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

by James Clemens

  Meric nodded and pushed her forward.

  She hesitated, but Kral waved her on and urged her uncle and Er’ril to follow closely. Er’ril seemed as if he was going to stop and aid Kral. But the mountain man pointed to the tunnel’s end. “Get out. In your condition, you’ll just be in me way.”

  “Be careful,” the swordsman said hoarsely as he passed.

  Meric urged Elena ahead with more insistence. “Hurry. We must get to the safety of the forest.”

  Elena needed no other invitation. She flew with Meric close behind.

  Ahead, Rockingham still stood where he had stopped when the og’re had called out. When he saw them coming, he waved for the wolf and Mogweed to hold their spot while he crept to the drape of knotted roots and squeezed through. Mogweed knelt and wrapped his arms around the wolf’s neck to hold the dog from bolting.

  Once through the twist of roots, Rockingham swung around and held the torch as a beacon. He waved to Elena. “Come on. Those tunnels are a death trap.”

  She raced toward him, passing Mogweed, who stared nervously in both directions. The wolf continued to growl as she sped past. Mogweed had a tight hold on its ruff. She reached her hand to Rockingham, just as it dawned on her the wolf was growling toward the forest—not back down the tunnel!

  Her eyes met those of the man who had killed her parents.

  She froze with her arm outstretched and knew her mistake when Rockingham darted his hand out and grabbed her wrist. He yanked her toward him.

  Elena screamed and fought against his grip. The others rushed toward her, but Mogweed tripped in the mulch as he tried to come to her aid and fell in a tangle with Meric. They blocked the tunnel long enough for Rockingham to drag Elena through the roots.

  One of her hands clutched at a rootlet as she was pulled out, but it broke in her fingers.

  With surprising strength, Rockingham threw her into the clearing beyond the tunnel.

  She hit the wet mud and leaves and scrambled around to face him, ready for his attack.

  A voice yelled from behind her. “Elena! Beware!”

  She recognized Nee’lahn’s voice and spun on a heel.

  Twin skal’tum stepped from under the woven eaves of the surrounding forest. Elena fell to her knees.

  “Welcome back, little mouse,” said one of them.

  “Time to play,” said the other.

  37

  AT THE GIRL’S first screams, Er’ril broke free of Bol’s supporting arm and almost pushed the old man aside. That bastard Rockingham had played them all for fools! Er’ril’s feet wobbled under him as he fought his way forward, cursing his poisoned muscles.

  Ahead, Meric threw Mogweed off him, untangling their limbs, and dashed down the tunnel. Meric had no weapon, but this didn’t slow his flight toward the tunnel’s mouth. The wolf, freed from the jumble too, sped at his side.

  Er’ril frowned as their swiftness mocked his hobbled tread. He tripped over Mogweed when the huntsman tried to stand. “I’m sorry,” the man mumbled as he cowered from Er’ril’s angry face and scooted aside.

  From out in the night rose cold laughter, sibilant and full of malice. Er’ril’s blood frosted at the noise. He had heard such a sound many times drifting across old battlefields long forgotten by man. Skal’tum strode this night. Only death followed their foul laughter.

  Meric and the wolf pushed through the shroud of roots ahead and vanished into the night. Er’ril and Bol struggled in pursuit, finally reaching the tunnel’s end. Both men’s breath now heaved through clenched teeth. Er’ril grabbed for a handhold, determined to continue. But before he could crawl out of the tunnel, strong fingers snagged his shoulder and held him.

  “No!” boomed a voice at his shoulder. It was Kral. The mountain man pulled him from the exit. Er’ril saw Bol also restrained by one of the giant man’s fists. “You’re both too feeble. Stay. Tol’chuk will guard you.”

  Er’ril wrenched his shoulder to break the mountain man’s hold but found himself too weak. He could escape neither Kral’s grip nor the truth of his words.

  Kral roughly shoved them aside and elbowed his way through the roots. Tol’chuk stepped up behind them. The og’re’s eyes practically glowed in the passage. Er’ril was not sure whether Tol’chuk was here to protect them or to keep them from interfering.

  “I’m going out,” Er’ril said and reached to the roots. He expected the og’re to make some motion to stop him.

  Instead it was Bol’s hand that stayed him.

