Wit'ch Storm

by James Clemens

  She carried so much more than twins.

  Once her stomach was fully distended, she closed her knees. A few tardy children tried to climb up her bare legs, but she lovingly swatted them from her thighs as she stood.

  Crossing to where her belongings were piled, Vira’ni quickly dressed and slipped a bag over one shoulder. The forest trail was nearby, but she would still have to hurry if she wanted to clear the wood before the fire caught her.

  She set off at a fast pace, one hand holding her bag in place, the other on her belly. Though exhausted, she allowed a smile to shine on her face. She was such a good mother.

  4

  “KEEP GOING!” ER’RIL called, his throat burned raw with smoke and exertion. He watched the wagon’s rear wheels struggle to climb over the half-burnt log that had fallen across the trail. “Mogweed, don’t let those horses balk. Drive ’em hard!”

  A cascade of flaming ashes swirled across the forest path, igniting tiny blazes on the wagon’s canopy. It was death to stop on this trail. Though the main fire was still being deliberately driven forward by the elv’in’s winds, smaller side pyres still smoldered and spat at the company as they fought their way through the ruined wood. The wagon was most at risk, a large flammable target for stray flames.

  “Get those fires out!” Er’ril hollered, but his words were unnecessary. Kral and Nee’lahn, mounted on their exhausted horses, were already circling the wagon, splashing water from goatskin flasks. The tiny flames sputtered out, leaving black scars on the wagon’s canopy.

  “We’re running out of water,” Elena commented at his side. She coughed harshly and sat hunched in the saddle, wilting from the heat. The hot breath of the racing fire seemed to worsen the deeper into the wood they traveled, the heat taxing the company more than the flame and spiders. “And we still have so far to go.”

  Er’ril adjusted his mask higher over his nose, trying to keep his worried expression hidden. “We’ll make it,” he muttered.

  Once she had finished dousing the wagon, Nee’lahn idled her mount beside them. “Meric nears exhaustion,” she said. “He denies it, but I can see how his hands tremble on the reins. And a moment ago, he almost tumbled from his saddle.”

  “He’ll have to manage,” Er’ril said. “If the fire should expire before we breach the woods, we’ll be trapped. He must keep the fire moving. We can’t stop.” But as if mocking at his words, the wagon’s bells clanked sharply as the rear wheels failed to climb over the stubborn log and the rig settled back into the mud.

  The two women’s eyes stared up at him.

  Kral circled around to join them. He pointed to the left of the trail. “Here they come again.”

  Er’ril glanced where he pointed. It seemed that the spiders somehow always sensed when the company slowed. Various troupes of the Horde had periodically threatened the company along the trail, but luckily the creatures were slow. As long as the team had kept moving, the flames and the heat had posed a bigger risk than the spiders.

  Until now . . .

  Across the scorched ground, masses of red-bodied spiders rolled toward the trail from the fringes of forest that lay to either side of the fire’s wide swath. Scattered, smoldering embers consumed many of the attackers, their bodies hissing and curling into tight balls, but the others continued their march over their dead comrades. Even in the swirling smoke and eddying winds, tiny spiders floated upon wisps of silk, bits of poison in the wind.

  Death crawled, skittered, and floated toward them.

  Er’ril glanced back to the stalled wagon and kicked his stallion closer. “Lighten the load,” he called to the wagon’s occupants. “Toss out our supplies.”

  Tol’chuk’s huge arm swung open the wagon’s back flap. Fardale peered out as the og’re began to climb from the wagon.

  “No,” Er’ril yelled, “get back inside. There are spiders underfoot. Just jettison our gear.”

  “I weigh more than all of our supplies,” Tol’chuk said, ignoring Er’ril’s order and continuing to haul his massive body from the wagon. The og’re dropped barefoot to the trail. “We og’re be thick of skin. No puny spider could pierce our hide.”

  Er’ril had by now pulled his mount beside Tol’chuk. “Still,” he said fiercely, “I would rather lose all our supplies than you.”

  Tol’chuk patted Er’ril’s knee. “Me, too,” he said with a smile that exposed his fangs.

