Wit'ch Fire

by James Clemens

Tol’chuk’s image formed in Mogweed’s mind. Fardale’s eyes glowed toward him.

  “I don’t know where he is,” Mogweed answered. “If we light a fire in the tunnel, the flames should guide him here.”

  Fardale’s stance seemed hesitant, questioning, as if thinking of leaving Mogweed here and searching after the slow og’re.

  “He’ll get here in his own time,” Mogweed insisted, suddenly nervous at the thought of being left alone again. “Besides, Tol’chuk isn’t likely to encounter anything an og’re can’t handle.”

  His words seemed to settle the wolf, but Fardale’s eyes kept wandering to the ridges and slopes around them. Satisfied his brother would stay, Mogweed tossed his bags between the roots, then after much squeezing and squirming, followed them into the tunnel’s entrance.

  An ankle-deep carpet of blown leaves and pine needles greeted Mogweed on his arrival. Grimacing at the mulchy mess, he bent and retrieved his pack from where it lay partially buried. As he shook his bag clean of clinging leaves, he heard a low growl rumble from outside the tunnel. At first, he thought it just thunder, then recognized it as a warning from his brother.

  He swung around in time to see a streak of light, like a flaming arrow, descend into their small valley between steep ridges. The light aimed straight for his brother. Fardale had his nose raised toward it, and a continuous growl flowed from his throat.

  What was it? Mogweed squeezed closer to peer between the roots. The streak of light suddenly banked and aimed away from his brother—directly toward him! Mogweed tumbled back as what now could be seen as a glowing bird dove toward his face.

  From the bird’s beak, a piercing scream preceded its flight.

  Throwing himself backward into the deep mulch, Mogweed watched the creature dive between the roots and into the tunnel. With a yelp, he covered his head with his arms. The beast flapped and sailed over his body, sharp talons brushing the back of his hand as it passed.

  Then it was gone, sweeping away into the depths of the tunnel.

  Mogweed sat up, stunned. Fardale squeezed between the roots to watch its glow disappear down the dark corridor. Once it had faded around a distant turn in the tunnel, Fardale swung and sniffed at Mogweed’s scraped hand. Mogweed was unsure whether he did so out of sympathy for his injured brother or simply to inspect the scent of the bird.

  Fardale’s nose tickled the path the talon had taken across Mogweed’s hand, his breath hot upon his brother’s wound. Seemingly satisfied, Fardale pulled back. He darted around and trotted down the tunnel several steps.

  “Where are you going?” Mogweed asked.

  Fardale glanced over his shoulder at him. A she-wolf crouches and protects her litter from the hidden snake in the grass. His brother then loped after the glowing bird.

  “Wait!”

  But Fardale did not even slow. Soon Mogweed was alone again. Out of the rain and with the entrance somewhat protected by the drape of roots, he should be relatively comfortable and safe. Still, his heart thundered blood through his ears as he strained to listen for his brother’s padding footfalls. Mogweed’s hands kept clutching at his neck, protecting his throat.

  The strangeness of the bird had spooked him. As a denizen of the Western Reaches, he was familiar with most winged creatures. But the likes of that bird were unseen in his lands. Maybe they were common here in the human lands, but somehow he sensed the bird was a foreigner here, too. The bird seemed out of place with this forest, a creature of another world.

  As he waited, pondering the bird, the storm lulled and the constant background rattle of rain quieted. At least the worst of the storm seemed to be blowing itself out. With the disappearance of the rain, a new noise arose. Maybe it had always been there, with the patter of rain masking it. Or maybe it had just started.

  The sound did not come from outside his hiding place, but from somewhere down the tunnel—where both the bird and his brother had vanished.

  The noise raised the tiny hairs on his arm.

  Fardale’s final words to him now seemed foretelling: A she-wolf crouches and protects her litter from the hidden snake in the grass. The noise, a soft hissing that rose and fell as if the tunnel itself breathed, flowed toward him from deep in the tunnel, like a thousand unseen snakes.

  Suddenly a sharp howl pierced the soft hiss. It was a howl of pain, a howl Mogweed had come to know—Fardale’s howl.

  A deep silence followed, and it weighed on Mogweed’s heart like a stone.

