Wit'ch Fire

by James Clemens

  She reached for his hand. His skin felt cold and oddly moist. His cheeks were pale, like those of a corpse laid out for viewing. She found herself patting his hand and mumbling, “Uncle Bol, wakeup. Don’t leave me here. Please, wake up.” She reached to his face next and laid a hand on his brow. He was hot. The touch of her hand on his feverish forehead stirred him. A low moan escaped his throat, rising like steam from a boiling pot. Even this soft noise sounded loud in the quiet cavern.

  Uncle Bol rolled his head from side to side as if suffering a nightmare. But her touch did not awaken him further. She rubbed his cheeks and massaged his wrists, but nothing drew him to consciousness. She glanced around her as a sob escaped her lips. She needed help. Where was Er’ril? She feared calling to him, afraid of what else might answer her summons from these shadowed rocks.

  As she listened for any sign of the returning swordsman, she heard the soft tinkle of flowing water. Hadn’t there been a spring-fed stream near here? She studied the surroundings. It should be just past that pillar of rock!

  She returned her attention to Uncle Bol. Maybe a bit of water on his lips might help. But did she dare leave him?

  Her uncle settled back down as if his foul dreams had slipped away, but his breathing had a more ragged edge to it now, a throaty gurgle that caused her to clutch at her own neck. She could not just stand and watch him die. She found her eyes drifting toward her right hand, where whorls of red hues seemed to be swirling faster with her agitation.

  Could her magick aid her uncle? Her mind’s eye drew up the picture of her parents buried in flames. No, she dared not risk it. She lowered her hand. She needed to go for water. If she ran, it would only take a moment to reach the small stream.

  Before fear could keep her frozen forever, she darted away. Again the falcon spat a squawk of protest and dug his claws deep into her shoulder to keep its perch. Elena ignored the pain and ran.

  Her feet flew with the knowledge that her goal was so close. It was for that reason that when she saw what stood by the stream, she could not stop in time and fell to her knees, scraping them savagely on the coarse rock. A scream locked in her chest at the sight. Her falcon, jarred from her shoulder by the sudden stop, flapped up and circled above.

  The stream lay an arm’s length away, but something else had reached it first.

  She watched the shaggy beast raise its head from where it had been lapping water. Huge yellow eyes reflected back her falcon’s light. She knew this type of beast. She had seen hunters from the highlands carrying their pelts to town. It was a wolf.

  It growled at her in warning but did not approach any closer, apparently as cautious about her as she was of him. It took a few steps back, limping on its right front leg. The remains of some sort of bandage hung from the injured limb. It was hurt. She saw that one of its ears was torn, shredded and matted with blood.

  She remembered the howl they had all heard earlier. She guessed this was the creature that had voiced that pain.

  Both stared at each other warily. The wolf had stopped growling and now just stood, slightly wobbly, on three legs. She studied the traces of the old bandage. The wolf could not have done that itself; it must have been cared for by someone. She knew some woodsmen used wolves to aid their hunting. Was this someone’s lost pet?

  As she realized the wolf was not going to leap at her throat, she allowed herself to breathe again. She leaned away, meaning to retreat, then paused. Fear kept her ready to bolt, but the swordsman’s words about not letting fear control one’s actions kept her crouching in place. Maybe the wolf needed help, like her uncle.

  And another thought occurred to her. Maybe its keen nose could even lead them all out of here! Elena pictured her sick uncle. They needed a way out quickly. If she could coax the wolf . . .

  Taking a chance, she bit her lower lip and crawled a step forward to the stream. Using both hands, she cupped a scoopful of cold water and held it out to the wolf. Surely it would take this gesture as a friendly one. The wolf’s eyes narrowed slightly with suspicion.

  She forced her arms not to tremble as she held her position firm. At that moment, the falcon flapped down and gently landed on her shoulder.

  The wolf eyed the bird, then looked again at the offered water.

