Her master was right as always. A glowing warmth suffused her veins, and she found tears in her eyes. She did . . . Yes, she certainly did love this child. She rocked back and forth upon the pile of pillows. It wouldn’t be long, she sensed.
Her child, the true seed of the Black Heart, would be born this night.
ER’RIL DANCED HIS draft horse behind the wagon. “It is only a little farther, Mogweed!” he called. “We can make it!” But his words felt like a lie on his tongue. Er’ril tried to ignore the spiders closing on their flanks, but it was difficult with the constant low rustle of the Horde’s march. The sound ate at the back of his skull. “Tol’chuk, they are almost upon us.”
“I have large ears, plainsman. I hear them, too.” The og’re ran behind the wagon, pushing at its rear to ease the load of the laboring horses in front. He ran at a slow trot.
Too slow, Er’ril feared. He risked one look behind him. The trail to the rear was already awash with a sea of writhing, surging bodies. To the sides, only three horse lengths away, the Horde drove toward them. “We need more speed,” he mumbled to himself.
Suddenly a loud barking erupted near the front of the wagon, startling Er’ril’s mount. He had to fight to keep the horse from bolting down the trail into the spiders. Ahead of him, the wagon jerked forward out of Tol’chuk’s grip, almost tripping the og’re to the mud. Tol’chuk stumbled a few steps, then caught his balance and pursued the fleeing wagon. The barking continued, mixed with occasional loud growls.
Er’ril kicked his horse forward to investigate. “Tol’chuk, can you keep up?” he asked as he trotted past the loping og’re.
Gasping from exertion, Tol’chuk nodded his boulder of a head. “Just get this big wagon out of my way and see how fast I run.”
Er’ril snapped his reins and urged his mount to the front of the wagon. Once he slipped past the side of the rig, he saw the reason for the commotion.
It was Fardale!
The large black wolf raced behind the horses’ legs, snapping at heels and dodging the occasional kick of a hoof. The wolf’s eyes glowed amber in the gloom of smoke and shadow as he herded the terrified team and wagon onward.
Perhaps there was a chance . . .
Ahead, the end of the trail came into view amid the blowing black ash and soot. It was a sight to cheer the heart—except between them and freedom, Er’ril saw the path tremble and quiver with a flowing army of spiders. The Horde had outflanked them. But how?
Then Er’ril spotted the woodland stream a quarter league down the trail near the edge of the path. Its wet banks had offered the Horde an easy path through the burned wood to cut off their escape. Er’ril swung his head around. They were completely encircled by a blanket of spiders.
Mogweed seemed also to have spotted this obstacle before them and began hauling on the reins. “Fardale! Stop! Leave the horses be!” the thin shape-shifter screamed. “We must stop! Hurry!”
The wolf heeded his brother’s shouted orders and raced to the front of the train of horses, now barking to help his brother slow the wagon.
Er’ril realized the folly of Mogweed’s plan. If they stopped, they had no chance of escaping the bites of these spiders. They would be surely swamped as they stood frozen on the trail. Ahead, the wind blew apart the smoky drape, and Er’ril saw that escape was only a stone’s toss away. So close! He clenched the reins of his mount, refusing to bow to defeat. No, if he was to die, he would end his life with a struggle!
Er’ril galloped his horse forward to keep abreast of the wagon. The team had only one defense left—speed! And Mogweed was about to destroy this single advantage. “Don’t slow the horses! Keep them running! It’s our only chance!”
Mogweed’s eyes were wild with fear. Seemingly deaf to Er’ril’s cry, Mogweed still yanked on the lead.
Er’ril realized he did not have time to argue and sway the shape-shifter. If they were to have a chance to survive, he would have to take control of the rig. Skilled from centuries of riding, Er’ril pushed to his feet atop his galloping draft horse and leapt across the open trail toward the wagon. Taking a blow to the shoulder, Er’ril crashed atop the driver’s bench. Not waiting to check his bruised condition, he clambered into position beside Mogweed. The shape-shifter sat on the bench with the driver’s whip frozen in his hands, his face shocked at the sudden appearance of Er’ril.
“Give me the lines,” he ordered, “then crawl back and tell Tol’chuk to get in the wagon.”
