Tol’chuk whispered in a low voice. “United.”
Thunder boomed in the distance, punctuating his single word.
“A storm is coming,” Magnam muttered.
No one disagreed.
9
Cassa Dar stood atop the tower of Castle Drakk. She stared across the Drowned Lands toward the setting sun. Beyond the tower parapets, a wispy sea of swamp mist spread to the horizon. Only the top levels of Castle Drakk rode above the endless expanse, a lone ship in a dead calm.
Distantly, the calls of loons and the mating cronks of the deadly kroc’an echoed up from the swamplands below, accompanied by the sweet smell of moss and the heavy odor of decay.
Cassa Dar breathed it all in, drawing strength from her living lands as she readied herself for the spell to come.
A dark shape loomed in the distance—the Southern Fang.
She frowned at the mountain. It was the source of her land’s elemental power, but its magick had also snatched the man she loved into danger. Her gaze flicked northward. Every fiber of her body rang with tension.
“Jaston . . .” She sent her heart out toward him, tying a bit of her magick to her love. She held that moment, maintaining the connection for as long as possible.
Satisfied, she swung to the small swamp child standing behind her. He clutched a bulging burlap sack in his arms, hugging it to his chest. The sack was soaking wet, bulging, dribbling swamp water on the stones of the tower.
“Dump the bag here,” she directed the lad.
Biting his lip with concentration, the boy undid the rope tie and dumped the contents of his sack. Slops of wet swampweed splashed to the stones. The odor of silty vegetation cloyed up. Small crabs skittered from the pile.
Cassa Dar ignored the tiny scuttling creatures. With the certainty of her elemental magick, she plunged her arm up to the elbow into the sodden mound; her fingers closed around her true quarry.
From the pile, she dragged out the baby king adder. The snake, though just hatched, was as long as the swamp child was tall. Its length, banded in reds and blacks, writhed and curled around her forearm. Its jaws stretched wide, unfolding fangs dripping with oily poison. It hissed sibilantly at her. At this age, its venom was at its most potent, a necessary survival trait in the wilds of the deadly swamp.
“Quiet, little one,” she whispered. “There will be time for that later.”
With her other hand, she grabbed the adder’s tail and unwrapped its length, then drew its body taut, measuring it against the boy’s height.
The lad reached for it. “Pretty.”
She pulled it from his fingers. “No, child, it’s not for you.”
Shifting back to the swampweed mound, she planted the snake’s tail into the pile and stretched its muscular length straight up. It continued to hiss and bare its venomous fangs.
“Hush, don’t waste what you’ll need later.”
Cassa Dar reached out with the magick stored in her own body. After sending the warning crow to A’loa Glen, she had spent the day steeling herself for this single spell. Taking a deep breath, she emptied her power into the weed and moss, the most basic plants of her magick-drenched lands. Linked, she cast a spell more complex than her usual.
Weeds came alive, crawling up the trapped snake’s body like vines up a trellis. Mosses followed, winding and filling in spaces. Cassa Dar concentrated on the form held in her mind, joining her poisonous magick to the venom of the adder. Once the climbing swampweed and mosses grew over the snake’s entire length, she freed her hands.
The figure trembled on the stone, roughly approximate to the boy standing nearby. The lad stared at her creation, eyes wide. He had just watched a mirror of his own birth, except for one critical difference: the boy was only weed.
Cassa Dar maintained contact with the poisonous asp at the heart of her new golem. She knit and wound one to the other until the two became one.
The spell was not without cost to her. Her legs trembled, and her heart pounded in her ears. Cold sweat covered her from head to toe. She finished her spell with a trembling wave of her hand. Rough lines flowed smooth, and a glamor swept over all.
Upon the stones stood a girl with flowing black hair and pale limbs. Unlike Cassa’s boys, she was impossibly slender and lithe, similar to the snake that lurked in her core.
“Pretty,” the swamp boy repeated, reaching again.
Cassa Dar knocked away his hand. One final spell was needed. She kept her concentration on the girl. “Wake,” she whispered.