  “I KNOW NOTHING of a wit’ch,” Tol’chuk said, eying each of the three strangers. Though the large man bearing the threatening ax should have drawn most of the og’re’s attention, it was the gaunt man with the braided silver hair who kept Tol’chuk wary. The man’s persistent sneer hovering below hooded eyes silently warned at a danger sharper than an ax blade.

  “This be none of my concern,” Tol’chuk continued. “I bid you well on your journeys.” He rested a hand over his fanged lips in an og’re gesture of peaceful intent, though he was unsure if they would understand the motion. Backing from the trio, he maintained his guard.

  “Wait,” the small woman said, struggling to overcome her initial fear. She wiped strands of streaming hair from her wet face. “This is a black night, full of danger. Beware these woods.”

  Tol’chuk paused his retreat. He noticed the woman give the skinny man a brief glance with her warning.

  “There are beasts, black of heart, loose in the woods,” she continued, “hunting for friends of ours. Be careful.”

  Tol’chuk thought of his own companions traipsing blithely through the wet woods. “I, too, have friends in these woods. What sort of—”

  Suddenly a piercing howl broke through the slowing patter of rain. All eyes swung in the direction of the cry. As quickly as it had pierced the night, the sound faded away.

  “Wolves,” grumbled the ax man.

  “No, one of my friends,” Tol’chuk said, recognizing the voice of his wolf companion. “Fardale be attacked. I must help him.” The og’re started in the direction of the howl.

  “Hold, og’re,” said the thick-bearded man, hefting his ax higher. “If you would have me, I will join you. It may be one of the foul beasts that we drew into the mountains that attacks your party. If so, you will need my help.”

  “Yes,” said the small woman. “Kral is right. Allow us both to accompany you.”

  “No, Nee’lahn,” the large man said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Nowhere in this wood is safe this night. I’m coming.”

  Tol’chuk balked at accepting their assistance but had no time to argue. Without a word, he turned and lumbered in the direction of the howl. He noticed the gaunt man followed.

  Nee’lahn noticed, too. “Elv’in, you are not welcome. Be gone on your dark pursuits and leave us be.”

  “Oh, I was not coming to help you,” he said as he strode after them. “It just so happens this is the path my moon’falcon flew.”

  “Your pursuits are folly. No king of yours was left among the lands.”

  “So your kind has always claimed.”

  “Quiet!” Kral barked. “Enough of your bickering. You’ll draw the beasts upon us. From here we proceed in silence.”

  Tol’chuk wordlessly thanked the bearded man. Why did these races need to spout continuously? Even Mogweed, with no other to talk to, carried on tiresome monologues, as if the sound of his own voice brought him pleasure.

  With a nagging worry for his talkative companion, Tol’chuk led the party over the ridge and down the next slope. Due to the steep grade, the slope was tricky to maneuver, but piles of crumbling rock dotted the way ahead, offering footholds among the slippery cascade of wet leaves and mud. The party quickly maneuvered from stone to stone down the ridge to the floor of the hollow.

  Once safely off the slope, Tol’chuk stood hesitantly. It had sounded as if the cry had come from somewhere nearby, but the woods fouled his senses. Where should he go? Suddenly motion caught his eye. He twisted and saw
Mogweed, his back to Tol’chuk’s party, struggling among the roots of a large black oak as if the tree itself were attacking him. After a heartbeat, Tol’chuk recognized the characteristic black eye of a cavern opening beyond the man. Mogweed was blindly fighting his way out, dragging his pack after him. It ripped loudly on a snagging rootlet. As his pack snapped free, he was flung around to face the group. At the sight of the cluster of strangers, Mogweed’s mouth dropped open, and he scooted back to the pile of roots.

  Tol’chuk stepped forward. “You be safe, Mogweed. These folk will not harm you.”

  Mogweed swallowed several times, trying to free his tongue. He jabbed an arm toward the hidden cavern entrance. “Far . . . Fardale is in trouble.”

  “I heard your brother’s cry,” Tol’chuk said. “What happened? Where be your brother now?”

  “A bird . . . Some cursed glowing hawk lured him deeper into the tunnel.”

  “The moon’falcon!” Nee’lahn cried behind Tol’chuk, her voice sharp with indignation. “It was the elv’in’s bird! See, I told you. He is not to be trusted.”

