He seemed to know he had caught her eye. From across the distance, he mouthed a word to her. Though no voice spoke, she knew what word his mouth formed, his lips twisted with hate: Wit’ch.
She cringed from his sneer and mad eyes, trying to pull back into the rock itself to escape his loathing. Fortunately, Uncle Bol slipped to her side, stepping between her and the madman’s gaze. He placed an arm around her shoulders. Relieved, she hid within his embrace.
“It’s as if Chi is here,” her uncle mumbled beside her, his eyes never leaving the statue. “You can feel a trace of the ancient spirit in the air.”
Elena sank deeper into his arms. She, too, sensed the echo of some force from ages past. This spirit called to her blood, urging her forward. Yet her hand still ached and throbbed with remembered flames, a warning to stay away.
She heard her uncle mumble something. The tremble she heard in his voice drew her attention from her thoughts. Uncle Bol wore a sad smile, his eyes shining moist in the light. “I wish Fila were here to see this,” he said as he hugged her tight.
His words and touch awakened the sorrow Elena had boxed away in her heart for all those she had lost—her mother, her father, her aunt, her brother, and in some ways, even herself. Through tears, she stared toward the center of the chamber.
Er’ril remained frozen before the statue, as if he had become the sculpture instead. The swordsman’s eyes also shone bright in the light, but not with awe or wonder: His face was etched with lines of shock and horror. As Elena watched, Er’ril sank to his knees, his face now even with the boy’s. “I’m sorry,” he said so hoarsely Elena barely heard the words.
The statue reached toward the swordsman with its iron hand. The sculpted fist opened, and the boy placed the metal palm on Er’ril’s shoulder. Its touch sent a shiver through the man. “No,” the boy said, his voice a wind whistling through a crystal flute. “I am the one who is sorry. I failed you all.”
ER’RIL WATCHED THE boy’s pained expression deepen. He was sure his own face mirrored the boy’s. Er’ril’s voice cracked with tears. “I killed you, slaughtered you upon my sword.” In his mind’s eye, he pictured the spill of blood welling across the oiled wood.
The boy’s grip on his shoulder tightened, and his voice gained substance. Er’ril even heard the accent of the boy’s coastal home. “I have not much time to speak. Unleashed of the crystal, my spirit will soon dissipate. But know this, Er’ril of Standi, you did not kill all of me. I still live. Your blade only cut from me that which every good man would wish killed in themselves.”
“Your words make no sense. I remember you lying dead on the floor of the inn.”
Crystal lips smiled sadly on Er’ril. “Have you never discovered the truth of what happened that night?” The boy seemed to pull inward. “So much time has passed, yet so little wisdom has been gained,” he said softly. “I should never have failed my brothers.”
“Fail? It was the foul traitor Greshym who played black tricks on us all. You were but an innocent pawn in his games.”
“I wish it were so, knight of the Order. But you are wrong. Greshym and your brother did not shirk their duties. When the spell was cast and the magick unleashed, we all finally knew what was truly asked of us. At first, we had thought our deaths would be the only price. But as the magick swirled, we learned the cost was much steeper.” The boy choked on his next words. “I saw and panicked. The other mages stood their ground while I fled.”
Er’ril pictured again the ring of wax, his brother Shorkan yelling in shock, and the boy fleeing his place in the circle. “What happened? What was so direly asked?”
The boy’s voice lowered to a strained whisper. “For the Book to be forged, we all had to make a sacrifice. The pure and good in each of us had to be drawn out and imbued into the Book.” The boy’s voice cracked to a stop.
Er’ril stayed quiet and waited for the grip of old memories to loose their hold on the boy’s tongue.
“B-but more was asked! When all that was good in us drew to the Book, we would not die!” The boy glanced to Er’ril, his eyes wide with horror. “The evil and foul in us would yet live!”
His words chilled Er’ril. He remembered Greshym’s ruined face cowled in shadow on the streets of Winterfell—a sickness walking in the form of his old friend. “I saw Greshym,” he mumbled, “draped in the robes of Gul’gotha: a darkmage.”
