Around her, the grasses lay silent. Not a bird whistled in warning; not an insect whirred for a mate. In the quiet, her footsteps seemed so loud, but Elena knew her own fears amplified the noise. Still she tried to move more carefully, her ears straining for any other sounds.
Her wariness allowed her to hear the whispered snap of a twig to her left. She spun around, raising the ax, just in time to see the large black shape materialize out of the grass before her, as if the shadows themselves had been given form. From the black hulk, fangs glowed in the scant moonlight, and sharp yellow eyes narrowed in warning.
A fleeting image formed in her head: Two limping wolves meet in a wood. Back to back, they face the hunters.
Elena dropped Kral’s ax and ran to the shape-shifter. It was Fardale! Wrapping her arms around his neck, she buried her face in his thick fur. She allowed herself a moment of relief, then pulled back. If the wolf still lived . . . ? She retrieved the dropped ax. “The others?” she whispered at the shape-shifter. “Do you know where they are?”
Fardale swung around, then glanced back over his shoulder at her: A wolf leads another past a hunter’s hidden snares.
Elena nodded. Though she bore no si’luran blood, she understood the shape-shifter’s message. Over the long winter, she had heightened her ability to communicate with the wolf, her magick allowing her to forge a bond where blood did not. She waved him onward, but before Fardale obeyed, he sent one last image. Elena’s eyes grew large, and her heart clenched. Before she could speak, the wolf slipped between the grasses, his form dissolving again into shadows.
Elena followed on numb legs, the image still vivid in her mind: A naked woman of stunning beauty stood before a family of trapped wolves. From her loins, poisonous vipers flowed toward the pack.
ER’RIL FOUND HIS tongue thick in his throat. How could this be? He stared at the naked woman before him, her bare thighs fouled with black blood. Her face, achingly beautiful, was as cold as polished stone, and her ebony hair, once a solid drape of night, was now marred by a squirming streak of white. But worst of all, Er’ril saw madness dance in her eyes.
As he stood lashed to the stake, his mind fought to match the memories of a young maiden from ten winters ago with the woman who now stood before him. He remembered when they had first met. It had been along the harsh northern coast, in a town constantly shrouded in sea mists, where the air had always tasted of salt and ice. He recalled the young woman, a fisherman’s daughter who had shyly caught his eye as he juggled for coppers in a seaside tavern.
Inexplicably, he had found himself drawn to seek out the company of this young maiden. Her delicate face and silken hair had seemed so out of place among the wind-hardened people of these northern lands, like a soft-petaled rose growing in rock. He could not take his eyes from her as he juggled his flaming brands.
So after his last set on the cedar-planked stage, he retrieved his collection pan and the few yellow coins inside it, then shouldered his way through the crowd of bearded men and haggard women to reach the small woman near the back of the tavern.
She kept her eyes lowered demurely as he stepped before her table. Even as he introduced himself, she barely acknowledged his presence. When she spoke for the first time, her voice was as tender and soft as her skin. “My name is Vira’ni,” she had said, her long black hair spread like wings to either side of her raised face. In her moist blue eyes, he saw a sadness that spoke to the emptiness in his own chest.
Er’ril sensed at that moment that they both needed each other. He needed to step from the road for a while, and she needed a heart to call her own. And so they had talked well into the night and into morning.
Eventually he was introduced to her family and accepted like a long-lost son. He had thought to spend only a few days but discovered a certain simple pleasure in life by the sea. He helped repair the family’s damaged boat, and before he knew it, days became passing moons. Vira’ni’s father taught him the nets and the vagaries of the sea, while her brother showed him the mysteries and wonders of the coast and the wet forests around them. And during all this time, he and Vira’ni grew closer. Her father even seemed pleased with the choice his daughter had made. “One-armed or not, you have a strong back and a good heart,” he had once told Er’ril as they shared a pipe before the fire one evening. “I would be proud to call you son.”
It was this time spent along the northern coast, fishing and crabbing, that reminded him what he missed most from his distant past: the warmth and quiet peace of a family around him.
