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

by James Clemens

  As keen as the edge of his blade was, the hopelessness of the situation touched his heart. He faltered. Goblins swamped him, knocking him backward. He crashed to the stone floor, his head striking hard enough to raise points of dancing light before his stunned eyes. Five goblins straddled his chest and legs. Three pinned his sword arm to the rock. Teeth buried into his forearm.

  Biting back the pain, Er’ril struggled under their weight. If only he had his other arm, he thought uselessly, then perhaps he would still have a chance of freeing himself. He heaved against the mass of goblins, determined to roll loose.

  As he struggled, he felt the ward ripped from his pocket.

  Curse them, one of the beasts was trying to steal the iron fist again.

  He thrust his head up to see which of the thieving creatures was yanking on his pocket. With his neck straining, he eyed the breast pocket of his shirt where he had hidden the ward.

  No goblin claw lay there. Instead he saw a sight that almost startled him enough to fling the goblins from his body. Crawling free from his pocket like some metal spider was the iron fist, fingers splayed and digging for purchase. With the fist in sight, Er’ril felt a stabbing jolt at his stumped shoulder. At first, he thought a goblin claw had gouged him. But no, once before he had felt such a burning sting—long ago, when he had lost his arm. It was the sting of magick! As the pain swept away, a new sensation bloomed at his stump. Er’ril could feel his missing arm!

  His frantic eyes searched his empty shoulder and told his heart the limb was still gone, but Er’ril would swear he sensed the phantom of an arm now linked to his shoulder.

  An arm that ended at the iron fist!

  He now felt the cold metal of the ward that gloved his ghost hand. He flexed the iron fingers. Sweet Mother! The boy De’nal’s words came back to him: I will make your ward more than a lump in your pocket.

  Stunned by the sight, he stopped struggling. Taking advantage of his sudden stillness, one of the goblins lunged for his throat, fanged teeth bared to rip. Reflexively, Er’ril reached with an arm that had been gone for centuries. The iron hand flew up and clamped upon the thin neck of the goblin. The bones of its throat cracked under the vise of iron as he squeezed the life from the attacker.

  The other goblins saw what happened and piled away from him. They backed in a tangled mass. Er’ril rolled to his feet, sword in one hand. His other hand, the one of sculpted iron, still floated in the air, clutching the limp goblin. He willed the metal hand to open, and the goblin dropped dead to the stone. As Er’ril moved his phantom arm, the iron ward swung through the air seemingly on its own, but Er’ril knew it was not so—he controlled it as he would his own hand.

  The rock’goblins shied from the floating threat, their large black eyes narrowed with fear.

  But for how long?

  Er’ril’s question was answered immediately. A new stream of goblins flowed into the chamber, and their numbers bolstered the others’ courage. With an angry hiss, they lunged from all sides. Even their wariness of Elena had faded. Er’ril saw them accost her and her uncle.

  Er’ril backed to help them, but even with the aid of his iron hand, he found himself hard-pressed by the mass of attackers. Limping from a deep gash in his left leg, Er’ril struggled toward his companions. Savagely, he ripped into the beasts with silver sword and iron hand, digging a bloody path through the goblins.

  Yet even this was not enough.

  Stone, now slippery with blood and gore, betrayed his feet. He slipped and tumbled to his knees, an opportunity the goblins snatched up with bloody glee. The beasts engulfed him, swarming up his back, clawed nails digging and ripping. He was again pressed to the cold rock. As teeth tore at his neck, a cry of defeat escaped his throat.

  35

  KRAL FOLLOWED THE last of the goblins toward the end of the tunnel. Swinging his ax, he cleaved the skull of a large one that had twisted around to block his path. Kral tried to pull his blade free, but it was caught in bone. He stopped and wiped his wet brow. He and the others had fought their way down the tunnel from the fissure mouth. Strangely, little true resistance had been offered. The goblins had mostly ignored them as they ran. The beasts seemed as determined as his party to reach the tunnel’s end.

  Something there had the creatures riled.

  From the flickering glow ahead, Kral saw that the tunnel ended a stone’s throw away. A large chamber lay beyond, and hundreds of goblins, living and dead, crowded the floor of that room.

  “They could not have survived,” Kral growled, thinking of the small girl and the one-armed swordsman. He yanked his ax free of the dead goblin.