Like a butterfly opening its wings for the first time, the child’s eyelids fluttered open. Dark eyes stared back from a face as perfect as an ivory doll’s. “Mama?” she whispered in a daze.
“Yes, sweetheart. It’s time to wake up.”
The child stared around her. “Is it time to go?”
Cassa Dar smiled. Her desire had been wed into the creation. “Yes, you mustn’t be late.”
Cassa Dar felt for the connections between her and the girl. They were as clear as crystal—they had better be when the two were this close. “Go now,” she said, leaning back.
The girl stared toward the setting sun, then shifted slightly northward.
“You know the way.”
The child nodded and strode toward the stone parapets. Her first steps were faltering but grew quickly stronger. She climbed atop the parapets without any fear of the fall.
But then again, she had no need for fear.
From behind her shoulders, wings of weed, glamor, and magick unfolded, spreading wide into the sunlight.
“Go, my sweet,” Cassa Dar urged.
The child leaped from the tower. Like her first wobbly steps, her first flight was tumbled and awkward. But in a few beats, she was off and sailing.
Cassa Dar crossed to the tower’s edge, watching, leaning on the warm stones. She saw both through her own eyes and her creation. With the bit of poison coiled in her heart, the child carried a bit of the swamp’s potency—and as such, a piece of Cassa Dar.
“I pray it is enough,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and willed herself to enter the child fully, to touch the venomous energy at the golem’s core. Linked still to the flow of elemental power from the Southern Fang, Cassa Dar manipulated the magick and opened a gate. Through the eyes of the flying swamp child, a black hole appeared in the expanse of swamp mist.
She dove her child down toward that magickal portal. The girl swept through the gate and out the far side.
A moment of disorientation coursed through her. Cassa Dar tumbled to the stones of the tower as the swamp child cartwheeled, plummeting downward.
“No!” she gasped, struggling for control. Her connection to her creation was now much fainter. The great distance between them made the child no more than a flickering beacon across a vast, dark lake. It took all her concentration to maintain the contact.
The boy on the tower stepped near her, knowing her need as always. She reached toward him. His hand touched hers. She sucked the magick from his being and ignored the tumble of damp weed and moss that fell at her feet. It was all that was left of the boy, but his bit of power helped focus her.
Far away, the fluttering girl fought her wings open and caught the storm winds ripping up the mountain slopes. She sailed high, spreading Cassa Dar’s vision wide. It was much darker here. To the west, a monstrous thunderstorm loomed, with black clouds stacked all the way up the sky. Lightning lanced sharply, while thunder boomed and echoed off the granite cliffs.
Cassa Dar willed the child lower, away from the worst of the storm’s winds. Below, a stream ran through a forest of black pine and mountain alders. She knew that stream—she had watched Jaston fight an og’re by that streambed.
Back in the swamps, she pressed her forehead to the stones. “I did it,” she moaned. She had opened a path back to where her last child had fallen. She sat straighter. This time she could maintain contact with her new creation, a child with a bit of the swamp’s poisonous magick at its heart
. It was a fragile connection, but so far it held.
She commanded the child to wing toward the slopes of the Northern Fang, into the heart of the storm. She would find Jaston and offer what aid she could. Bonded by love, she sensed the path she must take.
As the child flew, Cassa Dar felt something new, deep in the heart of her creation, another bond. The venomous adder stirred, responding in kind. Trained as an assassin in the art of poison and tied to the miasma of the swamp, Cassa was attuned to all forms of venom.
She opened her senses wider. As she did, ice seeped into her veins, chilling her bones. Not even the heat of the swamp could warm her.
Cassa Dar clenched two fists. Sensitive to the faintest wisps of poison, she knew what she felt. One thought formed in her mind.
Spiders.
Tol’chuk marched at the head of a column of og’res. The steep trail climbed in a series of switchbacks up the southern face of the Northern Fang. So far the threatening storm still held off, thundering and booming in the distance. Though the sun had just set, it was already as dark as midnight. Torches lit their way, held by one member of each hearth of the Toktala clan.
