Wit'ch Fire: Book One of The Banned and the Banished

by James Clemens

  “We should be safe once we’re across,” Joach said, his voice cracking with fatigue and smoke. “The creek is wide, and I doubt the fire will be able to leap the distance. At least, so I hope.”

  Elena remained silent. She hoped, too. Behind her, the fires spread like fingers of a hand through the orchard, seeking them. At one point the fire had almost trapped them in a dry gully between two foothills. They were forced to mount Mist and race back along their trail, barely escaping the edge of the fire. But, thankfully, at least no sign of the winged beast had appeared again.

  By the time they reached Millbend Creek, the moon had already set, and in the east, a pale glow warned of morning.

  “Joach,” she said, “how much farther to Winterfell?”

  “I’m not sure. If only I could see some familiar landmarks through this cursed smoke. But I’d still say we should reach the town by daybreak.”

  Joach tapped Mist’s flanks with his heel to encourage her up the creek’s bank to the dry ground. “We’d better walk her again from here.” He slid off the mare and raised a hand to help Elena off.

  She climbed down and almost collapsed to her knees, her legs so bone tired. Her feet throbbed, and all her joints quaked with exhaustion. She felt raw all over, as if someone had flailed the skin from her body.

  Joach supported her. “We could rest for a few breaths, El.”

  She wiped at her soot-stained face and nodded. Stumbling to a mossy boulder by the creek bank, she sat. Nearby, Mist nosed at some green shoots by the creek and began to pull at them with her teeth.

  Joach sighed loudly and plopped on the bank’s edge. He leaned back on his hands, staring at the river of smoke flowing across the stars.

  She hung her head. Since last afternoon, all she had ever believed in, the very ground she walked on, had become a treacherous bog. Nothing seemed real. Even Joach and Mist, both only an arm’s length away, seemed insubstantial, as if they might turn to dust and blow away, leaving her alone among the trees. She hugged her arms around her and began to rock back and forth on her stone seat and shiver. Her tears could not be denied.

  She was barely aware of Joach rising from the creek bank and crossing to her. He wrapped her in his own arms and held her, halting her rocking. She still shivered in his grip. He squeezed her tighter and pulled her head to his chest. He did not whisper a word, just held her tight.

  Her shivering began to quell, and she leaned into Joach.

  She knew it was not only her brother who held her this night. In his close embrace flowed the love and warmth of her mother, and in the strength of his arms were the bone and muscle of her father. No matter what had happened this night, they were still a family.

  She wished to remain in his arms until the morning sun crested the mountain peaks, but Mist suddenly huffed loudly and danced away from the river, ears perked in confusion. Joach released his sister and rose to his feet, alert for what had startled the horse.

  Elena stood and grabbed at Mist’s reins. Joach crouched at the mossy edge of the bank and scanned the creek bed. “Do you see anything, Joach?”

  “No, nothing. This night’s got her spooked.”

  Elena could understand Mist’s edginess. She crept carefully to stand by Joach’s side. She peered upstream and downstream. The creek gurgled over smooth rocks between fern-shrouded banks. Nothing seemed unusual. “Maybe you’re right …” she began to say, but stopped. She blinked, afraid it was a trick of her tired eyes:

  A silver glow, like reflected moonlight, bloomed in a calm eddy of water at the foot of the bank. But the moon had already set. As she stared, the glow swirled contrary to the current.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “Where?”

  She pointed to the light as its swirling slowed and spread like spilled milk across the water.

  Joach glanced to her. “I don’t see anything.”

  “The light in the water. You don’t see it?”

  Joach took a step away from the edge and tried to pull Elena back, but she stayed rooted in place. “El, there’s nothing there.”

  She stared as the glow thinned to a wavery sheen on the water; then in a wink, it vanished. She rubbed at her eyes. “It’s gone,” she said quietly.

  “What? Nothing was there.”

  “There was … there was something.”

  “Well, I didn’t see it. But considering this night, whatever it was probably meant us harm.”

  “No.” Elena spoke before even thinking but knew that she spoke the truth. “No, it was not a danger.”