  It took a step forward.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”

  The wolf padded another step toward her, its nose now so close she felt its hot breath on her fingers. It craned its neck forward. A tentative tongue slipped from between exceptionally long fangs to touch the water. Though wanting the water, its eyes never left hers. The yellow eyes, she now noted, were odd. The irises were slitted up and down, not round, more like a cat’s eyes than a dog’s.

  As she stared in fascination and awe, its eyes suddenly dilated black and darted to her right. It pulled its neck back with a growl.

  “Get back, Elena! Now!” She glanced over her shoulder to see Er’ril stepping from around a boulder behind her, his sword raised in menace toward the shaggy wolf. “Run behind me.” Er’ril lunged at the wolf with the sword.

  Without thinking, Elena threw herself in front of the swordsman’s weapon. She knocked his blade aside with the flat of her hand. “No!” As her right hand made contact with his sword, a flash of ice blew out from her palm to swallow Er’ril’s sword.

  Er’ril gasped and shook the frigid weapon from his hand. The iron sword crashed with a clang to the stone, and like a glass vase, it shattered into a thousand frozen pieces.

  Elena watched the swordsman’s eyes settle on her face. He wore an expression of red-cheeked anger mixed with shock. “My sword!”

  “I didn’t mean to do it,” Elena said in a small voice, hiding her right hand behind her back. The realization that she had just destroyed their party’s only weapon dawned on her. Tears rose to her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Behind her, she heard the wolf growl.

  ER’RIL GRABBED THE stunned girl and swept her to the side, prepared to do battle with the huge wolf. The beast was injured, so perhaps he still had a chance of driving it away with a swift kick or the strike of a fist.

  The wolf, though, was not growling at them, but had his back turned and faced toward the dark trail they had traversed earlier. The wolf’s hackles were raised, and a long, steady rumble flowed out to the darkness.

  “Something’s coming,” Elena said.

  Now Er’ril could hear the scuffle of disturbed shale and a more familiar noise—hissing. “Goblins.” He pulled Elena away.

  The wolf backed toward them, sloshing through the small stream.

  Elena pointed to the beast. “He knows, too. They’re probably the ones who injured him.”

  Er’ril ignored her words and pushed Elena ahead of him as he retraced the route back toward the fissure. “We need to get to your uncle and keep moving. Without a weapon, we have no chance of breaking out of here. We need to keep ahead of them.”

  Elena was staring back. “The wolf is following us.”

  Er’ril spotted the wolf, too. It kept a wary distance away, somewhat hidden, and clung to the shadows of the boulders. It kept pace with them, padding silently.

  “He’s protecting us,” Elena said.

  “No, he’s just following the light.”

  “He has an old broken splint on his bad leg. Someone must have lost him.”

  The girl was right, but there was no telling if the wolf had gone feral on its owner. The splint looked old and weatherworn, as if the creature had been traveling some distance with it. Wild or not, it did not seem an immediate threat, and if the goblins should attack, its long teeth might prove useful, perhaps buying them time to flee. So Er’ril let it follow behind—as long as it kept its distance.

  Once the old man and his lantern came into view, Elena dashed ahead to kneel beside her uncle. Er’ril joined the girl, noticing that Bol’s chest still rose and fell. He placed a finger on the old man’s neck. The pulse was weak.

  He straightened and
searched the darkness. After they had fled the stream, the hissing had faded. At least the goblins were again keeping their distance.

  Elena raised her eyes to Er’ril. “Is he going to die?”

  “I don’t know. He’s an old man.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I can carry him.”

  She eyed his single arm with doubt in her eyes.

  “He’s light. I’ll manage.”

  Elena nodded, resting a palm on her uncle’s chest. The hand glowed a rich ruby in the double light. Er’ril recalled the strength of the power that had frozen his sword. He had barely dropped it in time to keep his hand from being consumed by the ice. She had powerful magick, but her control was weak. Still . . .

  “There is one other way,” he said. “But there are risks.”

  She brightened. “What?”

  “Your magick.”

  Hope died in her eyes. She sagged her head. “No. I can’t make it do what I want.”