Stunned, Mogweed obeyed with a slight look of relief in his eyes. “What are you—?”
“I’m going to push the wagon right through them. Now go!”
Mogweed cringed and hurried toward the rear, clambering over the boxes of supplies.
Er’ril snapped the lead with a loud crack, then tucked it under his knee, snatching up the driver’s whip. Now was no time to spare the horses. He gave the team a touch of the whip. “Fardale! Leave the horses and get up here!”
The treewolf was already in motion, seeming to sense the change in plans. Fardale spun on a paw, and in a blur of black fur, flew into the wagon, joining his brother under the wagon’s canopy.
That left only Tol’chuk to collect. “Get that og’re in—” he started to order when suddenly the rear of the wagon sank sharply. A plank cracked explosively from the back of the rig.
“He’s in!” Mogweed yelled to Er’ril.
With the increased weight of the og’re, the horses noticeably slowed. This was no good. “Jettison our gear!” he called back to his companions. “Everything! Toss everything!”
Behind him, Er’ril quickly heard crates crashing to the trail. But he could not dwell on their losses. He beat the horses savagely with the whip, silently apologizing for his cruelty but knowing he must not fail. Ahead, the draft horse he had been riding, now no longer burdened, flew into the sea of spiders first. The horse raced like a storm through the Horde.
If that horse can make it, then maybe . . .
A loud screech erupted from the steed, and Er’ril watched it stumble to a knee. A wave of spiders washed higher on its flanks. The horse struggled to rise, crawling in lurching motions, but then collapsed under the mass of tiny predators. The horse had not even made it a quarter of the way through the spiders.
But the poor beast’s death had not been in vain. Its appearance among the Horde had diverted the spiders’ attention, its blood drawing the army’s bulk to the side of the trail.
Er’ril drove the wagon toward the opposite flank, where the spiders now swarmed less thickly on the trail. He cracked the whip over the sweating rumps of his team. He needed every drop of speed and heart still remaining in these horses. “C’mon,” he urged through clenched teeth as the wagon entered the spiders’ domain.
Among the Horde, the horses needed no further urging, seeming to sense the danger. The proud beasts dug madly at the mud of the trail, froth flying from their lips. As they raced, spiders were crushed underfoot, and a greenish smoke could be seen rising from the horses’ heels as the poisons scorched their hooves. Rather than slowing them, the pain drove the horses faster. Er’ril raised his whip, then lowered it, realizing how little fear it could generate now.
He could do nothing more.
Er’ril watched spiders beginning to work their way up the leather wrappings that protected the legs of the beasts. Ahead, the trail ended within whorls of smoke and sunlight. They had made it halfway through the Horde’s blockade. Er’ril clenched his fist tight on the lead. Almost there! They must make it!
But the horses were slowing, their hearts giving out after the long day of terror and racing. Smoke blew across the trailhead, erasing the promise of escape. It now seemed the entire world was just spiders and ash.
Tol’chuk’s head appeared at Er’ril’s shoulder. The og’re stayed silent. No words could help now.
“At least the girl got out safely,” Er’ril said as the horses slowed.
“All be not lost yet,” the og’re said. “As long as we
be moving, there be hope.”
With his words, the horse on the left died, crashing to the mud, its harness ripping free of the wagon. The other horse bucked, tangled in the legs of the dead horse. Then this one, too, fell to the trail—defeated. The horse never even tried to get up, simply raised its neck once, looking toward the wagon as if to apologize; then life fled from its eyes.
The wood now lay silent with death.
Escape lay only a small distance away, yet it might as well have been a thousand leagues.
Er’ril was suddenly knocked aside, his one hand grabbing for the side of the wagon to keep him on the driver’s bench. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tol’chuk roll through the front opening and over the side of the wagon.
Er’ril straightened. “What are you doing?” he cried.
Tol’chuk had a knife in his clawed hands. The og’re hurriedly sliced loose the tethers and harnesses to the horses and dug his nails into the backs of their spider-encrusted carcasses. With two grunts, he flipped the horses’ bodies aside, as a child might a soiled rag doll, then gathered the harnesses over his own shoulder. Spiders now danced across the og’re’s back and legs.
“Tol’chuk . . . ?” Er’ril’s voice died in his throat. What could he say? Death lay as surely within the wagon as without.
