss Simone's fever had broken and that she was in and out of sleep. The children had immediately rushed to see her.

The doctor folded her arms again. The end of her nose was white, which, according to the locals, meant she was irritated. "Now, two of you may go in and sit with her. The rest can clear off."

Hal glanced around. His friends looked directly back at him. He sighed, wondering why they always seemed to look to him for leadership. He wasn't a leader, and never had been, and yet . . . whenever something important had to be done, it always seemed to fall on his shoulders. Even Abigail, who possessed strong leadership qualities, often preferred to fall in step behind him.

He rolled his eyes and nodded. "All right. Who's coming with me?"

Abigail and Robbie stepped forward at the same time, bumping shoulders and glaring at one another. Once again they looked to Hal, expecting him to choose between them. Even though Robbie was his best friend, Hal chose Abigail.

As Robbie ground his teeth together, Dr. Kessler gave a grunt and stepped aside to allow Hal and Abigail into the cottage. She closed the door firmly behind them, and the bright sunlight was shut out.

Just inside the door, making them jump with fright, an incredibly old man sat in a chair under a sign that read Be Patient and Wait Here in large letters. The man was more wrinkled than Hal could have imagined possible, and his fingers, curled loosely around a cane, were like thick knobby twigs. The man looked thoroughly fed up and wore only one shoe; his other foot was heavily bandaged and spots of blood showed through near his toes.

"Be right with you, Norm," Dr. Kessler said quietly.

The old man's face creased into a toothless grin. "Ain't going nowhere no how," he said in a rasping voice.

Dr. Kessler bustled past the children out of the small waiting room and led the way down the hall. A sweet scent of roses filled the air, but underneath was the pervading smell of potions and ointments. As they passed a small room to the left, Hal glanced in and saw a small office: a desk and a couple of chairs, and shelves packed with jars and boxes and small pouches. One of the jars contained a familiar purple sludge—the itch cream he'd used occasionally back on the island. Abigail's mom, Dr. Porter, had claimed the cream to be homemade. Well, perhaps it was, but now Hal wondered just how many of Dr. Porter's recipes for potions and ointments had originated in Miss Simone's world.

"She's still asleep," Dr. Kessler said quietly over her shoulder. She stopped at a doorway at the end of the hall. The door was ajar. "You can sit with her and wait, if you like."

Hal and Abigail tentatively entered the room. Heavy curtains were drawn to block out the bright sunlight, but a candle was flickering on the bedside table, giving a subdued orange glow. A large ornate jug filled with water stood next to the candle, with a small cup alongside. As Hal and Abigail stepped closer to the bed, Dr. Kessler went around to the other side and knelt. There was the gentle trickling sound of water, and then she brought up a dripping cloth, which she wrung out carefully before using it to dab Miss Simone's forehead.

Miss Simone was pale and gaunt, moving her head from side to side. She became still when the cold damp cloth touched her. Hal was shocked by the change in her. She'd only been in bed for two days—not even that—and it seemed as though she'd aged ten years and lost fifty pounds. It was probably the flickering candlelight casting shadows in odd places, Hal thought. But there was no doubt that the swelling on her left cheek was real; the entire side of her face was puffed up and blackened, and it distorted her mouth and squeezed against her left eye so that it, too, looked swollen. Her face and throat were drenched with sweat, and her plain white gown patchy with damp areas. A single thin sheet covered her; it was tucked under her armpits, with her arms pinning it down tightly.

"Have a seat," Dr. Kessler whispered. A chair was pulled up on the far side of the bed, so Abigail tiptoed around to claim it. Hal went to fetch another chair from a round table under the window, and placed it opposite Abigail's. "She may wake, if you call to her gently," Dr. Kessler said. "She looks like she's dreaming again."

The doctor quietly left the room.

"Miss Simone?" Hal said quietly. But his voice came out a little cracked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Miss Simone—are you awake?"

It was a silly question. Of course she wasn't awake. She was oblivious to his presence, and continued to dream. Her eyes rolled beneath her lids, and faint grunts and moans escaped her lips.

"Miss Simone, can you hear me?"

This time she paused, and Hal expected her eyes to flicker open. But then she went on dreaming.

"Try again," Abigail murmured, biting her lip.

So Hal leaned across to shake her shoulder. "Miss Simone, wake up."

Abruptly, she frowned and opened her eyes. She stared directly at the ceiling for a long moment, then blinked and gingerly touched her face. Finally, she focused on first Abigail, then Hal.

"I was dreaming," she croaked.

"Sorry to wake you," Hal said. "But we have to tell you something."

"I need water."

Abigail hurriedly got up to pour a glass. The jug was large and heavy, and she slopped a little water onto the table. As she set the jug down with a bang, Miss Simone struggled upright, grasped the offered cup, and drank greedily and noisily. When she was finished, she closed her eyes and sank back onto the damp pillow. Abigail gently took the cup from her hand.

Miss Simone's eyes cracked open again. "What can be so important that a lady can't even get some rest after being stung by a manticore?" She touched her left cheek again. "I was having the most vivid dream."