  “Do not despair,” Tol’chuk said. The og’re raked a goblin from his leg and smashed it on the tunnel wall. “Goblins hate light. Where there be light, there be hope.”

  Suddenly the glow ahead flared brighter: A goblin aflame with burning oil danced in agony across the chamber floor. It ignited two other goblins who mimicked his prance.

  “Someone yet fights,” Meric said, pushing past them. The thin sword in his hand dripped black blood.

  On the elv’in’s heels, the wolf sped forward toward the chamber, its injured limb forgotten. A snarl flowed from its throat.

  His ax now free, Kral followed. Tol’chuk kept the few straggling goblins from their backs.

  The party burst into the chamber, a war yell upon Kral’s lips. Still the goblins ignored them, so focused were they on a battle at the far wall. Kral saw the old man from the cottage sloshing burning oil on another goblin while the child hid behind him. But the most intense fighting was just ahead of the pair. A tall pile of goblins writhed upon someone crushed under their weight.

  Like a surging wave, the pack of beasts swelled up as the fighter pushed to his knees. For a moment, he seemed about to break free and regain his feet, but then another surge of goblins drove him back down—yet not before Kral saw who fought. Er’ril’s face, clenched with effort, one eye bloody and swollen, flashed for a moment before being engulfed again.

  Roaring, Kral hacked his way forward; the moon’falcon circled above, a piercing screech issuing from its beak. The others threw themselves against the sea of creatures, but it was like fighting a surging surf. As soon as one onslaught was battered back, a second would strike them. Soon the party split into two. Tol’chuk guarded Kral’s back while the wolf and elv’in spun together in a dance of death. The tides of battle pulled the two pairs farther and farther apart.

  “Help the old man and the child!” Kral yelled to Meric. The mountain man slashed the neck of a goblin with such might its skull flew across the room. “We’ll go for the swordsman!”

  Kral didn’t know if the elv’in had heard him over the screams of the wounded and dying, but it seemed Meric did shift slightly in the correct direction. Satisfied, Kral swung toward Er’ril. Over his shoulder, the mountain man heard the crack of bone as Tol’chuk kept guard. Kral smiled grimly. An og’re, he thought, was as good as having a stone wall at your back. It left Kral free to focus his ax and muscle on the battle ahead.

  The mountain man pulled in his rage and began forging a path toward Er’ril, his ax a blur, his motions more instinctive than planned. His mind retreated to a place of memory, to lessons learned long ago.

  Kral had mastered the art of the ax from Mulf, an ancient grizzled warrior of the Teeth. It was said that the old man had fought during the D’warf Wars and had held the Pass of Tears by himself for a full day and night. As a lad of only eleven winters, his eyes full of future glory, Kral had sought the elder in his cave high in the Teeth. When he had first caught sight of Mulf, Kral’s hopes died in his heart. Mulf, back bent, looked as ancient as the roots of the mountains. His beard, white as early snow, hung so low the old man had to tuck it into his belt to keep from tripping. How could this decrepit wreck teach him anything? Mulf had seemed too weak even to heft an ax, let alone wield it in battle. But after his first lesson with this ancient teacher, the young Kral had found himself seated on his backside in
muddy slush, a large bruise on his forehead from where Mulf had clubbed him with the butt of his ax handle. The last thing the youngster remembered was the ax’s blade slicing for his head. But in a motion too quick for his eye to follow, the old man had flipped the ax around a thumb and only wood struck his skull instead of sharp iron. That cold morning, ice chilling his backside, Kral learned the first of many lessons from his sharp-eyed teacher—do not underestimate your opponent.

  And today he did not!

  The goblins might be small of stature, but they were fierce, all muscle and sharp edges. Kral did not let his arm slow or his eye stray from the flurry of claws. His wariness kept more than one goblin’s knife from his chest. As he neared where Er’ril fought, the goblins flashed spiked daggers like those that had assaulted them atop the chasm and driven Kral and Tol’chuk over the cliff.

