Wit'ch Storm

by James Clemens

  Contents

  Title Page

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  FOREWORD TO WIT’CH STORM

  POSTSCRIPT TO THE FOREWORD

  WIT’CH STORM

  Book One: DARK ROADS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Book Two: SEAS AND MISTS

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Book Three: SHADOWBROOK

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Book Four: DRAGON’S ROAR

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Book Five: SWAMP WIT’CH

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BY JAMES CLEMENS

  COPYRIGHT

  For my most vocal and persistent supporters,

  my brothers and sisters

  (and yes, I am going to list them all):

  Cheryl

  Doug

  Laurie

  Chuck

  Bill

  Carrie

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  TO LIST ALL the folks who have contributed to the production of these novels would consume an entire book. But I would be remiss if I did not thank a few special people: my agent, Pesha Rubinstein, for getting my foot in the publishing door and pushing me further and further; my editor, Veronica Chapman, for heralding the novels in the halls of Del Rey; and both Eleanor Lang and Christine Levis, for publishing and promoting the book to the world; and a special note of appreciation for the cover artist Brom and the cover designer David Stevenson, for putting a breathtaking face on the project.

  Of course I must bow a gracious thank-you to the members of my writing group, who have been invaluable in toning and honing this plot line (Chris Crowe, Dennis Grayson, Dave Meek, Stephen and Judy Prey, Caroline Williams, and a special thanks to Jane O Riva.)

  And to Carolyn McCray I owe a debt of gratitude that knows no boundary for her continual support, criticisms, and friendship.

  And a big hug to my special cheerleader, Meryl Olah, for her hard work and dedication in dressing up as Elena at several conventions and promoting the first novel.

  FOREWORD TO

  WIT’CH STORM

  by Sala’zar Mut,

  novelist and playwright

  (NOTE: Here follow the exact words written on the eve of Sala’zar Mut’s execution for crimes against the Commonwealth)

  FIRST AND FOREMOST, I am a writer.

  As a writer, I have come to believe that words should always be written in one’s own blood. Then one would be careful what he or she chooses to write. Who would dare waste their limited quantity of vital fluid on mere flippancy and fictions? If words were pumped forth from one’s heart, would they not always speak with the truth of that person’s soul?

  So though I write this with a cheap ink that clots upon my paper like the spittle from a dying man’s throat, let me imagine it to be my life’s blood that inks this parchment. And in some ways, it truly is—for from my cell, I can hear the executioner sharpening his knives upon his stone, a noise that slices as sharp as the edge he grinds. When I am done with these words, he will open up my belly so all can read what the gods have written inside me. I will become an open book. So let these words be both a foreword to this next translation of the Kelvish Scrolls and a foreword to the open volume my corpse will become when the sun next rises.

  I am forced this night to write my story so that my dear wife, Delli, may die quickly under the axman’s blade, rather than suffer and writhe upon the Stone of Justice. I write so she might die in peace. But as I told you before, I must be truthful with my final words. And the truth is that whether or not the quality of my wife’s death hung on my actions, I would still write this foreword.

  For you see, writing is not only my craft . . . but my life.

  True, writing earned bread for my children and a roof over my family’s heads, but it also nourished my soul. Words sustained me. Words were my heart. So how could I refuse one last time to tell a story—even if it’s the story of my own damnation, a story to be used to frighten you away from the wonders inherent in the Scrolls.

  I know I am to be an example to you students who hope to become Scholars of the Commonwealth. My death is to be a testimonial to the perversity and damnation that can lie within the text of the Scrolls.

  So be it.

  Here is my tale:

  Among the dank alleys of Gelph, I chanced upon a black market dealer in items arcane who offered that which was forbidden. He stank of spiced sweetmeats and sour ale, and I was apt to shove him aside. But the scoundrel must have spied into my soul, for he whispered an offer I could not refuse: a chance to peruse words forbidden from ages past. He offered me a copy of the Scrolls, preserved on the flayed skin of a dead zealot. As a writer, I had heard rumors of such a text and suspected I would pay any price for the chance to read its words. And I was right—it cost me dearly to wrangle the copy from the foul-toothed alley man.

  By candlelight, I read the entire text over the course of four sleepless days and nights. I feared someone interrupting and snatching the copy from before my eyes, so I read without stopping. My beard grew stubbled upon my cheek, but I did not cease until the last word reached my tired eyes.

  The first of the Scrolls seemed so innocuous I could not understand why it was banned. I raved that such a benign work should be kept from the people, but by the end of the last Scroll, I knew . . . I knew why the Scrolls were kept locked away from the eyes of the populace. This made me more than just rave—I raged against the injustice! And with the words of the Scrolls giving me power, I sought to bring the story to the people.

  So I devised a plan.

  I thought I could convert the Scrolls into a play—change a few names and places, twist the story a bit—and still bring its hidden magick to the people. But a cast member betrayed me. On the opening night of my play, I was arrested along with my troupe and the entire audience in attendance.