There was a long silence, during which Hal shared several awkward glances with Abigail. Miss Simone studied their faces one by one, as if finally sensing the seriousness of their visit.

"Tell her," Abigail said.

Miss Simone looked expectantly at Hal. When he said nothing, she scowled. "Tell me what? Come on, Hal. Spit it out."

Hal grimaced. "It's just that . . . well, right before Thomas attacked you the other day, Dewey looked into Abigail's glass ball and saw a few things. Things he probably wasn't supposed to see."

"Like what?"

At that moment, heavy footsteps thudded along the hallway and the door swung open. The three of them looked around to find a goblin standing there, heavyset and dour-looking, with a pig-like face. He wore the usual plain, rough togs with leather belt and boots, and dull metal plates over his chest and shoulders. He clanked a little as he approached the bed. Out in the hall, Dr. Kessler was complaining about too many visitors cluttering up the place.

Gristletooth was one of Miss Simone's closest and highest-ranking goblin friends. He was just as ugly as all the others, with protruding teeth, flaring nostrils, and tiny black eyes. When he spoke, his deep voice was accompanied by a familiar scowl. "Got some bad news."

Miss Simone glanced at Hal. "Is this the same bad news you came with?"

Hal shook his head. "Can't be. Nobody else knows."

"Then what is it?" she asked the goblin.

Gristletooth stepped closer, and a faint pungent odor wafted up Hal's nostrils. "This is important, ma'am," the goblin grumbled. "Just got word from Charlie up north. Invaders."

After a moment's silence, Miss Simone struggled up in her bed. She looked odd in her white gown, somehow mundane and drab, nothing at all like the entrancing blond, blue-eyed beauty Hal had come to know. Once again he was struck by how ill she looked. Of course, by rights she should be dead; ordinary people were no match for a manticore's venom! But Miss Simone was no ordinary person; she was a shapeshifter, her body able to heal with each transformation. The few times she'd managed to change into a mermaid and back again, just after being stung, had undoubtedly saved her life, but she'd been unconscious ever since. Dr. Kessler had tried throwing a pail of water over her patient in the hopes that the sudden dousing would cause another instinctive transformation, thus enabling her to heal quicker . . . but it hadn't worked, so Miss Simone had suffered through the fever like any normal person. Now that she was awake again, Hal wondered why she didn't shapeshift a few more times to speed up the healing.

"Are you telling me," Miss Simone said, "that Otherworlders have come through one of the holes?" She looked grim.

"They followed the kids," Gristletooth said, giving Hal a steely glare.

Hal shared a horrified look with Abigail. Her eyes were round.

Miss Simone winced and touched her face again. "I should have guessed this would happen," she muttered. "But I felt sure the dragons would keep them at bay. How on earth did they manage to get through?"

The portal, or 'hole' as it was usually called, that led to the other Earth—what Hal considered his Earth—lay deep within the Labyrinth of Fire to the north, in one of the long, dark tunnels, down a pit, hovering just above a pool of scalding hot water that bubbled up from the ground. The hole led through to the basement of a cottage in Hal's old world. When Hal and Abigail had found their way through to that basement and fought their way out, they hadn't imagined that a dragon would follow them, and certainly couldn't have foreseen that a handful of patrolling soldiers in a tank would blast the dragon from the sky. The biosuited soldiers—or scientists, or whatever they were—had quickly figured out where the dragon had come from; they had simply followed the trail of destruction back to the cottage, made their way down to the basement, perhaps thinking the creature had been imprisoned there . . . and probably hadn't taken long to find the portal itself, a black smoky cloud hanging in the dank basement air.

But what had they found when they finally ventured through? Hal imagined the first volunteer falling into the hot pool, and shuddered. Perhaps they had been more careful than that, and poked a head through first, and seen the deadly pool that awaited them. Perhaps they had pushed a boat or raft through, or rigged some kind of platform to stand on. But then what? They would have had to climb up out of the pit, with its sheer rocky sides, and make their way through tunnels to the outside—without meeting any dragons!

"They have weapons," Gristletooth said, breaking the silence. "Long rods that breathe fire. Metal balls that explode. Word is, they blew up a number of dragons on their way out of the labyrinth."

"They fought the dragons?" Abigail exclaimed, looking astonished. "And won? Just like that?"

"They didn't win," the goblin grunted. "Just cleared a path. The dragons are wary of them now."

"They're going to be unstoppable," Miss Simone murmured, staring into space. "This is awful. They've found a new world, with clean, breathable air—" She turned to Gristletooth. "Are they still wearing biosuits?"

"Not anymore."

Miss Simone sighed heavily and closed her eyes. Hal could have sworn the room dimmed further. He glanced at the candle, expecting to see the flame ebbing, but it continued to shine bright and strong. "All this time we've maintained secrecy," she said, "being careful to disguise the few remaining holes so nobody would stumble upon them . . . and now this."

Hal cleared his throat. "Is it that bad, though, really? Sure, they'll come through into this world. But how many of them can there be? I thought the virus wiped most of them out."

