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

by James Clemens

  Behind its words, Kral sensed fatigue in the beast. Its breathing rasped across the empty space. It had labored hard to arrive here so quickly. With luck, Kral might be able to distract the monster long enough to allow the others to escape. He thumbed free his ax from his saddle harness and pulled it to his lap. Kicking his horse to a lunge, he sped directly at the beast. A roar barreled from his throat in a battle cry of his clan. Kral swung his ax high.

  As Kral had hoped, exhaustion and surprise forced the skal’tum back two steps before it could rise to its full height. It was enough; there was room enough for a horse and rider to slip behind Kral and out to the dark woods. “Go!” he screamed at the others. He did not have to call twice. A rush of thundering hooves passed behind his mount’s rump. He dared not follow their progress, his eyes fixed upon the claws and teeth of the skal’tum.

  The skal’tum, though, saw some of its prey scurrying away. It lunged at Kral just as the last of his companions raced past behind him. A lightning swing of his ax bounced back a flash of poisoned talons from his face, and a downward bat of his hickory handle knocked away a clawed kick at his mount’s belly. Kral guided his horse with slight movements of his legs and shifts of his weight. Rorshaf became an extension of his own body. Where horse and man met became a blurred line of muscle and will.

  The skal’tum backed a step, its chest heaving with exertion. “You fight well, man of rock. But the night iss mine.”

  Kral danced his ax in his hand, but it was a useless show of skill. He knew his fight with the beast was hopeless. As his previous battle with this beast’s brethren had taught him, dark magick protected the skal’tum from harm. With the sun far from rising, Kral could not maintain this stalemate. Sooner or later, a claw or fang would slip through his defense. His best hope was to buy time for Nee’lahn and the garrison man to escape, then lure this beast away from the cottage—if he lived that long.

  The skal’tum waited, its breathing becoming less labored as it rested. It was in no hurry to finish him off, toying with him. Apparently it knew the child it sought was not among those who had escaped on horseback. Kral sat straighter in his saddle. He had given Nee’lahn and the others time enough to flee. If he was to die here, let him die swinging his ax and on the back of the steed he had raised from a foal. He swung his ax above his head, meaning to challenge the beast to lunge. It did—cursed predictable beast!

  Now to bait it away from the cottage.

  Kral reared his horse, iron-shod hooves striking back the foe. Still hanging on the back of the reared stallion, Kral signaled Rorshaf to twist around. The horse spun on its hind legs and crashed back down, jarring Kral forward across the pommel. The skal’tum now stood behind them, screaming. The mountain man kicked his horse forward, attempting to race for the tree line beyond the corner of the cottage. But after only a handful of paces, Rorshaf ground to a halt, his hooves digging grooves in the rocky dirt. The sudden stop caught Kral by surprise. He struggled to compensate but could not stop his body from tumbling over the head of his mount. He landed with a roll and avoided a snapped bone. Pulling to his knees, Kral looked ahead to what had spooked Rorshaf.

  A second skal’tum stalked from the front of the cottage and blocked his escape to the trees. Kral heard the sibilant laugh of the first skal’tum behind him. “Come back, little one. We are not done playing.”

  As BOL STRUGGLED to pry a torch from the crumbling stone of the wall, Er’ril prepared to mount the stairs and investigate the crashing commotion echoing from the cottage above.

  “Stay your feet, plainsman!”

  Er’ril turned to face the speaker, the ghost in the mirror. The swirling bands of light swelled and ebbed over the stern figure of the old woman. He spoke to the mirror. “I have companions in danger up there.”

  “They are not your concern,” she said coldly, her eyes narrowed. “You were guardian of the Book, and now must be guardian of the one for whom the Book was forged. You must get Elena to safety. Time has not dulled the Black Heart’s lust. Now go!” Her bright image in the mirror fluttered like a candle flame in a breeze, her final words stuttering. “The dark magick … snaking in the cottage … weakening my link. Flee … while you still can! Do not fail me, Er’ril of Standi.”

  Then her ghost vanished and darkness reclaimed the chamber. Only the blue-flamed torches weakly beat back the blackness.