  “Well, I’ve had enough strange occurrences for one night. Let’s go. We’ve still a long walk to reach Winterfell.” Joach peered a final time at the water, then with a shake of his head proceeded downstream.

  Elena followed with Mist in tow.

  She again pictured the spreading glow. Maybe her eyes had been playing tricks, but for an instant, just before the light had vanished, a single image coalesced, etched in silver: a woman with stars for eyes. Then in a whisper, nothing but dark water and rock again. She rubbed at her sore eyes. A trick of light and exhaustion, that’s all it was.

  But why, when the image had flashed in the water, had her stained hand suddenly burned like fire as if she had touched the sun? Then in an instant, like the image, the heat, too, had vanished.

  And why didn’t Joach see the woman or even the glow?

  Mist nudged her with her nose. She trudged faster after Joach. There were too many questions. Maybe in Winterfell she would find answers.

  10

  DAWN CAME COLD to the tiny room of the Inn. Er’ril lay wrapped in a blanket on the floor of the room, his knapsack acting as a pillow. He had been awake to see the first rays of the morning sun stir the dust motes in the room to a slow dance. It had been a long evening. He and Nee’lahn had talked well into the night before both finally agreed that a few hours of sleep were needed to face the morning.

  Nee’lahn had fallen quickly asleep on the bed, still in her clothes, the lute held to her breast like a lover. Meanwhile, Er’ril found only islands of slumber, and even those few naps were beset with terrible dreams. Finally forsaking even the pretense of sleep, Er’ril had watched the sun dawn into morning.

  As he stared at the encroaching light, his thoughts spun on a thousand pins, through old memories, questions, and fears. Why had he stayed with this daft woman? he wondered. After her eyes had closed and her breathing slowed, he could have easily stolen away. But her words kept him trapped in the room. Was there some meaning in his encounter with this nyphai woman, as she contended? Was there some hidden portent in the blazing orchard fire? And why … why did he return to this cursed valley?

  But he knew the answer to this last question. In his heart, he couldn’t hide from what drew him back to this valley. Last night was the anniversary of the Book’s binding—and worse yet, the loss of his brother. Er’ril could still picture Shorkan, Greshym, and the boy—whose name he never had learned—crouched in the wax ring as drums beat in the distance. The memory, like a painting whose oil still ran wet, remained vibrant and bright.

  Five hundred winters ago, he had stood in a similar inn, the Book firm in his grip, as an innocent’s blood pooled at his feet. Unknown to Er’ril, the marching of years had stopped for him at that moment. It took him many turnings of the seasons before he realized the curse bestowed upon him that evening: never to grow older. He had to watch those he had grown to love age and die while he stayed forever young. He had seen in each of their eyes the occasional glimpse of ire: Why must I age and you live? Finally, the pain of witnessing this over and over again had become too great, and he took to the road, to call no place home, no one friend.

  Each hundred winters he returned to this valley, hoping to find some answer. When will this end? Why must I live? But so far, no answer came to him. As the land aged, he watched the scars of that fateful night’s battle heal in the valley. The people forgot; the dead lay unremembered, their graves unmarked. He retur
ned each century to honor those fallen to the dreadlords’ march. They deserved at least one person to preserve the memory of their bravery and sacrifice.

  Er’ril knew he could fall upon his own sword and end this curse; the thought had passed through his mind many nights as he lay awake. But his heart would not let him. Who would then remember the thousands who had died this night so many winters ago? And his brother Shorkan, who had died giving the Book life—how could Er’ril abandon his own responsibility when his brother had given so much?

  So each hundred winters he returned.

  Er’ril heard Nee’lahn stir. He watched her raise a hand and wipe the cobwebs of sleep from her face. Er’ril cleared his throat to let her know that he, too, was awake.

  She pushed up on one elbow. “’Tis morning so soon?”

  “Yes,” he said, “and if we want to find a seat in the commons to break our fast, we should be about soon. I’ve heard men bustling in and out all night.”

  She slipped from the bed, shyly straightening her frock. “Perhaps we could just eat here. I … I prefer to avoid crowds.”

