Wit'ch Storm

by James Clemens

  Mycelle sighed. “Yes, but in your eyes, I can see other parts of you have been equally marred—things that don’t grow back.” Pain entered her voice. “You’ve grown, Elena. More than I think you suspect.”

  Tears threatened, but Elena refused to cry.

  Mycelle lowered her hands. “I was supposed to be there for you in Winterfell. Aunt Fila suspected you might be the one, but we weren’t sure. The Sisterhood had been wrong in the past. When I got word of Aunt Fila’s passing, I tried to make it back to the valley, but by the time I got there, you all were gone. I should have been there for you. Someone should have been.”

  “Joach helped me,” Elena said, choking on her brother’s name. “But he . . . but he—”

  Mycelle patted her knee. “I know, Elena. The Sisterhood learned what had happened. I was sent to search for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Several reasons. Not only to help protect you, but also to instruct you in the skills of war. How to handle a sword and a dagger.”

  “But I have my magick.”

  “Some problems are more easily resolved with a sharp blade than a cast spell. You were to be trained in all manner of warfare. This we could teach you. But this—” Mycelle lifted Elena’s gloved hand and slipped off the deerskin that hid her ruby stain. “—this we know too little about. Over the centuries, so much has been muddled in rumor and myth. I’m afraid that with the death of your uncle, we lost much. He had been assigned to root through the ruined school for any ancient texts that taught the intricacies of magick. He was to help you. But with his death, the little he had learned was lost, and the skal’tum burned his cottage, destroying the rest.”

  Elena spread the fingers of her ruby hand, her heart quailing with hopelessness. “Then in the ways of magick, I’m on my own.”

  “Yes, but some of the Sisterhood believe this might be best,” Mycelle said. She placed her own hand over Elena’s ruby one. “And I share this view.”

  Crinkling her brow, Elena faced Mycelle. “But why?”

  “Prophecy has always said it will be a wit’ch—a woman mage—who will call forth the drums of war against the Gul’gotha and bear the torch of freedom.” She leaned closer to emphasize her words. “Not a man. The order of male mages could not resist the Gul’gotha before. So why seek their old knowledge or old ways? There must be a reason a woman was chosen—why you were chosen! A new path is needed—a woman’s path!”

  Elena shrank under her intense gaze.

  Mycelle recognized Elena’s fear. Her voice softened, and a hand again raised to her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “I don’t want this burden,” Elena said quietly. She could not stop the tears now. Hot trails flowed down her cheek.

  Mycelle pulled Elena into her arms and hugged her, gently rocking the girl. “Something tells me,” Mycelle whispered, squeezing her tighter, “you haven’t had enough of this on your journey here.”

  They held each other in silence for several moments. Elena could sense the warmth and love in these arms. It was not the love for a prophesied hero, but simply the love of family.

  Too soon, Mycelle finally lifted Elena’s face from her bosom and wiped away her tears. “You have your mother’s beautiful eyes,” she said softly.

  Elena swallowed hard and sniffed back her tears.

  “And that’s all I really wanted to tell you. I didn’t mean to scare you or burden you further. I just wanted to remind you that you’re not just a sword . . . or a ruby hand . . . but you’re also your mother’s daughter. A woman. And this may prove your most important strength against the darkness ahead.”

  With a small frown, Mycelle again fingered Elena’s shorn hair. “Among all these men,” she said, her frown becoming a gentle smile, “just don’t forget you’re a woman.”

  They shared one last quick hug. “I won’t,” Elena said, remembering that mountain morning so long ago when she had raised both her hands to the dawn’s light—one red, one white. She had clasped her hands together, declaring herself both wit’ch and woman. Had she somehow even then known the truth of Mycelle’s words? “Woman and wit’ch,” Elena mumbled.

  “What was that, hon?”

  Before Elena could speak, a fierce pounding rattled the door to the room. Er’ril’s voice spat through the pine planks. “The wolf brings word! The warehouse is under attack!”

  Without a word, Mycelle flew off the bed and into her scabbards. “Hurry, Elena,” she urged. Then, more to herself as she bustled to the door, “Damn my ears, I would’ve sworn I sensed something earlier.” She threw off the latch and flung open the door.