  The og’re then swung back to the wagon, bent his knees, and grabbed the rear axle in both of his huge, clawed hands. With his muscles bunching like gnarled roots, Tol’chuk hauled the back half of the wagon up, tilting the rig upon the front wheels. “Now!” he bellowed out, his voice full of the strain in his back.

  The crack of a whip split the wind. The wagon lurched forward as if stung by a bee. With a groan, Tol’chuk followed, holding up the wagon, his legs driven in the loamy soil up to his ankles.

  Once the rear wheels had cleared the log, Tol’chuk released the wagon. It crashed to the trail, clear of the obstruction. Seemingly satisfied, the og’re rubbed his hands together to clean them of the axle grease and drew his feet from the sucking mud. “Now we can go.” He stepped over the tumbled log, crossed to the wagon, and clambered back inside.

  Sweat stinging his eyes, Er’ril sat stunned at the display of strength in the og’re. Tol’chuk’s manner, always so quiet and reserved, belied the raw force of sinew and bone in the creature. Er’ril would have to remember never to cross this particular member of the team.

  “Spiders,” Elena said, interrupting Er’ril’s thoughts as she danced her mare beside him.

  Like a wave breaking on a beach, the forefront of the spider army rolled onto the trail. At the same time, flanks of the foul troupe swarmed up the black trunks of neighboring trees and threw themselves on strings of silk toward the company. It seemed that the many beasts had one mind, one intent: to swallow Er’ril and the others in their sticky embrace.

  Er’ril twisted in the saddle. “Nee’lahn, take Elena and catch up to Meric. Kral, stay here with me. We need to buy some distance from these beasts.”

  Ahead, Mogweed popped his head from around the front edge of the wagon. His amber eyes were huge with fear. “Sh-should I go ahead? Meric is almost out of sight!”

  Waving his hand forward, Er’ril called to him. “Go! Catch up with him. And don’t spare the horses!” Er’ril swung his stallion around as Elena and Nee’lahn trotted their mounts toward the wagon. He watched for a breath to make sure Elena followed his orders, then turned to Kral.

  Cloaked in hood and mask, the mountain man seemed a menacing figure atop his black, fire-eyed war charger. The horse pawed its steel-shod hooves in the dirt. The spiders were now within spitting distance of the mount’s legs. “What’s your plan?” Kral asked calmly, showing little discomfort at the poisonous sea cresting toward him.

  Er’ril hopped from his horse. “Buying us some time.” He pulled free his sword and swatted his mount. The slapped horse whinnied in surprise and galloped down the trail into the mass of spiders.

  Sometimes sacrifices were necessary.

  The spiders swung toward the hooves that slashed into their midst. Like a single creature, they swarmed upon the horse. Its white legs and sides were soon encrusted with red-blistered bodies. The stallion reared, its neck stretched back in pain, a silent scream fixed upon its open jaws. It toppled backward to the muddy trail, writhing for several heartbeats before settling to a still form. Already loops and tangles of webbing began to enshroud the beast. Its open eye, once full of vigor and heart, was now the dull orb of a stillborn. A single red spider danced across the dead globe.

  Sheathing his sword, Er’ril turned away as the sea of spiders swallowed their feast.

  Kral reached a hand toward Er’ril to pull him up on his mount. “His name was Sheshone,” the mountain man said, naming the crag horse.

  Er’ril allowed himself to be swung behind Kral atop the huge stallion. He wished the mountain man hadn’t imparted that
piece of information. The nameless were easier to forget.

  Kral swung his mount around and trotted him after the retreating wagon.

  Er’ril did not glance back.

  “WHAT HAPPENED?” ELENA asked, her face pale with concern. She watched the plainsman untether one of the two draft horses that trailed behind Meric. He stayed silent as he quickly unburdened the beast of three of the packs. He let them drop to the mud and climbed bareback atop the thick-bodied horse.

  “Keep going, Meric,” Er’ril ordered. “Kral, make sure these packs get tossed in the wagon when Mogweed catches up to here.”

  Kral grunted his acknowledgment, then reined his horse around. “I’d better get back to keep watch on our rear. That bit of horseflesh will not buy us much time.” He cantered away.