“As long as we be moving, there be hope,” Tol’chuk said, repeating his earlier words. The og’re leaned into the gathered harnesses, and his feet sank into the mud. He took a step, then another. Once the wagon began to roll, the og’re dug harder with his legs.
Er’ril twisted in his seat, frantic for some way to help but unable to think how. He had never felt so useless. All he could do was watch as the og’re bunched his muscles and dragged the wagon behind him.
Though the pace grew no faster than a crawl, at least they were moving. With blood pounding in Er’ril’s ears, time slowed to match their creeping pace.
As Er’ril watched, spiders plagued Tol’chuk, but luckily the main bulk of the Horde was drawn to the carcasses of the horses, an easier meal than the thick-skinned og’re. Still, enough spiders remained to thickly coat Tol’chuk’s legs. And even though the og’re had bragged earlier of his people’s thick hides, tree bark itself was no obstacle to the corruption of the Horde. From his seat, Er’ril could see tendrils of green smoke rising from Tol’chuk’s thighs as the poisons ate at his flesh, trying to weaken a spot so their bites could kill. Lines of pain marked the og’re’s back and neck.
Tol’chuk could not last much longer.
Suddenly a fierce gust blew down the throat of the trail and cleared the way of smoke. Sweet Mother! The meadows were only a horse length away! Er’ril jumped up. Lost among the ash and gloom, he had never suspected they were so close. “You’re almost there!” Er’ril cried in encouragement to the laboring og’re.
Tol’chuk raised his face, then stumbled a step at the sight. Regaining his footing, Tol’chuk leaned harder into the harnesses. The view of freedom seemed to renew the vigor in the og’re’s stride. His strong legs ate up the last of the distance, and the wagon was soon rolling into open meadows.
As soon as they entered the grasslands, the spiders fled from Tol’chuk’s body and raced back to their shrouded trees. Seemingly the Horde feared to abandon its shadowy roost. Still, Tol’chuk continued to haul the wagon until they were clear of the trees and only green grass surrounded them.
Once safe, Tol’chuk stopped, his legs wobbling under him, and dropped the harnesses. He tried to swing around toward the wagon, but his legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees into the wet meadow.
Er’ril leapt from the wagon and raced toward the og’re. Tol’chuk’s burnished skin was marred with white streaks and pocks from the assault of the spiders. When Er’ril reached him, Tol’chuk’s face was still clenched with pain, and his breath rattled with wheezes and a coarse cough. The og’re rolled two bloodred eyes up to Er’ril as the plainsman leaned over him.
“We did it, didn’t we?” Tol’chuk gasped.
Er’ril placed a hand on the og’re’s shoulder. Where his fingers brushed one of the pockmarks, Er’ril’s skin burned fiercely. He could only imagine the pain the og’re still suffered. “You did it, my friend. It was your heart and bone that saved us.”
Tol’chuk nodded. “Good. As I said, we og’re be thick of skin.” With those last words, Tol’chuk’s eyes rolled back, and the og’re slumped to the grass.
Before Er’ril could check to see if Tol’chuk still breathed, a voice cracked across the open meadow. “Back from your demon! Do not make us feather your corpse with arrows!”
Er’ril straightened and saw a band of twenty or so green-cloaked figures rise from the deep grass, each member armed with a tautly bent bow. Instinctively, Er’ril reached for his sword belt, but just as quickly, he realized this was a battle he could not win. He searched the determined faces that surrounded him.
No, now was not the time to fight.
Er’ril raised his arm and opened his palm in the common gesture of surrender.
WRAPPED UNDER A thick blanket, Vira’ni still lay nestled among the tufted pillows when she heard the hurried feet of several people running into the camp. Voices were raised in tones of jubilance, and occasional shouts of victory burst from the party. As someone ran up to her tent, Vira’ni sat up straighter, drawing an arm protectively across her belly.
The tent flap whipped open, startling her, but it was only Betta. The large woman, dressed in a stained green cloak with the hood pushed back from her cropped blond hair, pushed into the tent. Her eyes shone brightly, and she wore a wide smile. Breathless, she crossed to Vira’ni and lowered herself to one knee. “We did it!” she exclaimed, almost trembling with excitement. “We captured them all!”