  “My pet did not harm your friend,” the elv’in argued, “unless he was foolish enough to threaten the bird. My falcon is simply trained to survive—like all elv’in.”

  As Tol’chuk swung around to face the others, he found the eyes of the woman called Nee’lahn narrowed with hate as she stared at the thin man, but before she could utter another word, the bearded mountain man rumbled at them both. “I do not care about old quarrels.” He stabbed a finger at the thin man. “You, elv’in, what is this tunnel? And—”

  A palm snapped up, interrupting Kral. “First of all, my name is Meric, of the House of Morning Star, not elv’in. And I know nothing of this tunnel. My falcon flies upon the trail of our lost king. He chose this subterranean route, not I.”

  “He lies!” spat Nee’lahn.

  “I am not here to sway you.” Meric twisted on a narrow heel and strode toward the entrance to the tunnel. Mogweed danced out of his way. Apparently, like Tol’chuk, his companion sensed the palpable danger emanating from the man.

  Tol’chuk, though, followed Meric, feeling responsible for Fardale. The present fate of his companion was partly his fault. He should not have lagged so far behind the others. If he had been with them, perhaps he could have stopped whatever had attacked Fardale. Few things pierced an og’re’s protection.

  Ahead, Meric bent in half to enter the tunnel, slipping between the shield of oak roots with nary a struggle. Tol’chuk, though, realized the century-thick roots would bar his way. He pulled at a few of the roots, but even an og’re could not uproot an ancient oak gripping firm to rock and soil. From between the roots, he saw Meric pull a clear stone from his pocket and rub it between his palms. Then he blew upon it, as if bringing a dying ember back to life, and a greenish light burst from the stone. With the light held before him, Meric disappeared down the tunnel.

  Tol’chuk sensed someone at his back. Kral, the mountain man, spoke from behind his shoulder. “Let me chop a way inside.”

  Tol’chuk stepped back to give Kral’s ax room to swing.

  “Stop!” Nee’lahn flew forward, raised a tiny hand, and pushed the huge ax aside. “This tree did no harm.” She placed her palms reverently on the roots, as a child might touch an elder. After bowing her head for a single heartbeat, she merely pushed the roots aside, as if sweeping back the leather flap to one of Tol’chuk’s home caves. Having tested the tenacity of the roots with his own muscle, Tol’chuk was awed by the power behind those small hands.

  He was not the only one impressed. Tol’chuk heard a grunt of surprise from Mogweed, who huddled under his shadow. “A nyphai,” Mogweed said with wonder in his voice. “I thought all the tree singers were long dead.”

  Mogweed’s words were ignored, though Tol’chuk noticed his companion studied the small woman with a measuring glance, his eyes narrowed.

  “Nee’lahn,” Kral said, drawing Tol’chuk’s attention, “considering your view of the elv’in, perhaps it would be best if you returned to Rockingham. The og’re and I can handle this.”

  The small woman seemed about to argue, but Kral continued. “Besides, Rockingham has been trussed up for some time now. I’m sure his wrists are sore.”

  Though Tol’chuk did not understand of whom Kral spoke, the look of concern on Nee’lahn’s face suggested Kral had won her over. Still, Tol’chuk had his own concerns. “But the wood be not safe for a female alone,” he said, slightly surprised at his own heartfelt worry for the tiny woman.

  “Thank you for your concern, og’re,” she said coldly. His consideration seemed inadvertently to offend her. “But among trees, I have no fear.”

  Mogweed spoke up, his voice faltering as he stared at the black tunnel. “I . . . I can . . . go with her for her safety.”

  Kral swung around before anyone else could speak. “It’s decided then.” Hunched, the mountain man entered the tunnel first, squeezing past the roots that were already bending back toward the opening. He marched, back bent, down the stone tunnel.

  Tol’chuk followed, crouching on the knuckles of one arm to climb inside the passage.

  “Be careful,” Nee’lahn called. “And beware the elv’in.”

  Tol’chuk did not answer, fearful of again insulting the woman, and only followed Kral’s back.

  Soon the weak light of the night forest faded behind them. Even the eyes of an og’re had difficulty judging the shades of darkness. He heard Kral grunt as he tumbled into unseen obstacles. “That Meric and his light can’t be too much farther ahead,” Kral said as he paused to rub at a bruised shin.