  “No. They only serve in the common room.” Er’ril pushed into his boots and stood. He cracked a kink in his neck and peered out the window. To the west, the morning sky was smudged with snaking trails of soot, and a pall of smoke hung thick across the valley roof. Above the heights, thunder-heads stacked behind the mountain peaks. A storm threatened, but rain would be a blessing to the valley this day. Er’ril still saw a few spates of flame licking upward. Closer, the foothills were scarred and blackened, with only an occasional shoal of green life.

  Nee’lahn stepped beside him and brushed her hair with her fingers. “A foul morning,” she whispered, staring out the window.

  “I’ve seen the valley far uglier than this.” He pictured the morning after the Battle for Winter’s Eyrie. Blood had run red through the thousand creeks, screams echoed off the craggy mountains of the Teeth, and the stench of charred flesh had fouled the nose. No, this was a pleasant morning in comparison. “It will heal,” he said to Nee’lahn as he turned from the sight. He shouldered his knapsack. “It always does.”

  She collected her bag and strapped her lute to it. She joined him by the room’s door. “Not always,” she said softly.

  He glanced at her. Her eyes stared far from the room. He knew she was picturing the blighted grove of her home. He sighed and opened the door.

  Nee’lahn slipped out the door into the hall. She led the way down the stairs toward the common room. The voices and loud talk that echoed up from the inn’s main room sounded as boisterous as when they had left late last night. Something still had the townspeople all stirred up.

  As he and the bardswoman entered the commons, a scrawny man with a shock of red hair and ash-stained clothing stomped a foot on the player’s stage. No pan lay at the stage’s foot, so Er’ril knew this was not an early morning performer.

  “Listen, people!” the thin man shouted to the crowded tables, his voice high and strident. “I heard this from the captain of the garrison himself!”

  Someone carrying a shovel yelled to the man, “Forget it, Harrol! First we stanch the fire! Then we’ll worry about those children.”

  “No!” the man argued. “Those young ’uns are demon spawn!” He spat the last words toward the crowd.

  “So what! Demons don’t keep food from my family’s mouth. We need to salvage what we can of the season’s crop, or we’ll all starve this winter.”

  The man on the stage was now red faced; his shoulders shook. “Fool! It was them kids that set those fires! If we don’t find them, they’ll keep torching other folks’ orchards. Is that what you all want? The whole dang valley ablaze?”

  This last argument silenced the protester in the audience.

  Nee’lahn had crept into Er’ril’s shadow. She looked up at him questioningly. He shrugged. “Just wagging tongues. Sounds like they’re looking for a scapegoat.”

  A grizzled old man at a nearby table overheard his words. “No, my friend. Word’s come out of the hills. It was those Morin’stal whelps. Evil’s taken their hearts.”

  Er’ril nodded and offered a weak smile as he stepped away. He pulled Nee’lahn toward the bar, trying to avoid being drawn into local affairs. He slid two stools close for them to sit on.

  The innkeeper manned his post behind the bar, but this morning an actual smile played around his usual scowl. The fire was an obvious boon to the inn. Nothing like a commotion to fill his coffers with coin.

  Er’ril caught the eye of the innkeeper, who sidled down the bar toward their seats. “Nothin’ but cold porridge left,” he said as an introduction. Er’ril saw the innkeeper’s eyes drift to Nee’lahn. As his gaze drifted over her slight form, he licked his fat lips. She shrank from him. Sneering, the innkeeper turned back to Er’ril. “’Course for an extra five coppers, I might be able to scrounge up a bit of blackberry preserve for your little lady here.”

  “Porridge and bread will be fine,” he said.

  “Bread’s an extra copper.”

  Er’ril frowned. Since when didn’t porridge come with bread? The innkeeper was obviously taking advantage of the crowd. “That’ll be fine,” he said coldly, “unless you’re going to charge us for the spoon.”

