Wit'ch Star (v5)

by James Clemens

  Tol’chuk hesitated. He had traveled through the arch once and was loath to do so again.

  The closest shadow turned his way. The greenish glow of eyes stared back at him; Tol’chuk recognized the shine of the worms. Hadn’t Magnam mentioned such a phenomenon? He remembered the d’warf’s words: If you hang around the worms long enough, their glow creeps into your own eyes. Some say it lets you see not only this world but into the next . . . into the future.

  Staring at those eyes now, Tol’chuk did not doubt it.

  “Come,” the figure whispered. For the first time, it sounded as if the words arose from this one individual rather than all three. “It is time you learned the truth.”

  The other spirits drifted toward the arch, one toward each pillar. As they reached the gate’s supports, each ghost disappeared into the stone, vanishing as they had done into the Heart earlier.

  Tol’chuk remained alone with the last member of the Triad.

  Across the room, a deep droning arose from the arch. As it grew louder, words could be heard—ancient words chanted in a tongue Tol’chuk did not recognize. The intonation traveled up the pillars, and a new sound reverberated outward, as if the original prayer was being echoed by something more ancient than any language. The whole cavern rang with the sound. Tol’chuk’s bones seemed to vibrate in tune.

  The lone spirit spoke at his shoulder. “It is the Voice of the Fang.”

  Tol’chuk glanced to the speaker. The misty figure had grown more substantial, seeming to draw strength from the noise itself.

  “The Land speaks through the mountain.” The spirit pointed again to the arch.

  As the droning grew in volume, the wall of granite framed by the heartstone arch began to shimmer in harmony with the Voice. What had once appeared to be a cliff of solid granite now seemed no more than a reflection in a pond that rippled with the droning call.

  Even the air grew clearer in the chamber, as if an unfelt wind blew outward from the gate. Tol’chuk breathed deeply, filling his lungs. He felt energy spreading throughout his being. As it reached the hand holding the Heart of the Og’res, the stone flared brighter, vibrating in harmony with the Voice.

  Tol’chuk’s arm rose of its own bidding, and he felt the now-familiar tug upon his chest. Tol’chuk stepped toward the Spirit Gate, unable to stop himself. A flush of panic iced through him. Was he again doomed to pass through the Gate and be transported elsewhere? He resisted, struggling to control his limbs.

  “Do not fight it,” the spirit whispered, trailing behind him.

  “What’s happening?” Tol’chuk squeaked out.

  “The Fang calls you. You cannot stop it.”

  The ghost was correct. Tol’chuk was drawn forward—not under the Gate and beyond like before, but toward one of the two pillars. And with each step, the stone flared brighter, growing into a blinding star in his hand.

  Sightless from the glare, Tol’chuk barely registered when he’d stopped. His arm stretched overhead, drawing his spine straighter. He felt the Heart touch the arch, clicking into place; with its touch, he was released from the spell and tumbled backward.

  Tol’chuk rubbed his arm. He spotted the Heart resting in a faceted cubby, like a key in a lock. It fit so seamlessly that it would have been impossible to discern if not for the blinding light coming from it.

  The ghost spoke. “The stone is the center of the Gate—its heart, as much as our own.”

  The Voice of the Fang suddenly changed in pitch.

  “Now watch!” the Triad ghost warned. “Watch as the Gate is made whole.”

  The shine of the imbedded Heart flowed up into the arch, igniting the larger stone like fire set to oil. The blaze of brilliance swept up into the pillared column, traveling high over the arch, then diving back down the far leg.

  As it hit the floor, the glow dimmed—but did not stop!

  Tol’chuk gasped.

  The star of brilliance could be seen diving down through the floor, shining through the granite like moonlight through a dense fog. The glowing arc passed beneath the arch, then back up into the first pillar, completing an entire circle to rejoin the Heart again.

  Tol’chuk gaped at the blazing arch above and the glow of its reflection in the granite below. The unbroken ring reminded him of the mountain people’s Citadel: an arch of granite whose reflection in Tor Amon formed a magickal circle. It was the same here.