  Elena bounced off the bed to follow, her heart in her throat.

  Er’ril stood, red faced, with his fist raised. He backed a step to make room for them. “We must hurry.”

  “What’s happening?” Mycelle asked, pushing past Er’ril into the hallway. Elena followed her.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. Er’ril turned to lead the way, but the woman’s voice stopped him.

  “We’re not going,” she said simply, calm and sure.

  Er’ril swung around. “We’ve no time to argue. Tol’chuk’s in trouble!”

  “And you would take the wit’ch into the jaws of a trap?” she answered. “Into danger?”

  Er’ril paused at her words. “I . . . I . . . We can’t just leave Tol’chuk. Kral and the others are already on their way over.”

  “Kral is a fierce warrior. I’ve seen him handle his ax. If what lies at the warehouse cannot be handled by an og’re and a mountain man, then it is foolhardy to take Elena there.”

  Elena spoke up, her voice sounding meek in her ears. “But I can help.”

  Mycelle placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure you could, honey. But using your magick here would be like setting a blazing beacon for the Dark Lord’s minions to follow. You are the future, and we cannot take that risk.”

  “But we have to at least try . . .” Elena glanced toward Er’ril for his support.

  She did not get it. His eyes blazed with frustration. “As much as I detest leaving the others,” he said, “Mycelle is right. You know the contingency plan. If danger separated us, we would meet in one moon at Land’s End on the coast.”

  “But—”

  “Then it’s settled,” Mycelle interrupted. “I suspect the ill’guard in town are on the move. We must do the same if we are to survive.”

  Elena raised hurt eyes toward Mycelle. “But Tol’chuk. He’s your son? Would you abandon him a second time?”

  Her heartfelt words cracked Mycelle’s firm resolve. The woman glanced away from her, but Elena saw her right hand clench into a fist and her shoulders tremble as she held her emotions in rein. Mycelle’s words were pained. “I did it once. I can do it again.”

  Elena watched Mycelle’s expression slowly harden back to iron. Her eyes dried of pending tears, and her lips became firm lines of determination. Elena stared at this transformation. On this journey ahead, would she herself ever grow so strong? And, worse yet, did she even want to? Elena stepped between Er’ril and Mycelle. “No,” she said quietly. “I’ll not leave Tol’chuk or the others.”

  Er’ril raised a hand to his brow and sighed. “It’s a wise plan, Elena. If we let the others draw the fire here in town, we can slip away undetected. We will meet again in Land’s End.”

  “No.”

  Mycelle reached for her, but Elena stepped back. “Honey,” Mycelle said, “we must leave or—”

  “No. You just told me that there was a reason a woman was fated to carry this magick. That it was a woman’s heart that would make the difference. And, right now, my heart says we stand together.”

  “You must not risk it,” Mycelle said. “You are the future dawn.”

  “Fate be cursed,” she said. “If I’m to battle the Dark Lord, I’ll confront him as myself, not as some creature of prophecy.” Elena turned to look Mycelle in the eye. “I’m sorry, Aunt My, but I will
not become you. I will not harden my spirit against the world. If I must fight, I’ll do it with my whole heart.”

  Elena marched toward the stairs. “I will not leave Tol’chuk.”

  ON HIS KNEES already, Tol’chuk fell to one arm on the dirt floor, his other claw still holding the Heart aloft though the stone was dull and dead. Before him, flames lapped up the blazing door frame to consume the back wall of the warehouse. Even the hungry fire failed to brighten the facets of the stone.

  Without the stone’s strength, what hope did he have to resist the black magick here?

  Past the burning threshold, a hundred red eyes stared at him from the rear yard. His head rang with the song of the demon rats, an ancient chorus of torment and laughter. It sapped his will and his strength. He could not resist.

  As he struggled, an inner fire continued to burn through his bones. He knew this familiar pain. It was the Heart of his people trying to fight off the black magick—but it was failing. He squeezed the stone in his claw with the last of his energy. Why would it not blaze?

  Too weak, his arm finally dropped. He ground the precious Heart under his weight as he fell forward. Just before consciousness fled him, he saw the rats swarm toward him—and worse, he felt the magick of the Heart abandon him.