  Of the two hundred people hauled away that rainy night, except for my wife, I am the last still breathing . . . but their wails yet echo in my head. Over the five winters of my imprisonment, I have shed so many tears that thirst is always on my tongue. Even as I write these words, tears smear the wet ink in black trails across the tan parchment.

  Yet as much sorrow as the perusal of the Scrolls has cost my family and many others, in my heart I still cannot regret reading them. The Scrolls changed me with their words. I now know the truth! And that knowledge can’t be cut from me by the executioner’s knives. I will die with the final words of the Scrolls on my lips . . . and die content.

  As a writer, I always suspected that words held a certain magick. But upon reading the Scrolls, I now understand just how powerful the written word can be.

  Words can be the blood of a people.

  POSTSCRIPT TO

  THE FOREWORD

  by Jir’rob Sordun, professor of

  University Studies (U.D.B.)

  WELCOME BACK TO the Scrolls.

  Why, you might wonder, do we waste the first few pages with the dying words of a blaspheming man? Sala’zar Mut was executed by public torture and slow decapitation at New Welk Prison in Sant Sib’aro on the morning
after he wrote the preceding foreword.

  His death, dear students, is the first lesson to be pondered before one should continue through the Scrolls.

  Did you believe Mut’s words? Did you believe that words can be the blood of a people? That words can have some arcane power? Do not be ashamed if you did, for Sala’zar Mut was a skilled writer.

  But let this be a lesson to you . . . Do not trust words.

  Mut was under a delusion, a weakness of the mind caused by the untutored reading of the Scrolls.

  Let his death be the lesson here—not his words. Words did not save his life.

  So, before you open the first page of this second book, you must know the following truth and harden your heart by reciting it one hundred times before the sun sets today:

  “Words do not have power.

  The Scrolls do not have power.

  Only the Council has power.”

  WIT’CH STORM

  Birthed in fire

  and shadowed by the wings of dragons,

  this is the way the journey began.

  OUTSIDE MY WINDOW, a winter’s sun prepares to set into the blue of the Great Western Ocean. The sky above is not the rosy glow of spring, but a bruised jumble of purples, reds, and yellows. I sit at my desk and wait, as I have done every night since finishing the first part of her story last year. For the past hundred nights, I have watched the moon wax full and wane to a sliver several times from this very seat, a pen poised above parchment, unable to write.

  Why? Why do I delay in continuing her tale? I know it is the only way to free me of the wit’ch’s wicked spell. Only by writing her entire tale in truthful words can I lift her curse and finally die. So am I dragging my feet in a secret attempt to extend my interminable existence? Perhaps to live another century, or two, or maybe three?

  No. Time destroys all illusions about oneself. Like water flowing through a chasm, digging an ever deeper channel, the passing of years has worn away the layers of my self-deception. This is the only reward her damnable curse has granted me: a heart that can now see clearly.

  These days and nights of empty pages are not sprung from a desire to continue with my life, but simply from dread, a paralyzing fear for what I must write next. Some things even the tincture of time cannot soothe.

  I know next I must tell the tale of her dark journey, a road blackened by the long shadow of the wit’ch. Yet I fear to put this story on paper. Not only will writing this account require unlocking and staring full in the face again the horrors that lay along the road, but also by placing ink to paper, it will make the legend more real, give substance and form to what is now only memory.

  Still I must . . .

  So, as the bright days and rosy sunsets of spring and summer fade behind me, I find within the icy breezes and bruised skies of winter the will once again to write. This is the season in which I can tell her tale.

  It is not, however, the same season in which her story begins.

  Listen . . . Can you hear the ice breaking in the mountain passes as spring finally releases winter’s hold upon the peaks of the Teeth, opening the way to the valleys below? Listen as the ice moans and cracks like thunder heralding the beginning of her travels.

  And like all journeys, foul or fair, it starts with a single step . . .

  Book One

  DARK ROADS

  1

  ELENA STEPPED FROM the cave, pushing aside the leather hanging that kept the warmth of the mountain folk’s morning fires snug within the cavern. Even though spring was already a moon old, here among the peaks the early morning hours were still laced with whispers of ice from the mountaintops. Free of the caves, the air smelled crisp, scented with pine and highland poppy, and this morning, a breath of warmth even hinted at the summer to come.

  A sigh on her lips, Elena shook back the hood of her green woolen jacket and raised her eyes toward the mountains. Still tipped with heavy snow, they seemed to lean over her as if threatening to topple, and the roars from a hundred waterfalls echoed through the valley from the torrents of snowmelt. After a long winter, where both water and time itself had seemed frozen forever, the spring thaw was like a new birth.

  Smiling, she took a step forward—but, as if to remind her that winter had not yet completely given up its grasp on the highlands, her heel slipped on a patch of black ice.

  She cartwheeled her arms to no avail and landed on her backside upon the rocky trail.