  “Unity,” the Triad ghost whispered in a mix of sorrow and joy: “It has been so long since the Heart was hale enough to ignite the Gate fully.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The spirit pointed a hand overhead. “The arch you see in the cave is but half of the whole.” He shifted his arm toward the floor. “Below lies the other half circle, still buried, completing the Gate.”

  “A ring of heartstone,” Tol’chuk mumbled. “Not just an arch.”

  The spirit nodded. “With the Heart returned, the way is now open.”

  “The way to where?”

  The ghost again turned those wormglowing eyes toward him. “To the center of all things, the core of the world.” The spirit waved an arm toward the Gate. “Behold what lies within the Land’s true heart!”

  The mirage of rippling granite under the arch suddenly convulsed as if a large boulder had dropped into its center. From either pillar, two sweeping clouds of mist sailed forth—the other spirits returning. The pair joined their brother, and they all watched as the ring of heartstone blazed and the rock in the center rippled and churned. Granite lost form, becoming something else.

  Tol’chuk feared what he would see, but he could not tear his eyes away. His breath grew still.

  Slowly the churning slowed. The black granite cliff face disappeared. In its place was a sight that dropped Tol’chuk to his knees.

  He stared out into a pit of endless darkness, traced with jagged lines of crimson fire. Flares traveled along these veins like fireflies, pulsing and racing. Some seemed to flicker from the ring of heartstone here and travel down those lines. But it wasn’t these veins that took the breath from Tol’chuk. Set in the heart of the inky darkness revolved a giant crystal of the purest silver blue, shining like the most perfect diamond in the night.

  Tol’chuk could not remove his gaze from its beauty. Though he had no reference by which to judge its size, he knew what he looked upon dwarfed the largest mountain. He was but a mote before its majesty.

  “Behold the heart of the world,” the Triad intoned together. “The Land’s spirit given form. Behold the Spirit Stone.”

  With their words, the shining crystal swelled toward them. Tol’chuk sensed a presence filling the space like pressure under the deepest waters. Unblinking, he stared, feeling complete and whole, even before an energy unfathomable in depth and scope.

  And as he watched, he realized the traceries of crimson were in fact veins of heartstone. The webbed net of lines crisscrossed and forked, but all paths led down to the crystal at its center.

  The Spirit Stone . . . the true heart of the world.

  “She comes,” the Triad whispered around him, their voices full of reverence.

  Tol’chuk sensed it too, a growing heaviness to the air, a pressure on the ears. Then a figure appeared, stepping forth from the Spirit Gate as if from the stone itself. Limned against the silvery shine, the newcomer was a dark shadow, a living flow of black oil. It was a woman, tall and stately, clothed in a mist of silver tresses that clouded around her, draping over ebony shoulders, obscuring her face, and seeming to wave and sweep as if she moved underwater. The strands roiled and flowed all the way back to the Spirit Stone, blending one to the other.

  “Who . . . ? What . . . ?” Tol’chuk stammered.

  Drawn to his voice, she stepped forward, turning to him. Her silver tresses washed from her face for a moment. Her features grew to perfect clarity, carved of stone.

  Tol’chuk gasped. “Elena!”

  Mama Freda continued to warm her cold bones by the fire. At her side, Jerri
ck spoke in whispers to Magnam and Jaston, but she listened, instead, with the keen ears of her pet tamrink, her attention on the pack of og’res from the Ku’ukla clan.

  It was dizzying to sit so still before a warm fire while another part of her, sharp with senses, raced and sped. Her nose smelled both the sizzle of woodsmoke from the campfire and the goatlike odor of wet og’res.

  Mama Freda wrapped her hands over the end of her cane, leaning her chin upon her fingers, while her heart pounded in her ears, fearful for her pet, fearful for them all. From the words of Cray’nock, the Ku’ukla clan planned treachery and bloodshed. She longed to tell the others, but blind as she was here, it was impossible to tell who might eavesdrop. Around her, she heard the scuff of og’res, their grunts, their barked orders. Some were close, keeping an eye on the strangers in their den. For now, she would remain silent until she discovered what trickery the Ku’ukla clan planned.

  She focused on Tikal.