The boy lowered his head. “That was the final price. For us to forge a book to defy the Dark Lord, a part of us had to be given to him. A balance had to be achieved. For our goodness and light to become the Book, a debt had to be paid. That which was foul and sick was gifted to Gul’gotha, a tool to be used as the monster saw fit.” The boy’s iron hand tensed on Er’ril’s shoulder. “I could not pay that price.”
“So you ran.”
“I was too late. The splitting of my spirit had started and could not be stopped. As I broke the warded ring around us, that which was evil in me broke through and attacked you.”
Er’ril remembered the shaggy, fanged creature. “The beast I slew in the inn,” he said, “that foulness came from you?”
The boy nodded. “While you fought, I fled through the breach in the ring, denying the Book my goodness. In my panic, my spirit, imbued still with Chyric energies, sought a familiar place. I found myself back at the school and sensed that a mage yet lived—Master Re’alto, dying of wounds here in this subterranean hold. I cured him and held his life with my magick. I sensed there would come a time when I could undo the damage my fear created and absolve my shame. So I crystallized my spirit, hid it here with a guardian, and waited. I knew you would come. When you slew my evil half, we were linked, you and I, by bonds of time and place.”
“For what end? What do you want of me?”
“We must both finish what your brother Shorkan started. The Book is not complete. I must join my spirit with the others to complete the spell started five hundred winters ago.”
“But how?”
“You must take me to the Book—” The boy swung to face the girl. Elena cowered against the wall. “—with the wit’ch. All must be brought together.”
Er’ril pulled his shoulder free of the boy’s hand. “The Book is far from here. To carry your statue—”
“You will not have to. You have brought me a talisman.” The boy held up his iron hand, which had once been the ward of A’loa Glen. He clenched it back into a fist shape. “You must carry this to pierce the magickal veil around the sunken city. But I will make your ward more than a lump in your pocket. I will—” The boy suddenly winced with pain. His image seemed less fluid, thicker, like clotting blood. It seemed more an effort for the boy to move now. “I cannot hold my spirit free of the crystal much longer. Time runs short. I must move into a new vessel or return to crystal form.”
“What must I do?” Er’ril had his hand raised as if to help, but his hand hovered, unsure what to do.
“I will join the ward.” The boy held the iron fist toward Er’ril. “This will be my new vessel. Once I join, I will not be able to speak to you again.”
“But I have—”
“I must leave you.” The boy’s voice had grown faint. His light faded along the edges, and the crystal lost its sharpness. The boy’s image blurred. As Er’ril watched, the light and substance that had once been both boy and statue began to draw into the iron fist. The boy’s voice came back to him, as if far away. “I can answer only one more question, swordsman.”
Er’ril’s mind whirled with a thousand questions. There were countless answers he had wanted for five centuries to hear. As he fought his tongue free of the tangle of questions, each vying to be asked, one question slipped from his lips. For endless winters, he had regretted never asking this before. He would not lose his chance now.
“Boy, what is your name?”
The boy remained quiet for a moment. Er’ril saw a single tear slide across the boy’s cheek, a tear of thanks. “De’nal. My name is De’nal.”
“I will
not forget.” Er’ril bowed his head.
When he raised his eyes, the boy’s form had faded to an insubstantial haze, crystal giving way to pure power. The iron ward hung in the air and drew the energies of soul and magick into itself. Just before the light fully faded, he heard De’nal’s voice whisper in his ear, “You are forgiven.”
Then, in the last spark of light, a mere nimbus around the iron fist, Er’ril saw the ward fall to the floor. As iron struck rock, the light vanished and blackness swallowed all away. In the darkness, Er’ril allowed himself to weep for a boy slain on his sword so long ago.
Book Five
THUNDER
33
TOL’CHUK STARED INTO the fissure and scratched at the ridge of bone above his eye. He could have sworn he had spied a wisp of light flowing from far ahead, a radiance of unusual character. The language of the og’res had over a dozen words describing the quality of light in tunnels and caves, yet Tol’chuk found his tongue unable to describe what he had seen. When he had finally reached the mouth of the fissure, intrigued by the radiance, the light had suddenly blinked away. Tol’chuk continued to stare. Was the darkness playing tricks on his tired eyes?