"Oh, there are survivors," Miss Simone assured him. "All over the world there are underground bunkers filled with hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, and groups who have found a way to live on the surface in hermetically sealed houses, and others who have found it safer to live on ships far out at sea . . . and yet others who simply weren't affected by the virus. Trust me, there are survivors—but it's the soldiers and scientists I fear the most. The military." She spat the word as if it were a nasty taste. "We have to assume that the news has already spread and that more of them are on the way."

"But," Hal said, trying to see a positive side, "they can't be all bad, can they? I mean, they brought weapons, but only to get past the dragons. They wouldn't use them on us, would they? Maybe they just want to be friends. Maybe we can all live together."

In the silence, Hal felt rather than saw Gristletooth rolling his eyes behind him. Miss Simone shook her head slowly and gave him a feeble smile. "Ah, such innocence. I used to think that way, too." She winced and touched her cheek with a shaking hand. "Perhaps you're right, Hal . . . but I doubt it. We need to confront these people and respectfully ask them to leave, for all the good it will do. Where are they now, Gristletooth?"

"Headed west, ma'am, on foot. A small squad, but heavily armed. Following the tracks left by Blacknail's vehicle. Won't be long before they arrive in Louis."

"What's Charlie doing about it?"

The goblin shrugged, and his armor clanked. "Waiting. He figures we owe 'em a chance, so he's planning to greet 'em with open arms."

For a moment Miss Simone looked horrified. But then she nodded slowly. "I guess he's right. But—" She shook her head, despair written all over her face. She seemed about to say something more, but shook her head again and turned to Hal. "Well, after Gristletooth's bad news, yours has to be pretty good in comparison."

"Don't bet on it," Abigail mumbled.

Hal cleared his throat. "The thing is . . . Dewey looked into the glass ball again. Right before Thomas stung you. And he saw . . . things." He glanced at Abigail. "Tell her, Abi."

"No, you," Abigail said.

"Somebody tell me something," Miss Simone snapped.

Hal blurted out the story in a rush. "Dewey said that he saw how the virus started, and who started it. It wasn't man-made at all, it was centaur-made. They made it just in case, but then it was released and Dewey's not sure if that was accidental or deliberate. But either way the centaurs know all about it and are the cause of it and should be punished, and they might have a cure if you ask them, although they might not because Dewey says they might not have even bothered trying to find one because it suited them quite well to have this virus in the air, killing off all the humans, because—"

He broke off and took a deep breath. Miss Simone's eyes had grown bigger and bigger, and her mouth had turned into a hard, thin line.

Hal rushed on. "Dewey said he doesn't know how he knows all this, because even though he's a centaur he never learned to speak the centaur language, only he understands the language perfectly as if he'd somehow learned it in the past, which is impossible because he never did, so we were wondering if maybe it had something to do with . . . with how we were born. You know, how we were cloned? And maybe looking into the glass ball somehow revealed more of the centaur's memories than was planned, or something like that . . ."

Hal faltered. Miss Simone's face, which had been so pallid moments ago, now turned red. Her already-swollen left cheek seemed fit to burst. She was trembling, her hands gripping the bed. The candle on the bedside table flickered rapidly as if a draft had entered the room, although Hal felt no such thing. He wasn't sure if he imagined it or not, but he felt a strange vibration in the floor, and an unsettling sensation in his stomach that made him queasy. Glancing at Abigail, he saw that she, too, had noticed a change in the air.

"Miss Simone?" he asked shakily.

Gristletooth planted a thick-fingered hand on Hal's shoulder and pulled him back, at the same time gesturing for Abigail to step away from the bed. Confused, they both did as they were told.

Miss Simone's hair started to move of its own accord, as if caught up by the same phantom draft that made the candle flame dance. Her skin took on an odd glow. Something happened under the thin sheet—it flapped and billowed suddenly, and when it settled Hal saw the outline of a mermaid's fish-tail beneath. Scaly fins curled out from the sides of the sheet, glowing in an unearthly fashion.

The candle blew out, the room dimmed, and an inexplicable gust of ice-cold wind swept from wall to wall, taking Hal's breath away. The heavy curtains moved. Then an eerie, high-pitched sound bubbled out of Miss Simone's throat and filled the room, growing louder. Hal clapped his hands over his ears to shut it out, but the scream penetrated anyway. The glass in the window cracked, and the nearby mirror shattered.

Then the scream cut off. Miss Simone let out a shuddering breath and, in an instant, the deep vibration Hal had felt in his stomach faded. He shivered, drawing his thin shirt closed around his throat as the last of the ice-cold wind dissipated.

"Sorry," the woman said, sounding out of breath. "I haven't lost control in a long time . . ." Seeing Hal and Abigail's astonished faces, she waved her hand impatiently. "I'm a mermaid," she said. "I can do much worse if I try. I can raise tidal waves and sink small boats. It's . . . it's what I do."

Dr. Kessler appeared in the doorway. "My pots were rattling! I thought there was an earthquake! And that awful sound—was that you, ma'am?"

Miss Simone nodded. "Sorry." She stared at her fins, which poked out from under the sheet. Slowly the fins withdrew and the smooth, slender shape of her fish-tail became distinctly human legs. Then she reached up to prod at her cheek, which now looked marginally less swollen.