Words suddenly intruded on his memory, pulling him from the sea back to the stake in the meadow. He found himself staring into Vira’ni’s wide blue eyes. “Why did you leave me?” Madness and darkness now lay behind those eyes that had once shone with love. Her voice rose toward hysteria, one hand reaching up to tug at the white streak in her hair. “You knew I was with child. Your child!”
Er’ril looked away from her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he mumbled. And he hadn’t. Time and the warmth of her family had eventually healed the hollowness in Er’ril’s chest. Cured of his road-weary sickness, he had come to his senses and knew he had to leave. Among Vira’ni’s family, he had gained the peace he needed, but at what cost? Vira’ni’s pregnancy had finally forced Er’ril to recognize the selfishness of his actions. He would never age, but Vira’ni and his child would. He knew his path was not the way of home and children. That road was for men who aged, for men who grew old with their wives, not for a man who had lived hundreds of winters and who might live hundreds more. No, the empty road was his only true home.
So, knowing that to delay any further would only hurt Vira’ni worse, he staged his own death. One day, he had set out on a small boat as a storm approached and simply never returned, letting his death be blamed on the cruel mistress of the northern coast.
“I didn’t understand,” he said now, struggling to explain. “I thought—”
Vira’ni interrupted, her eyes far away in the past. “My father was so ashamed of me! To be with child . . . and without a husband. After you disappeared into the sea, my father dragged me off to an old crone in the hills. She gave me a potion of crushed leaves that cramped my belly.” Her face winced as if recalling this pain. “The blood. So much blood! The potion stole the child from my body. My poor sweet child.”
Er’ril’s heart grew cold with her words.
“But I had heard rumors,” she said, her eyes bright, “of a one-armed juggler far to the south. I knew it had to be you! I knew you couldn’t be dead. So after a handful of days, once I stopped bleeding, I fled from the old crone’s hut and went to seek for you. From village to village, I searched.” Vira’ni’s voice cracked with her next words, as if the memories hurt her even to speak of them again. “Then . . . one evening on the road, he found me. Black wings, teeth, the hissing of snakes. He snatched me up and took me to his dungeons.” Tears rolled down her face as emotions warred within her trembling body. She turned wild eyes upon him. Hate and hurt mixed in her twisting expression. “Where were you? Why didn’t you protect me? I couldn’t stop him!”
Er’ril looked away from her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, but even to him the words sounded hollow.
Her face hardened. She wiped brusquely at her tears, her eyes narrowing as if seeing him for the first time. “I don’t need your pity, Er’ril. The Black Heart was kinder to me than you.” She laughed sharply and pointed to her feet. “In his dungeons, his winged beast came to me one night and granted me this gift—a new baby to replace yours.”
About her legs capered a creature of nightmare. The size of a large dog, it was all wings, jointed legs, and gnashing jaws. From its black maw, poison dripped and flowed, hissing where it struck the mud.
Er’ril’s eyes widened with horror.
“Here is a love that won’t abandon me!” she said, then turned to the foul beast. “Why don’t you give Er’ril a little kiss? For old times’ sake.”
The creature mewled, its e
ight legs digging at the mud. Stalked eyes swung toward him; then the beast scrambled in Er’ril’s direction.
Though he recognized the horror of what approached, a larger dismay gripped his heart. He should never have just abandoned Vira’ni. He was as much to blame for the tortured woman before him as anyone. Er’ril closed his eyes and leaned his head against the pole, ignoring the creature as it reached his legs and snuffled at his boots like a hound on a scent.
And which of them, the Dark Lord or himself, had treated Vira’ni more cruelly?
In his heart, Er’ril was afraid he already knew the answer.
ELENA CROUCHED IN hiding along the bank of a swollen creek, clutching the ax in her hands. The gurgling water masked any sounds around her, making her nervous and edgy, and the occasional croak of a mud frog made her jump with each eruption.
