Tol’chuk waited a heartbeat. He did not know the meaning of the rat’s appearance, but he would not let the little beast contest his own bravery. He swung into the opening. The rat, even injured, was quick on its tiny feet. It flew across the mud, already half the distance toward the black demon.
As Tol’chuk stepped into the room, the toadish creature swung its gaze toward the og’re. Eyes of flame stared at him briefly, then turned away as if Tol’chuk were no threat. “Another guest,” the demon said in a voice that seemed to echo out of stone. “Come join us. I’m just about finished with these two.”
“Leave them be!” Tol’chuk bellowed. He stepped farther into the light so the creature could see him fully: few were undaunted by an og’re. Tol’chuk bared his fangs, exposing their full lengths.
Yet it was not his fangs that drew the black figure’s eyes. The tiny crooked-tailed rat, now almost near the legs of the demon, suddenly screeched wildly. Glancing at the small attacker as it reared on its hind legs, the demon’s expression was at first mildly amused; then its eyes suddenly flared with fire. It pulled back from the rat, and the twin fountains of darkfire collapsed back to their foul source.
Freed of the flame’s grip, Kral crashed to the mud, and Meric slumped on the wall, hanging from iron shackles. Neither companion moved.
Tol’chuk did not have time to go to their aid. The demon pulled its thick legs from the mud and retreated from the rat. Tol’chuk knew that there was no way this tiny creature had panicked the demon. It had to be the trace of magick in its beady eyes. The black demon must fear his Heart’s magick!
Reaching to his pouch, Tol’chuk freed the chunk of heartstone and pulled the blazing Heart forth. Even Tol’chuk was blinded for a moment by the radiance. Its bright light burst through the room. The flickering torches on the walls seemed like the mere glow of fireflies before the brilliance of the heartstone.
The demon raised its black arms before its face and fled the light. Tol’chuk followed it farther into the room. He sidled toward Kral to see if he still lived. The demon made no approach to stop him. It matched Tol’chuk’s pace as he crossed the chamber, keeping its distance.
“Stay back, or I will destroy you!” Tol’chuk growled with as much threat as he could manage. He had no idea why the Heart intimidated the demon or how to use it, but the demon was unaware of his ignorance, and Tol’chuk meant to keep it that way. “Back!” he said, thrusting the stone forward.
He did not need to maintain the ruse for long. Once the doorway was clear, the demon bolted for the exit. It had to pass closer to Tol’chuk, but the og’re made no move to stop it. Let it flee. He had his injured companions to worry about.
The demon paused at the doorway, glaring back at Tol’chuk. Its black lips pulled back in hatred. “We are not finished,” it said.
Tol’chuk lowered the stone, knowing the demon had no intention of attacking. It meant simply to flee.
“I will not forget this—or you!” The demon’s raging eyes stared Tol’chuk full in the face as if memorizing his features. Then the hatred in its black face shifted like molten stone. Its eyes grew wider, and it stared with a mixture of horror and awe at Tol’chuk. It stopped and took a step toward the og’re. “You! It cannot be. How . . . ?”
Unnerved by the demon’s strange attitude, Tol’chuk raised the stone. “Begone!” he thundered.
Still the demon hesitated.
Suddenly the small rat was again at the demon’s toes, harrying him with squeaks and squeals. The fierce intrusion of the little beast broke the demon’s gaze on Tol’chuk. It glared at the rat, then in a fury of motion, it vanished out into the hall. Tol’chuk listened to the splashes of its footsteps as it ran off, then waited to be sure the demon had truly fled. After a few breaths, a flurry of screams suddenly rattled down from above. The guards stationed by the door were obviously quite surprised at what lurked at the root of their tower stronghold.
Seemingly satisfied, the rat groomed its muddy paws.
Satisfied too, Tol’chuk lowered his heartstone and returned it to its pouch. He bent to Kral. At his touch, the mountain man groaned, and his eyes opened. “What happened?”
“The demon has fled. If you be living, I must check on Meric.”
“I be living,” Kral said sourly, sitting up with a coarse groan. “But I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
Tol’chuk nodded and crossed to Meric. He yanked free the shackles and settled the elv’in’s limp body in the mud. The reek of burned hair and flesh clung to his wracked form.