  He knocked aside a blade by slicing through the goblin’s wrist. The beast howled. Its knife, a claw still wrapped around the hilt, tumbled away. Kral swung his face from the spurt of blood jetting out its amputated wrist—not in disgust, but simply to keep the hot blood from blinding him. Another knife-wielding goblin attacked from the opposite side. There was no time to swing his ax around, so he borrowed his old master’s trick and slammed the butt of his ax handle into the beast’s eye. Bone cracked under his wood, and the goblin collapsed to the rock.

  Kral stepped over the creature and continued his march of death.

  ER’RIL SANK UNDER the mass of the beasts, wrestling with more than just the goblins. A part of his spirit was ready to surrender to the struggle—it seemed like he’d been fighting ever since the forging of the Blood Diary. Yet, in his bones, the stubbornness of his Standi roots would not let him truly succumb to despair. No, the centuries of winters weighed heavier upon his shoulders than these slathering goblins. He had already sacrificed so much, waited for so long—he would not die here, not this way!

  With a scream on his lips, he kicked goblins from his legs and used his iron hand to throttle beasts that tried to rip his throat or face. His sword arm, when not pinned under the flailing bodies of the creatures, cleaved an area clear for breaths at a time, but never long enough for him to regain his feet or see how Bol and Elena were faring. A wall of rock’goblins continually surrounded him

  Yet, he did not relent, refusing to listen to the whispers of despair.

  For a moment, he heard a cry and the word child shouted out from across the room, but the hissing and screaming quickly drowned out the voice. But who could have shouted? Had he imagined it?

  In a streak of light, he saw the moon’falcon swoop across the cavern roof. The cursed bird must have returned, confused by the tunnels. He thanked the gods for this small blessing. Its sudden light gave the goblins a pause, and he managed to free his arm. Swinging his sword in a savage arc, Er’ril drove the beasts back.

  Standing once again, he saw a sight that froze his heart.

  A goblin twice the size of a man loomed just a span away. Its arms ran with blood; its fanged mouth grinned with death.

  Er’ril stumbled back. Suddenly a jabbing pain blasted up his right leg. His limb gave out. As he fell, he saw a goblin with a dagger drive its blade a second time into his thigh. Knife hit bone, and his vision swelled tight with pain. He flailed and kicked himself free of the knife. Kneeling up, he blindly thrust out his phantom arm. His fist clamped around the knife-wielding creature’s throat and squeezed the life from it. He swung the dead goblin, which still hung in his iron fist, and knocked other goblins from his side. He used its limp body as a shield.

  Still Er’ril was not quick enough.

  A knife buried into his back. Pain blacked his eyes for a breath. When his vision cleared, he saw his iron hand empty, his shield gone. Goblins, several of them armed, loomed before him.

  Pain and rage narrowed his eyes. His own death finally lay nearby, a death he had been denied for centuries.

  He raised his sword. At times during his long life, he would have welcomed death, wanting that final peace—but not now! Others were counting on him—the girl, the old man, even the child De’nal. He raged against this death.

  Pushing onto his already wounded left leg, he ignored the flare of agony in his back and spat blood on the floor. He clenched his sword in a hard fist.

  Just as he raised his weapon’s tip in invitation, the wall of goblins burst apart, and he saw the hideous king of the goblins rip through its brethren to stalk before him. The creature lifted two of its smaller kind and threw them across the chamber. Er’ril’s sword arm trembled. Did he have the strength to face this monster? It towered over Er’ril, twice his height and even broader of shoulder.

  Suddenly a familiar voice erupted. “Thank the rock, you still live.” Er’ril knew that voice. He saw Kral step around the huge creature. The circle of goblins, now broken, shattered into cowardly pieces and fled. Er’ril’s head swam as he twisted his neck. The chamber was now emptying of goblins. He saw those who yet lived slink and hobble from the room, except for the giant, deformed beast before him. Er’ril saw Kral place a hand on its arm. The mountain man must have recognized the horror in Er’ril’s eyes. “His name is Tol’chuk. He is a friend.”

  “What … what … ?” Er’ril was too dazed to form his question.

  “He’s an og’re. He helped rescue you.”

  Kral’s words reminded Er’ril of the others. He stumbled around, and saw Elena sliding from behind her uncle’s back. Bol’s clothes hung in shreds; blood splotched his face and chest. As the moon’falcon swung in a loop overhead, the old man offered a weak smile. Er’ril saw two others still moving among the dead goblins. The wolf who had been stubbornly following them nosed the twisted remains near Bol and Elena. Beside the dog stood a tall man with silver hair tied in a long braid. A needle-thin sword hung loose in the stranger’s one hand, almost as if he had forgotten it was there. The man’s eyes searched the cavern.