"Change again," Hal urged. "When I was injured, it—"

But Miss Simone had already started climbing out of the bed. Gristletooth reached forward and stopped her with one large hand on her shoulder. "Nuh-uh," he rumbled. "Shapeshifter or not, you need rest. Give me instructions, but rest until you're well. You're no good to nobody unless you're well."

"You listen to him," Dr. Kessler warned, hurrying to relight the candle. "Don't you be getting up, Lady Simone. You need to rest for a day. Maybe tomorrow you can get up and go about your duties."

She placed a hand on Miss Simone's forehead, then bustled from the room, leaving her irritated patient to click her tongue loudly. "I can't rest knowing that the centaurs—" Miss Simone broke off and gazed into space with a look of intense disbelief, shaking her head as if the news had only just fully sunk in. She seemed unable to comprehend the magnitude of what had been done.

Hal understood. He had thought of nothing else for the last two days. He had grown up on a private, lonely island, never seen the world Out There beyond the fog . . . and yet he knew from stories his parents had told him from time to time that the world had been a busy, bustling place with hundreds of thousands of people filling enormous cities. Over three hundred million living in the United States alone, and six and a half billion across the planet . . . These numbers were mind-boggling to Hal, who in his lifetime had known a grand total of eight friends and their parents. Miss Simone's arrival on the island had been astounding to him—the very idea of meeting someone new after twelve years with the same group. Then, upon arrival in Miss Simone's world, the journey into Carter had left him dazed, what with four hundred or so villagers coming to greet him and his friends. And then there was the visit to Louis in the north, which had been almost too much to take in, with its two thousand residents. So the thought of hundreds of thousands, millions, billions of people . . .

And they had all gone.

Well, perhaps not all of them. Miss Simone had said there were most likely survivors hidden away underground, or roaming the surface wearing biosuits. Somehow life had continued. Somehow the survivors had found each other and reconnected, dragged themselves back to some semblance of civilized life and set to work organizing the mass production of biosuits. But no matter how many had survived, a far greater number had succumbed to the airborne virus—or spores, as the centaur scientist, Fleck, had said.

Hal felt his jaw tighten. When he, Robbie and Abigail had met Fleck in the centaur shelter, they had managed to squeeze information out of him. The words still rang clearly in Hal's head, perhaps because he had been looking into Abigail's glass ball lately: "It doesn't start out as a virus, you know," the centaur had said. "Viruses die within hours without hosts. This one begins as tiny spores, lighter than air, blowing around on the wind, landing, settling like a fine coat of dust, then blowing around again, waiting for something living that sweats, thus beginning a chemical reaction . . ."

Maybe that was why it was safer at sea, Hal thought, where the dust-like spores had nowhere to settle.

He shuddered, and looked up to notice that Miss Simone, Gristletooth and Abigail were staring at him. "Penny for your thoughts?" Abigail asked him.

"I was just trying to imagine our old world filled with millions of people."

"I'm still struggling to imagine this world filled with millions of people," Miss Simone moaned. "It just can't work. We have such a fine balance of human settlements alongside the naga, the elves, the goblins, the centaurs—" She scowled. "Well, forget the centaurs. But the rest . . . I just can't see how a sudden influx of hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of survivors could ever be welcomed by our neighbors. Can you imagine if millions of elves suddenly showed up and decided to muscle in on our territory, taking over our fields for their own crops, clearing forests to make room for more of their temples—"

"And think of the endless chanting," Gristletooth grumbled.

Miss Simone winced. "Yes, echoing across the hills at night. And what if our world was invaded by millions of orcs or trolls or ogres? Or manticores, or harpies?"

"Or centaurs," Abigail said quietly.

"Indeed," Miss Simone agreed. She gently massaged her bruised, swollen cheek. "Centaurs pretend to be civil with humans only because we outnumber them—just. They'd squash us like flies if they thought they could." She paused, frowning. "And that's why they created the virus in the first place—to quietly squash us without lifting a finger in battle."

"And they got away with it, some," Gristletooth grunted. "But now they's gonna pay." He beat his metal chestplate hard with one bunched fist, and the clanging sound reverberated around the room. "They's gonna pay."

Miss Simone glanced from Hal to Abigail and back, her bright blue eyes gleaming in the subdued light of the room. "Say nothing about this, do you hear? To anybody. Have you told your parents?"

"Nobody but our friends," Hal said quickly.

"Good. Keep it that way. Gristletooth and I will deal with this." She seemed to remember something, and her manner softened. She reached for Hal's hand, then Abigail's, and squeezed gently. "Thank you, both of you. All of you. You saved my life. I was a fool to get so close to Thomas . . . and if it weren't for your intervention"—here she looked at Hal—"and if you hadn't shoved me into the water trough"—her gaze moved to Abigail—"then I would be very much dead. So thank you."

She released her grip, and smiled. "Now go."

