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

by James Clemens

  The beast spread its scabrous wings wide in victory, then swooped for the kill.

  Nee’lahn raised a hand to her mouth in fright.

  Kral suddenly darted backward with amazing speed—into the sunlight!

  The creature drew up to the square of bright light and hissed at Kral. The beast balked at the sun’s touch, staying just behind the shadow line. It stalked in a circle around the mountain man.

  “There’ss nowhere to run, little man-thing,” it said with laughter on its tongue.

  Nee’lahn realized the creature was correct. The area of sunlight was a square island. Shadow lay on all sides. And in the shadows waited the beast.

  Kral searched around, desperate for a solution.

  Nee’lahn did the same. If the mountain man should fall, Er’ril would be trapped between the dreadlord and the darkmage. That must not happen! She twirled on one heel and grabbed up the tin top of a pickle barrel. Darting into another patch of sunlight, she caught the sun’s reflection in the tin and tilted it so the sun’s rays reflected into the face of the skal’tum.

  The beast screamed and tried to dart away. Nee’lahn angled the tin to keep the beast in the light.

  Kral seemed to realize his advantage and plunged forward with a bellow of rage. He swung his ax at the monster, striking the beast square in the neck. Exposed to the sun, the skin of the beast lost its dark protection. The blade sank home.

  The beast stumbled back, pulling free of Kral’s weapon. It clutched its neck as a river of black blood flowed from between its claws. Swaying on weakening legs, it tried to unfold its wings but instead fell forward into the sunlight, its foul blood hissing and bubbling as it stained the cobblestones.

  Kral crossed to the collapsed creature, his ax raised high above his head.

  ER’RIL DID NOT watch Kral finish with the Skal’tum. He turned his full attention back to the darkmage. The sight of the black robe sickened his stomach. How could any man give himself to the black magick that had poisoned the land? Er’ril felt his blood heat with an anger he had not felt in over a century. He found it a not unpleasant sensation.

  “Your pet is dead, mage!” he spat at the hunched man. “Release the boy, or suffer the same fate.”

  With his cowl bowed, the mage crept behind the boy and leaned heavily on his staff as if exhausted. “You interfere in matters you could not begin to comprehend.”

  The darkmage raised his other arm, revealing the stump of a wrist. Shadows rushed to the mage and flowed up his robe to his arm. The darkness then pulsed to his empty wrist and congealed there. Like a black rose budding, an ebony fist grew atop his stump, formed of black shadows. “And you make threats that you cannot possibly fulfill.”

  Er’ril’s eyes narrowed. “Just test me.”

  The darkmage opened his malignant fist. Fingers that drank the light stretched out. “One final time: Give me the girl. You don’t know what she is, what she means.”

  “I refuse to do your bidding, foul one.” Er’ril raised his sword but held his position, fearful of injuring the frozen boy.

  The darkmage switched his staff to his black fist. From his loathsome hand, the darkness swept down the gray wood until the entire shaft flowed with shades of night.

  As Er’ril prepared for battle, the cowled figure instead put his hand of flesh on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Leave the boy be!” Er’ril shouted, and rushed the man, determined to stop him before he harmed the youth.

  The darkmage threw his head back, his cowl falling away, and for the first time, he stared Er’ril full in the face. Their eyes met, freezing Er’ril’s heart.

  No! Er’ril stumbled to a stop. This could not be! His sword slipped down, scraping the cobblestones.

  The robed figure raised his staff and struck the street. Blackness erupted up from the cobblestones to swallow mage and boy. The voice of the darkmage echoed up from the shadows. “Er’ril, have the ages taught you nothing?”

  In a blink, the well of shadows vanished like a black flame extinguished. Where the boy and the mage had stood, the street now lay empty.

  Er’ril sank to his knees as the young girl shouted behind him, her cry full of anguish and tears.

  Er’ril, though, barely heard her. His eyes still saw the face of the dark-mage. It was a familiar face: the same broken nose, the uneven cheekbones, the thin lips. And then there was the stumped wrist.

  He remembered the man crouched with his brother in a warding of wax drippings so long ago—the night the Blood Diary had been forged.

  The darkmage’s true name tumbled from Er’ril’s lips. “Greshym!”