He knew, though, that his eyes were sound and his sight sharp, and one other factor gave substance to the reality of the glow: With the vanquishing of the light, the pressure upon his blood to pursue this path had suddenly vanished. He suddenly felt no compulsion from the Heart of his people to continue. This intrigued him more than the light itself. What had happened?
Behind him, Tol’chuk heard the plodding tread of Kral and Meric as they caught up to him. Tol’chuk sighed. The og’re had hurried forward, tired of the heavy-edged silence that encased his two companions.
“So where’s this light?” Kral said. The mountain man placed one hand against the chasm wall, his chest heaving deeply in the thick air.
Meric ran his palm across his shredded shirt, trying to put some semblance of order to the scraps that hung about his shoulders. The black stain along his pant leg had grown, his wound beginning to weep again. Meric stood leaning all his weight on his uninjured leg, too short of breath even to speak. His eyes, though, spoke of his waxing irritation with their situation.
“The light be gone,” Tol’chuk said. He stood staring into the tunnel ahead, unsure where to go next, his heartstone offering no direction.
“You said your friend went this way,” Kral said. “Maybe he found a way out.”
“I feel no breeze,” Tol’chuk said. “I smell no nelodar.”
“Smell what?”
“Og’re word. Air outside a cave, clean of tunnel smells,” he mumbled, suddenly distracted. Tol’chuk squinted his eyes. The shadows deep in the tunnel, along the left wall, had seemed to shift toward him for a moment. Tol’chuk tensed as he studied the path ahead. The shadows continued to lie still. Maybe he was mistaken—then he noted movement again! A growl of warning burst from his thick chest.
“What is it?” Kral said, his ax already in his hand.
“Something comes.”
Meric hobbled beside them, his thin sword now also pointed down the tunnel. “Goblins?”
Tol’chuk was not sure and left the elv’in’s question unanswered. The three stood across the fissure mouth.
“Can you make that foul light of yours any brighter?” Kral hissed at Meric.
The elv’in raised his green stone to his lips and blew across its surface. Like an ember of coal in a fading hearth, it flared brighter. Meric held the stone higher, casting its light deeper within the tunnel.
With the increased illumination, two eyes reflected back the light from a cloak of shadows—eyes of amber.
“What is it?” Kral whispered.
A stone’s throw down the tunnel, it stalked fully into the light. It glared at the light and growled at them.
“A wolf!” Kral tensed and shifted his ax for a better grip.
Tol’chuk placed a claw on the mountain man’s arm. “No, it be my friend.”
The og’re’s words reached the wolf, and its growling waned to a low rumble that showed the beast to be wary of the others.
Tol’chuk called to his wolf-brother. “It be safe, Fardale. Come.”
Fardale padded forward slowly, still careful. His eyes met Tol’chuk’s, and images flowed into the og’re’s skull.
Tol’chuk heard Meric complain, the sound seeming to come from a distance away. “We came all this way and risked our lives for that? Your dog?”
“Fardale be not a wolf,” Tol’chuk answered in a distracted tone, trying at the same time to interpret the thoughts of the si’lura. “He be my bloodbrother. We share heritage.”
The images from Fardale fought to sort themselves in Tol’chuk’s skull. A seed of understanding slowly bloomed. Something miraculous had happened down this tunnel, but the details were unclear. A light that burned. Flesh that flowed like a river. The images were mixed with sorrow and pain, as if something Fardale had fiercely desired had slipped from his grasp. Heartache and wonder were etched on the images from his brother in blood.
“Where are the others?” Meric asked beside him. “You said they had lights.”
Tol’chuk nodded. “Fardale, where be they?”
The wolf twisted his nose and looked back the way he had come, indicating with his nose the direction of the others.
“Looks like they kept on going,” Kral said. “And so should we. We found your wolf. Let’s find our way out of here.”
Fardale’s eyes settled back on the og’re. Tol’chuk spoke. “Did the others find a way out?”