Vira’ni could not have asked for better news. “All of them?”
She nodded. “You were right. They even came with a huge demon leading their wagon. Clawed and fanged, it was an awful sight. Lucky for us, it quickly collapsed.”
Vira’ni did not recall any demon from her vision, but perhaps this was some other trick of the foul wit’ch. “And the girl? Did you see a small woman-child atop a horse?”
“Yes, poor thing. She seemed the prisoner of some black-bearded cutthroat. We freed her with a well-placed arrow, and she escaped from there on her own.” Betta grinned proudly. “Last we saw, she was riding like the wind across the meadows.”
Vira’ni’s blood chilled with each word Betta spoke. No! This could not be! The wit’ch had slipped her snare. The horror of this realization must have reached her face.
“What’s wrong?” Betta asked, her smile fading away with concern.
“The child—” she stammered. “The child is the demon who leads them. She wears the flesh of the innocent like a costume. She was the one who killed my children!” Her voice had now edged toward hysteria. “You must believe me.”
Betta, her eyes wide in horror, raised a thumb to her forehead in a warding gesture against evil. “I don’t doubt you. The other demon we saw this day proves the truth of your words.” The huntress scrambled to her feet. “Stay here. I must let the others know! Hopefully, we’ve chased the she-beast away from our lands, but who knows the mind of a demon? Perhaps she might try to rescue her companions. We must be prepared.”
Vira’ni reached a trembling hand toward Betta. “No, we must seek her out. Now!”
Betta shook her head. “Night falls. And we hunters know not to seek a wounded beast in tall grass—especially at night. No, in the morning we’ll track the demon. If the beast remains in these lands, we’ll drive her out . . . or see her dead. You can be assured of that!”
Vira’ni was at a loss on how to convince the woman to hunt the wit’ch this night. As she struggled for a plan, a ripping spasm jerked through her belly. A loud gasp erupted from her throat, drawing back Betta’s attention. Before even the first spasm ended, a second quake of pain shook through her body, and Vira’ni fell back to the pillows, a scream on h
er lips.
Betta was at her side, reaching under the blanket that hid Vira’ni’s nakedness. The large woman rested one of her hard hands on Vira’ni’s feverish belly. At that moment, another rip of pain tore at Vira’ni’s swollen gut, and with it, a wash of hot liquid flooded her legs. Instantly, the stench of corruption filled the tent.
“Your belly pushes, and your life-water flows,” Betta said, her nose curling in disgust. “Signs that your child comes, but something is wrong.” Betta flew to her feet and pushed to the tent’s flap. “I must fetch the midwife and let Josa know about the demon child.” With that, she was gone.
Alone, Vira’ni kicked back the blanket and pushed to her elbows as the agony faded for the moment. Between her legs, she saw the spread of greenish black fluid staining the pillows. The smell was thick with rot. It was not life-water that flowed from her womb, but the brackish brine of a tortured birth.
Vira’ni lay back among the pillows. She had experienced a birth like this once before. In the dungeons of Blackhall, the guards had abused her most foully; and one night, while stretched on an altar, a winged beast had come to lay his seed in her. Moons later, in the soiled hay of the dungeon’s floor, she had birthed a stillborn child. Then, too, her life-water had run black, and the stink of death had lain upon her womb. In the filth, she had gathered the dead child in her arms, rocking and moaning. Not again! Long ago, she had lost a cherished baby and could not survive the death of a second infant. She cried so loudly that her master took pity upon her and took her dead child. Using his black magicks, he transformed the babe into the Horde. The one became many. Once finished, the Black Heart returned the now-living children into her belly to thrive and never leave her again. Even now tears rose to her eyes at the sweet memory.
Agony suddenly slashed at the bones of her pelvis, pulling Vira’ni back to the present. She could feel the child thrashing in her womb. Her face shining with sweat, she smiled past the pain.
This would be no stillborn birth.
Suddenly, an old woman thrust through the tent’s opening, her arms laden with two pots of water, one steaming, and a load of scrap cloths. The smell of sick birthing seemed to strike the newcomer like a blow. The woman scowled dourly, and with a slight shake of her head, crossed to Vira’ni.
Wit'ch Storm Page 9
