Wit'ch Storm

by James Clemens

  Even if he had been able to control his lips, Joach would not have argued with the boy. Ever since he had been stolen from the cobbled streets of Winterfell by the darkmage named Greshym, Joach had been under the demon’s spell, a thrall to the ancient one’s commands. While he still lived in his head, aware and feeling all, he was unable to stop his body from obeying the murderer of his parents.

  Unable to speak freely, he could not even warn anyone who lived within the walls of the Edifice of the snake that lived among them. Greshym posed as a white-robed brother of the Order, but in truth was a creature of the Dark Lord.

  A platter of meats, cheeses, and a bowl of steaming fish stew was shoved toward his chest. Joach’s arms caught the handles of the wood platter. He had been ordered to fetch supper, and as always, his body obeyed. In his head, he dreamed of poisoning the meal but knew it impossible.

  “Be off with you, you slack-jawed oaf!” Brunt said with a sneer. “Get outta my kitchen!”

  Joach turned to go, his body ever obedient. Behind him, he heard the cook scold his boy. “Your kitchen, Brunt? Since when is this your kitchen?”

  Behind him, he heard a slap and a yelp from Brunt, but Joach’s legs were already carrying him out of the kitchen and down the hall.

  As he shambled through the twisting corridors and stairways of the Edifice, winding his way back to his master’s chamber, he stared at the laden platter and put aside all thoughts of poisoning the meal. The fish broth smelled of garlic and butter, and the meats and cheeses were cut thick and generous. Even the loaf of cold bread seemed a miracle of flavor.

  Pangs of hunger wailed in his belly, but unless his body was given the order to eat by the darkmage, Joach could do nothing to fill his empty stomach. Over the many moons since he was stolen from his sister’s side, his body had wasted into a scarecrow. Often whole days would pass before the darkmage would remember to tell his servant to eat—and lately, those days of hunger were becoming even more frequent.

  Joach was now mostly forgotten by his master and, like a neglected dog, he wasted away, awaiting his master’s next word.

  As he shambled past a mirror in a hall, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. His face, formerly sunburned from his work in the orchards, had paled to a slug’s complexion, and his flesh had shrunken on bone. His cheekbones poked from under bruised eyes. His red hair, overgrown past his shoulders now, hung tangled and matted. And his green eyes stared back at him, dull and glazed.

  He was the walking dead.

  No wonder the kitchen urchin had wanted him out of his sight. Joach himself was relieved when his body moved past the mirror and the image was gone.

  For the past moon, Joach had given up the fight against his spell-cast enslavement, resigned to his fate. Occasionally he would still scream in his bone prison, but no one ever heard. Now death seemed the only real possibility of escape. He pulled back deeper into his skull and curled up on himself. Starvation would eventually claim his body; then he would be free.

  Despondent, he ignored his body as it struggled the platter into his master’s cell. The room was barren of any significant trappings or decorations. Only two thin beds, an ancient wardrobe, and a worm-worn desk occupied the room. A threadbare rug covered the floor, but it did a poor job of keeping the cold of the stones from one’s feet. Though a small hearth continually glowed with embers, its feeble heat did little to dispel the chill that always hung in the air. It was as if the room itself knew the evil it contained and kept warmth and cheer from its occupants.

  In addition to the ever-present chill, the room was also always dim. Besides the single oil lamp on the desk, the only other illumination came from a small-slitted window that overlooked one of the many tiny courtyards that pocked the great structure. Somewhere beyond the walls of the Edifice sprawled the half-sunken city of A’loa Glen—and beyond that only the sea. Since arriving, Joach had seen neither sea nor city, nothing but the halls and chambers of the sprawling Edifice huddled in the center of the once-mighty city. Like a second prison, it held his body as surely as his skull held his spirit.

  “Put that platter on the desk!” Greshym ordered. The darkmage was already wearing his cowled white robe. That meant the demon was going somewhere. He never wore the robes when alone. The fabric seemed to irritate the darkmage as much as its pure white color mocked his black heart. He shook the sleeve of his right arm lower to hide the stumped wrist, then pulled the hood over his bald head with his good hand. He stared at Joach with those milky globes of the near-blind.