  KRAL WAS THE first through the door. He saw the og’re crash to the dirt floor of the warehouse. At first, he could not see any threat here except for the spreading fire. Had smoke overwhelmed Tol’chuk? Ax in hand, he scanned the warehouse. All he spotted was Elena’s gray mare backed in a corner.

  Fardale whisked forward past Kral’s thighs.

  “There!” Meric called. His thin arm pointed toward the fire.

  His sharper elv’in eyes had detected furtive movement near the blazing doorway. Huge black rats, dozens of them, flowed through the burning portal.

  Fardale was already beside the og’re, hackles raised, a growl flowing from his throat. His head lowered as he stared down the creatures. The rats stopped their approach toward the og’re, spreading in a line to face the wolf.

  Kral did not need to be si’luran to understand Fardale’s meaning. His stance said it all. Here was the danger the wolf had scented earlier.

  But it was just rats.

  Kral’s ax lowered slightly.

  Then the pitch of Fardale’s growl changed to a high whine. The wolf trembled. His whine became a hopeless howl that echoed through the rafters. What was wrong?

  As the wolf howled and began to teeter on his legs, the rats in front of Fardale suddenly swelled larger! Their bodies, huge already, bloated to the size of small dogs. Fardale fell limp beside the collapsed og’re.

  Meric and Kral had stopped halfway across the warehouse.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Black magick,” Meric answered. The elv’in stood beside Kral, his silver hair floating in wisps about his face, drifting contrary to the night’s breezes. Meric had touched his elemental magick. “Beware them,” he said. “They steal the life from you and use it for their own.”

  The rats again approached the og’re.

  Meric raised his hands in a warding gesture, and a blast of wind blew out from him. The edge of the sudden gale knocked Kral to the side. He had to stumble a few steps to keep his balance. The wind blasted through the warehouse toward the rats. Straw and dirt billowed into the air, and the flames of the fire flared brighter with the breeze.

  Caught by the gale, one rat tumbled back into the fiery wall. Its body instantly blew ablaze as if coated with oil. It howled like no beast Kral had ever heard. The small hairs on Kral’s arms bristled at the noise. With its eyes burnt black, it raced in blind circles for several heartbeats then lay still, a smoking pile of bone and charred fur.

  The other rats ignored their companion. With claws dug deep into the packed dirt of the floor, they resisted the elv’in’s storm. Though not blown away, they were at least held at bay.

  It was a standoff.

  The rats’ noses raised in unison, as if sniffing at the elemental wind. They swung their gazes hungrily toward Kral and Meric.

  “Beware!” Meric hissed. A sheen of sweat marked the elv’in’s brow. How long could the elv’in keep this up? Overhead, the wind-fed flames had raced madly up the rear wall and reached the rafters. The heat now was like an open hearth before his face. And how long until the warehouse collapsed into fiery ruin?

  “I’ll try to drag Tol’chuk and Fardale away from them,” Kral said, hitching his ax on his belt. “Hold them off!”

  “Use caution, mountain man. I sense they’ll not let their prey escape them so easily.”

  Kral crept forward, crouching low. The wind at his back threatened to tumble him forward into the line of rats. Step by step, he crossed the warehouse toward the og’re and the wolf. Once close enough, he saw that his companions still breathed. A wash of relief broke Kral’s concentration. His heels slipped, and the wind caught him, driving him to his knees.

  Growling into his beard, he pushed up. He kept his gaze away from the rats and stared at Tol’chuk’s clawed foot. Just a bit farther.

  Three steps later, he was close enough. He reached an arm out. Just as his fingers touched the og’re’s foot, the wind died. The sudden lack of support dropped Kral on his rear. He spun around.

  The elv’in stood, staring back toward the door they had entered. Mogweed had been left at the entrance to guard their retreat, but there was no sign of the shape-shifter. Instead, a flow of demon rats poured through the opening.

  He and Meric were surrounded.

  Meric struggled to raise his arms, but the elv’in was caught in their spell. He backed a step, then fell to his knees. “Flee!” Meric called to him as he dropped. “Beware their eyes!” The elv’in collapsed to the dirt.