  Once the mountain man was gone, Elena stepped her mare beside Er’ril. They followed Meric and Nee’lahn, who were already a fair clip down the smoky trail. “What happened to your stallion?” she asked.

  Er’ril stared steadily ahead. “He’s dead.” The plainsman kicked his horse to a faster pace, signaling the end of this discussion.

  Elena rubbed her red eyes and glanced over her shoulder as if she might spy what had truly happened on the back trail. Behind her, the wagon lurched, tilting back and forth, as Mogweed drove the rig after them. Whatever had transpired back there was hidden by the wagon and sharp twists of the path. Resigned, she settled back forward. From Er’ril’s locked shouders, she imagined the events had been hard on the plainsman—and as usual, he refused to share his burdens.

  Elena found her right hand clutching the reins harder. Somehow she sensed that if she were better skilled with her magicks, perhaps she could have saved Er’ril from making the decision that hunched his shoulders now. She studied her gloved hand. Its ruby stain lay hidden from sight, yet, like a rash, its power itched across her skin, reminding her that what lay hidden could not be denied by mere deerskin.

  Soon a time would come when Er’ril would not be there to bear her burdens. Then she would need to take her gloves off and make her own hard decisions. Elena contemplated the taut strain in Er’ril’s back. Would she have his strength then?

  Nee’lahn had slowed her steed and dropped back. “Trouble ahead. A league farther, the trail descends into a deep hollow. The flames jumped this secluded section of forest and skipped to the higher wood beyond.”

  “And the spiders?” Er’ril asked.

  “The forest remains intact in the low wood. And so does the Horde.”

  Elena pushed Mist closer to the others. “Can we go around?”

  Nee’lahn shook her head. “Not with the wagon—and even if we abandoned it, I doubt we could make it safely through the smoldering fires and collapsed trees.”

  “Let’s see this wood,” Er’ril said, snapping his reins to urge his mount forward.

  Nee’lahn led the way. “It’s just beyond the turn of the trail ahead. Meric waits.”

  No one spoke as they trotted toward where Meric slumped atop his roan filly. The heat seemed to worsen with each step forward, its roasting touch reaching through cloaks. Elena found herself gasping for air by the time they reached Meric.

  As they approached, Elena could see the exhaustion in every muscle of the elv’in. Somehow he seemed to have shrunk in on himself—as if the draining of his elemental abilities had sapped the very substance from his being. He glanced tepidly at them, his eyes ringed in shadows, as the horses pulled to a stop beside him.

  “Meric,” Er’ril asked, “how are you managing?”

  Meric’s lips cracked as he spoke. “The fire has but a league of forest yet to consume. I will last until then.” He nodded toward where a wide pocket of green forest still thrived just ahead. “But I can’t help here. It takes all my concentration and skill to keep the main fire moving.”

  Er’ril nodded as he turned to study the obstacle, his eyes narrow with worry.

  Elena inched Mist forward to better view where the trail dropped into the deep hollow. The surviving bit of forest, sheltered in the recess, lay shrouded in web and silence. No spiders could be seen moving among the strands and tangles of silver thread. In fact nothing moved. The wood lay as still as a corpse. The complete lack of any sign of life bothered Elena more than if a thousand spiders were crawling and capering among the branches.

  “Maybe the fire’s smoke drove them all away,” Elena offered with halfhearted hope.

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Nee’lahn said. “The spiders have been tenacious in sticking to their nests. I wager that beyond the edge of scorched trees, the Horde still awaits us.”

  “Then maybe we can just torch this section of wood by hand,” Er’ril mumbled.

  Meric sighed and shook his head. “No time. We must stick close to the main fire as it marches, or the spiders will circle back and reclaim the wood before we can pass. Even now we delay too long. The fire escapes us as we speak.”

  A thunder of hooves momentarily distracted the group from the dire glade. Kral galloped his stallion up to them. The wagon was trundling not far behind.

  “The Horde is on the move again. They’ll soon be upon us. Why’s everyone stop—?” Kral asked, but his voice died in his throat as he saw what lay ahead.