Chapter Two
The soothsayer

When Hal and Abigail left Dr. Kessler's cottage, they found their friends waiting on the small humped bridge just around the corner. A shallow stream bubbled underneath, meandering off through the village toward the large pond at its center.

Fenton sat on the low stone wall with his back to the road and his legs dangling over the water. Emily, Lauren and Darcy had claimed a simple rough bench carved out of a single log of oak. Dewey and Robbie perched on the wall. They all looked like they were awaiting school test results, anxious and irritable, staring into space or at the ground, and oblivious to passers-by who occasionally tipped their hats or mumbled a greeting.

The children suddenly became animated as Hal and Abigail approached. "Well?" Emily demanded. "What's she going to do?"

Abigail frowned. "Keep your voice down. We have to keep this a secret, and we can't do that if you're shouting your head off."

Emily blushed and looked sheepish.

"So what did she say?" Fenton demanded in what apparently was his attempt at whispering.

"She said she'd deal with it," Hal said, feeling suddenly claustrophobic as his friends pressed in on all sides. "But she's pretty angry, I can tell you."

"We're to say nothing about it to anybody," Abigail said. "I think she's afraid of the centaurs getting wind that we know about this. They might do something drastic before she's ready to deal with them."

She looked as though she was about to expand on this statement, but at that moment they heard raised voices from the direction of the doctor's cottage. Without a word, the children rushed around the corner to see what was happening.

Dr. Kessler stood on her doorstep with her arms folded, shaking her head. Before her stood the strangest looking man Hal had ever seen. He wore a long, raggedy gray robe that trailed in the dirt. A frayed rope was tied loosely around his waist, from which hung a partially filled sack. Long white hair flowed down his back, and yet the top of his head was bald and extremely tanned and shiny. In his left hand he held a rough wooden staff that he banged repeatedly on the ground, sending up little plumes of dust.

"I have to see her," he was insisting, his voice thin and reedy.

But Dr. Kessler continued to shake her head. "Come back tomorrow, old man. At the moment she's not fit for your crazy riddles."

"He's like a wizard," Abigail whispered in Hal's ear. When Hal looked at her, she had a delighted grin on her freckled face.

The cottage door banged shut and the old man stood there for a moment, fuming. Then he swung around as if somehow sensing he was being watched.

Hal jumped guiltily. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his friends shifting uncomfortably, gazing at the ground or in other directions—all except Fenton, who continued to stare boldly at the newcomer.

The old man had only one eye. The other was an empty socket. His face was weathered and lined, and his beard as long as his hair. He reminded Hal a little of the ancient centaur leader, Grah-tkh, who lived in the nearby forest. Like the crotchety khan, this wizened old man had the weight of a lifetime on his shoulders and little patience for people a fraction of his age.

Yet the man stared at the children intently, his single eye roving alarmingly. Hal tried not to stare back, but found the empty eye socket fascinating. It wasn't just empty but an abyss of blackness.

The old man suddenly hurried toward them, moving surprisingly fast for someone who looked to be three hundred years old. Darcy let out a whimper and clutched at Lauren as the man closed the gap and stood before them. He smelled of something bad, something rotten, and Hal felt an urge to run away. But the man peered around, bending toward them as if the sight in his single eye was bad.

"You," he barked suddenly, and this time Emily squealed. "You're the kids in my dream. Only . . . one's missing." He frowned deeply, and his gaze shifted throughout the group. Hal realized he was counting heads. "Who's missing?"

"Nobody's missing," Fenton said defiantly.

The old man scowled. "I'm never wrong. One's missing. Nine kids and a goblin will face the demon on the mountain. The mountain is the key, you see—the key to everything. You mark my words. Go to the mountain, follow the whispers, face the demon. You'll see. You'll find all the answers you're seeking right there in the temple."

"What are you talking about?" Abigail said. Hal realized then that she was holding tightly onto his arm.

"My visions," the man snapped. "All my life I've had visions, and they always come true. This one will, too."

He leaned in close again, and Hal almost gagged at the stench emanating from the bearded mouth, where a few remaining brown teeth could be seen.

"I don't always understand my visions. I see the demon in the darkness, a shadow with hideous eyes. I can smell the stench of death. But I also hear whispers, nothing but whispers . . ."

He clutched his head suddenly, closing his single eye. Curiously, Hal noticed that the black pit where the other eye should be remained open. It was just a small opening, but it appeared to have no eyelids.

"I see a long, long tunnel," the man groaned. "I see you kids walking into it, or being swallowed by it. The walls are alive, moving—"

He broke off and shook his head violently. Little bits of dirt and one or two bugs flew free. Then the old man opened his eye, and lowered his voice.

"I see people carrying weapons. Weapons that don't belong in this world. The men are marching into this village." He looked fearful now, and his single eye suddenly grew moist. "This very village! That's why I'm here—to warn you all. To warn Lady Simone that her people are in danger. And to warn you not to waste another moment." He clutched his head again. "The second shot! The second shot will bring doom upon this village. You must go! Go now, to the mountain of whispers."

"Just like that," Fenton said rudely. "Okay, guys, you heard the old coot. Let's go pack our bags and hit the road. We've got a mountain to find, a demon to vanquish—"

"Not to mention saving the village from people with weapons," Robbie added, with a nervous laugh.