  Even though Joach had no control over his body, his flesh still crawled as those eyes settled on him. It was as if his body, too, knew the menace that lay like poison behind those milky globes.

  “Come,” Greshym ordered. “I’ve been summoned.”

  Joach’s legs stepped aside to let the darkmage pass, and in the process, he almost dumped the fish stew on the mage’s pristine robe.

  “Put that cursed platter down, you fool!” Greshym snapped as he swept through the doorway. “Do I have to tell you everything?”

  Inwardly, a tiny smile formed in Joach’s mind. Maybe there was a little rebellion in his body yet. He set the tray down and followed the darkmage back out to the hallways once again.

  Over the moons of his enslavement, Joach had learned more about his prison than any of its denizens suspected. Chambermaids, servants, and even other brothers of the Order spoke freely around Joach, thinking him a brain-addled fool who would not repeat their words. So truths were spoken in his presence that would otherwise be kept silent.

  He had learned that the Brotherhood was a group of scholars and other men of skill who had banded together in secret to preserve A’loa Glen and the traces of ancient magicks still contained within the sunken city. They kept A’loa Glen cloaked and the paths to the city warded against trespassers. Besides the Brotherhood, only their servants and a handful of others roamed what was left of the ancient city. A’loa Glen was lost to the world, a city of myth, kept hidden from the eye of the Gul’gothal lord by both time and magick—or so the Brotherhood supposed.

  Only Joach seemed to know about the darkmage who masqueraded as one of their own. But what was this murderer’s purpose here in a half-deserted city?

  Joach followed the bent back of the crippled old mage. After a few twists and turns, he could guess their destination—the westernmost tower, named the Praetor’s Spear after its sole occupant.

  During his slack-jawed eavesdropping, Joach had also learned what the others in the Edifice thought of the solitary figure who lived alone in the western tower. Though the Praetor led the Brotherhood, he was seldom seen and little was known of his past. His true name had long been wiped away, as was tradition for this post. Some said the Praetor had lived for over five hundred winters, while others said it was just different men who bore the Praetor’s name, succeeding one after the other.

  So who truly was the man in the tower? And what business did the darkmage have with the leader of the Brotherhood?

  Greshym had visited the Praetor in his tower four times since Joach had arrived at A’loa Glen, but Joach had learned nothing of the mysterious leader. Each time, Joach had been left standing by the stairs that led up to the distant room as Greshym continued on to his rendezvous. He was never allowed to accompany the old man.

  Even his body seemed to know this routine. Joach’s legs began to slow when the darkmage finally wound through the dusty corridors and reached the lower stair of the Praetor’s Spear. Joach was ready to stop, anticipating the signal to halt—but it never came.

  Greshym started up the spiraling stair.

  Without the order to stop, Joach’s body had no choice but to follow. That had been his master’s last command.

  He climbed after the darkmage. The stairs seemed endless, curving ever upward. They passed an occasional slitted window, and Joach caught glimpses of the ruined city below. Toppled towers lay strewn in crumbled piles of stone and moss; lakes of brackish brine dotted the landsc
ape where the sea bubbled up from below. In some of these dark green lakes, the peaks of ancient buildings protruded like steep islands. And sea mists drifted languidly through the remnants of the once-proud city, ghosts of those that once roamed its streets and hawked wares from its open doorways. While above all, gulls circled the ruins in slow spirals, like foothill vultures eying a dying calf.

  Yet the view’s most profound effect came from something unseen, something felt in the bones—an aching melancholy for all the beauty and wonder lost forever. Glimpses of the ancient majesty of the city could still be seen in the occasional sparks from windows of stained crystal set like jewels among the ruins or in the towering marble sculptures, now tilted or marred with damage, of honored men and women whose faces spoke of grander times and higher purposes. Though the city was dead, it still spoke tales of a glorious empire, of a peaceful era. It spoke of Alasea before the Gul’gotha raped her lands.

  If Joach could cry, he would as he looked upon his land’s ancient past. Here sprawled a small reflection of Alasea as a whole: a land of beauty, broken and dying.

  Joach’s body continued its climb after its master. They passed a few stationed guards, but their eyes seemed blind to the crippled man and the doltish boy. Joach recognized the glaze in their eyes as he passed. He had seen it in his own eyes in the hall mirror: the walking dead.