  “You kept me from harming the wolf.”

  “Maybe, but I didn’t mean to destroy your sword. The magick is wild.”

  “In my time, young mages were always fouling up. I had a brother, Shorkan. He came to his Chyric power the same age as you. Once when he was young, he burned down our kitchen as he tried to light our hearth with his magick.”

  “He got better, though, right?”

  He nodded. “With practice and training, he became a great mage.”

  “But who can train me?”

  Er’ril knelt beside her. “I was my brother’s liege man.”

  “What’s that?”

  “His protector. Each mage was assigned a liege man to keep them from harming themselves with their early magick. I was beside Shorkan during his initial training, pulling him out of many scrapes. We liege men were not privy to the higher arts but were instructed in the lessons of control—how to manage the flow of power. We learned these lessons to assist those in our charge.” Er’ril tried not to wince as he picked up her red hand. “I can perhaps help you.”

  “Really?”

  “I will try. But what you must do to help your uncle, though it is a simple thing, requires a subtle touch of magick.”

  “Will this save him?”

  “I don’t know. What I’m going to teach you is not a true healing—that is beyond my knowledge. What I can show you is how to pass a small drop of your magick to your uncle. This will boost his spirit and maybe allow him to escape this fainting illness.”

  Elena stared at him with doubtful eyes. “What if something goes wrong?”

  “Then he will die.”

  Her eyes twitched wide with fear. She stayed silent and hugged her arms around her chest. After several silent moments, she finally spoke. “But Uncle Bol could die if I don’t try.”

  Er’ril nodded, impressed with the resiliency of the child. Her hand trembled as she unclasped her arms and studied the whorls of color on her ruby palm, but a determination and resolve shone forth from her eyes.

  She stared directly at him, her jaw tense. For the first time, he saw in that small face the woman she would become. Bright green eyes, a wash of red hair, strong lips. She would grow to be a woman of fair beauty—if she lived that long. “Show me what I must do,” she said.

  He knelt and beckoned her down beside him. “It requires blood.”

  She withdrew from him slightly.

  “Fear not; this is small magick. Just a drop.” Er’ril pointed to the sheathed dagger Bol had given the child.

  Elena reluctantly withdrew the wit’ch’s dagger from her waist. Its silver glowed in the bird’s light like a sliver of the moon.

  “Pass me the dagger,” Er’ril said.

  The child did, more than willing to relinquish the weapon.

  Er’ril took one of the old man’s hands and laid it on his own knee. Then, using the knife, he poked a small hole in the tip of Bol’s thumb. Thick blood welled like a black pearl from the wound. He offered the knife back to Elena. “You must do the same.”

  He saw her wince and clench her fist away. Her expression sparked a sudden memory of the small boy sacrificed to forge the Blood Diary. He, too, had worn the same shocked look when faced with his first cut. Er’ril stared at the small girl and prayed she wouldn’t share the boy’s fate.

  “You must do this. Your uncle performed the initial cut in christening your dagger. This next must be by your own hand.”

  She nodded and fought to unclench her fist and reach for the knife. With a surprisingly steady hand, she raised the blade above her red thumb.

  “Just a nick. Too much blood will be hard to control.”

  She took a deep breath, darted one quick look at him, then stabbed the tip to her thumb. He noted she was careful not to dig too deep. Once done, she sheathed the knife casually, as if she had just buttered a slice of bread. Her eyes remained fixed on the blood seeping from her injured thumb.

  “Good girl. Now place your wound atop your uncle’s.” As she reached to do so, he stopped her hand. “When you make contact, you will be able to . . . able to feel your uncle.”

  “Feel?”

  He scrunched up his brow. How could he describe something he had never experienced? “My brother once told me it was like suddenly becoming that person. You don’t sense their thoughts, but simply know what it’s like to wear their skin.”

  Her eyes narrowed—whether with worry or doubt, he couldn’t tell. “Then what do I do?”