  The old man gripped his elbow, not to restrain, but simply to let his own urgency flow into Er’ril. “It suddenly makes sense.” The old man squeezed his arm. “Kral is right. This is not our fight.”

  His words shocked Er’ril into pausing. He had not thought Bol a coward. He snapped his elbow from the old man’s grip and swung his face to Bol. “Elena is in danger!” Er’ril spat out. “At your word, I am her guardian. You ask me to abandon her?”

  Bol’s eyes squinted with anguish at his words; claw marks blackened his cheek. “Of course not,” he said. “Just know this: What occurs this night was meant to be.” The old man waved him on.

  Er’ril grimaced at the delay and shoved through the roots. In his haste, he snagged his jerkin on a branch. Ripping his leather free, Er’ril stumbled away from the tunnel’s mouth. Bol squeezed after him, but Tol’chuk simply tugged at the roots. His arms strained with bulging muscles, but the old oak held firm to the rock. Twice the girth of a man, the og’re could not pass.

  “This is not your battle either,” Bol consoled Tol’chuk.

  His words satisfied the og’re as little as they had Er’ril. Tol’chuk continued to rip at the roots.

  Er’ril ignored them both and swung to the clearing.

  In the center of the space, battle lines were already being drawn.

  To one side, Rockingham had his back pinned to a thick oak. Before him, the wolf growled with its hackles raised. The animal meant to keep the man from further mischief. Better to tear out his throat, Er’ril thought grimly—end his mischief forever.

  But Rockingham held little of Er’ril’s true attention. The larger battle building in the center of the clearing drew his eyes.

  A pair of skal’tum had Elena caught between them. With their backs to her, leathery wings trapped the child within folds of bone and skin, keeping her from those who sought to rescue her. The child’s eyes were wide, tears staining her cheeks. She trembled, cringing when a wing brushed her skin. Er’ril knew the murder of the goblins had so unnerved her that she feared to use her powers to free herself.

  Others sought to save her.

  The twin skal’tum faced three opponents.

  Meric stood to one side, eyes red with fire. No weapon lay in his hand, yet a nimbus of light danced across his body. Though the air in the clearing stood quiet, ghost winds whipped Meric’s silver hair, now undone of its braid. The sky above matched his fury, and hulking clouds sped, as if toward this spot. Lightning etched the bellies of the thunderheads, revealing spouts of blackness reaching for the ground. Dawn might be near, but the black skies spoke of a night without end.

  On the far side of the clearing stood the small figure of Nee’lahn, her shoulders against a large elm, her arms raised in a stance of defiance. She threw her head back, as if about to sing forth to the warring skies. The mighty elm, towering above her, swept its branches up and spread its limbs to those same skies, the tree matching the small nyphai’s defiant pose.

  Closer to Er’ril, Kral stood with his mighty ax in one hand. As thunder rumbled into the clearing, his teeth shone in the flashes of lightning, feral as a bear’s. Kral shifted his ax. “Now I will wash my shame!” he screamed at them and the skies. “In your blood!”

  The skal’tum faced the three. Whispers of nervousness swept through their wings, stanching their earlier laughter. Their black lips pulled back to expose white fangs. Angry eyes weighed the degree of threat from the small figures who challenged their might.

  B
ol spoke into the tense silence that descended over the clearing. Even the thunder accompanying the flashes of lightning held its rumble in its deep throat. Er’ril knew when next the thunder spoke it would howl with battle. Bol snatched at Er’ril’s sleeve. “The elementals!” he hissed. “‘Three will come.’ So it was written.” Bol stabbed a finger around the clearing. “Kral, Meric, and Nee’lahn. Rock, wind, and the fire of life. Three will come! Not to my cottage, as I had thought—but here!”

  “Three who will die,” Er’ril answered. “They cannot pierce the dark magick of the dreadlords.” He pulled free his sword, but his arm shook as he tried to raise its tip. Poison screamed in his muscles.

  “You and your Brotherhood have always judged the elementals too lightly. The outcome is not foretold.” Bol used a single finger to push down Er’ril’s weapon; the swordsman was too weak to stop him. “This is not our fight,” the old man repeated.

  Er’ril tried to will the iron fist in his pocket back to life. Maybe his phantom arm had the strength his other arm did not. But the fist failed to stir. Either its magick was spent, or it believed the old man.