Shivering from more than just the cold, she clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. Where was Fardale? He had left her buried in a patch of scrubby hawthorn bushes beside the flowing stream as he checked the way forward. Though she knew her fears stretched her perception of time, she was sure the wolf had been gone longer than necessary. Had something happened?
She pushed higher on her knees and peered between the branches of the bushes. The flames of the campfires lit the darkness just beyond the shoulder of the hill ahead. From where she spied, it seemed as if she were alone in the meadows.
As her ears strained, she occasionally heard snatches of words barked from where the fires crackled. But maybe it was just her imagination. She sank back deeper into cover and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. The longer she waited, the more certain she was that failure would be the only outcome of this night’s venture. Who was she to think she could free the others? Her companions had far more strength and skill than she, yet they had still been captured.
Her mind fought for any plan, but none seemed sound.
As despair and worry settled around her heart, a rustling of grass sounded from behind her. She swung around and saw the familiar black shadow slink along the creek bank toward her, yellow eyes ablaze. A sigh of relief escaped her throat.
The treewolf glided toward her. Elena saw he carried something in his jaws. It glinted in the moonlight. When he reached her hiding spot, he dropped the object in the mud of the bank, then crossed to lap silently from the creek.
She studied the muddy object, a puzzled look on her face. Why had the wolf brought her this? She had to remind herself that Fardale was no simple dog; a keen mind lay behind his wolfish features. She leaned closer to the object, and then like the dawn rising after a stormy midnight, a plan grew in her mind. She stood up suddenly. Of course! She held her breath, daring herself to believe it possible. She gripped the ax firmer in hand and allowed a small hope to beat back her despair.
Fardale crossed back to her, his eyes expectant. She knelt on one knee and hugged him for the second time that night. “Thank you, Fardale,” she whispered in his ear.
He licked her once on the cheek, acknowledging her gratitude, then pulled from her grip. His eyes glowed at her, and images flowed: A wolf who lags behind the pack is attacked by the stalking bear.
She nodded, knowing they needed to hurry.
After a final intent stare, as if weighing her resolve, Fardale swung around on his paws and led the way back up the bank.
Elena quickly collected the glinting object from the mud and followed.
NEE’LAHN WATCHED THE spider beast spread its four wings, each over an arm’s length long. In the firelight, flows of black iridescence ran like oil over their membranous surfaces. It shuffled back from Er’ril’s legs, mewling in what could only be pained hunger. Nee’lahn sensed that the creature was in its infancy, a pupa with legs, that its true adult form had yet to be seen. Only by feeding could it force its body to its next stage.
Her arms struggled for some weakness in the knots that secured her, but the ropes were thick and well tied. Even Kral, his face red with effort, could not budge the stubborn restraints. The other two men, Meric and Mogweed, seemed resigned to the uselessness of fighting their bonds. Meric stood straight in his ropes, his eyes scowling, while Mogweed simply cringed.
Nee’lahn stopped battling her ropes, recognizing that muscle and bone would not win this night. Still, she was not ready to give up. Not yet. Perhaps with wits and cunning—
Then suddenly it was too late.
The creature, which had settled into a motionless crouch, legs bunched under it, burst forward in a blur of wings and scrabbling limbs. It leapt at Er’ril.
The plainsman gasped as the spider beast slammed into his chest. Eight legs latched around Er’ril’s torso, clamping him even tighter to the wooden pole. The spiked ends of the beast’s legs dug into the wood. Er’ril’s face purpled from the constriction, and for the first time since meeting him in Winterfell, Nee’lahn saw fear in the man’s eyes.
The demoness named Vira’ni cackled with glee, her lips pulled back in a feral grin. “Kiss him, my sweet!” she encouraged her creature.
Nee’lahn knew that any chance lay in immediate action. The words leapt from her lips. “Stop! Call off your beast!”
Vira’ni swung her poisonous gaze toward the nyphai.
Nee’lahn continued before she lost her resolve. “The Dark Lord would not want you to kill Er’ril.”
The demoness took a step closer to Nee’lahn. “And why is that? You think you know of my master’s wishes?”