  By now, the og’re pack had crossed the meadow and were well into a patch of rimwood forest nestled in the upper highlands. They were in their own territory, tracing their way back to their home cave and warrens. The group grumbled like low thunder, much of it boasting of the number of heads they would collect during the war to come. But as the rimwood forest of black pines and mountain alder grew denser around them, the party became quieter.

  Through Tikal’s nose, Mama Freda could smell the edge of fear that now scented their musk. With each step, the scent grew thicker. Her fingers tightened on her cane.

  Cray’nock stopped and waved for the others to remain where they were. No one grunted an objection. The gnarled og’re straightened his wolfskin cloak nervously, then edged away from the group.

  Mama Freda silently urged Tikal to follow this lone og’re. The tamrink slipped to the side of the path and circled around the main group. Tikal took to the branches then, scampered high, and ran along the treetops. Here in the dense forest, the canopy was an unbroken road. Her pet’s keen eyes never lost sight of Cray’nock as the og’re slinked deeper into the dark woods.

  Overhead, lightning crackled. A spat of rain pelted down, drumming through the leaves and needles. Tikal slipped lower among the branches, both to avoid the worst of the rain and to keep a watch on the og’re as the woods grew denser.

  Cray’nock slowed, his gaze darting around him. The sweaty scent of his fear thickened the air.

  From a shadowy patch of the deep wood, a voice greeted him, sly and dripping with wickedness. “Have you the head of the one named Tol’chuk?” Mama Freda was surprised to hear the common tongue spoken here, not Og’re.

  “No, my queen.” Cray’nock dropped to his knees, his voice trembling. “The slayer of my brother still lives. He again uses demon trickery, this time to sway the others’ hearts.”

  “What of the pact with the Toktala clan? Their promise?”

  Cray’nock bowed his head. “Hun’shwa, their leader, resists. But the Ku’ukla clan is prepared to attack upon your word. We gather near the north woods already.”

  There followed a long empty silence. Cray’nock trembled among the wet leaves.

  “No,” the voice suddenly whispered, “we will not attack them in their own caves. I have heard of the summons this night, a gathering at the place called the Dragon’s Skull.”

  Cray’nock nodded. “Yes, my queen.”

  “That is where we will draw them out. And I will not tolerate any more failures—not from your brother before you, not from you.”

  “No, my queen.”

  “I will make sure this time, Cray’nock. Come closer.”

  The og’re climbed to his feet, shuddering, and moved forward, shambling in fear.

  Mama Freda urged Tikal to follow. Who lurks in the woods here?

  As both tamrink and og’re moved toward the deepest glade of the wood, Mama Freda made out what looked like snow shining among the branches ahead, as if a small snowstorm had struck this single section of forest. Fluffy mounds of white frosted dark limbs and lay in piles atop shadowy bushes. Even the forest floor was covered with drifts and banks of the snowy whiteness.

  What strangeness is this?

  Cray’nock crept to the edge of the odd glade, followed by Tikal in the treetops.

  Now closer, peering down with the sharp eyes of the tamrink, Mama Freda saw the snow-covered forest was not unoccupied. Thousands of tiny red spiders raced over the white mounds and along thin strands.

  Not snow, Mama Freda realized with growing horror, webbing. The entire glade was enshrouded in silky webs, piled thick and choking everything.

  Cray’nock cowered before the giant spider’s nest.

  From the center of the webbing, something dark stirred. A spiny leg, bloodred in color, pierced out from a dense curtain of netting and cut through the silky mass with ease. Then another appeared . . . and another . . .

  What came next, dragged out by those legs, was a horror unlike any Mama Freda had ever imagined—a giant spider, as large as any og’re, as dark a red as to be almost black. Its eight legs skittered through the web. Its bulbous shiny abdomen arched up, dripping silk from the spinnarets on its underbelly as it pulled free of its central nest.

  But that was not the worst.

  Above the engorged abdomen, the torso of a woman stood out starkly. She was as pale as the other half of her was dark. Long blue-black hair hung across her bare breasts, where tiny red spiders raced. She brushed them gently away with her hands, but her attention remained fully on the og’re before her.

  Cray’nock would not look up into her cold face. “Queen Vira’ni.”

  Mama Freda jerked by the fire, dropping her cane.