  In the silence, the girl edged closer to Er’ril’s side. An exceptionally loud crash boomed from above, startling her, and she clutched at his hand. He squeezed in reassurance, her hand a hot ember in his palm. How could this child be a wit’ch? Wit’ches were legends of evil: crook-backed crones buried deep in swampy lairs, or beautiful women with raven hair who lured men to their doom on midnight visits. Er’ril studied the woman-child. In the torchlight, her eyes were glassy with fear, her lips slightly parted as she held her breath. One hand twisted a curl of hair by her ear. He squeezed her hand again. Evil or not, this wit’ch was under his protection.

  Bol had finally freed one of the torches from its bracket and pointed it to the only hall leaving the chamber.

  “This way.” He passed the torch to Er’ril.

  With only one arm, Er’ril was forced to pry his hand from Elena’s tight fingers to accept the flaming brand. The girl’s hand, free now, snatched the edge of Er’ril’s leather jerkin and clung there.

  Bol raised his lantern. “Come. I have explored these ruins and know them well.”

  “Do you know a way out to the woods?” Er’ril asked.

  The old man’s words were whispered as he turned and began to lead the way toward the black hall. “I once did. But these ruins have a way of tricking an eye.”

  Er’ril, with Elena attached to his side, followed Bol into the dark passageway leading from the chamber. The passage was revealed to be an ancient hall of the school. Hewn stone crumbled in dampness, and mold grew thick across the stone walls. An occasional alcove or niche they passed contained statuary so worn by dripping water and age that the forms had melted into hunched masses that seemed to menace the passer.

  Er’ril noted that Elena kept well clear of these dark spaces, and every noise triggered a gasp from the girl. As she walked beside him, her feet stumbled in exhaustion. He heard her mumbling under her breath, words spoken to the floor in a disjointed fashion—something about snakes. Er’ril’s lips tightened to a frown. It must be over a day since the child had slept. They needed to get her somewhere to sleep and recuperate. The dangers facing this youngster were more than just physical.

  He wanted to put his arm around the girl, but he was fully occupied supporting the sputtering torch. For the first time in a long time, he regretted the loss of his other limb.

  Ahead, Er’ril saw Bol hesitate at a junction of three crumbling halls. The subterranean ruins of the old school were a maze of crisscrossing stone halls and collapsed chambers. At first, Bol had been marching through this warren of tunnels with confidence, but as they proceeded he stopped more and more to scratch his head and squint his eyes.

  Er’ril stepped beside him. “What’s wrong?”

  “I must have made a wrong turn. I don’t remember this crossroad.” “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying we’re lost. There are many parts of these ruins I haven’t explored. Some sections are unstable and apt to fall. Some parts are where beasts of the underground rule and guard against intruders.”

  “And where are we now?”

  As if in answer, a sudden loud hissing bloomed from all around them. Elena whimpered beside Er’ril.

  Bol lowered his lantern. “How fast can you run carrying Elena?” he whispered to Er’ril. “Why?”

  Bol peered into the darkness. “I didn’t know they had stretched their territory so far. The winter cold must be driving them to these lower regions.”

  Er’ril listened to the growing hissing. “Serpents?”

  Bol shook his head. “Worse. Much worse. Rock’goblins.”

  * * *

&
nbsp; THE TWO SKAL’TUM beat their wings through the cold night air as Kral struggled to his feet. One of his knees protested the motion, and he grabbed for Rorshaf’s withers to steady himself. The war charger sidled closer to him. Though the horse’s eyes were wild with fear and its coat slick with sweat, Rorshaf stayed by the downed Kral, ready to protect.

  The skal’tum behind him chuckled, the sound of its laughter like rocks rattling through a wash during a flash storm. “My little bird broke hisss wing. Come and I will fix it.”

  Kral heard the scrape of bony wing and claw approaching his back. He stared at his empty hands—weaponless. He had lost the ax when he was thrown from the horse. It now lay in the dirt near the feet of the second skal’tum. He needed another weapon but had none. Unless …

  The second skal’tum crept closer toward him from the front. “We have had a long trip here. We could use a little meal before we tear apart the cottage and find our true prey.”