  Behind him, Er’ril heard Tol’chuk wrestle with the tangle of roots. The og’re growled his frustration.

  Er’ril clenched his fist around his sword. His heart echoed the og’re’s sentiment.

  In the clearing, the battle began without him.

  NEE’LAHN SAW ONE of the winged beasts lunge a huge claw at where the elv’in stood. Or rather where he had once stood. The claw grasped empty air as Meric flew backward. Nee’lahn would have sworn his feet had not moved. Meric then crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his chin. The nimbus of light scintillating from his body flared brighter; from the heavy clouds, a slender spear of lightning lanced the reaching claw of the beast.

  Thunder cracked the air.

  The skal’tum screamed and yanked back its arm. Though obviously paining the beast, its claw remained flesh, not a charred ruin. Its dark magick had protected it from true harm. The second skal’tum held its position near the frightened child.

  Nee’lahn knew she must draw one of them away and give Elena a chance to run. The wit’ch must not die! The rebirth of Lok’ai’hera rested with this child. Nee’lahn remembered her dying elder’s prophecy: Green life sprouting from red fire—a fire born of magick. Nee’lahn eyed the trembling girl. She must not die.

  Nee’lahn’s bare toes dug under the thin soil to the roots of the elm. She had called the tree’s spirit to her earlier. All was prepared. She lowered her eyelids slightly, sang to the old forest, and drew its power to her.

  As her mind sang, her song joined others, and her spirit merged.

  She became the elm. She became the forest.

  The wit’ch must be free!

  She swung her arms out toward the skal’tum with the injured hand. The elm above mirrored her motion, and its longer limbs grabbed the skal’tum in thick arms hardened by centuries of snow and wind.

  The skal’tum struggled, and Nee’lahn gasped at its strength. She battered it with limbs and tried to drag the creature from Elena’s side, but the beast’s claws dug deep into the mud and rock. It budged not an inch.

  Nee’lahn dug her toes deeper into the soil herself. Sweat beaded her forehead; her throat burned with her silent song. She had not thought it would strain her so, but she had never tried to wield so much power. The elemental magick that ran in her blood was also a part of her. Using it now meant burning a part of her, like a log fueling a fire. Her breathing labored as she fought to hold the foul creature.

  She knew she could not do this herself. Her eyes spotted Meric. The glow about his body had returned after pulling the lightning down. An ally stood ready. His lightning alone did not harm the beast, and her grasping branches also failed to budge it. But maybe together? She bit her lip at the thought. Elv’in and nyphai had not joined spirits since the land was young. Could they bridge the chasm of ill blood between them?

  Menc faltered as he drifted closer to the skal’tum. The elv’in seemed determined to give his life for the child. Nee’lahn had trouble reconciling the nobility demonstrated here with the ember of hate in her heart. She bit her lip. Could she trust him?

  The skal’tum wrenched in her grip, and she felt the elm’s branches break. Pain shot through her. She slipped to one knee. Meric’s eyes swung to hers, his face tight with strain.

  His lids narrowed, and she knew his thoughts flowed with the same consternation.

  But it was time to ignore heritage and forge a new alliance.

  She signaled Meric with her eyes; he nodded slightly.

  Another bolt from above struck the beast. The skal’tum writhed but still remained unscathed. Its pained thrashings shook it partially free from the elm’s grip.

  But Meric’s bolt gave Nee’lahn the time she needed to alter her song. Her fingers clawed toward the sky. Roots erupted from the soil and snared the legs of the beast, wrapping tight and digging into its morbid flesh. Nee’lahn fought the beast’s hold on the mud. If she could free its claws, the branches could drag the creature from Elena’s side.

  Meric struck again. But this time, his bolt failed to reach the ground, striking the air over the skal’tum. Meric wavered on his feet. His hair hung limp to his shoulders, the ghost winds gone.

  He tired as much as she. Their faces had grown pale; their breath had grown ragged. The release of such power had ravaged them both.

  Nee’lahn found herself on both knees now. Her muscles quivered with effort. Several of the larger branches began to bend back to the tree—no longer striking toward the skal’tum. Meric’s next attack was only a flash of light, without even a snap of thunder.

