Steeling herself, she crossed to the door and opened it. Her escort was a young elv’in lad. He bowed from the waist. She waved him on, and he led her briskly down a crisscross of corridors and up a short stair to the foredeck galley, now a makeshift war room.
Elena entered and found the various leaders of the armies at hand, and many of her companions. They all stood from the table as she approached. The elder’root was dressed in a loose white robe, easy to shed when he shifted into the golden eagle form he wore when rallying his folk. At his side, Tol’chuk stood with Joach. Elena smiled at her brother, still unaccustomed to the man she now saw.
On the other side of the table, Jaston stood with Cassa Dar’s child in his arms. The little girl was sucking her thumb, clearly still exhausted. Meric and Nee’lahn stood hand in hand, while beyond them, leaning against the walls, stood Magnam and Harlequin Quail, along with Fardale and Thorn.
Er’ril motioned Elena to an empty seat by the table. “We thought now would be a good time for last strategies,” he said. “The sun will soon set, and we want to be in our positions by nightfall for tomorrow’s assault on the valley.”
“How far out are we?” Elena asked, seating herself.
“My lead scouts have reached the edges of the burned swath,” the elder’root answered. “They relay reports even now.”
“The rest of the armies?”
“The Ravenswing keeps pace with the og’re forces,” Tol’chuk said. “We expect to be camped at the valley’s edge by midnight.”
Er’ril pointed to a map on the table. “We drew this up according to Cassa Dar’s report. We’ll position the og’res along the western edge of the valley.” He pointed with his finger. “At dawn, Hun’shwa’s forces will encircle the dredged pit. Once entrenched, the si’luran armies will lead an initial assault from the air, driving as far into the pit as possible, dropping to the ground, and shifting into beasts to hold the next line. In turn, the og’res will charge to bolster their positions and move the lines forward.”
“Then the si’luran forces will take wing again,” the elder’root said. “And move the fight another step deeper.”
Er’ril nodded. “We’ll have the two armies leapfrog each other, step by step, down into the pit.”
Elena stared at the oval scrawl on the map, shaded in with coal. She studied the rest of the terrain in silence. This was her home. Though crudely drawn, she knew its hills and valleys, its streams and ponds. They were etched on her heart.
“What do you think, Elena?” Er’ril asked.
She nodded silently. Her husband’s eyes shone with the fervor of a true knight on the eve of battle. His cheeks glowed ruddy. He was in his own element this day.
But stratagems of war were not her calling. “What of us?” she asked, swallowing back a knot in her throat.
Er’ril pinched his brow. “Once the attack is well under way, we’ll fly in aboard the Ravenswing, getting as low as we can over the center of the pit. Once there, we’ll send down Cassa Dar’s child to survey the area. If it’s clear, we rope down into its heart. Surely that’s where the last Weirgate must lie.”
“Who else will join us in this last assault?”
Er’ril straightened. “Besides myself, those with the strongest magick to support you—Joach, Meric, and Nee’lahn.”
Joach gripped his staff. She saw the pride in her brother’s face. After being so long crippled, he was strong and hale, able to protect his sister again. But beneath this fire, she recognized a dark edge to his bearing, a hardness that had not been there before. Last night, she had discussed with Er’ril the possibility that Joach had slain Greshym to regain his youth. Er’ril had agreed with her suspicions, but ultimately, he was more relieved than concerned: Whether at Joach’s hand or not, Greshym was gone. Now, seeing the darkness behind Joach’s eyes, Elena was not so sure they had escaped the darkmage’s evil.
She shifted her attention to Meric and Nee’lahn. The pair had been among her first allies. And where Joach had grown darker, they now shone brighter. She saw how they clasped to each other, always touching. It seemed the long road here had softened, rather than hardened, their hearts. Elena took joy in this. She nodded to them in thanks—both for all they had done in the past and for this last sacrifice.
Er’ril spoke, drawing back her attention. “But we may need more than magick to reach the Wyvern Gate. So a few others will join us in this assault.”
“Two shape-shifters,” the elder’root said from across the table. “My daughter Thorn and her betrothed, Fardale.”
