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

by James Clemens

  Still, his descent was not fast enough for Tol’chuk’s taste. The og’re shifted his feet with impatience. To wait patiently after so much exertion was hard. His back muscles ached, and a ripped claw on his right hand pulsed with pain. Even his legs—two trunks of muscle, tendon, and bone—quivered at the sudden cessation of activity. But worst of all, he still felt a strong pull on his heart to continue the pursuit of Fardale. Ever since the wolf-brother’s images had slipped into his skull, the occasional pangs as the Heart of his people called him forward still tugged on his spirit, mostly when he stopped or rested—like now.

  He fought to distract himself, to ignore the drive to abandon the mountain man on the cliff and strike out on his own. That was not the way of an og’re. One tribe member did not leave another in danger, a sentiment ingrained into the bones of all og’res—even a half-breed. A noble trait, Tol’chuk thought, but unfortunately it was also the chief reason the clan wars among the tribes had been historically so vicious and protracted. To injure one member of a tribe was like attacking the whole. No affront was left unanswered, no threat left unchallenged, until the entire male population of one of the two warring tribes was destroyed. Tol’chuk scowled at his sour thoughts. Except for religious ceremonies, there had never been a time when all the og’re tribes had united. And considering the drive of his people and the honor code of the warriors, he doubted they ever would be.

  Sometimes honor and loyalty, he realized with a sigh, were not such noble traits.

  Still, he did not abandon Kral, even as the hooks dug deep into his heart to pull him onward. He could not ignore countless generations of og’re blood flowing through his veins. Honor and loyalty, though the sentiments had killed thousands of his fellow og’res, were still as much a part of him as bone and tendon. He waited.

  Thankfully, Tol’chuk did not have much longer to wait. Kral, with his chest heaving, hopped off the last boulder to land beside him.

  “I hope we are making the right choice in pursuing this path,” Kral said, forcing words out between gasps. “We’ll never climb back out this way.”

  Tol’chuk shrugged his massive shoulders. “We will find another way back up.” He led off in the direction where Fardale and the lamps had last been seen. He heard a slight groan as the mountain man forced his legs to follow. Kral could probably use a rest after the climb, but Tol’chuk did not want the wolf-brother to get too far ahead of them. If this subterranean system was the same as Tol’chuk’s tribal cavern, with its warren of twisting and branching tunnels, then with only a little distance, Fardale could be easily lost to him. He urged the mountain man onward. “Speed be our best chance to keep ahead of the rock’goblins.”

  “Also the best way of running right back into them,” Kral added, but he kept up with the og’re.

  They proceeded in silence, conserving their breath for the hike across the uneven terrain. As they trudged, the air grew thick as goat’s milk. Tol’chuk’s huge chest drank without difficulty. An og’re was built for the deep caverns buried under the mountains. Kral, however, had lived among the high, snowy peaks and was accustomed to the thin air blowing through the Teeth. This stagnant damp air was not making his’ journey easier. The large man labored to keep close to the og’re.

  Tol’chuk kept one ear turned back toward the mountain man, listening to his graveled breathing. Kral voiced no complaint, but Tol’chuk knew that a rest would be needed shortly. He searched across the length of the cavern. A cluster of boulders lay across their path ahead. If they could at least reach there before stopping, Tol’chuk thought, then they would be close to the tunnel into which Fardale had vanished. The urging from the heartstone of his people, though, made him reluctant for even this brief delay. Now that Tol’chuk was moving, he did not want to stop.

  Kral coughed behind him, rattling and hoarse. Tol’chuk bunched up his brow. Just a bit farther, he thought. He marched on, listening to the mountain man for any further sign of exhaustion.

  Tol’chuk, keenly attuned to Kral’s breathing and to the slippery terrain of loose rock, did not notice a shadow detach itself from a boulder and step toward him until the figure stood directly in his path.

  “I’ll have my stone, please,” the figure said.

  Kral rounded the wide body of Tol’chuk with the light. In the greenish glow, the figure was revealed to be the one called Meric, the elv’in man. His white shirt, torn, was marred by mud and by darker stains that could only be blood. His green pants were ripped, and a scrap of his shirt was wrapped around his upper thigh. Blood trailed down his leg. A black bruise stood out on his white cheek. He repeated his demand, his hand held out. “My windstone.” Though his words were casual and his manner disdainful, his hand trembled slightly.

