Wit'ch Fire

by James Clemens

  “It is magick,” Er’ril declared. “I can practically smell its stink.”

  “Surely not. As I said, elemental magick is a subtle working. Nothing elemental could generate such a power.”

  “It’s not elemental,” Er’ril said. He spoke between clenched teeth. “It’s Chyric!”

  Uncle Bol tripped to a stop. “Nonsense! Down here? Once Chi abandoned our land, no such pool of power survived in these parts. Maybe at A’loa Glen, but not here.”

  Er’ril turned to Elena’s uncle, his face tight. “I have seen a light of this character once before.”

  Elena spoke up. “Where?”

  The swordsman remained quiet. His eyes did not even brush toward her.

  “Where?” her uncle echoed.

  After a further pause, he answered, his voice low. “When the Book was forged.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “I would not forget.” His eyes took on a faraway look as he remembered another time and place. “It was my assignment during its cursed binding. Look for the sign, Shorkan told me: a flash of blinding white light. Then I must close the Book and end the spell.” His eyes focused back on Uncle Bol.

  “The light . . . you can’t mean . . .?”

  “I can never forget it. Not even after five hundred winters. It burned through my eyes to sear my mind. The light is the same, rich with Chyric energy.”

  Her uncle scratched at his beard and murmured, “Odd. Perhaps there is another explanation.”

  “The cursed goblins can keep their explanations and secrets. I just want my ward.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” Elena said. “Maybe your ward-thing plays some role.”

  Her uncle’s eyes sparkled with her words. “The girl’s right! It’s so obvious.”

  Er’ril’s face just frowned deeper. “It is of no matter.”

  “No, Er’ril, it is. Why did the goblin show you the ward and run? Why have the goblins not attacked us and only driven us forward? That is unlike them. What do they want?”

  Er’ril’s eyes glanced at Elena, then quickly away.

  Uncle Bol must have caught his look. “That’s what I thought. It had something to do with Elena.”

  She cringed. She had suspected as much herself, but to hear it voiced aloud stung. Please, she prayed, don’t lay this at my feet. She had so much to be blamed for already—her parents, her home, Aunt Fila, Joach.

  Uncle Bol continued. “But I was wrong.”

  Er’ril’s brows rose with a doubt Elena felt, too. “Then what do the goblins want?” he asked.

  “It’s so obvious!” He reached a hand and tousled Elena’s hair. “Yet if she hadn’t added her insight, I would’ve never seen it.”

  “What?” This was echoed by both Elena and Er’ril.

  “Not what, who?”

  Er’ril’s nostrils flared in exasperation. Elena just waited. As Elena had warned the swordsman at the supper table—only last night, though it now seemed like ages ago—Uncle Bol would only let his stories flow at his own pace.

  “Out with it, old man!” Er’ril finally blurted. “Who do they want?”

  Her uncle rolled his eyes as if it was so simple. “Why, you, of course.”

  Elena kept one ear cocked to the two men’s argument. She hoped in her heart that Uncle Bol was correct. If the rock’goblins wanted them, let it not be because of her.

  “You are daft, old man!” Er’ril said. “Me? They want me? I’ve never even encountered rock’goblins before—not once during the hundreds of winters I have wandered the land. What would they want of me?”

  Bol ran a comb of fingers through his beard and shrugged. “The answer lies ahead.”

  Elena, relieved that the burden of responsibility for their plight was taken from her shoulders, had let her gaze wander back behind them. She spotted a darker shadow close to one wall; the wolf still followed. Poor creature, he was probably just as scared and lost as they were and was trusting them to find a way out of this maze of tunnels. She prayed he hadn’t misplaced his trust.

  “Then let’s get going,” Er’ril said. “If they only want me, maybe they’ll grant you both free passage out of here.”

  “No, we leave here together,” her uncle said.

  “The wolf, too,” Elena added, but except for a distracted pat on the head from her uncle, they ignored her words.

  She walked beside Uncle Bol as they set off once again down the tunnel. Er’ril led the way, still carrying the lantern even though he extinguished the lamp’s flame to conserve its fuel since the silvery light had now grown sufficient to light their way. The only other illumination came from the moon’falcon drowsing on her shoulder.