  Nee’lahn explained the situation while Er’ril returned to studying the woods. Elena pulled closer to the plainsman but let him think in silence. She needed for him to realize that only one option still lay open to them, but if she voiced it, Elena knew Er’ril would stubbornly resist. No, she would not goad him and drive him away from the correct choice. Given time, he would realize the one true path ahead.

  As Elena watched Er’ril, she saw the tautness in his shoulders suddenly slump and recognized the resignation in his posture. After a moment’s hesitation, he twisted in his saddle, and Elena found herself staring into his hurt eyes. She knew how it pained him to ask this of her. She simply nodded at him. Both knew what must be done.

  Er’ril swung his draft horse around to face the others as the wagon closed to join them. He cleared his throat to draw everyone’s attention. “Spiders or not, we’re going to have to force our way through this bit of forest.”

  Concern lit everyone’s eyes, but no one voiced a protest.

  Only Kral spoke, his voice edged with hard humor. “I hope we have enough horses to spare.”

  Elena did not understand the mountain man’s words, but she did not dwell on it. Now was not the time for words or explanations. She swung Mist around to face the dark woods and took a deep breath.

  With the others silent behind her, Elena slipped the glove from her right hand. Its stain was already aglow with ruby and crimson whorls. She sat straighter and willed the wit’chlight to flare brighter. An ember of brilliant light the color of a moonrose bloomed in her open palm, then spread out to her fingers.

  As she concentrated, she sensed Er’ril settle his stallion beside her. “Let it build,” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t let it overwhelm you. The power is yours to control.”

  Elena let the lids of her eyes droop lower. Her hand now blazed in the shadowed wood. Magicks crackled across her skin. The power seemed so much larger than her small frame. How could it stay contained? And once released, how could she control it?

  “Careful,” he warned, his voice full of worry.

  A seed of Er’ril’s concern found fertile ground in Elena’s chest. She again pictured her parents swallowed in a wall of fire cast out from her own body. The glow in her hand faltered. She could no better control her magicks now than she had back then. “I . . . I can’t . . .” she moaned.

  Er’ril reached his hand to her knee. “Yes, you can, El. This magick is in your blood. It’s part of you. Control yourself and you control your magick.”

  “But?”

  He squeezed her knee. “Trust me, El. I know you can do this.”

  Fighting back tears, she glanced up to Er’ril. Under hair as black as shadows, his gray eyes shone with the intensity of his convict
ions. In the hard contours of his face, she saw the strength of the man who was her protector. She nodded and drew a small amount of Er’ril’s stoniness into her. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to face the shrouded wood, clearing her mind of anything but the flows and ebbs of the magick in her blood. In a few heartbeats, the glow grew back to an intense blaze.

  She would do this.

  “Now, when you’re ready, you—” Er’ril’s voice was like a gnat in her ear.

  “Enough!” she snarled at him, willing him silent. “You were right. I know what I must do.”

  Her left hand slipped to the sheathed knife at her belt and gripped its rose-handled hilt. She pulled forth her wit’ch’s dagger, its silver blade shining crimson in the reflected ruby blaze.

  Her magick called for blood, sang for its release.

  Now Elena was ready to listen.

  She drew the dagger’s edge across the meat of her thumb. Their prison pierced, her magicks burst forth from the wound, a cold fire raging out into the world.

  A flicker of a smile fluttered about her mouth before Elena could force her lips to a stern line—but somewhere deep inside, somewhere where Elena feared to look too closely, a part of her still crackled with laughter and wicked delight.

  THE ROAR OF the consuming flame followed Vira’ni from the eaves of the forest. Her brow glistened with sweat, and her breath rattled in ragged gasps as she stumbled from the wood’s edge. Her hair and green jacket were coated in a fine powder of ash, and tears streaked through the soot that stained her face. With her legs wobbling under her, she kept running, trying to escape the fire’s voice.

  One hand still clutched her belly, reminding her why she must not let exhaustion lull her into defeat. She must protect the seed of the Horde. She must not let the Dark Lord’s gift die with her. In her mind’s eye, she still pictured the flaming death of her children. Whoever had burned this wood would pay—oh, yes, they would suffer for this crime! It was this rage that fueled her weak legs and tired heart.