  “We thought you dead,” Kral said. He still clutched the stone in a fist, obviously wary of the elv’in. “The blood, the trail over the cliff. How did you survive the jump to the first ledge?”

  “I didn’t jump to any ledge.” He still held one hand out but used the other to wipe away a strand of silver hair that had escaped his long braid. “I leaped to here.”

  Kral glanced up into the blackness through which they had jumped, climbed, and trudged to reach this spot. “Nee’lahn warned of your lies,” he mumbled, but his eyes returned to study the thin man.

  “I do not lie.”

  Tol’chuk’s voice rang with suspicion. “Not even an og’re could survive such a fall.”

  “I did not fall.” Disdain rang in his voice.

  “What did you do then?” Kral asked. “Fly?”

  “No, the elv’in may be masters of wind and air, but not even we can achieve flight. The elemental magick is not that strong. I could not fly, but through the use of elemental power, I could control my plunge to this chasm floor. I slowed it, spread its energy into a glide to here.”

  “And you waited for us?”

  A slight scowl twisted his lips. “I tended my wounds.” He pointed to his legs. “Those creatures caught me off guard, and I took several stabs before I was able to escape. As I stanched the blood, I saw the glow of my windstone at the top of the cliff. I watched you jump and climb here—and waited. Not for you, but for my stone.” He thrust his hand farther toward Kral. “Please return my property.”

  Kral still kept the rock in his palm. “This is the only light. We have a friend to find.”

  “As do I.”

  Kral and Meric stared at each other.

  “We can go … together,” Tol’chuk said. “If the goblins attack again, we will need everyone.”

  “I’ll keep the stone,” Kral said.

  “You will kill its light. I can warm its glow back to bright.” Kral clutched the stone tighter. Tol’chuk noted that the glow had waned rapidly since leaping into the chasm. The mountain man hesitated, then slowly reached out and pressed the crystal rock into Meric’s palm. He held the stone and the elv’in’s palm in his large hand as he spoke. “We stay together. Swear it.”

  “We do not swear lightly among my people, man of the mountains.”

  “Neither do we.” Kral’s hand tightened its grip. “Now swear.”

  Meric’s eyes narrowed with threat, and he spoke between clenched teeth. “I give my word. I will help you find your friend.”

  Kral maintained his grip for a heartbeat, his eyes boring into the elv’in. Then he nodded and released his hand.

  “We must go,” said Tol’chuk.

  “Where?” the elv’in asked.

  “We seek our friend in the tunnel yonder,” Tol’chuk said. “He be with others who have lights.”

  “Lights?” Meric asked, his voice swelling with hope. “Did one float upon the winds? It could be my bird.”

  Tol’chuk scratched the bristled hairs atop his head. “No.” This brought a frown to Meric’s thin lips. “You saw no other light?”

  Tol’chuk shook his head. The elv’in seemed distraught with the news. “Why be it so important to find this bird of yours?”

  �
�He scented royal blood. I could tell when I entered this valley.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Meric ignored Tol’chuk, scanning the dark chasm. Kral explained. “He claims his bird is like a hound on a trail. It seeks their lost king.”

  “Descendant of our king,” Meric corrected. He rubbed his retrieved windstone and blew on it. The stone bloomed brighter, highlighting the silver hair and white skin of the elv’in. He faced them. Old hate burned in his words. “Our queen was allowed to leave when we were banished from our lands, but our king was kept hostage.”

  Kral waved a hand to encompass the chasm and lands beyond. “How do you know a descendant still survives after so many centuries?”

  “The king swore he would keep the line alive in our lands.”

  “But what if he couldn’t?”

  “I said he swore, mountain man,” said Meric, venom in his voice. “And our promises are kept.”

  Sensing a growing tension, Tol’chuk changed the tack of the conversation. “This hawk—”

  “Moon’falcon,” the elv’in corrected, swinging his eyes away from Kral.

  “Yes, this bird,” Tol’chuk continued, “how can it seek someone it has never met? Even a sniffer needs a scent.”