Hal was puzzled. Earlier, Gristletooth had mentioned soldiers coming through the hole in the labyrinth. Unless the old man had heard rumors, or seen the men for himself, his dreams were disturbingly accurate.

Gristletooth appeared just then. He might have been nearby all along, but if so, the goblin had been stealthy, keeping to the background. Now he marched up to the group and grabbed the old man by the scruff of the neck.

"Time to go," he growled. "Back to your cave. Don't go spreading your fears around here again. Remember last time?"

The old man tried feebly to struggle free of Gristletooth's grasp, but soon gave up. He stared at Hal and his friends. "Mark my words," he croaked. "Go to the mountain before it's too late. The mountain that whispers. The mountain is the key to everything."

He seemed so sincere that Hal felt himself drawn into the fantasy, and for a moment shivered at the prospect of meeting the demon and sliding down its throat—if that's what the old man had meant by the walls being alive and moving. But then Gristletooth marched the man away, and the children suddenly found themselves alone, the spell broken.

"Whew!" Emily said, her face white. "I thought he was going to curse us or something."

"What a fruitcake," Darcy agreed, tugging with both hands at her blond hair as if that somehow indicated the actions of a madman. "And what a smell!"

Everyone agreed that the air had been polluted. "It's like there's a brown cloud drifting over me," Lauren complained. "Eww."

Fenton grimaced. "Did you see his eye?"

"Which one?" Robbie asked.

"The one that was missing, idiot."

"How am I supposed to see an eye that's missing?"

As Darcy, Emily and Lauren joined in the discussion, Hal turned to see that Abigail was watching Dewey closely. The small boy was silent and thoughtful, staring off into space.

"What's up, Dewey?" Abigail asked, poking him.

The boy shrugged. "It's probably nothing."

"No, come on—what's wrong?"

The others fell silent and shifted their focus to Dewey. A passer-by grumbled something, and Hal was suddenly aware that they were blocking the street. "Let's go find someplace else to talk," he said.

They returned to the humped bridge, then hurdled the wall and followed the shallow stream. It wasn't the best of walking trails, a little muddy in places, but it was away from the main roads. Sometimes the backs of stone cottages loomed over them, forming an alley, but mostly the stream cut a meandering path through very small yards where goats roamed and chomped on grass. In a couple of places, the children had to hurdle rickety fences, causing several dogs to bark angrily and homeowners to poke startled faces out of their windows.

"So come on, Dewey, spit it out," Abigail said, walking directly behind the boy so she could catch the heels of his feet with the toes of hers.

Although the children wore their strange, magical smart clothes, which allowed for impromptu transformations, they had in the last couple of days taken to wearing ordinary clothes over the top. This allowed them to blend in a little better with the rest of the village. Hal had been grateful to find a pair of ordinary shoes, pants and a shirt that fit. If he ever needed to change into a dragon, he could do so immediately and his ordinary clothes and shoes would be ruined—but when he changed back, at least his smart clothes would be intact.

"Will you stop that?" Dewey complained, as she caused his sandal to tear loose yet again.

"Spit it out, then," Abigail said. "What's on your mind?"

Finally the boy slowed. They were standing in a yard of dark brown mud that had dried smooth and flat. A cat sat on a fence, watching them closely.

"The old man said a couple of things that sounded . . . familiar," Dewey said carefully. "I hadn't thought much of it until he mentioned it, but, well, that mountain he talked about—the mountain of whispers? Well, it's already in my head, like a memory. I saw it in Abigail's glass ball."

There was a long silence as this news was digested. Hal's heart began to thump. The last time Dewey had spoken this seriously, just a couple of days ago, he had revealed how the centaurs had slaughtered almost every human on the planet. Now what did he have on his mind?

Dewey pressed on, his voice low. "There was a mountain the centaurs went to. I don't remember much. These are just flashes, like distant memories."

"When I looked into the glass ball," Hal said, "my memories were perfectly clear, like I was right there, spying on myself in the past."

"But those were your memories," Dewey argued. "I'm remembering someone else's memories, and they're kind of blurry." He frowned. "I remember something about the whispering. First it wasn't there, but then it was."

While he spoke, Abigail silently withdrew the glass ball from her pocket. The faeries had given it to her, and it was the tiniest thing, no bigger than a thumbnail, requiring a magnifying glass to look inside. Looking into the miniature sphere had proved to be an astounding experience, bringing up buried memories, whether forgotten through the passing of time or deep-seated because of some traumatic event. It had not only clarified a few childhood memories for Hal and his friends, it had also drawn out instincts they never knew existed. Perhaps Hal would have learned to fly eventually, but the glass ball had speeded up the process and given him access to the full spectrum of dragon senses and skills. Exactly where these instincts had come from was a mystery, but the children guessed that cells had been cloned from various different adult creatures—a dragon in Hal's case, and a faerie in Abigail's. According to a rather shaky theory, rudimentary functions such as running on four legs, breathing fire, swinging tails, flapping wings, and turning invisible had all come prepackaged.