  Behind her, Elena heard the rasp of leather on stone as Er’ril pushed aside the cavern’s apron to join her. “Girl, we can’t have you breaking your neck before we even leave the Teeth.” He reached a hand to help her up. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine.” With her face burning hot enough to thaw the ice under her rump, Elena ignored his hand and struggled to her feet on her own. “I didn’t see . . . I slipped . . .” She sighed and turned away from his stern expression. Under black brows, his gray eyes always seemed to be weighing her, judging her every action. And why was it that he only seemed to acknowledge her when she was burning a finger on a flame or snagging a toe on an unseen rocky outcropping? She wiped a palm over her gray trousers, searching for her dignity but finding only a sodden spot on her backside.

  “The others have been waiting a long time,” he said as he slid past her, leading the way up the three hundred steps toward the pass where the rest of the party had gathered. “Even the wolf should be back by now.”

  Fardale, in his wolf form, had left at daybreak to survey the trails that led to the distant valleys. Meanwhile, Nee’lahn and Meric had been assigned to tack the horses and ready the wagon, while Tol’chuk and Mogweed hauled and inventoried their supplies. Only Kral still remained below, saying his final farewells to his mountain clan.

  “If we hope to clear the pass by nightfall,” Er’ril said as he climbed, “we must be off quickly. So keep your eyes on the stairs, rather than on the clouds.” As if mocking his warning, a patch of ice betrayed Er’ril’s own feet. His one arm shot out, and he had to hop two steps to keep his balance. Afterward, as he glanced back at her, his face was a shade darker than before.

  “I’ll make sure I watch where I’m going,” Elena said, her eyes bowed meekly—but she couldn’t keep a grin from her lips.

  Er’ril grumbled something under his breath and continued forward.

  They managed the remainder of the stairs with care, each in a cocoon of silence. Elena, though, imagined both their minds dwelt on the same worry—the journey ahead, the long trek across the many lands of Alasea to the lost city of A’loa Glen. Somewhere in the sunken city lay the Blood Diary, hidden there by Er’ril centuries ago: a tome prophesied to contain the key to saving their lands from the black corruption of the Gul’gothal lord. But could they reach it, a band of travelers from different lands, each with his own reasons for pursuing this journey?

  With much of the last several weeks spent plotting, planning, and outfitting the band of travelers, a mixture of relief at finally being under way and dread at leaving the security of the frozen passes swirled in each member’s breast. A heavy silence, like now, hung around the shoulders of everyone, except for—

  “Ho!” The call from behind them stopped both Er’ril and Elena near the head of the trail. Elena twisted around to see Kral squeeze his huge frame through what now seemed a tiny opening in the granite cliff face far below. He waved an arm the size of a tree trunk at them, his voice rolling like a boulder through the canyon. “Hold up there. I’ll join you.”

  With his back bent under a heavy pack, he bounded up the steps, taking three stairs with every stride. Elena held her breath and winced. She was amazed that more of the mountain folk didn’t break their necks upon the icy trail. But Kral seemed hardly to notice the slick stairs, his feet finding firm purchase with each step. Was it just luck or skill, she wondered, that kept the huge man from a deadly fall?

  He soon drew abreast of them. “It’s a good day to be off,” he said, not even winded by the thin mountain air. He
seemed to be the only member of the party to have no doubts about their journey. While the others had grown more silent with the approaching day of departure, Kral had swelled with nervous energy, anxious to leave. He was always rechecking their supplies, honing weapons, trimming the horses’ hooves, measuring the ice melt, or satisfying some other need for their departure.

  Noting Kral’s wide-toothed grin as he joined them on the stair, Elena asked the question that had been nagging her. “You don’t seem at all bothered to abandon your home. Aren’t you a little sad to leave?”

  Kral rubbed a hand through his thick black beard while his expression softened to amusement. “Spring is the usual time of our Scattering. With the winter passes now open, our people split into separate Fires and hike the trading routes. The clan will not unite again until the end of autumn. In truth, we call no place home. As long as there is rock under our boots and a heart in our chest, we are home.” He nodded them forward to the head of the trail.

  Er’ril refused to move, though. “Kral, you speak the truth, as all your people do, but you leave much unsaid.” From his higher vantage on the hewn stairs, Er’ril stared the mountain man straight in the eyes. “I suspect I know better what spurs your hurried desire to depart.”

  “And what might that be, man of the plains?” Kral’s eyes narrowed slightly, the amusement on his lips fading to a hard line.

  “When we first met back in Winterfell’s inn, you mentioned a prophecy of doom heralded by my reappearance among your tribe.”

  Kral’s gaze darted away; he seemed to study the cracked ice on the stair.

  “It’s not the journey ahead that excites your heart,” Er’ril continued, “but simply relief that I am leaving your people—and your clan yet survives.”

  “You shame me with your words,” Kral mumbled to the cold stone.