  “It is not so much a scent as a bond. The eggs of moon’falcons are bathed in royal blood. Bird and blood are linked. This falcon is a direct descendant of the moon’falcon originally bonded to our king. Descendant will know descendant. It will only alight on someone with our lost king’s blood.”

  “But I saw it with you,” Kral said.

  Meric sighed heavily, as if this were all so obvious. “I am of royal blood, the fourth son of Queen Tratal, the Star of the Morning. It is our people’s dream to reunite the two houses of our race—the present queen’s line and the ancient king’s line.”

  Kral burst forth with a hoarse chuckle. “So, Meric, you’re also a matchmaker seeking a husband for one of your sisters.” He laughed again. “To reunite your noble houses! Gads, I’m glad my clans left that all behind. We bow to no one.”

  Meric’s face reddened at Kral’s ridiculing attitude; his thin lips pulled thinner and his eyes spat hate. Tol’chuk sensed currents running deep in this thin man that if brought to the surface would be more of a danger than a hundred goblins. Tol’chuk decided it was time to end this conversation. Besides, the compulsion to continue the journey was again beginning to throb in his chest. “There be a tunnel ahead. My friend went in there. Maybe your falcon went that way, too.”

  The blood slowly drained from Meric’s face as he turned to him; then he gave a slight shrug. “I will go with you—as I swore.” He darted a narrow-eyed glance to Kral. As his eyes settled back on Tol’chuk, he continued, “I will let the bird hunt a bit longer.”

  “Then we go.” Tol’chuk led the way before Kral could say something to further aggravate the elv’in. Meric stayed close to Tol’chuk, allowing Kral to trail behind.

  The silence wrapped around them as they forced their way through a tight set of stubborn boulders. Tol’chuk had to hoist the smaller men over some of the bigger rocks. Kral would only let him do this with much frowning and a reddening of cheeks. The independent mountain man bristled at needing help, but he was not too proud to recognize the reality of the situation. In brooding silence, he allowed himself to be hauled up and pushed to the top of the steepled rock.

  Meric, on the other hand, accepted Tol’chuk’s aid without even a nod of thanks. He had a palm held out for assistance even before Tol’chuk offered, as if he were well accustomed to being cared after by those stronger of limb. Tol’chuk lifted him, surprised at how light the elv’in was, as if his bones were hollow like some long-legged wading bird. He pushed Meric high enough for the elv’in to reach an arm up to Kral. Kral ignored the arm and just stared into the darkness. After realizing the mountain man was not going to help, Meric grasped a spar of rock and pulled himself up.

  This was all accomplished in silence. Tol’chuk’s arms and legs, busy with the climb, allowed his mind to ponder the elv’in’s words. Something bothered him, but he could not quite place a claw on the scrambling bug of his concern. The quiet hike through the boulders allowed him to review what he knew of the elv’in. His thoughts backtracked to their first meeting, and by the time they had cleared the nest of rock, he finally remembered what bothered him.

  He turned to Meric. The elv’in was hunched over, breathing heavily after the passage through the stones. Even Kral leaned on a neighboring boulder, massaging a kink from his left thigh. “When first we met in the clearing in the woods, you mentioned nothing of a king’s descendant. Only something about some wit’ch. What be that all about?”

  Meric nodded, trying to catch his breath. “Yes, the other reason I was allowed to seek the king. Our oracles spoke of a wit’ch in this land who would appear in the same valley as our lost king. This wit’ch will draw protectors from all the lands like moths to a deadly flame, and she will grow to ravage our ancient homes. So besides seeking our king, I am to search for signs of her.”

  “Why?” asked Kral, stepping forward, limping slightly on his left leg.

  “To kill her.”

  30

  ELENA WATCHED HER uncle step to Er’ril’s side. The swordsman had sunk to his knees at the threshold to the next chamber. He held his face away from the light shining forth from the room. On Er’ril’s cheek rested a single tear, glinting like a jewel in the radiance.

  “What is it?” Uncle Bol said, placing a hand on the swordsman’s shoulder.