  The ice in his words must have reached the portly man. He backed away with a grumble. When their food arrived from the kitchen, it was fetched by a timid maid, her eyes bloodshot and tired as if she had worked through the entire night. Er’ril snuck her an extra coin. At these prices, few patrons would be tipping the maids this morning. He saw her eyes brighten as she snatched the coin and made it vanish into her pocket, her hands as quick as a carnival magician’s.

  Behind him, the men continued to argue a course of action. It seemed they were stuck in a stalemate when suddenly their arguments were interrupted.

  Two men bustled in from the courtyard, faces flushed from the morning chill. The smaller of the two, gnomish in comparison to his giant companion, walked with a limp and swung his weak leg wide as he marched into the common room. He led a huge shaggy-bearded man with wide shoulders. Outfitted in a heavy, furred jacket and calf boots, the bigger fellow’s coal black eyes searched the crowd warily, his lips thinned with threat. He had a rangy look to him, as if the company of people made him edgy.

  Er’ril guessed him to be one of the mountain folk, a nomadic people living among the frozen peaks of the Teeth. Seldom did they venture to the lowlands outside of trading season when the passes thawed. To see one so close to winter was rare.

  The smaller man waved a fist into the air. “We have news! News!”

  Since the previous argument had become a stalemate of grumbles and complaints, all eyes turned to the newcomers, including Er’ril’s. “What have you heard, Simkin?” someone called from the tables.

  “Not heard. Seen!” The tiny man named Simkin shook his head and proceeded to elbow his way through the crowd, creating a path for the lumbering mountain man. Once he reached the stage, he crawled onto the platform, waving the larger man forward impatiently. With Simkin’s added height from his position on the stage, he was now almost eye to eye with the mountain man, able to rest a hand on the tall man’s shoulder. Simkin turned to face the crowd. “This fellow saw the demon!”

  The crowd broke into dismissive hissing, though a few placed thumbs to foreheads just in case. “Quit your tall tales, Simkin!” someone yelled.

  “No listen. It’s true!”

  “What did he see? Your wife!” The crowd erupted in laughter, though there was a clear vein of nervousness in their response.

  “Tell them!” The tiny man poked the mountain man’s shoulder with a finger. “Go ahead!” Er’ril spotted a momentary flash of anger in the man’s eye at Simkin’s poke. One didn’t goad the mountain folk.

  Still, the bigger man cleared his throat, a sound like bark being ripped from a tree. Then he spoke, his voice as deep as the caverns that burrowed through the icy peaks. “It flew through
the Pass of Tears at twilight, near our home. Pale as the fungus that grows on dead trees and wide of wing as three men stretched. As it flew past, its red eyes glowing, our beasts panicked and a woman of my fire gave birth to a stillborn babe.”

  None dared call a mountain man a liar—not to his face, at least. They were known for the truth of their speech. The crowd stayed hushed at his words.

  Er’ril sat straighter on his stool during this exchange, a spoonful of porridge frozen halfway to his lips. Could it be, after so long? None had been seen for centuries.

  Someone spoke softly from the back of the room. “You came all this way to warn us?”

  The mountain man’s voice deepened to a rumble. “I came to kill it.”

  Er’ril lowered his spoon and was surprised to hear his own voice call to the mountain man. “Was this beast gaunt like a starved child, with skin so thin you could see through it?”

  The mountain man swung his beard in Er’ril’s direction. “Aye, the fading light cut through it like a knife. Sick, it looked.”

  Nee’lahn whispered at his sleeve. “Do you know of the creature he speaks?”

  Another man spoke from the crowd. “You there! Juggler, what do you know of this beast?”

  All eyes were now on him. Er’ril regretted his quick tongue, but there was no way now to take back his words. “It means disaster,” he said to the crowd and threw his spoon on the bar. “You have no hope.”

  The crowd became agitated. Only the mountain man stood quiet among the milling men. His eyes remained fixed on Er’ril, narrowed and determined. Er’ril knew his words had not swayed the giant. The blood of the mountain folk ran with the ice of their peaks and the stubbornness of their granite home. The threat of death seldom shook their resolve. Er’ril turned away from the giant’s stare.

  Nee’lahn caught Er’ril’s eye and leaned closer. “What manner of beast is it?”