  Tol’chuk stayed silent. A buzzing noise, so faint even his sharp ears could barely discern it, kept him distracted from Kral’s observations. He poked and rubbed inside one of his ears, unsure if the noise came from inside his head or from the tunnel.

  Kral continued, and the scrape of his boot on rock obliterated the sound. Tol’chuk followed, ears straining. As they rounded a corner in the stone tunnel, his ears no longer had to strain. The buzzing noise was now loud enough to be heard even over the scuff of Kral’s boot.

  The mountain man stopped and listened. “What’s that noise?” Kral whispered.

  Tol’chuk by now could discern a faint glow coming from around the next corner. “There be a light,” he said softly and pointed ahead.

  Kral crept forward, now careful not to scrape his heel on the crumbling rock. Tol’chuk tried to imitate his stealth, but his claws would not cooperate. He sounded like a scuttling cave crab.

  As they neared the corner, the light ahead grew brighter as the source flowed toward them. “Someone comes,” Kral breathed.

  “Be it Meric?” With Tol’chuk’s words, a small stone, glowing a greenish light, rolled around the corner and bounced to the tip of Kral’s boot. “The elv’in’s stone,” Tol’chuk said.

  Kral bent and picked it up. He turned to pass the crystal to Tol’chuk. The buzzing had now grown to a distinct hissing around them. Kral pointed to a smudge on the stone’s glowing surface. “Blood.”

  26

  THE HOWL SHOOK Elena, echoing from somewhere beyond the chasm. Even Uncle Bol seemed upset, mumbling something about there having been no wolves in these parts for ages. The wolfish cry split through the hissing rumble of the rock’goblins like a knife thrown through fog. It buried itself deep in Elena’s heart, rupturing her pocket of resolve. She stood on the steps that led from the first ledge, unable to goad herself deeper into the chasm.

  The gloom of the gorge danced with visions of tortured beasts and rending teeth. She trembled with her eyelids stretched wide, aching from the strain to see what lurked just beyond the black veil. She expected at any moment for claws to reach out and pull her into the darkness, never to see light again. Even the lamp held by her uncle did little to cast back the smothering gloom.

  A hand clamped down on her shoulder. “Careful there, sweetheart.” Uncle Bol pulled her back from the edge of the narrow s
tairs. “The edge is weak, just crumbling stone held together by age. I don’t trust it supporting even someone as light as you. Stay close to the wall.”

  She teetered back to the sheer wall.

  Er’ril stood four steps down from her, where he had stopped when the howl echoed to them. His sword pointed into the darkness beyond the edge of the narrow stairs. The flickering lamplight cast weaving shadows across the planes of his face, sometimes creating a wicked appearance of sunken eyes and dead lips. Elena shivered at the sight; then the lamp steadied and the rugged, road-worn warmth returned to his face, eyes alight with danger.

  He caught her gaze upon him. “We must be quick if we are to catch up with our thief,” he said.

  Uncle Bol nodded, and Er’ril swung his sword forward and followed its tip down the dark stair.

  “Uncle,” Elena whispered as she stayed close to his lamp, “if those goblins want us to go this way, like Er’ril said, what do they want of us?” Behind her breastbone, a fear she fought to keep tightly bound wiggled free. After all that had happened since the sun set yesterday, she suspected she knew the answer to her own question. Her fears were confirmed by the concern shining from her uncle’s eyes. It was Elena the goblins truly coveted.

  But, of course, he denied it. “Honey, there’s no reading the thoughts of these sunless creatures. It’s most likely just mischief. They’re known for their thievish hands and wily ways.”

  Though she didn’t believe his words, she nodded anyway; Uncle Bol needed no further worries. Swallowing a dry lump like an old crust of bread, she even offered him a weak smile.

  Uncle Bol nudged her forward after the swordsman. Er’ril had by now crept farther down the stairs, almost to the edge of the lantern’s reach. There at the last strand of light before the sea of darkness, he had stopped. His face was turned toward them, a look of puzzlement wrinkling up his normally smooth features. But his eyes were not on them but stared at something behind Elena. His words quaked the fear in her chest. “Something comes.” His sword pointed to the darkness behind her.