“How is he?” Kral called to him, climbing to his wobbly feet.
“He be weak and sorely injured. But he breathes!”
His voice must have reached Meric. The elv’in’s eyes fluttered open. “I more than breathe, og’re. It would take m-more than a few burns to kill elv’in royalty.” Even these few words split Meric’s burnt lips, and blood welled at the corners of his mouth. Pride or not, it would take a long time for the elv’in to heal.
“Rest, Meric,” Tol’chuk warned. “I will carry you from here.”
Meric protested at first, but even his attempt to sit up on his own failed. The elv’in’s face darkened with embarrassment.
Tol’chuk scooped him up. “It be no weakness to ask a friend for help.”
Meric reached and squeezed the og’re’s wrist, silent thanks clear in his touch.
Standing up with the elv’in in his arm, Tol’chuk faced Kral. “Can you manage on your own?”
Kral was retrieving fragments of iron from the mud. “Just point me toward that d’warf and see how fast I move.”
Tol’chuk nodded, relieved at the strength in the other’s voice. “For now, let the demon flee. We have one more friend still to rescue.”
Kral straightened. “Mogweed. I almost forgot.”
Suddenly, the tower walls groaned, and dust billowed down around them in choking clouds. The walls themselves began to quake.
“What’s happening?” Meric muttered.
“The d’warf,” Kral said, waving them toward the exit. The mountain man explained as he led them in a rush up the steps. “I saw it in a dream. He led the savage troops that besieged this tower long ago and slaughtered its defenders. He used the men’s dying blood to bathe the stones and perform arcane acts. I wager the blood magick of the ebon’stone was the only mortar that kept the tower standing all these years. When the d’warf lord fled, he took his magick with him. At long last, the tower will fall, and its defenders can finally rest.”
The rat, now finished with its grooming, noted the tremoring of the tower and dashed away through a crack in the wall.
Tol’chuk appreciated its wisdom. “If we don’t hurry,” he said, “we be resting forever with those long-dead defenders.”
Kral grunted acknowledgment and hurried up the steps. Stones began to crash behind them, and the stairs shook, trying to betray their feet.
They fled faster. Behind them, amid crumbling stones and clouds of dust, the ancient battle for Rash’amon finally ended.
MOGWEED FELT THE first tremble of the crumbling tower and thought it was his own fear wobbling his feet. Certain his death was near at hand, he watched Lord Ryman rise from his chair, dagger in hand. In the candlelight from the chandelier, the blade’s surface glinted an oily green. Mogweed could almost smell the poison on the dagger.
Lord Mycof whispered from where he sat. “Brother, did you feel—?”
Then the hall rocked with a grating groan. Mogweed had to wave his arms to keep upright. “What’s happening?” he cried out, giving up any pretense of hiding his fear.
But Ryman’s eyes were also wide with fright. He turned to his brother as if an answer could be found in his twin’s pale features. “Check with the guards,” he ordered.
Mycof fished out the silver bell. He rang it and waited. Nothing happened. He looked to his brother with a confused expression. Apparently a summons had never been ignored before. Mycof picked the bell up again and shook it vi
olently. “Ryman?” he called over the ringing chime.
Ryman strode on his thin legs to the main door and pounded a fist upon it. “Guards! Attend your lords!”
A small voice answered him. “My lords, the guards have fled!” Mogweed recognized the voice of their foppish manservant. “I can’t lift the bar on my own!”
“Then go to one of the smaller side doors, Rothskilder, where the bars are lighter.”
“Yes, Sire. Right away!”
“Wait!” The floor again shook. Overhead, the chandelier danced, raining hot wax from the drip pans of the many candles. “What is happening out there?” Ryman yelled.
Mogweed yelped as a large drop of wax struck his cheek. He dashed from under the chandelier, placing himself closer to the dais.
“Rothskilder!”
No answer was forthcoming from beyond the door. The manservant had already run to obey his lord’s order.
Ryman swung to face Mogweed as Mycof cowered in his chair, the silver bell gripped like a weapon in his small hand. “What do you know of this commotion?” Ryman asked, his face a mask of anger.