  Both of the skal’tum now hissed sibilantly. Green oil dripped from the claws of the skal’tum in front while it stared at him like a dog salivating for a bone.

  Kral’s hand settled on one of his packs. He picked the strap loose and flipped open the covering.

  “Now what doess our little man think he hass?” the beast behind him asked. “Another shiny blade to prod at us? You cannot harm us, soft one, but only whet our appetites.”

  Kral reached into his pack and grabbed his “weapon” by a long ear. He pulled free the decapitated head of the skal’tum he had slain in the town. He raised it high for both creatures to see. “Do not trust so fully your dark magick! I have learned how to thwart your foul protections.”

  The sight of the head, its long tongue hanging slack from its dead lips, had the desired effect on the beasts. Kral guessed the two skal’tum had seldom seen one of their kind slain in many centuries. The shocking revelation caused both of the beasts to flap back from him in trepidation. He hopped forward, his horse following at his whistled command. He swung the head toward the skal’tum in front. It backed far enough away from Kral that he could reach the ax.

  He quickly wiped the ax’s edge through the thick blood that dripped in globs from the severed neck in his hands. “Blood of your kind smeared on a blade will render your dark protections useless.” He raised the blade, praying his ruse would hold. “I do not need the sun to kill you!”

  His words shook the skal’tum. Both near exhaustion themselves, neither seemed willing to test his claim. He mounted and, using his knees, guided his horse to the side. Now both skal’tum stood in front of him.

  “We will kill you, little man. Mark our wordsss. When the tale of what you have done reachess our tribe, you and all your kind will be meat upon our fangss.”

  “We will be ready for you! Your blood will flow like rivers down our mountains,” he assured the creatures as he swung his horse around and signaled Rorshaf to his fastest speed. Fear ignited his mount, and Rorshaf’s iron-shod hooves thundered across the cold ground. Trees flew past to either side. With a net of limbs blocking the sky overhead from a winged assault, Kral allowed himself to breathe again.

  As he and Rorshaf raced through the wintry night, thunder rumbled from overhead. The storm was about to break. Kral watched lightning arc across the black clouds as two emotions warred in his heart: relief at having survived, and shame for what he had done. He kicked Rorshaf to a faster speed, as if he could run from his ignoble act. Froth foamed from Rorshaf’s lips as he obeyed his master and sped through the woods.

  It was not the abandonment of his companions in the cottage that caused his heart to weigh like a stone in his chest. Though he had left them to the beasts, his heart knew he had done all he could to buy them time to escape the cellar and reach safety. He had done his best, risking his own life.

  No, what caused his heart to ache and his throat to choke was that he had lied, spoken an untruth! And for no other reason but to save his contemptible hide!

  He yanked on Rorshaf’s reins. His mount reared, wild-eyed, foam flying from the bit, and pulled to a short stop. Suddenly lightning and thunder crashed above Kral, as if the heavens above screamed for his lying heart. A freezing rain began pelting through the pines to strike his upturned face.

  No man of his clan had ever allowed a lie to escape his teeth. With the spittle of his foul tongue, Kral had doused the fire of his family clan. For that blasphemy, he could never return to his mountain home.

  A man forever lost, Kral howled into the face of the rain.

  24

  ELENA CLUNG TO the swordsman’s jerkin as the hissing of the goblins crept around them. Now what? She had seen too many horrors this past day. She buried her face into Er’ril’s leather jerkin. A rumble of distant thunder echoed from above, silencing the hissing but not for long. As the crackling roar died away, the menacing noise resumed, itching at her ears. She peeked an eye open and stared down the hall behind them. Were there darker shadows sliding toward them?

  Uncle Bol spoke behind her. “I smell rain down this hall.”

  She glanced back toward her uncle.

  He peered down the hall leading to the left. “And I think the hissing is less this way, too.”

  “Then let’s go,” Er’ril said.

  With her ear pressed near his chest, Elena heard Er’ril’s heart pound in its bony cage. She concentrated on the rush of blood through the warrior’s heart, letting it drown out the hissing.