  Book Two

  HEARTHS AND HEARTHSTONE

  14

  TOL’CHUK SIFTED THROUGH the stones in the gully, which was bone dry from the summer’s drought. He glanced to the thunderheads building like an army beyond the peaks of the Teeth. The summit of the tallest of the mountains, the Great Fang of the North, swirled in black cloud. Soon the gully would be roiling again with muddy water from the stormy mountain heights.

  He turned his attention back to the scree of boulders. Thunder rolled down from the perpetually frozen summit. He must hurry before the rains began. But low cliffs blocked the sun’s light, making it harder to spot the yellowish glint of scentstone. And this gully, dry all summer, had been carefully picked through for many moons.

  He fingered the boulders apart, his grayish claws scraping each rock, searching for the characteristic color. His nostrils splayed wide as he hunted for the burning odor of raw scentstone.

  There were more likely spots to find such rocks, but Tol’chuk preferred this route. Due to the scarcity of scentstone here, none of his people were around. Tol’chuk liked the isolation, free of the taunts from the other og’res. Especially now, with his magra ritual—the ceremony marking him as an adult among his tribe—beginning tomorrow. He needed a scentstone for tonight’s preparations, one picked out by himself on the eve of his magra.

  He bent to a thick plate of stone and dragged a claw along it, gouging its surface. He sniffed his nail: no, just sandstone.

  As he lowered again to push through the rubble of the wash and scree, a rock the size of a melon struck him in the shoulder, knocking him to the boulder-strewn ground. He landed hard and rolled to his side.

  Fen’shwa leered over the lip of the cliff.

  A sneer cracked Tol’chuk’s thick lips to expose his smooth, yellowed fangs. He pushed to his feet. With his back bent, his head reached only halfway up the cliff. He kept one hand knuckled on the ground for support. He twisted his neck and frowned toward his enemy.

  Fen’shwa squatted like a craggy boulder by the cliff’s edge, his wide yellow eyes bulging. Bent like Tol’chuk, balancing on the callused knuckles of one hand as was custom for the og’res, his bristled, straw-colored hair crested the top of his head and trailed in a spiky stream down his arched back to disappear under his leather coverings. He smiled, his chipped fangs exposed. A winter older than Tol’chuk, he was always baring his teeth, displaying the chips on his fangs that marked him as having mated.

  All the females worshipped Fen’shwa, brushing their full rumps against his sides as he lumbered past them. No female brushed against Tol’chuk in invitation, no matter how much he kept his back bent and knuckled as he walked. Tol’chuk knew he was ugly. Smaller than other adult og’res, his eyes were too almond shaped, and slitted, rather than the bold circles of Fen’shwa. His nose also stuck out too far, and his fangs were too short to excite a mate. Even his hair did not bristle on its own. Tol’chuk was forced to use beeswax to make it spike. But no matter how much he tried to hide it, everyone knew his shame.

  Fen’shwa reached for a stone with his free hand and hefted it. “I’ll chip those teeth for you, half-breed!” he said with glee.

  Tol’chuk burned at the insult. “Fen’shwa, you know the law. I am magra, not to be disturbed.”

  “Not until the sun sets!” He threw his stone, but Tol’chuk dodged it easily enoug
h. As much as his mixed breeding scarred his appearance, it gave him agility.

  Fen’shwa picked up another rock, this one larger than the last. His eyes narrowed with menace.

  “Leave me be, Fen’shwa.”

  “You fear! You are not og’re in your heart!”

  Even though Tol’chuk was used to ridicule, this was too foul an insult to leave unanswered. To call an og’re a coward! Tol’chuk put aside his charade and straightened his back until he towered on two legs—something no og’re could ever do. It was this ability that forged his name: Tol’chuk. In the ancient tongue it spoke his half-breed status and his shame: “He-who-walks-like-a-man.”

  Now erect, his head stretched to the height of the cliff. He saw Fen’shwa wince in disgust at the sight of his back straightening. Fen’shwa drew the rock back, preparing to attack.

  Without thought, Tol’chuk shot his hands out and grabbed Fen’shwa’s supporting arm. He dragged him, shocked, over the edge of the cliff and threw him to the bouldered floor of the gully. Tol’chuk instantly regretted his sudden action. Fen’shwa was not an og’re to provoke.