  As they continued down the tunnel, she kept an eye on the wolf trailing behind them. The beast would wait until they had worked a fair distance along the tunnel, then dart forward to his next hiding place, trying to disappear into shadows. But the light grew around them. As shadows grew fewer and fewer, the wolf could no longer completely vanish into the blackness.

  Now that Elena could see more of their lingering companion, she studied him more closely, almost walking backward. She was surprised to see that his coat was not solid black as she had first supposed, but actually streaked with lines of browns and golds. His fur glowed lustrous in the light, and his eyes were chunks of shining amber. She also noticed that his limp seemed to be worsening. His head bobbed in pain as he placed weight on his injured forelimb. Poor thing!

  As she watched, she felt the wolf’s eyes on her and knew he studied her, too. For a moment, those yellow and gold eyes met hers across the tunnel. As eye met eye, she suddenly felt light-headed, and her right hand grew warm and tingled. She suddenly tasted the wild wood of his home and sensed his heart beating to run free under the forest’s dappled shadows. Her eyes grew wide with these sensations, and the tunnel walls faded around her. An image formed: A baby bird falls from a nest and tumbles toward the ground, but just before crashing, its tiny wings spread and it flies. As it sweeps up, the small bird grows into a huge eagle, its wings blocking the sun, swallowing the world.

  Just as quickly as the image had appeared, it broke apart. The tunnel reappeared and wrapped around her again. All she now saw were those amber eyes of the wolf glowing toward her. Elena’s foot stumbled on a loose rock.

  Uncle Bol caught her before she fell. “Careful, honey,” he mumbled.

  She barely heard his words, her eyes still on the wolf. What had just occurred? She rubbed her eyes. The wolf still stared at her from where he crouched, his eyes narrowed. Somehow she knew the wolf was aware of what had just happened to her—the sensations, the image of the baby bird.

  Elena watched the wolf’s lids slip lower, shadowing those strange amber eyes.

  No! It was more than that, Elena suddenly knew. The wolf did not just know of these visions, he had sent them to her!

  But how? Why? What did it mean?

  She grabbed at her uncle’s sleeve, pulling him to a stop. “The wolf . . . the wolf . . . he . . .”

  “Shh, Elena. We’re almost to the end of the tunnel.”

  Elena saw Er’ril glance toward the wolf at her words. The swordsman’s face tightened with menace, as if suspecting the wolf might be attacking. As he saw that the beast still crouched well away from them, his eyes swept to her in question. But Elena found her tongue twisted by Er’ril’s stern face. How could she put into words what had just happened? With her silence, the swordsman returned his gaze forward.

  Uncle Bol’s eyes had never budged from where they stared at the blinding light shining through the arch of stone marking the exit to their tunnel. “It’s so beautiful,” he said softly.

  Elena finally noticed how bright the light had grown around them.

  Uncle Bol nodded Er’ril forward. “Let’s see what lies ahead.”

  The swordsman again led the way, but more slowly, hesitantly, as if fearful of what he might discover. Elena noticed as she tried to follow that her feet were just as reluctant
to move. It wasn’t fear: Somehow the light itself, now so very bright, seemed like a strong wind in the tunnel. She found she had to push against it to continue farther down the hall toward the arch.

  “Most interesting,” Bol said behind her. Her uncle leaned forward to press on, like a man in a gale.

  Er’ril had a hand held before his eyes, pressing outward, as he approached the arch.

  Elena glanced behind her to see if the wolf still followed. She caught him just darting ahead into this bright section of the tunnel. Now there were no shadows to hide in at all. Still, he kept his nose close to the ground, ears laid back flat to his head. As he pushed into the light after them, she saw him suddenly stop.

  His body twitched. He took another hesitant step forward. As he moved, the light bathed over him, and his flesh seemed to ripple. He took another step, obviously in pain, his neck tight and bunched. Elena gasped. The wolf’s form now flowed like thick syrup. The light seemed to be blowing the shape of the wolf away from the arch. What was revealed underneath was not wolf, but something that flowed in streams and channels. Melted wax, Elena thought.