Clambering atop a boulder, Tol’chuk watched the line of flames below, spread along the trail. Beyond, the western sky flashed with crackles of lightning.
Jerrick stepped beside his perch. His face was as white as his hair, his eyes lost in grief, but as he turned to the warring skies, he drew strength from the approaching storm.
Magnam climbed up next, holding the torch high. “How much farther to this cursed place?” he grumbled.
Tol’chuk waved vaguely upward. “The entrance be near. Another half league.”
Magnam moved past, shaking his head, while Jaston neared with Mogweed. The shape-shifter whined even as he passed. “We should be heading down, not up. Or better yet, just stay in those caves and post guards. If there are dangers out here—from that spider wit’ch or enemy og’res—what are we doing so exposed? And another thing . . .”
Jaston just nodded. His expression had glazed over.
Tol’chuk climbed off his rock, joining Hun’shwa as the clan leader lumbered up. The warrior eyed the two men ahead of him.
“Tu’tura,” Hun’shwa said with a sneer, nodding to Mogweed, using the og’re word for the si’luran shape-shifter. He kept his words in his own tongue. “Those baby stealers are not to be trusted.”
Tol’chuk scowled, speaking in og’re. “Mogweed might make your ears bleed with his chatter, but he has no intent on our babies. This I swear.”
Hun’shwa curled a lip, exposing one fang. “He still smells of treachery.”
Tol’chuk did not bother trying to argue. To him, the entire highlands reeked of treachery. The Ku’ukla clan, the spider demoness, the Oathbreaker himself—who knew what other dangers would be faced ahead? He indicated the trail behind him. “Are your hunters ready?”
“They will be.”
Tol’chuk nodded. It was forbidden to bring weapons into the Dragon’s Skull. Still, they dared not go into the teeth of this storm unprepared. Other plans had been made.
A flicker of light flashed from high up the trail.
“The trackers,” Hun’shwa acknowledged. As the clan had marched out at sunset, a pair of trackers had been sent ahead. The og’re leader stared at the flickering code. “They’ve reached the entrance. The way is clear.”
Tol’chuk frowned. “And the other clans?”
Hun’shwa remained silent until the flickering died away. “Others already gather. The Sidwo, the W’nod, the Bantu, the Pukta.”
“And the Ku’ukla?”
Hun’shwa shook his head. “No sign.”
Tol’chuk did not like this. If anything, the Ku’ukla should have arrived first. While there were six different approaches up the Northern Fang to the Skull, one for each clan, the Ku’ukla path was the shortest. Their home caves were within the shadow of the Dragon’s Skull.
“What are they planning?” Tol’chuk mumbled.
Hun’shwa shrugged. “We’d best join the gathering. The storm will not hold off forever.”
As if agreeing with the og’re, a crack of lightning forked overhead, illuminating sky and mountain alike. For a fraction of a breath, the Dragon’s Skull was visible overhead. A massive slab of granite jutted like a snout from the southern face of the mountain. Under it, there gaped a wide opening, a tunnel. Framing either side stood two stone pillars, carved into giant fangs, marking the entrance to the Skull.
For untold centuries, the cavern beyond the entrance had been a gathering site for all the clans, a place of neutrality where conflicts could be resolved. It was said that the Skull had once been the true home of all the og’re people, their original communal cave. Now it remained a sacred place. None dared defile it with bloodshed.
As the lightning died away, the image persisted in Tol’chuk’s eye. Thunder boomed, and a hard, cold rain began to fall, as if the dragon above were roaring and weeping. With a certainty of bone and rock, Tol’chuk knew that blood would flow from the Skull this night.
Hun’shwa dropped back. “I will ready the hunters.”
Tol’chuk let him go. He increased his own gait, passing his companions to retake the lead. If there was danger ahead, let him be the first to face it.
As he climbed, he was unable to escape Magnam. The d’warf marched at his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking,” Magnam said as he pulled up his cloak’s hood against the rain.
“What about?”
“Once this is over, I’m going to buy myself a little place in the flatlands. Somewhere dry, somewhere where the most steps I have to climb is to my porch.”