Elena’s eyebrows rose as Fardale bowed to her. Though he bore Mogweed’s face, there was still a wolfish carriage to the man, a sense of the wild wood.
“Long ago, I ventured from these forests at your side,” Fardale said stiffly. “I’ve watched you grow from a girl to a woman, from a wit’ch to a queen. And though we could share no words, I’ve known your heart all along. I will not leave your side now. I can’t. Your scent is in my blood. You are my pack.” He pressed a fist to his chest in an oath bonding.
“Thank you,” Elena mumbled, fighting tears.
“We’ll also take a strength of arm,” Er’ril added. “Tol’chuk and the d’warf Magnam.”
Tol’chuk nodded. “Like Fardale, I could also be nowhere else.” His eyes glowed warmly toward her. And though he could not speak mind to mind like a shape-shifter, she heard the love and determination behind his words.
Magnam crossed his arms beside the og’re, amusement in his eyes. “And where Lord Boulder goes, I must follow.”
“I’ve also won a place among this illustrious party,” Harlequin Quail said with a shrug. “It seems saving all your lives back at the Spirit Gate has softened the plainsman’s iron stubbornness.”
Er’ril sighed. “His speed and cleverness could prove useful.”
Elena surveyed the room. Sisa’kofa had said to look to her friends during the darkest moments ahead. At least they wouldn’t be far from her side.
She gathered her courage, bolstered by those around her. “The plan seems sound. What of the assault on Blackhall?”
Joach spoke up. “I’ve coordinated with Xin back at the Dragonsheart. They’ll attack the same morning.”
“All is ready,” she noted.
“As best we can manage,” Er’ril said.
Elena stared again at the map. By this time tomorrow, half the world would be at war. Tomorrow, she would lead these, her closest friends and allies, to their doom.
“If this meets with your approval,” Er’ril said, “we can send everyone off to spread the word and begin preparations.”
Without taking her eyes from the crude map, she nodded. “So be it.”
The group broke apart; only Er’ril remained in the galley with her. He poured a mug of steaming tea, brought it to the table, and shoved the hot mug between her cold fingers. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
“What’s wrong?” She waved a hand over the map. “What’s right?”
Er’ril grabbed her hand. “Look at me,” he said, sitting beside her.
She finally did.
In his eyes, the ruddy glow of his captainship had died down to a simple somberness. He spoke from his heart. “Tomorrow many will die. That is war. But for now we live.”
“But—”
“Hush.” He brought up her trapped hand and kissed her palm. “For now we live.”
The warmth of his lips were a balm on the ache in her chest. She closed her eyes and allowed it to spread through her. Too soon, he pulled away but remained cupping her hand, holding the warmth of his kiss. “I saw your face when you studied the map,” he said quietly, touching the heart of her pain with his words. “You recognized where the pit had been dug.”
Tears rose. She had been fighting them since she had first viewed the dreadful map. She moved her free hand and touched the charcoal-shaded pit. “Uncle Bol . . .”
Er’ril squeezed her hand. “It was where his cabin once stood. And bef
ore that, where the mages of my time had their school.”
Elena finally found her voice. “Cassa Dar mentioned a confluence of energies?”
Er’ril nodded. “A knot of power, stronger than any of the Land’s pulse points. The Dark Lord means to place the Wyvern Gate at this vital artery of the Land, to corrupt the world once and for all.”
“And Uncle Bol placed his cabin atop there.”
“Maybe he knew—whether consciously or not . . .”
Elena pinched her brow, remembering a long time ago. “Uncle Bol mentioned something about the caverns under his cabin. He had said he thought the mages built their school there because they sensed the flow of power.”
“And De’nal. He fled down into those same caverns. Crystallizing his spirit, waiting for us, maintained by the energies there.”
Elena sighed. “So we end this where it began.”
Er’ril gathered up her other hand. “And likewise, where we started this road together. We’ll end it the same.”