  Fen’shwa landed on his face in a sprawl across the rocky grade. Thick skinned and wide boned, Fen’shwa immediately scrambled up. Tol’chuk stepped back as Fen’shwa rolled to his feet. He sneered at Tol’chuk and raised a finger to his bruised lip. Fen’shwa probed his mouth, his eyes widening with shock as his finger came out bloody. A fire grew in Fen’shwa’s glare, his eyes dilating until the yellow in them became black.

  Tol’chuk had never seen such rage!

  Fen’shwa howled a battle cry, his bellow washing down the gully. Tol’chuk now saw the reason for the fury. One of Fen’shwa’s fangs had been broken off by the fall, a disfiguring injury that could cost the og’re significant rank among the tribe.

  Fen’shwa screamed again in rage and leaped for Tol’chuk’s throat.

  Tol’chuk ducked and rammed the bony crown of his head into the midriff of his attacker. The force of the impact knocked the air from Fen’shwa’s chest. Gasping, Fen’shwa flew back, landing hard on his backside.

  But Tol’chuk’s attacker was an experienced fighter, in training with the warrior clan. Fen’shwa rolled back to his feet and lashed out with his cal-lused hand, grabbing Tol’chuk by the ankle. Yanking on Tol’chuk’s leg, Fen’shwa toppled him to the ground.

  Tol’chuk tried to bear the brunt of his fall on his shoulder. But his efforts still resulted in a crack to his skull. Pin-pricks of light swam across his vision. Blurry eyed, he saw Fen’shwa leaping on top of him. Tol’chuk tried to roll away but failed.

  Fen’shwa landed on him and immediately began kicking at Tol’chuk’s exposed belly. Tol’chuk writhed, trying to limit the damage. Fen’shwa’s back claws dug ribbons of skin, while his front claws jabbed at Tol’chuk’s eyes.

  Tol’chuk fought to free himself, but Fen’shwa outweighed him. If he could not break away soon, he would be gutted. Tol’chuk grabbed for Fen’shwa’s wrist, but from the corner of his eye he spotted Fen’shwa’s other hand slipping a hart-horn dagger from his belt.

  When og’res struggled for mates, matching claw to claw, it was considered deceitful to use a weapon. Thick of hide and hard of bone, seldom did these mating contests result in the death of an og’re. Within a tribe, og’re did not kill og’re. Only during a tribe war, when the og’re clans fought for territory, were weapons employed. It took a weapon to kill an og’re.

  Fen’shwa raised his dagger, his eyes still aflame with hatred. “Half-breed,” he said between clenched fangs, blood flowing from his lips. “Today you haunt us no more!”

  This pause to gloat was Fen’shwa’s undoing. Tol’chuk realized Fen’shwa planned to do more than just bloody him. Tol’chuk grabbed a boulder in each of his hands and slammed them together against Fen’shwa’s ears. Tol’chuk heard the crack as rock met skull. The simultaneous blows at the only weak spots on an og’re’s skull were dramatic.

  Tol’chuk only meant to stun Fen’shwa, to knock him unconscious until his reason returned. As the rocks struck, blood fountained from his attacker’s nostrils, spraying Tol’chuk with its heat. He watched Fen’shwa’s eyes roll to white and heard his breath gurgle on swallowed blood. The dagger tumbled from Fen’shwa’s fingers. His body followed the knife to lie limp on the boulders. Tol’chuk pushed the rest of Fen’shwa’s bulk off his legs and scrambled up. Blood flowed across the boulder from Fen’shwa’s nose and open mouth. His chest did not move.

  Tol’chuk stood stunned, unable to breathe. What had he just done? Og’re must never kill og’re within a tribe!

  He raised his hand and saw the bloody rock still clutched there. A corner had broken away when it struck Fen’shwa’s skull. A yellow glint sparked from the rock’s heart.

  Scentstone.

  The rock tumbled from his numb fingers.

  MOGWEED STOOD AT the edge of the green forest that was the Western Reaches. He slouched against a trunk, reluctant to leave his forest home. A breeze shook the dry leaves overhead, rattling them like the husks of dead beetles. Beyond the trees to the east, the wide expanse of climbing foothills seemed naked, covered only in yellow meadow grass. And beyond the foothills and open meadows climbed the peaks of the Teeth, the mountains he must cross to reach the lands of man. Mogweed felt the rough bark with his cheek. But how could he leave here?