  Er’ril tipped slightly forward, suddenly dizzy. Before he fell on his face, Kral was there, an arm around his shoulder. “Easy, there. You took some deep wounds.”

  Elena’s voice rang from across the room. Er’ril saw her stretch her right hand to the wound on her uncle’s cheek, the red of her hand matching the blood on his skin. “Uncle Bol’s hurt, too,” she called to them. He heard the tears behind her voice.

  Er’ril saw the thin stranger suddenly tense near the girl. The man’s sword, forgotten and limp in his hand before, now rose and pointed at Elena. “The mark!” he shouted at her, his eyes staring at her hand. “The mark of the wit’ch!”

  Kral suddenly released Er’ril’s shoulders. “No!” the mountain man bellowed. Er’ril’s legs were too weak to hold him up. The stone floor rushed toward him. He saw Kral lurch toward the thin man but knew the mountain man was too far away. “No, Meric! No!”

  Er’ril’s vision blurred as the silver-haired man lunged toward the girl, quick as a forest cat. Elena barely had time to turn her head as the sword aimed for her heart.

  Before the sword struck, a cool blackness pulled Er’ril away.

  36

  ELENA SAW THE sword dive for her chest, and her arm shot up in a warding gesture. The figure of her attacker was a blur of motion her eye could hardly follow. Only his sword, held steady and firm as it swept toward her, glinted fine and sharp-edged in the weak light. A cry rose in her throat, but fear trapped it there. She opened her mouth in a silent scream.

  Yet a cry did reach her ears—a piercing wail of rage. As the sword lunged, a streak of lightning came between her and the weapon’s tip—the moon’falcon! She saw the bird impaled upon the blade, its screech still echoing from the walls.

  The impact of its tiny body seemed to travel up the sword and stun the attacker. The man halted his sword thrust, his feet stumbling beneath him. He held his sword out, the weapon shaking in his hand. Its tip hung less than a thumb’s width from the thin shift over Elena’s chest. The moon’falcon, speared through the breast, fluttered its wings feebly, i
ts beak agape with pain. The man stood, his eyes fixed on the bird, eyelids wide with horror.

  Suddenly Kral bowled into the man, knocking him to the side. Both men collided into the rock wall. The sword tumbled from the stranger’s hand and struck the stone with a loud clatter.

  The choked sob finally escaped Elena’s throat, and she fell to her knees beside the weapon. The moon’falcon, still stuck upon the blade, beat a single wing. She reached a small hand and lifted the bird’s head. Its black eye stared into her. The glow caught in its feathers was quickly dying away.

  Tenderly she cupped the tiny body and pulled it from the blade. Maybe her magick could help it, like it had Uncle Bol. As the sword slipped free of its breast, the moon’falcon dimmed and ceased to breathe. She was too late! Elena clutched the bird to her breast. Her tears were the only thanks she could give it now.

  “It protected her!” the silver-haired man who had attacked her gasped. “It gave its life for her.”

  Kral crouched over the man, one hand at the swordman’s thin neck. The mountain man’s other hand pointed to where Er’ril had collapsed to the rock floor. “Bol, see to Er’ril.”

  Her uncle nodded. As he crossed to Er’ril, Uncle Bol gave wide berth around the hulking monster nearby. It crouched upon its haunches but made no move as her uncle passed. It seemed more rock than flesh—an og’re, the mountain man had claimed. Nosing near it limped the wolf, which Elena knew was more than just a dog of the forest. It remained close to the thick-boned behemoth. As she stared, both their eyes turned to her. She noted with a skip of her pulse that their eyes were the same: yellow orbs split by black narrowed slits.

  Kral called to the og’re. “Tol’chuk, help me with this traitor Meric.” Then his words settled on Elena. “Lass, are you harmed?”

  Elena twisted to face her attacker. Silver-haired with sharp blue eyes, the man called Meric met her stare. “I … I’m fine,” she said. “Why did he attack me? Why did he kill my bird?”