She mustered a grateful smile, remembering Sisa’kofa’s words. The spirit of the ancient wit’ch had been right. The words spoken before the Gate could not be shared . . . not even with Er’ril. Instead, Elena allowed him the delusion that they were headed into this last fight hand in hand. Clearly he needed to believe this as much as she did, and she would not take that from him. But in the end, she would stand alone, the fate of the world in her hands. She allowed Er’ril to clench those same hands now, the hands of a wit’ch, the hands of a woman.
Hold them while you still can, she thought silently. Eventually you’ll have to let go.
As the sun set, Meric stood with Nee’lahn atop the bow deck of the Windsprite. He closed his eyes and reveled in the winds and the tingle of magick threading through the ship. He longed to reach to the iron keel below; its energies glowed at the edge of his mind’s eye. But this was not his ship. The captain, a second cousin on his father’s side, was doing an able job of manning the craft and keeping pace with the armies below. His own assistance was not needed.
Instead he cast his senses out, freely plying the winds and gusts. He delved outward, brushing a stray breeze as another might sweep back the locks of hair from a brow. As he did so, he felt the distant thunder beyond the horizon.
A storm rolled toward them from the sea, building and piling clouds of warm and cold air. Moisture, still scented by the sea, filled the skies. The vibrations of forked lightning chased through his senses, and farther yet, winds built like waves, ready to crash upon these highland heights.
Before dawn, the skies would be as much at war as the Land itself. He would alert Er’ril and the others, but the matter could wait for the moment. He opened his eyes. As yet, the skies were clear. Only a few wisps of high clouds, rosy streaks against the bruised purple skies, marred the day’s gloaming. The sun set behind them. To the east, purple skies were already dark. A few stars shone.
Nee’lahn stirred beside him. “We near the burned trees.”
Meric drew a deep breath. The air smelled of woodsmoke, but no more than a moment ago. In the foothills below, the og’res marched through healthy woods and meadowed glades. For such large creatures, they loped at surprising speeds, boulders rolling downhill from the mountaintop.
He searched wider afield, toward the dark horizon, but he saw nothing but green life. “I don’t see the blackened orchard.”
Nee’lahn sagged near the rail. “I feel it.” Her hand rose to her brow, then settled between her breasts. “It aches worse than any blight. Around me now, the woodsong sings, bright as a highland spring, but ahead and approaching ever closer, I can hear a dreadful discordance—not the silence of my blighted home, but a deep cry of torture.” Her hands rose to cover her ears.
Meric leaned his hip against the rail and pulled her into his arms. “Let it go,” he whispered to her. “The lament you hear will be the last sad song. I promise you. We will prevail.”
She leaned against him. “I pray it will be so . . . but . . .”
He did not need any special magick to hear the thoughts unspoken. “Rodricko is safe,” he assured her. “Kast will keep Sheeshon and Rodricko aboard the Dragonsheart, out of harm’s way.”
Nee’lahn made a small sound of negation. “With the dawn, no place will be safe.”
He gently kissed her honeyed hair. She smelled of rose petals and orange blossoms. “Your son will be protected.”
A murmur, unintelligible to most, but he understood and corrected his words. “Our son.” With the sun’s rise earlier this day, they had made vows to one another, witnessed only by the open skies and the forests below. Who knew if they’d have a chance later? It seemed foolish to hold one’s tongue and not speak what was in one’s heart. It was in these same forests that the two had first met, ancient enemies with bitter blood between them. But at the end of this long road of hardship and loss, it seemed the past was not so important as the present. His hand sought hers. Fingers entwined, matching their hearts.
“The darkness nears,” she whispered.
Meric swung his gaze again to the dark horizon. Just at the edge of the world, green forest tumbled into blackness. A column of smoke rose into the sky, a deeper ink than the twilight murk. He had no ability to hear woodsong, but the plight of the fouled land ahead still screamed in his ears.
He had an urge to call the winds around him, to steal the ship from his cousin and wheel them away. It was death to go into that land, a blasted terrain of hollow defeat. But instead, he clutched Nee’lahn tighter.
Distantly, the storm beyond the horizon thundered in his ears, thudding deep in his chest and echoing in his bones. He was a lightning rod, vibrating to the forces coming together here.