  “As soon as you feel this contact, allow no more than a breath to pass, then you must immediately sever the connection by removing your thumb. The longer you stay connected the more magick will flow into your uncle. You must not let more than a heartbeat of magick seep into him.”

  “Won’t a little more help Uncle Bol heal quicker?”

  “No. This is raw magick, not a controlled spell. Only the chosen, like yourself, can be a vessel of so much power. No more than a drop can be risked.”

  “What if I give him more?”

  “Do you remember my sword?”

  ELENA PICTURED THE sword encased in an ice so cold that it made iron brittle. She stared at her uncle spread out on the rock floor. She would not let that happen to him.

  She remained kneeling, fixed and afraid to move, fearful of harming any more of her family. From the corner of her eye, she spotted the wolf buried in the inky shadow of a nearby boulder. His amber eyes glowed from his hiding place, reflecting back the moonlight from the falcon on her shoulder. The swordsman held her uncle’s bloody thumb toward her, staring. So many eyes were on her.

  She closed her own eyes and took a huge breath, willing herself calm. She opened her eyes and looked only at her uncle’s face. He—the man who had regaled her with countless tales by firelight—needed her. And now she was living in one of his fanciful stories.

  As she stared, she suddenly realized how much her uncle looked like her own mother, with the same cheekbones and set to the eyes. And his nose, broader than her own, was so like her brother Joach’s. So much of her family was in the lines and planes of his face. As this thought dawned on her, her heart grasped some sliver of hope. If she saved him, perhaps in some measure she could keep a small piece of each of them alive.

  She lifted her face to the swordsman.

  He wiped away a tear from her cheek.

  She pushed his hand away. “I’m ready.”

  Holding out her uncle’s hand, he reminded her, “Only a single drop.”

  With a final deep breath that sounded more like a moan, she pressed her thumb on her uncle’s wound.

  At first nothing happened, and she almost cried with a combination of relief and hopelessness. Then she felt a part of her drawn through the wound into her uncle. She still saw out of her own eyes, saw how her touch seemed to tense her uncle’s body, felt the falcon fly from her shoulder with a startled cry, and saw it perch on a spur of rock. Yet at the same time, she felt the tickle of beard on her neck and how her joints ached in protest to tensed muscles
. She also felt the cold stone under her back as she lay sprawled on the rock.

  Mostly, though, she sensed her heart straining to beat, struggling and quivering; but she was unable to tell if this was her own heart or the shadow of her uncle’s. She was lost somewhere between the two. The line between Elena’s awareness and her uncle’s sensations blurred.

  Fear and the swordsman’s warning caused her to yank her thumb away. As soon as contact was broken, she snapped fully back into her own body. Shaking her head loose of cobwebs, she sat back on her heels, suddenly feeling very small and, for some reason, starkly alone.

  A groan drew her attention outward to where her uncle was struggling to sit up. He raised a shaky hand to his forehead. “What happened? Did I fall asleep?”

  He seemed to be much better. His color had pinkened and his breathing sounded clear. But Elena knew better than to expect that he was healed. She had felt his heart. Uncle Bol was still sick.

  She hugged her uncle but found no words. Er’ril, though, related all that had happened to her uncle.

  Once the swordsman had finished explaining, Uncle Bol took Elena by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length so he could study her. “You saved me with your magick. I feel about ten years younger, ready to take on a battalion of goblins.”

  His smile was infectious, and an embarrassed grin appeared on her face.

  “See, I told you that Fila’s strength was in you.” He pulled her back to his chest in a fierce hug. As she lay within his embrace, she listened to the old man’s heart. She remembered the straining beat, the weak flutter of his pulse. Each beat made her shiver, afraid it would be his last.

  Of what use was this magick? How could it save a world when it couldn’t cure an old man? She suddenly felt the weight of the last two days without sleep. She allowed her uncle to hold her up.

  As she slumped in his embrace, a rumble of hissing arose around her again, sibilant and demanding—rock’goblins. Her uncle pulled her to her feet. When would she be able to rest?