  The only part of its body that remained untouched were its eyes. The same amber eyes stared at her from a mass of rippling, flowing flesh.

  Stunned, she watched it try to slide farther toward them. But movement seemed to take too much effort, and somehow Elena knew it was excruciating. Lines of pain seemed to flow through its rippling tissue. It backed away a step, then another. As it retreated from the light, the wolf form grew back into place—ears, limbs, tail, fur—until Elena could not tell that anything had happened.

  The wolf stared after her as she followed her uncle deeper into the light, toward the arch. But she knew it was not a wolf. She watched it back another step away. Its eyes never left her face, and a deep sadness enveloped her. But whether this came from the wolf or from her own feeling, she could not tell.

  “Sweet Mother!” Er’ril said behind her. Elena twisted to see if the swordsman had also witnessed what had happened to the wolf-creature. But the swordsman had his back to her. He had reached the exit to the tunnel, standing with one hand on the last arch of stone. He stared beyond the opening at something in the next chamber.

  She watched him sink to his knees. “No, Sweet Mother, it can’t be! Anything but this!” he cried. “Not here! Not after so long!”

  29

  “WHERE ISS THE child?” the skal’tum repeated, stepping closer to Rockingham. It held a haunch of horse thigh in one claw and tore into it.

  Not able to suppress a cringe, Rockingham took a step away, nearer the nyphai woman. Nee’lahn’s scowl marred her soft lips. He held up a hand toward Nee’lahn. He knew she might burst forth at any moment with something to ruin his scheme with the skal’tum—like the fact that he had no idea where the foul wit’ch was! Curse those without deceit. How did they live to an old age? He pressed his open palm toward her, willing her silent.

  She ignored him. “You are the lowest of beetles digging into dung,” Nee’lahn hissed, obviously believing he was about to betray them. And he would, if betrayal would allow him to live; but the time was not ripe for that quite yet.

  He risked removing his eyes from the skal’tum and turned to face Nee’lahn fully. He forced his voice into a deep-throated timbre. It was said among those of Blackhall that the Dark Lord’s lieutenants had difficulty hearing in the lower ranges. Their sharp ears, like a firebat’s, heard best in the higher pitches. Whether this was gossip or fact, Rockingham still kept his voice quick and low. “Hush! If you wish to live, let me handle this. Trust me.”

  “Trust you!” she said too loudly. “I would sooner trust the Black Soul himself.”

  “If you don’t wish to be dinner, keep your tongue still.”

  The cowering figure of Mogweed sidled closer to Rockingham. The shape-shifter’s eyes were still fixed on the steaming mass of bone and gore that was once a proud stallion. The remaining mare nearby had stopped yanking on its lead and just stood shaking. Its eyes rolled white with fear, but it kept quiet. Smart horse, Rockingham thought.

  Mogweed leaned into their conversation. “If this man knows these beasts, perhaps it would be best if we heeded his counsel.”

  The tiny woman dismissed the shape-shifter’s words with a shake of her head. “He knows nothing. He—”

  “Exactly!” Rockingham said, determined to keep her from further voicing aloud how little he actually knew. He drilled her with his eyes and spoke low, his hushed words more an exhalation than speech. “I don’t know. That’s just it. I can’t reveal anything useful to them—only save our hides. I have no wish to fall into their capture. Death at their claws would be pleasant compared to being dragged before the Dark Lord in disgrace.” His glance took in the ravaged horse. That was merciful compared to what could occur within the bowels of Blackhall’s dungeons. He forced his eyes to pierce Nee’lahn to silence. “Let me do my job.”

  And what he did best was survive—by his wits and his tongue.

  She glowered at him but kept her lips pressed tight.

  He turned to face the skal’tum, who had finished cracking the bone of the haunch and stood sucking at its marrow. The beast knew they were trapped and seemed to enjoy drawing out the tension. The other creature crept closer, its eyes fixed on Rockingham. “I hear gnatss buzzing, but no answers. Tell us where the girl hidess.”