It made a practical kind of sense. After all, shapeshifters were raised as humans, and remained human until they were old enough to cope with the idea of being able to transform—and old enough to change back at will. They had to have prepackaged instincts in order to control their alternate bodies.

Dewey had turned out to be a special case. His prepackaged memories were more than just instinctive; inexplicably, he understood a complex centaur dialect and remembered the fleeting thoughts of a specific individual.

Hal now wondered if they had been too quick to dismiss the old man as a crazy old coot. "So you're saying this mountain of whispers exists?" he asked, breaking the silence. "That the old man was right about that?"

Dewey nodded. "And the centaurs went there, too. I don't know why, or if it even matters. But yes, I think the mountain exists."

"And so do the soldiers," Abigail said thoughtfully. Seeing a number of blank expressions, she quickly told them what Gristletooth had told Miss Simone, about the squad of soldiers in the north.

"So the old man was right about two things," Emily said, her eyes wide. "The mountain and the soldiers. It makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

"Does it?" Fenton said, a little scornfully. Since figuring out how to revert to his full human form at will, he had recovered some of his self-confidence—and rudeness. "It just makes me wonder who's the craziest around here."

They moved on, leaving the squishy, clay-like mud behind and following the stream out into the open. Now they were back in the public eye again, crossing a wide dusty road packed with villagers and heading toward the large pond that lay at the center of the village. Here, flowerbeds were tended to on a regular basis, and grass mown. There were several ornate carved benches around the pond, all of them taken except for one on the far side. Hal's friends rushed to grab a seat. Abigail was first, and then Darcy, Emily and Lauren. The seat was just about full by this time, but Robbie roughly pushed his way onto the end of the bench, forcing the girls to squeeze up. His face then grew red as he realized he was pressed against Lauren, whom he had recently claimed as his girlfriend . . . even though she hadn't confirmed anything of the sort.

Fenton looked like he was about to plant his heavy bulk on the laps of the girls, but Darcy gave him such a stern look that he sighed and hunkered down on the grass instead. Hal and Dewey were left standing.

"I like the sun," Emily said, closing her eyes.

"Do you think we should go?" Hal asked, looking around.

He was met with puzzled gazes from all but Abigail, who gave the tiniest of grins. She understood him perfectly, always a step ahead of everyone else.

"On a trip, I mean," Hal clarified, "to this mountain of whispers."

"What, are you nuts?" Fenton said lazily, flopping back in the grass.

"No, I'm just thinking that it would be a good chance to explore, and we'd get a chance to check on what the old man said. He said it was important not to waste time. He said we should go, and maybe we should."

Emily's eyes remained closed while she spoke. "Well, count me out. I've had enough adventure. Haven't you, Hal? We've been to the north and met harpies and dragons and ogres . . . I mean, what more do you want? Let's just stay here in the village and be happy."

Abigail snorted. "Be happy, right. We'll just wander around the place and be stared at like we're freaks. There's so much to do here . . ."

Her sarcasm was so obvious that even Fenton agreed with her. "Count me in."

"You just said a minute ago that Hal was nuts," Emily reminded him.

"Yeah, well, I still want a road trip. Now I've had a chance to see a new world, I can't stand the idea of being cooped up in one place again."

"I have to agree," Lauren said.

Robbie nodded furiously. "Me too, then. I mean, yeah. Whatever. You know me—I'll go along with whatever you all decide to do."

"Whatever Lauren decides to do, you mean," Abigail said slyly.

Darcy giggled, and Emily whispered something in Lauren's ear. This made Lauren blush, and she stared hard at her fingernails.

"Dewey?" Hal asked.

The boy stuffed his hands into capacious pockets and pursed his lips. "I think it would be a mistake to ignore it," he said finally.

"Let's vote then," Emily murmured. She forced her eyes open. "Hands up all those who want to go on this trip."

Hands slowly rose into the air. Hal's was first, Fenton's a close second. Abigail's was next, then Lauren's, then Robbie's. Darcy pondered for a moment, then shrugged. Emily's hand remained firmly down. Dewey's hand went up after Hal poked him in the back.

"Motion carried," Emily said with a sigh. "I guess we're off on a trip, then."

Darcy snorted. "You think we'll be allowed to go, just like that?"

Hal doubted that very much. Convincing their parents would be difficult after the near fatal journey to the Labyrinth of Fire. He thought of the way his mom and dad had been prepared to take Hal and run away with him, rather than let him face the dragons of the north. It was true that Hal and his friends had returned home victorious, and perhaps they had proved themselves in some way . . . but still, they were twelve years old, hardly even grown-ups yet.

"I think we should convince Miss Simone first," Hal said, thinking it through. "Our parents will never let us go off on a trip alone unless Miss Simone thinks we should go. If it were like another mission—"

"Ooh, you're so sly," Abigail said.

Hal grinned. "Lets go see Miss Simone again."