  “Toss away the torch,” Bol said. “You’ll need that arm of yours to carry Elena. We must hurry. They may let us pass through their halls unmolested if we don’t dally.”

  Elena allowed herself to be hefted into the air by Er’ril’s iron-muscled arm. She held her arms around his neck to maintain her perch. “Swing to my back,” he said.

  She did as he asked and wrapped her legs around his waist. He kept his one arm hooked in her leg. “I don’t need you to hold me,” she said right into his ear. “If you lean over just a bit, I can hold on by myself.”

  Er’ril grunted acknowledgment and let go.

  She tightened her knees and adjusted her weight. She held her place firm; it was not unlike riding a horse. “I’m set,” she said.

  Placing a hand on the pommel of his sword, Er’ril nodded to Bol. “Lead the way.” Elena’s arm across his windpipe strained his voice.

  Bol raised his lantern, slipped into the hall on the right, and led the way at a slight trot. Er’ril followed with a strangled “hang on” tossed back at the girl.

  Elena pushed her cheek against his neck and held tight, careful not to choke her mount completely. Her nose filled with the scent of him: horse and a rich muskiness, like a hint of the loam of his home plains. A picture of him as a boy running in the fields of his Standi home passed through her mind’s eye, legs strong as they leaped irrigation ditches, chest wide as it drew the air yellowed by the dusty pollen of the spring fields. What if they had met as children? Would they have been friends?

  Before she could ponder the strange effect his smell had on her heart, they entered the new hallway. The hissing grew louder as the walls around them echoed the threat. The noise seemed to creep into her skull and bounce around inside. She stared over Er’ril’s shoulder as he trotted after Uncle Bol and the lantern.

  Though they moved quickly, the pace was not so hurried as to trip a foot on a crumbling stone or bump a head on a fallen roof beam. It was this fast yet steady pace that kept Uncle Bol from death. From her perch, Elena could see the forward edge of the lantern’s light as it raced ahead of them, illuminating obstacles. As she stared, the lantern light sliding along the stone floor suddenly vanished ahead as if swallowed by a hungry darkness. It took her a moment to realize what lay ahead. “Watch out!” she called to her uncle, who still hurried ahead of them.

  Her words struck his ears at the same time the sight reached his eyes. He skidded to a halt, his arm swinging to keep him from falling. His toes teetered at the edge of a precipice. Er’ril came near to colliding into h
is back and sending him tumbling into the black pit ahead, but the swordsman was agile and instead pulled Uncle Bol from the edge.

  Elena dropped from Er’ril’s back. All three stared at the yawning precipice. The hall had been split by an old crack and a shifting in the rock of the foothills; the edge of the lantern light barely reached across the gap to where the hall continued on the far side—much too far to leap.

  Another crack of thunder echoed from the storm overhead. The thunder’s bark rang clear from the distant hall. Uncle Bol was right. A way to the surface did lie at the end of that hall. But with the pit between them and the hall’s continuation, it might as well have been a thousand leagues away.

  The thunder seeped away, and the source of the hissing became clear. The noise rose like steam from the precipice, as from a furious teakettle ready to explode.

  “Rock’goblins,” Bol muttered.

  Behind them now, a thick-tongued hissing answered its brethren from the pit.

  Uncle Bol turned to face Elena. She had never seen such despair in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to both her and Er’ril.

  Elena barely heard his words. From the hall behind them, she saw inky shadows shift and squirm toward their light.

  * * *

  “KRAL!” NEE’LAHN CALLED through the storm-swept wood. Limbs lashed about her horse, and a hard rain beat down, stinging her face. She continued through the wood toward where she had heard the thunder of passing hooves. She coaxed the stallion forward.

  Behind her followed the mare and its rider, Rockingham. Though the steed was tethered to her stallion, the man made no effort to leap from his mount and flee. Apparently the prisoner had no desire to traverse these woods on foot with monsters loose this night.

  “He’s dead,” Rockingham said sourly. “Let’s find a thick-boughed tree and weather this storm out.”

  “No.”

  “He can’t have survived the skal’tum.” “He did it once.”