One image formed in Tol’chuk’s mind: goblins. Hundreds of goblins. Fardale sent him an image of a wolf retreating down a tunnel as goblins scurried past in such a frantic hurry that they ignored the slinking wolf.
“Well?” Kral asked. “What are we waiting for? The wolf is not going to answer you.”
Tol’chuk broke his gaze from Fardale to face Kral. “He did. There be goblins ahead. They have trapped the others.”
Kral nodded to the wolf and snorted. “He told you that?”
“There be much in these lands you have yet to learn, mountain man.”
“Perhaps, but what I do know is that we need a way out. If goblins are busy that way, we’ll try another way. Maybe the far wall of the chasm has a way up.”
“You would leave the others to the goblins?”
“It is no concern of mine.” Kral waved Tol’chuk’s words away. “I have friends who are in danger above. That is where my responsibility lies.”
“But Fardale has sent me pictures of the others. They be of your race and be guarded only by a warrior with one arm. You would leave them to such weak protection?”
Tol’chuk’s words forced Kral’s eyes wide. “One-armed!” Kral glanced to the wolf with a new measure of respect in his gaze. “It cannot be. Down here? Did your wolf tell . . . send . . . do whatever the blasted thing it does . . . about the others?”
“The warrior guards a female child and a whiskered old man.”
“Sweet Mother above, it has to be them!”
“Who?”
“My friends. We must hurry!” Kral started down the tunnel, edging past the wolf. Fardale also swung around to follow.
Tol’chuk took a step in pursuit when a voice raised behind him. “I will not go with you,” Meric said.
Kral spun on a heel. He still had his ax gripped tight. “You swore an oath.”
Meric shrugged. “I have kept my sworn promise to aid you until the og’re’s friend was found.” He pointed to the wolf. “There he is. That is all I swore, and I am now free of my word. I will take my light and search elsewhere for my bird—alone. I find your company tiresome.”
“You monster!” Kral spat. “We need your light.”
“It is no concern of mine,” Meric mocked, using the same words Kral had spoken but a breath ago, even the same disdainful tone. Meric took a step away from the fissure mouth. “I will give you one thing to help you on
your way . . .”
Kral waited, his brows bunched like thunderheads.
Meric smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes. “I give you my best wishes.”
Kral howled in rage and lunged toward the elv’in.
Tol’chuk caught the man across the chest as he tried to barrel past him. “No! Do not shed blood.” Kral tried to plow his way forward, but Tol’chuk did not budge. It was said an og’re could take root in rock and hold his place. “Meric be a free man, not a thrall. He has honored his word to us.”
Meric nodded toward the og’re, but his lips still sneered at Kral.
“We cannot hope to help my friends without a light,” Kral argued. “You would have them die for this one’s convenience.”
“My eyes be sharp in the dark,” Tol’chuk said. “I will lead you to your friends. The others have lights. If we reach them, then we will not need the elv’in’s stone.”
Kral still seethed, far from convinced by the og’re’s words. “I will be going,” Meric said from behind. “Good luck, og’re. I wish you well.”
As Tol’chuk struggled against the renewed effort of the mountain man to pass him, his og’re eyes spied a glint among the shadows filling the tunnel ahead. “Wait!” he said. “Look!”
All eyes swung down the tunnel. As they watched, the glint became a glow, and the glow grew to a distinct light, an azure radiance that wafted up and down and swung in wide swoops.
“It is my falcon!” Meric cried, as the bird flew closer. In a streak of brilliance, the moon’falcon swooped over Tol’chuk’s head and landed upon the elv’in’s raised wrist. The bird held its wings slightly spread as its breast fluttered in exhaustion. Its light waxed and waned slightly as it danced upon its perch.
“He can now spare his stone,” Kral mumbled sourly at Tol’chuk’s shoulder. “He’s found his louse-ridden bird and can use its glow to light his coward’s way out of here.”
Meric must have heard the mountain man. He spoke as he studied his bird and picked a loose feather from its wing. “No, I will still keep my stone.”
Wit'ch Fire Page 35