* * *

For the second time that day Dr. Kessler refused to let all eight children troop into her humble cottage, so once again Hal and Abigail were admitted on their own. Miss Simone was talking to Blacknail, another of her goblin colleagues. This one was even surlier than Gristletooth. He had driven the children all the way to Louis, the village in the north, and back; his vehicle, a monstrous six-wheeled buggy, had rattled Hal's bones so much that he still felt sore from the journey home.

Miss Simone was surprised to see Hal and Abigail again so soon, and a little irritated. "Yes? What is it? I have a lot to do."

"Well," Abigail said, "Dewey told us something odd, about a mountain he saw while looking into my glass ball. He said the mountain was important, a place the centaurs visited years ago. He remembers small details and thinks it might give us clues about the virus. Perhaps it was a secret meeting place . . . or maybe there's a cure there . . . or maybe it was where they tested it. Anyway, we just thought it might be worth checking out."

Miss Simone looked at Blacknail, who simply grimaced and said nothing. "And," she said, turning back to Abigail, "how does Dewey suggest we go about finding this elusive mountain?"

Abigail frowned. "Um. Well, I don't really know. He said something about a mountain that whispers, if that means anything?"

Now Miss Simone's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"Yes. It was that old man's fault," Abigail went on. "He was babbling on about soldiers, and how a second shot will bring doom upon the village, and also about a demon, and a mountain that whispers."

"The soothsayer," Blacknail grumbled, rolling his eyes.

Miss Simone looked thoughtful. "He has been known to be right. Years ago, he predicted the quakes in the north, weeks before they happened."

"Yeah," the goblin said, scowling, "but last year he dreamed about people trapped in the mines."

"I remember," Miss Simone said, nodding. "A group went down to check, and the roof fell in, and those poor people ended up being the ones he dreamed of, trapped for a day before they could be rescued. What a disaster! Still, his dream was correct."

Blacknail muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

"Perhaps you should go to the mountain, then," Miss Simone said, turning her attention back to Hal and Abigail.

Hal's mouth dropped open, and a look of surprise fell across Abigail's face. "What, you agree we should go, just like that?" she said.

Miss Simone shrugged. "I was telling Blacknail here that we need allies. Charlie may need our help, so we should be prepared. So yes, go with Blacknail to the mountain and check it out. Maybe you'll find something interesting. But more importantly, round up some of your friends."

"Our friends?" Hal repeated.

"There are ogres south of here, and the naga in a nearby forest. Then there are the elves on Whisper Mountain. No, forget the elves—they'll never stand by our side. They're too wrapped up in themselves to be useful. But they are close friends with the centaurs. Maybe the elves can tell you something about them."

"We could take Canaan along," Blacknail muttered.

Miss Simone shook her head. "It wouldn't make any difference. You know that." Seeing Hal's puzzled expression, she added, "She's our elf shapeshifter. But as far as the elves are concerned, she's just another human."

"Whisper Mountain," Abigail said quietly.

"Yes, that's most likely the place mentioned in the soothsayer's dreams," Miss Simone went on. "And it's true that there are reports of a demon there, although I'm sure that can be explained quite easily. They call it the Shadow Demon, if I recall. It eats people alive." She shook her head and gave a tired smile. "Elves are too ready to believe in demons and ghosts, I think. They chant in the middle of the night and—well, we were talking about this just a little while ago."

"And you really want us to go?" Abigail asked, still looking surprised.

Hal had to grin. She'd planned to manipulate Miss Simone into suggesting the children go on a journey, but it had been a lot easier than expected. Miss Simone apparently had motivations of her own, and saw the trip to the mountain as an additional but harmless expedition that was secondary to her main objective of gathering allies. Well, Hal and his friends had gotten the adventure they wanted, although now that it was a reality, he wondered if it was such a good idea after all! Still, gathering allies was a good idea.

"We'll go," he said.

Miss Simone settled back onto her pillow and closed her eyes. "That's settled then. Don't waste too much time on the mountain, though. Spend the night at the elf village, if they'll permit it, and head back the next day. And make the necessary detours to ogre country and so on. If you get time, head east and see if you can find one of Fenton's lizard friends . . ." She sounded very tired all of a sudden. "I think the doctor was right; I do need rest. Blacknail, take care of it all, will you?"

"Right," the goblin said stiffly.

"And Hal," she added softly.

He stepped closer, but her eyes remained closed. She seemed to be dropping off to sleep before his eyes.

"Take Thomas, will you? Blacknail and I were talking about this. Take him along. A bit of time in the company of his friends will do him the world of good. Also, he and others of his kind would make wonderful allies, if only . . ."

But then she trailed off and was asleep.

Blacknail, Hal and Abigail stood in silence for a moment. Then the goblin came around the bed and gestured for them all to leave. He followed them from the room, along the hall, and out the front door. When he pulled the door shut behind him, he turned to face Hal and Abigail, looking even grimmer than usual. "West gate," he snapped. "Go pack. We leave in three hours."

With that he marched off.

Hal stared after him, amazed at the development. Take Thomas?

ISLAND OF FOG BOOK III
MOUNTAIN OF WHISPERS
by Keith Robinson
Available in paperback for $11.95
Also available on Kindle and Nook
ISBN 978-0984390625

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