  Ash rained down from the burning rafters. No longer blown back by Meric’s wind, smoke now choked through the warehouse. His eyes stinging, Kral shoved to his feet. He would not abandon his friends.

  Nearby, a thunder of hooves startled Kral. He shied away as the girl’s terrified mare bolted from the shadows and flew through the rats that stood between it and the exit. One of its iron-shod hooves crushed a rat into a foul smear on its way out the door.

  The horse vanished into the foggy night.

  Overhead, a beam suddenly cracked from the heat, showering ash and drawing Kral’s attention. He made the mistake of looking up.

  A huge rat clung to one of the intact rafters above. Its red eyes latched onto his own. Kral could not look away. The red eyes grew larger and larger in his mind until all he saw was the bloodfire that lit the core of the creature. In his ears, he heard the cries of the dying, pleading wails to end their agony. Death was the only escape. It was a song of despair, and it wound its way around Kral’s heart.

  No!

  Kral fought against it. The granite of his mountain home flowed through his blood and hardened his heart. His magick fought the despair of the song. Yet still he weakened. Kral fell to his knees.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw an ancient tower besieged by d’warf armies. He saw the bloodstained stones burn red from the siege fires.

  Kral clamped his hands over his ears, but he could not muffle the screaming. He saw the tower’s guardians slaughtered and their blood poured over the stones.

  See, the song and images urged, even the strongest stone cannot resist the darkness. Resistance only prolongs the suffering.

  Unable to break his locked gaze with the demon rat, Kral was forced to listen. Yet he ground his teeth. Listening was not believing.

  He was not a tower! He was a mountain!

  Kral crawled backward across the floor as flaming ash burned his skin and singed his beard. The rat followed him atop the rafter, refusing to let Kral escape its eyes.

  Victory was impossible, the ancient dying cries sang to him.

  More rats joined this one. They circled Kral now.

  Why flee? Just lie down. Escape was just a cruel dream.

  Kral bit his tongue
, using the pain to stay focused. No! The mare had escaped!

  Drawing on the last of his ebbing strength, he grabbed for one final weapon. He raised up on his knees and whistled sharply with the last of his breath. Then he fell back to his hands in the dirt.

  The rats closed in on him.

  Was he too late?

  Suddenly an explosion of cracking planks erupted behind him. Kral, locked by the black magicks, could not glance back. Sparks and embers blew in a swirl around him as a large shape dove in from the rear yard. It was Rorshaf, his war charger. Its huge black body galloped forward and shoved between Kral and the demon rat, breaking their locked gazes. The sudden collapse of the link between them sent Kral’s vision spinning. All around him was a blur of flames, hooves, and shadow.

  Kral fought against this confusion. He felt teeth sink into his right hand. Bone cracked, and flesh tore. The pain drew his vision to a tight focus. He saw a large rat worrying his hand. He flung it off him with a swinging whip of his arm. The rat flew off, one of Kral’s fingers still in its sharp teeth.

  Pain fired his hand, but he became rock and walled off the agony. Kral raised his bloody palm and grabbed Rorshaf’s thick tail, tangling his fingers in the coarse black hair. “Ror’ami nom, Rorshaf!” he yelled in the tongue of the crag horses.

  Rorshaf reared, trampling two more rats under his hooves, then leapt forward, dragging Kral along behind him.

  Kral fought to keep his bloody hold on the horse’s tail as he was bounced and rattled across the warehouse floor. He kept his eyes closed. He could not afford the numbing weakness that accompanied the sick gazes of the rats.

  Splintered wood ripped into his side as Rorshaf dragged him through the ruined doorway. He finally opened his eyes as he felt the cobbles of the town square strike his hip and heard his ax blade clatter on the stones. He allowed himself to be dragged a bit farther, then let go, too exhausted to hold on any longer.

  He tumbled to the street and rolled a few times before stopping.

  “Kral!”

  The mountain man opened his eyes and found Er’ril leaning over him. Elena stood beside him, holding her gray mare by a lead. Mycelle raised a sword in each fist, eyes aglow with the spreading flames of the warehouse. Other townspeople bustled behind the trio. Word of the fire had spread quickly through the foggy night. Somewhere a bell rang loudly.