Mogweed took a step away. “Me?”
The lord threw back his cloak and raised his dagger. “This talk of wit’ches was all a ruse. What have you done?”
Mogweed thought quickly. This fellow was beyond reason. Madness lurked behind those wild eyes. Mogweed retreated from the dagger. He found himself back among the crates of gear. “I did not lie. I came here to alert you of the wit’ch.”
“Liar!”
Mycof had risen from his chair, his lips trembling. Suddenly a violent shake cracked one of the gilded rafters near the rear of the hall. It smashed to the marble floor with a terrible boom. “Ryman! Make it stop!”
“I will, dear brother.” The murderous glint in his eyes left no doubt as to his intention as he stalked toward Mogweed. “By killing this traitor.”
“Hurry! We must find the d’warf. He’ll know what to do. He’ll give us the Sacrament and free the Pack. We’ll be able to escape.”
Mogweed’s mind worked on Mycof’s words. These two seemed dependent on their seeker to free the beasts within them. This gave him a bit of courage. If their demons were trapped, maybe he could fight these pampered lordlings. Or better yet . . . “Wait,” he called to Ryman. “I can help you free your demon rats. You don’t need your d’warf master.”
Ryman’s eye twitched, but he kept his dagger high. Mogweed could see the lust in this one’s eyes, a frothing desire to fight the iron bit that controlled him. Ryman had been yoked to this d’warf; now he strained to be released, to act on his own. Neither of these silk-draped lords were accustomed to taking orders. “What do you speak of?” Ryman spat at him.
“The ebon’stone bowl was not the only item I stole from the female ill’guard. She bore talismans that granted her the Sacrament any time she wished.” Mogweed backed into one of the open crates. “Let me show you.”
Mycof climbed from his dais. “Is what he says possible, Brother?”
“I have heard the like. Not all ill’guard are slaves to their seekers.” Ryman turned narrow eyes toward Mogweed. “Show us this magick.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Mogweed dug through the packed supplies, keeping one eye on Ryman’s dagger. Mycof had crossed to stand beside his brother. He prayed the objects he sought were somewhere in here. He moved a fold of magician’s cape and spotted the familiar gleam. “Luckily, I have a pair.”
Mogweed turned, holding a glittering prize in each hand. He held them out, but when Ryman reached for one, he snatched them back. “You must swear to let me go free.”
Mycof answered, a thin trail of saliva on his lip. The muscles of his face spasmed as he stared at the magickal items. “I . . . we swear.”
“How do we know this will work?” Ryman hissed. “That this is not some trick?”
“I have the ebon’stone bowl, do I not? Who but the ill’guard have such items?” Mogweed hoped this last statement was correct.
Ryman considered this. “Perhaps you speak the truth, but before we let you go, we will sample your supposed magick. If it works, you are free to leave. If not, you die.”
Mogweed nodded sagely. He knew Ryman was lying; the bastard had no intention of letting him leave either way. Still, Mogweed pretended to ponder this offer. He held up his bribe, then snatched it back again, delaying the exchange. “Wait. I want one more concession.”
“What is it?” Ryman clenched his fist in impatience.
“Afterward, I want to be taken to your master. I must let him know of the wit’ch.”
“Fine. Once we’re free, you can tell the d’warf whatever you like.”
Mogweed nodded. In both the lordlings’ eyes now, desire had become a raving lust. Mogweed had held out long enough to draw their hopes to a fevered pitch. He stared at the pair of hungry eyes for several silent heartbeats, then tossed one gift to each lord.
“Careful!” Ryman scolded. “I almost dropped mine.”
“Sorry.” Mogweed bowed his head. “You must care for them as your most prized treasure. It is your freedom.”
“How do they work?” Mycof held the pendant up by its twisted thread. The jade vial dangled and sparkled in the hall’s light.
“You drink the contents. Refill the vial with plain water by dawn’s light, and by nightfall the magick in the jade stone will have changed the water again to the Sacramental elixir.”
Ryman glanced suspiciously at Mogweed. “You’d better pray it works.”
“Oh, I am,” he mumbled. “Trust me, I am. Please try it.”
As if on cue, the hall shook again. The chandelier’s crystals tinkled overhead.