  A chill crept into Joach’s skull. Did Greshym’s grip reach so far? Or were there other darkmages masquerading in white?

  At the top of the stairs, a huge oaken door blocked the way farther. Two dull-eyed guards stood with spears to either side. Greshym ignored them and strode toward the door, his staff thumping loudly, making no attempt at stealth.

  Joach followed.

  The heavy door swung open on silent hinges even before Greshym reached its ornate handles. No hand opened this door. Beyond the threshold, Joach could sense a palpable evil. Like a thick fog, it flowed out from the open doorway.

  Though he did not want to enter the chamber beyond, he could not balk at entering. His body continued its shambling pace after the darkmage. Joach cowered deeper into his skull, trying his best to hide.

  As he entered the well-lit tower chamber, he was surprised at how warm and inviting the room appeared. Three large hearths glowed cheerily with licking flames. Fanciful tapestries hid the stone walls of the tower, reflecting bright colors in the firelight, while couches and thick-stuffed chairs of expensive red silk dotted the heavy rugs. Huge windows with insets of stained crystal showed the blue sky, and below one of these windows, sunlight shone brightly on a huge polished table that held a crystal-and-marble model of A’loa Glen as it had stood before its fall—a thousand jeweled spires, with walkways that passed from tower to tower through cloud, fountains, and parks.

  Joach had to pull his attention away. It hurt too much to look at its pristine beauty. So much lost.

  His gaze settled on the lone occupant of the room. He stood tall by the western window, staring out at the sunken city, his broad back to them. He wore a long white cassock, its cowl thrown back casually.

  Greshym cleared his throat.

  The man, who could only be the Praetor, swung to face them. Joach was surprised at how young the man was. He had expected the leader of the Brotherhood to be a gray-haired elder, not this black-haired young man. Gray eyes studied the darkmage from a hawkish ruddy face. Joach recognized the countenance of a Standi plainsman. Traders from the neighboring plains had often visited Winterfell selling bundled leaves of tobacco or wagon loads of barreled spices. It was so odd to see such a familiar reminder of home so far afield.

  Those gray eyes shifted from Greshym to settle for a moment on his own. Joach tumbled backward in his skull. What he saw in those eyes was nothing of home: it was maggots and clotted blood. It was black fires that consumed the flesh of those you loved. It was evil. Here stood the source of foulness that Joach had sensed in the room. It flowed from those eyes, black wellsprings of corruption.

  Thankfully, those eyes left his own after only a heartbeat.

  “Why did you bring the boy?” the figure asked, his clipped Standish accent clear in his words.

  Greshym glanced at Joach as if surprised to see the boy standing in his shadow. He sniffed derisively and turned back to the tall man. “I simply forgot. He’s been dragging behind me for so long that I don’t even see him anymore.”

  “It’s not wise to be forgetful here. The Brotherhood grows suspicious.”

  Greshym waved this statement away with a twist of his staff. “The Brotherhood is made up of fools. It always has been. Let them have their rumors; they’ll never suspect the truth. Now what news of our wit’ch?”

  The Praetor’s eyes twitched at Joach, then just as quickly away. “She moves once again,” he said coldly. “She has fled the Teeth, escaped the hills, and lost herself among the peoples of the wide plains.”

  “How? I thought the Dark Lord had laced all the trails leaving the thawing mountains with legions of his ill’guard. What happened?”

  “She slipped past one imbued with the Horde, killing her.”

  “Curse that damned child!”

  “You know the wit’ch’s resourcefulness at surviving, Greshym. Or have you forgotten Winterfell? Besides, she is guarded well by my brother.”

  Greshym stamped his staff on the rug with a muffled thud. “Speaking of your brother,” he said, irritation thick in his voice, “how is it that Er’ril still lives? You never did explain that. He has no magick.”

  The Praetor’s eyes grew hooded, and his face darkened. “Something the Black Heart hadn’t anticipated. The Blood Diary has claimed Er’ril as its own. It protects him against the ravages of time.”

  Sighing loudly, Greshym continued. “And what of the Diary, Shorkan? Have you discovered a way to unlock the cursed tome?”