  He raised a hand and stared at the thin fingers and smooth skin. He shuddered at the sight, then glanced to the clothes hanging from his body. A huntsman had shown him how to wear the strange garments. Gray leggings over linen underclothes, and a red coat over a gray wool shirt. He wore them correctly. Still, each stitch and weave of the fabric chafed against his tender skin. And the black boots were the worst. He refused to don them. Instead he carried them in a leather sack on his back. As long as he was in the forest, he would feel the loam between his toes!

  He knew that once he left the shadow of the trees he would have to put the boots on his feet. He needed to appear to be a man. Once dressed, only his eyes would betray his heritage. With slit pupils instead of round, his eyes spoke his true nature.

  He stood there, one arm against the tree, until he was nudged by a nose. “Quiet, Fardale. I need a moment to prepare.” He glanced down in irritation at the treewolf.

  As massive as a man, Fardale sat on his haunches, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. His dense black hair, frosted with browns and grays, seemed like the dappled forest shadows given form and life. The wolf’s pricked ears listened to the forest around them. His raised muzzle sniffed the air, checking for danger.

  Mogweed’s nose crinkled with bitter envy. Fardale’s thick black fur was the only clothing he needed. No further adornment was necessary to complete his disguise. To almost anyone, Fardale would appear to be an ordinary treewolf, again except for his eyes. Like Mogweed’s, his pupils were slitted, too, more like a forest cat’s than a wolf’s. Their eyes were a sign of their true heritage: si’lura.

  Fardale glanced toward him, their amber eyes meeting. A slight glow seemed to warm toward Mogweed from the treewolf’s eyes. Vague feelings formed in his head, whispers of thoughts and images from his wolf brother: A sun setting. A hungry belly. Legs wanting to run. Mogweed knew the meaning in these images. Fardale warned that daylight waned and that they still had much ground to cover before nightfall.

  “I know,” Mogweed answered aloud. He, too, could speak with the whisper of his soul, as Fardale had done, as all si’lura could, but his tongue needed practice. He would be among men shortly and must perfect his disguise if they were to make their journey safely. He shuddered again. “But I hate leaving home.”

  Images answered: A mother’s teat, heavy with milk. The scents of the forest, varied and thick. Dappled shadows burned away by raw sunlight. Fardale also regretted abandoning their forest home.

  But they must. The elder’root of their clan had ordered it, and his words must be obeyed.

  Still … Did they truly need to listen to t
he ancient one’s command?

  Mogweed took a deep breath and dropped his pack to the dirt. He bent and fished out his boots. Sitting at the edge of the forest, he slipped his boots over his feet, cringing as each foot sank into its leathery coffin. “We could just stay,” he said to his companion, his voice a bare whisper. “Live as outcasts.”

  Fardale growled, and the wolf’s thoughts shot deep into him: A poisonous tree frog. A pond scummed over with algae. A hoary oak rotted with yellow molds. The forest was poison to them now. To refuse the elder’root would bring no joy to them in the forest.

  Mogweed knew Fardale spoke the truth, but still a fire grew in his belly. “I know, Fardale! But they’ve banished us! What do we owe them?” His words were etched with heat, but he kept most of his rage penned up within his breast. This was another reason he spoke with his tongue. He did not want Fardale to sense the true depth of his fury.

  Fardale raised to his paws and lowered his head threateningly. His eyes glowed red: A trapdoor spider. A littermate attacking another. A crow stealing a mottled egg from a nest. Fardale still accused him.

  “I was just trying to free us of the curse,” Mogweed answered. “How could I know it would turn out so horribly?”

  The wolf turned his head away, breaking eye contact, signaling the end of the conversation.

  Mogweed blushed, not with shame, but with anger. Damn you, he thought. Fardale had been a choking yoke around his neck for long enough. The urge to leave the wolf behind and go out alone to seek his fortune among the human race thrilled through him.

  Why did he need his own people anyway? They had always shunned him! He might better find his fortune among humans. Mogweed found his feet pulling him out from under the limbs of the trees and into the midafter-noon sunshine.

  He glanced around him. Free of the protective trees, the sky was so wide, so huge! Mogweed’s feet stumbled to a stop. He crouched before the big sky. Like a massive weight, it seemed to crush him toward the ground. He turned back to Fardale. “Are you coming?” He tried to sound acerbic, but fear laced his tremoring words. Going out into such a wide world without someone to lean on terrified him. For now, he still needed Fardale—but only for now.