  The second skal’tum noticed their faltering attacks and swung to aid its partner, ripping a root loose. Nee’lahn gasped with the pain and fell to one hand.

  They were doomed to fail.

  AS THE SKAL’TUM fought to free its brethren, Kral saw an opening, an exposed flank. He charged with his ax raised. He knew he could not kill it, but he hoped to draw its attention to himself and keep it from aiding the other skal’tum tangled in the roots.

  Arcing over his shoulder, his ax swung toward the beast’s flesh.

  Kral gasped as his blade cleaved the tender belly of the skal’tum and gutted the beast. Black innards spilled forth from the wound like a foul tongue from a dying mouth.

  Man and beast stood frozen at the sight. Kral’s ax dripped blood down its hickory shaft. The skal’tum stared with huge black eyes at its sliced belly.

  Then its gaze swept up to Kral. Its eyes narrowed, and with a screech, it flew at him.

  Kral barely had time to raise his ax and block a rake of razored claws at his throat. He was much too slow to stop the other claw from grabbing his calf. The skal’tum snapped the bone of his leg.

  Pain had yet to reach his awareness as the beast yanked him into the air. Before the agony of his broken limb could drive him into blackness, Kral hardened his heart against the pain.

  He was a rock. Rocks did not feel pain.

  Hanging in the beast’s grip, Kral bent at the waist and blindly swung his ax toward the wrist that held him. The iron blade shuddered slightly as it passed through the bone of the creature’s arm. He was allowed only a moment of satisfaction before he fell and struck his head on the ground.

  Dazed, he rolled away from where he thought the skal’tum stood, hugging his ax to his chest. Blood flowed from a wound on his forehead, obscuring his view. He rolled to his one good knee, unable to stand, and swiped his ax before him. It encountered nothing. He rubbed the blood from his eyes and saw the skal’tum clutching the stump of its arm, trying to stanch the black river spurting from its wound.

  Kral stared at the creature’s injured belly and arm. His weapon had truly pierced its dark magick! But why? How? He silently thanked the gods of his people. Whatever the reason, he now had a chance to wipe the shame from his heart. With a coward’s tongue, he had fled from these beasts earlier. T
his time he would show his courage!

  The beast finally realized the futility of its effort to halt the bleeding and dropped its wounded arm. Blood hung in thick clots from the severed wrist. It again stalked toward him, more cautiously this time, wings raised in wary readiness.

  Behind it, Kral spotted Elena’s face glowing in the flashes of lightning. She was caught in a claw of the other beast. Her captor still struggled to free its legs of the entangling roots and its wings of the clinging branches.

  Before he could help her, Kral needed to dispatch the beast who now approached so carefully.

  Kral eyed the creature, looking for weakness. It still had so many weapons: a clawed hand, two daggered feet, and a mouth of ripping teeth. And the beast was now alert, thinking instead of reacting. It would not again act rashly and underestimate its quarry.

  Kral knew what he must do. He had to draw the beast closer.

  He took a deep breath and stoked himself for the fire ahead. Once prepared, he released the magick from his heart. He was no longer rock. Stone melted to flesh once again. The pain from his fractured leg now flowed free. It stabbed and burned through his blood like a fire through dry brush, tearing him apart. His vision blacked, and he fell to the mud.

  He fought to stay conscious, but the pain argued against it.

  Through the fog of agony, he heard the skal’tum cackle as it leaped at its injured prey. “I will enjoy feasssting on your bowelsss, mountain worm,” the beast hissed.

  Kral forced his eyes open. He lay on his side and saw the creature’s toes dig into the mud only a breath away from his nose. He twisted his head up in time to see the beast lunge its teeth for his throat. Kral ignored the agony spearing from his leg and threw himself into a roll, bringing his arm and ax up in a wide swing.

  Only one chance, he thought. He felt his ax bite, but what? When he came to a stop, he saw the skal’tum lying sprawled an arm’s length away. Its head lay even farther.

  Thank the gods!

  Kral rolled again to one knee, but now it took all his effort to keep at bay the darkness that howled for him. He saw that Nee’lahn and Meric fared no better. The nymph lay curled in a ball by the base of her tree, one hand stretched up to the elm’s trunk. The tree’s limbs still moved, but they offered little restraint. Meric had collapsed to his knees, obviously spent. No glow traced his figure.