Nee’lahn must have sensed it, too. She lifted her head and stared eastward with him. The line of green hills ended at the blackened forest. It spread as far as the eye could see. “It is the end of the world.”
Er’ril had tried to stop Elena from coming topside, but from the steel in her eyes, he had known it was futile. But now, seeing her stricken face in the moonlight, he wished he had chained her belowdecks.
She stood at the rail, staring out toward the devastation that had once been her home. The orchards were stripped to fire-hardened spears aimed at the sky. The air reeked of smoke and ash.
With night fallen, the ruined hills shone in spots with the ruddy glow of buried coals. Embers still smoldered; the glow reminded Er’ril of the fires found in the peat bogs below the Northern Steppes. Journeyers had to be cautious of these hotbeds. A careless foot could lead to a fiery doom. But the terrain here, Er’ril suspected, was even more dangerous. There was no telling what dire magicks lay lurking beneath the smoky, smoldering landscape.
For caution’s sake, the Windsprite kept its distance from the ruined valleys. Below, in forests still green, the og’re forces were gathering, setting up the short night’s camp. The si’luran army settled also to their own nighttime roosts, some remaining in winged forms, others reverting to whatever felt most comfortable: bears, wolves, forest cats, or a blend in between.
Over the valley, the moon hung heavy and bright, one night from its midsummer fullness—when the world would balance on the success or failure of their actions.
Thunder rumbled like the drums of war. A storm rolled in from the distant coast. According to Meric, the first raindrops would be felt late this night; by morning, they’d be caught in the teeth of the storm. Sloggy footing for an assault, but the storm would be just as hard on the enemy. And under the cover of thunder and rain, perhaps they could get even closer to the pit before having to engage the Dark Lord’s armies, whatever they might be.
Er’ril frowned. That’s what troubled him most about the sight before him and the long road here. They had encountered no sign of the enemy. He was not so naÏve as to believe that whatever lay out in the pit was not aware of their encroachment. So why no harrying, no gnashing at their flanks? Were the entrenched forces so sure of their own might? It
made Er’ril more nervous than if they had to fight for every step.
Across the blasted landscape, the pit was a void, its edges clouded with smoke and dark mists. But at its heart, an infernal glow shone forth, swelling and subsiding like some monstrous forge, breathing in and out. It was a numbing sight, one that drained the spirit to look upon it.
Slowly the others had drifted belowdecks. The plans for the morrow were set, guards and sentinels posted for the night in case the enemy attacked, and after the long journey, all sought whatever comforts they needed on this last night. Some had gone to pray, others to seek the company of friends and lovers, others still to solitary contemplation of the morning. With the dawn, the horns would sound and this last battle for the Weirgate would be under way.
Er’ril stood his post beside Elena. Joach stood on her other side. He seemed no less shocked to discover the fate of their valley home. Though the death of Greshym had rejuvenated the boy, he now leaned on his staff, weighted down by his own heavy heart.
Across the skies, the stars slowly disappeared as clouds rolled across them, the front edges of the storm. Small flickers of lightning danced the fringes. Soon the moon would be gone, and night would claim the valley and wipe the dreadful view away. As Er’ril watched Elena sink into a pit of despair as deep as the one in her homelands, he wished the storm to hurry toward them, to hide the horror from her eyes.
Joach shifted his feet and shrugged his cloak tighter to his shoulders. “It grows cold. Perhaps we should go below.” He glanced to Er’ril over the top of Elena’s head. Joach motioned with his chin, encouraging Er’ril to help him, then guided Elena back from the rail.
She moved woodenly.
As a gust of wind blew across the deck, Er’ril felt the first drops of rain splatter his cheek, cold and biting. He took Elena’s other arm. “We should rest while we can,” he muttered.
Together, Joach and Er’ril led her to the foredeck hatch.
Stepping ahead, Joach opened the door and motioned them through. He mumbled to Er’ril as they passed. “Take care of my sister.”
Wit'ch Star (v5) Page 45