  Jerrick spoke at her side. “Freda, are you all right?”

  She waved his question away, frozen in fear. She had heard the tale of the spider wit’ch from the others: an ill’guard enemy slain in the woods below the highlands and buried there. But the ill’guard dead did not always stay dead. As with Rockingham before her, the spider wit’ch had obviously been resurrected and given a new form.

  “You will take me to the Dragon’s Skull,” she whispered, oily and venomous. She pointed to the limbs of the trees around her. “Call your clansmen. We will move my egg sacs there, too.”

  Cray’nock stared up. Tikal—and Mama Freda—followed his gaze. From the limbs of the trees, scores of heavy silk pods hung, the size of ripe pumpkins. Inside the silky cocoons, dark things churned and vibrated, awaiting release.

  The og’re trembled at the sight, horror keeping him frozen.

  “My children have tasted the blood of this Tol’chuk,” Vira’ni continued. “This time we will feast on his body—on the bodies of all who aid him.”

  “Yes, my queen.” Cray’nock climbed to his feet. The spider queen’s face lifted as he rose, her eyes piercing. Her gaze swept the silk-shrouded canopy and fixed upon Mama Freda’s own.

  “We are spied upon!” Vir’ani hissed, pointing in her direction.

  “Tikal! Run!” Mama Freda shouted aloud in her panic.

  “What’s wrong?” Jerrick asked, clutching at her shoulder.

  Mama Freda didn’t have time to answer. She raced with her tamrink through the trees, struggling to send energy out to him. Then a sharp pain flared in her chest. She gasped.

  Her little friend shared her pain. Tikal missed a jump and tumbled wildly. He struck a branch, and a tiny leg snapped. He hit the ground hard, knocking the breath from his chest.

  Mama Freda could not breathe herself, but she fought to give the tamrink what strength she could.

  Tikal scrambled to his one good leg. In his fright and pain, he chittered, “Tikal, good puppy, run, run.”

  The fiery agony in Mama Freda’s chest burst out into her legs and arms. She barely felt Jerrick cradle her as she fell. Her mind and heart—weak as it was—went out to Tikal. Run, my little boy, run.

  “Run, run,” he echoed aloud in a forest too far away.

  The tamrink raced with his injured leg curled
against his belly, fleeing on his hands, leaping with his good leg, tail flagging.

  Run and hide . . . get away, my little love. By now the pain choked her breathing to a standstill. She could not even gasp.

  Tikal fled, flying through the woods—then something snagged his leg, pulling him up short, dropping him to the dirt.

  As he struggled to free himself, rolling and jerking, Mama Freda saw what had captured him: a loop of webbing wrapped around his leg. It now drew him back, dragging his panicked body toward the source of the web, the spider queen. Vira’ni lurked down the trail, hunched, legs splayed, a grin of pure venom on her lips.

  From under her legs, a wave of tiny red spiders flowed, aiming for little Tikal. Her pet struggled and fought, trying to bite through the constraining web, chewing with his needle teeth.

  Tikal!

  Suddenly he broke free, rolling back from the sudden release. He turned and bounded away, leaping toward a low-hanging branch. With a flare of relief, Mama Freda felt his fingers latch on.

  But the branch was not empty.

  Small spiders danced across the bark, across Tikal’s fingers, down his thin arm. When they bit, the pain struck Mama Freda, worse than the pain of her own failing heart. The little tamrink fell again, landing amid the wave of spiders.

  Mama Freda screamed as he was overrun. “Tikal!”

  “Mama, Mama . . .”

  Then she felt the beat of his little brave heart clench and stop . . . as did her own.

  Deep in a cave, her body arched. Agony lanced through bones and heart.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Magnam cried out.

  “She’s dying!” Jerrick said. “Her heart!”

  Mama Freda felt darkness close around her, a darkness deeper than any blindness. She struggled to draw one more breath from lungs leaden with approaching death. She gasped out one final warning to her friends, her lover.

  “Beware . . . Vira’ni!”

  Then the cool balm of darkness erased her pain. As she drifted away from the touch of her lover, feeling his lips press against hers one last time, somewhere in the distant darkness, she heard a tiny piping cry, lost and scared. Mama, Mama . . .