From the corner of her eye, Nee’lahn saw the spider beast lowering its twin gnashing jaws toward the plainsman’s throat, but she kept her gaze fixed on Vira’ni. “I know the Black Heart wants the girl child,” Nee’lahn told her. “More than anything, he wants the wit’ch.”
These words seemed to reach through the woman’s madness. Vira’ni’s sharp, mocking smile faded.
“Only Er’ril knows her whereabouts,” Nee’lahn lied. “Kill him and you lose any chance of discovering where he has hidden her.”
Vira’ni made a soft noise at the foul creature, and the beast froze, obedient, its jaws only a finger’s breadth from the skin of Er’ril’s neck. Nee’lahn could see worry and doubt weaken the gleam of vengeance in the demoness. Vira’ni seemed to shrink in on herself. She backed a step away.
“The wit’ch . . . Yes, the wit’ch.” One of Vira’ni’s hands wandered like a lost kitten to her hair, playing with its black strands. “We must get the wit’ch for my lord. I mustn’t fail him.” Her eyes wandered back to Er’ril. “We’ll play afterward.”
Nee’lahn allowed her clenched muscles to relax a breath. Sweet Mother, it had worked.
She watched Vira’ni step to the beast and raise a single finger to caress one of its quivering wings. “Now, now, get down from there. We mustn’t hurt Er’ril . . . at least not yet.”
Nee’lahn watched with relief as the creature pulled its legs from the wood one at a time and climbed off its perch. It shook its wings in frustration and screamed at the night. Its screech—the voice of the dark beyond the firelight—touched upon the ancient fears buried in the marrows of all living creatures. Nee’lahn found her knees weakening at the sound.
Thankfully, Vira’ni soothed and quieted the creature with a palm upon its back. “Hush now, no tantrums. I know you’re hungry.” The demoness raised her arm and pointed. “Go feed.”
Nee’lahn’s eyes flew wide in horror. In a flutter of wings and scratching legs, the beast sprang at her.
“Thank you for reminding me of my duty,” Vira’ni said. “As reward, you may take Er’ril’s place.”
The back of Nee’lahn’s head cracked into the pole as the spider beast crashed upon her. It latched its eight jointed legs around her, pinning and encasing her small form from ankle to chest. Tiny lights danced across Nee’lahn’s vision from the blow to her skull, but the spinning sparks were too weak to block the sight of the frothing jaws diving toward her neck.
As the beast tore open Nee’lahn’s throat, pain drove her quickly into obliv
ion. Only the tiniest moan escaped Nee’lahn’s lips as she died, a soft sighing note carried away in the wind.
9
ELENA CREPT THROUGH horror. Bodies lay like scattered firewood around the camp. Not only men and women, but also children and gray-haired elders. Their blackened bellies had bloated like ripe melons, and small creatures could be seen squirming under their stretched skins. Elena kept her eyes away, steeling her heart, lest fear chase her off. Only the animals had been spared. Around her, horses nickered nervously and dogs slinked between the tents with lowered heads, as if fearing the strike of a stern hand. The surviving beasts shied from her as the large treewolf led the way. None of the hounds contested their passage.
She continued creeping through the outskirts of the camp. Fardale seemed to be circling around the tents, aiming for the eastern edge of the camp. From there, she could now definitely hear snatches of raised voices. Some few had survived. But who?
Clutching Kral’s ax in her left hand, her palm grew slick on its hickory handle. Hidden in a pocket near her heart was the muddy object Fardale had stolen from the camp. Its weight helped firm her resolve. She could do this, she kept intoning in her head. She stepped over the ravaged body of a child, keeping her eyes averted. She must stay strong, keep control. Her right hand was clenched into a fist, empty but not weaponless. Elena had bloodied her hand with the wit’ch’s dagger, and soft coruscations of power lapped and danced around her wounded fist as she held her power at bay.
She was ready.
Elena stepped around a tent and found Fardale crouched just ahead. He flashed his eyes toward her. The forest cat prowls low in the brush to surprise the rabbit.
Wit'ch Storm Page 12