“What about mountains and mining? I thought that be what you d’warves loved?”
Magnam made a rude noise. “Curse that! I’m done with holes and caves. From now on, I want open plains, sprouting fields, and vistas as wide as the world.”
Tol’chuk shook his head. “You be a strange d’warf.”
“And you’re not so typical an og’re yourself.”
Tol’chuk shrugged. More than anything, during the journey out in the lands of Alasea and back, he had learned one lesson: no one could be judged by their faces alone. There were layers to everyone and everything.
Again light flickered from between the entrance fangs to the Skull. Tol’chuk was not familiar with the hunters’ code, but from the frantic way the message was being sent, the urgency was clear.
“What’s up with the firefly?” Magnam asked.
Tol’chuk turned to see Hun’shwa rush through the others behind him. Mogweed was knocked on his backside. Jaston and Jerrick flattened against the cliff.
“The Ku’ukla are coming up their western trail, no females or young among them.”
Magnam still stood beside Tol’chuk. “What is he saying?” the d’warf asked.
Tol’chuk translated, but Hun’shwa still watched the flickering lights. “There’s movement spotted on the eastern path.” A long pause. “More Ku’ukla are coming that way.”
Atop the slope, other flickers began to shine, blinking from spy tunnels higher up the mountain.
A grumble built up inside Hun’shwa. “Other clans are reporting. The Ku’ukla are coming up all the trails!” He continued to stare. “They’ve stopped a quarter way up!”
Tol’chuk translated for his friends, who gathered around.
“They’re surrounding us,” Jaston said. “Pinning us down.”
A commotion erupted behind their own group, the frantic bleating of females and sharper cries of the young.
“What’s going on?” Mogweed squeaked.
“The Ku’ukla be on the lower switchbacks to our own trail,” Tol’chuk said, searching around. There was no way down but the clan trails. The rest of the mountain was cliffs and sheer drops.
“Are they going to attack?” Mogweed asked.
“So far they hold their position,” Hun’shwa answered, speaking for the first time in the common tongue. His eyes nar
rowed. “What be they planning? Even without weapons, the other clans could hold the Skull against the Ku’ukla.”
“They don’t mean to take the Skull,” Tol’chuk said. “They mean to keep anyone from leaving.”
“Why?”
The answer came from above.
A sharp scream split through the rumbling thunder, followed by a chorus of wails from the score of sentry holes. Tol’chuk froze, as did Hun’shwa. It was difficult to make an og’re cry out in pain.
“A trap,” Jaston yelled. “We have to retreat.”
“We cannot,” Hun’shwa grumbled. “We’ve no weapons against those who hold the lower path. We’d be slaughtered.”
“Then what are we to do?” Mogweed asked. The shape-shifter’s flesh rippled slightly in his growing panic. His eyes darted around, looking for some way to flee.
Tol’chuk pointed to the upper switchbacks. “Whatever attacks the Skull must be destroyed. We must protect the Spirit Gate.”
Mogweed’s gaze flicked to him and narrowed. After a moment, the shape-shifter’s flesh settled, hardening. He gave a curt nod.
“You wait with the females and the young,” Tol’chuk said, pushing forward with Hun’shwa, ignoring the protests from Magnam and Jerrick as he passed. “This is a matter for og’re warriors.”
“My hunters are ready,” Hun’shwa said.
“Then let’s flush out our prey.”
Half turning, Hun’shwa barked an order, and the cadre of selected warriors bustled forward at their leader’s command. Slung around their necks were goat bladders filled with oil. They loped ahead, up the last of the trail, followed by Hun’shwa and Tol’chuk. A second group of hunters trailed them, leaving behind a phalanx of older warriors to guard the remaining clan members.
Ahead the mountain had gone dark. The flashes of signals had died away. A steady rain pummeled the slopes.
“Protect the torches!” Hun’shwa called as he ran. “We must not lose the fire!”
The last switchback appeared, and the entrance to the Dragon’s Skull lay ahead. The lead warriors swarmed up toward the granite fangs that flanked the entrance.
Wit'ch Star (v5) Page 17