  Er’ril did not answer, but simply pointed into the next room. Elena crept within her uncle’s shadow. She peered from around his back into the face of the light. The source of the radiance stood in the center of a crudely circular chamber. The room was otherwise empty and unadorned.

  “Amazing handiwork,” her uncle said, squinting into the chamber. “But what troubles you so, Er’ril?”

  Er’ril shook his head and stayed silent.

  Elena slipped from around Uncle Bol’s back to better view the chamber. In the center of the room, resting on the bare floor, stood a crystal statue that fountained forth with silvery light. Even though the stone of the statue was the well of this pure light, Elena found the radiance did not blind her to the features of the sculpture; actually, the opposite was true. The light seemed to drape and fold around the statue, adding a certain detail and substance to the work.

  “The artisan who created this piece was one of astounding skill,” Uncle Bol said, his words mumbled as his eyes kept drifting with concern toward the swordsman. “Surely this is not the work of goblins. The smoothness of the stone, the fine details around the eyes and lips, are nothing like the crude carvings on the arches.”

  Elena found herself silently agreeing with her uncle. It was a thing of exceptional beauty—though a cruel beauty.

  The statue was that of a small boy. Elena judged him to be no older than ten winters. The figure knelt with one hand resting on the floor, the other arm raised high, as if in supplication. The boy’s face, contorted with pain, was also turned to the heavens. The reason for the boy’s agony was clear.

  “See how the sculptor chose to mix his materials for dramatic effect?” her uncle said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “The boy is crystal, but the sword is silver.”

  Elena nodded. From the corner of her eye, she saw Er’ril wince at the mention of the sword. Like Er’ril, she did not like this feature of the sculpture.

  Thrust through the back of the crystal boy, piercing chest and heart, stood a silver sword. Its pommel protruded a handspan above the boy’s back, its point buried into the rock of the floor. The boy seemed to be struggling to escape his fate, as if still unaware of the fatal nature of the sword’s blow, only aware of its pain. His face, innocent and lost, searched the heavens for release from the agony. His eyes stretched wide, pleading for an answer as to why this had to happen.

  Elena found her own eyes welling with tears as she stared at
the boy’s face. An impulse struck her to go out and comfort the child, try to relieve his suffering. But she knew it was only a statue. The pain expressed here was from an era long ago, but the sculpture was so fine, the agony reached up from the ages to touch her own heart.

  “It is a shame the statue is marred,” her uncle said sharply; as a scholar of ancient histories, he had always hated to see bits of antiquity damaged. He scowled now as he pointed. “One of the goblins must have broken it when dragging it here.”

  Elena could not fathom at first what her uncle meant. Then she realized the boy’s left arm, which was raised toward the roof of the chamber, was missing its hand, as if it had been chopped off with an ax. How odd she hadn’t noticed that immediately. Still, as she studied the piece, somehow she felt her uncle was wrong. The statue was not damaged, just unfinished—like a sad song ending a few notes short of its completion, the ear still waiting.

  Her uncle had by now turned again to Er’ril. Uncle Bol’s face was stern, his lips iron hard, and his cheeks sunken with determination. “Enough of this foolishness, Standi! What so troubles you about a bit of sculpted crystal?”

  Er’ril remained silent with his shoulders humped in sorrow. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and directed to the rock floor. “It is my shame,” he mumbled, “my shame given form.”

  AS ER’RIL BOWED his head, he now knew in his heart that Bol’s earlier words were true. The goblins had not herded them here because of the girl but because of him. Somehow the rock’goblins knew of his shame and had driven him here to face it.

  If that was what these creatures wanted, then he would grant them what they asked. Knowing he did not deserve to hide from it anyway, he finally raised his eyes again to stare at the statue. The boy’s face, carved in such fine detail, burned with bright light, and his own mind flamed in memory. He could never forget that face—and never should, he thought. In some small manner, he could at least honor the boy’s sacrifice by not forgetting him.

  As his eyes rested on the small raised face, he remembered the room in the inn and the night the Book was forged. So much of that night had come home to him again in the past day. First Greshym reappearing on a street, black with dark magick. And now this: a sculpture of the boy mage who had been sacrificed on the point of Er’ril’s own sword so the Book could have its blood. The players of that fateful night were again being drawn together.