Mycof unstoppered his vial. “Hurry, Ryman!”
Ryman did the same, then took his brother’s hand in his own. He raised the vial in a toast to his twin. “To freedom,” he said soberly.
“To freedom,” Mycof echoed.
In unison, the two brothers raised the jade vials to their pale lips and swallowed deeply. Once done, they both wore thin grins.
“Keep the vials around your necks,” Mogweed encouraged. He mimicked placing an invisible pendant over his own head.
Ryman nodded, and both brothers hooked the pendants around their necks.
“Good, good,” Mogweed continued. “Now wait for it.”
Mycof was the first to blink a few times. A hand raised to his throat. “I . . . I feel something! It’s . . . it’s happening!”
Ryman was swallowing hard and suddenly coughed. He raised panicked eyes to Mogweed as he fell to his knees. Mycof toppled straight backward, his head striking the marble hard. Blood welled in a small pool on the polished floor.
Panic faded from Ryman’s eyes as he died. He fell back to join his twin brother, two toppled statues.
Mogweed sighed loudly. “To freedom,” he mumbled to the twins.
Suddenly a loud commotion erupted near one of the side doors. Mogweed turned, expecting to see Rothskilder unbar the exit. Instead the thick oaken door blew into the hall. Mogweed’s eyes grew wide as the door crashed and splintered on the marble tiles.
He had not expected such an explosion, but he was correct about Rothskilder being at the door. The limp and bloody body of the manservant was clutched by his thin neck in the monstrous grip of a thick squat creature carved of black stone.
It stalked into the hall, its eyes ablaze with inner fury. Its sick gaze settled upon Mogweed, then on the dead twins. “What have you done with my servants?” it asked, throwing aside the lifeless corpse of Rothskilder.
Mogweed stepped back.
Here was the dire master of the Keep, the seeker who had controlled the ill’guard. Mogweed knew better than to try lies here. “They were in my way,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even. “I came here to see you, but they had other ideas.”
The black d’warf strode toward him. It crossed to within an arm’s length of the shape-shifter. Mogweed held his position. Now was not the time to show weakne
ss. The d’warf’s voice was molten lava. “What news was so dire that you had to slay my creations?”
Mogweed reached to his belt and slipped the goatskin satchel free. He fingered out a pinch of Elena’s hair. “I know . . .” He had to swallow a hard lump in his throat and start again. “I know the Black Heart seeks the wit’ch. I can lead you to her.” He raised the strands of hair. “Here is proof.”
The d’warf’s gaze narrowed, intrigued. As the floor quaked under him, he held out his palm, ignoring the rumbling stones.
Mogweed reached the strands toward the open palm. As his fingers neared the black flesh of the d’warf, Mogweed felt the same queasiness as when he handled the ebon’stone bowl. He dropped the hair into the black hand, then snatched his own hand back.
“Hmm . . .” The d’warf raised the hair to his wide nose. He sniffed at it suspiciously, like a dog on a rotted salmon. One eye grew wider. He lifted his face to Mogweed. “You do not lie!”
Suddenly relieved, Mogweed grinned foolishly. “I can lead you to where she goes. I spied on her . . . She went by boat . . . You see, it heads . . . um . . .” Mogweed could not seem to stop blathering.
“Enough,” the d’warf said. He sniffed again at the piled strands, drawing the thin hairs into his thick nostrils. The d’warf closed his eyes and leaned his head back. A moan somewhere between pleasure and pain groaned from his lips. His skin began to flow like thawing ice, swirling in patterns of black stone and veins of silver. Flames of darkfire flared in spurts along his skin, growing larger until they cracked like raging torrents over rock. Soon flames of the deepest red mixed with these black flames. The d’warf became a pillar of warring fires.
Suddenly the eyes of the d’warf snapped open.
Mogweed gasped. He knew it was not the d’warf who now stared out at him, but something far fouler. He had no resistance against the evil that pulsed from those black orbs. It washed over him like the oily hands of some intimate lover.
As Mogweed tried to pull away, words, low and hissing, flowed out from its flaming throat, words that ate at Mogweed’s brain like hungry eels. “What do you seek?”
Wit'ch Storm Page 35