  Rockingham straightened his riding cloak, trying to appear confident and calm before the towering bulk of the twin skal’tum. He cleared the tension from his throat with a cough, then began. “Like you, great lieutenants of the Black Heart, I, too, am on the trail of the wit’ch-child.”

  “You have failed. Word has reached Blackhall. We were dispatched to correct your misstake.”

  Rockingham spread his palms wide as if in shock and hurt. “It was no mistake of mine. The fault lies at the feet of the old maimed one, Dismarum. He would not heed my desire to use force and blade to nab the girl, instead relying on tricks and deceit. That was his downfall, and alas, our failure! This child is steeped with wicked cunning. She eluded the darkmage’s many traps.”

  “And where were you during all thiss, little man?”

  He rested his hand upon his heart. “The Black Heart gave me to the darkmage. I had no choice but to do Dismarum’s bidding—as mistaken as it was. Yet once Dismarum failed and used his arcane magick to flee from his disgrace, I was free to pursue the girl. And so I do.”

  “Then why iss she yet free?”

  “She’s quick and protected by strong allies and stronger magick.”

  “She iss a child.”

  He jabbed a finger at the closest beast. “A child who killed one of your own. You would do best not to underestimate her skill—as did your unfortunate brother.”

  The other skal’tum, his claws still red with horse blood, sprang closer. Rockingham fought to keep from backing away. Now was a crucial time to show strength. “You lie to us, man of weak flesh,” the skal’tum said. “We have met the killer of our brother. It was no girl. He even knew the breaches of our black protections.”

  Curse that hill of a man! Why was everyone so free with their tongues? Consternation laced with fear coursed through his veins, but he kept his face fixed in a look of benign disinterest as his mind spun on threads of deceit. He sharpened his voice to answer the creature. “And who did you think gave this man your secrets?”

  This thought gave the skal’tum a pause. It glanced to its companion, then back to Rockingham. Its voice was less malignant. “Yet she iss still not captured. Here the blame lies solely upon you.”

  “Ah, true she is not yet chained at your feet, awaiting the master’s pleasures.” Rockingham could not stop a shiver from passing through his body at the image of what pleased his lord. His tongue stumbled, but he continued. “Bu . . . But . . . I have harried her and driven her before me like a leaf before a storm, and now have her boxed and trapped. I have only to retrieve her.”

  “Where?”

>   Rockingham pointed to the root-shrouded entrance to the tunnel. “She is trapped, too deep for you to reach by digging. You will never get to her before dawn’s light.” Both skal’tum glanced to the eastern horizon; their wings twitched in a protective gesture. So some things gave even a skal’tum pause. Rockingham allowed the ghost of a smile to play upon his lips. “Only I can coax her from her hole.”

  “If she iss sso fierce, how can you, a wisp of a man, hope to drag her here?”

  “I have something she wants.” Rockingham nodded to Nee’lahn, whose face was frozen in distaste and hate. The next lie was crucial. “I have her beloved sister.”

  He watched Nee’lahn’s eyes grow wide with shock. His smile grew full. Sometimes even the righteous fell into step with his deceptions by pure chance. Her look of hate and open-mouthed shock seemed so genuine. He swung to face the twin skal’tum. “I am actually glad you arrived so opportunely. Now I can leave her in your capable care as I flush our quarry out of her warren.”

  Rockingham waved Mogweed from Nee’lahn’s side and indicated he should approach. The si’lura stood still. Rockingham saw him tremble. “With you two minding the sister,” Rockingham said to the skal’tum, “my guard and I can pursue the girl with quicker feet.”

  He again waved to Mogweed. This time the shape-shifter broke the ground’s hold on his feet and stumbled to Rockingham’s side. He stood almost too close, like a clinging shadow.

  One of the skal’tum slipped closer to Nee’lahn. To her credit, she did not even shrink as it loomed over her. She only glared at Rockingham.

  “Keep her safe,” he said. “She is vital to capturing the wit’ch.”

  “We will do our duty,” the skal’tum near Nee’lahn said.

  “And you do yourss, little man,” said the other.