  A slight shake of the Praetor’s head answered this question. “Not without Er’ril. He is the key.”

  During his long imprisonment, Joach had learned to read the darkmage’s moods. These last words seemed to wound Greshym. “So there’s no way to get to the book,” he mumbled sourly.

  A trace of anger entered the Praetor’s words. “What is this concern about the book? We don’t need it in our hands. As long as it resides here in A’loa Glen, locked or not, it will serve its purpose in luring the wit’ch here. If she survives the traps set by our lord, she will fight and bleed her way across the lands just to put herself in our hands. Our lord’s plan is wise. We simply wait.”

  Greshym seemed hardly to have heard the words; his voice was vague and distracted. “Still, if I could get to the book . . .”

  The Praetor leaned closer to the darkmage. “What? What could you do?” Joach could almost feel the menace in the man like the sun’s heat on his skin. Greshym backed a step, bumping Joach.

  “Then I . . . then I could destroy it and eliminate the risk of its ever falling into the claws of the wit’ch. It’s dangerous letting the wit’ch get so close to the book.” Greshym cleared his throat and shook some semblance of spine back into his pose. “That’s all I meant.”

  Joach knew these last words were a lie. And the Praetor seemed to sense it, too. He walked around the darkmage, eying him up and down suspiciously. Greshym did not flinch from his scrutiny.

  Finally, the Praetor pulled his cowl back over his head dismissively and turned away. “Go now. Listen and study. We must be ready for her.”

  Greshym began to swing around, but the tall man spoke again. “And take better care of your servant. He reeks like rotting fish.”

  Joach would have flinched and blushed at these words, but instead his body continued to stand, slack and dumb, beside the darkmage.

  “Why do you keep the boy anyway?” he continued. “Be rid of him.”

  Greshym scowled. “I think not. Like the Blood Diary, the boy is a card whose value is yet unknown in this game. I’ll keep him until our hand is fully played.”

  The Praetor walked to the window and waved t
hem away. “Then at least clean him up.”

  Greshym bowed his head slightly and turned on a heel. Leaning on his staff, the old mage limped toward the large ironbound oaken door. “Follow me,” he snapped at Joach.

  The boy’s legs obeyed, and Joach shambled in the darkmage’s wake.

  In his head, though, Joach reviewed their words. He knew whom the two had been speaking about. The wit’ch had to be his sister Elena.

  He sobbed quietly in his empty skull. His sister yet lived! It had been so many moons since he had heard mention of her. He had not known if she had died in Winterfell or what had become of her. Now he knew! Elena was free.

  But as much as this relieved him, a greater fear gripped his heart. Elena was coming here! She would be captured or killed. He remembered his promise to his father before he and Elena had fled their burning home: to protect his younger sister. And he meant to keep that promise! But how could he? He couldn’t even keep from fouling himself.

  His body shambled after its master, but in his head, he railed against the chains that bound him. He must find a way out of this imprisonment and stop his sister from coming here.

  Yet, regardless of his passion, his legs still kept following the darkmage’s footsteps, and drool once again rolled from his cracked lips and dripped from his chin.

  How? Joach cried in his head. How am I to break free? Where was the door out of one’s own skull?

  GRESHYM LIMPED BACK through the corridors that led to his room. His mind seethed with black thoughts. How dare Shorkan order him about like some low servant! He had once been the man’s teacher! Of course that was long ago, and they had been different men—whole men, before the forging of the Blood Diary had split their spirits.

  Now Greshym hardly recognized his former student. Had he himself changed as much? He didn’t think so. After imbuing half his spirit in the book’s forging, he was still the same man, only now he was able to think more clearly, able to see his heart’s desires more keenly. He now had no nagging doubts about facing his innermost lusts. Once, guilt and regret had tied his hands, and sorrow and pain had guided his acts. Now he walked free, unfettered by constricting emotions, able to loose his baser desires and pursue his lusts with all his energies. He now dabbled freely in the blackest arts just to see what would happen, his ears deaf to screams and pleas for mercy. The forging of the book had opened his spirit to all its secret demons, allowing him to rejoice in them without shame, to pursue them without guilt, finally to live his life true. The book had freed him.