As Kral watched, he saw the surviving skal’tum snap the last of the roots from its limbs and brush off the feeble branches. It was free. And Elena still lay within its grasp. She fought against it with weak fingers; Kral saw her tears.
From the numb glaze coming to her eyes, Kral knew she was succumbing to the same darkness that hounded him. Yet where Kral’s darkness burned, hers promised the coolness of escape.
Do not lose heart, he silently willed to her.
Kral raised his ax a final time. He could not cross the clearing and reach the other skal’tum. But his ax could!
He would have only one throw.
As he hauled back his arm, he prayed that the gods grant him this one wish. Closing his eyes, he wrenched his arm forward, drawing on all the muscles in his back and shoulder. He opened his eyes; the ax flew from his hand.
The blade flipped in slow circles through the air.
The fate of the child was now beyond his grasp. His heart knew its duty done and allowed the blackness to swell. With a groan, Kral’s vision blurred, and he fell to the mud.
ELENA SAW THE ax fly toward her. She did not struggle to escape its path. She simply closed her eyes. Let it strike her. Let the horrors end.
A sharp rush of air passed overhead. The claw that clasped her shoulder tensed for a heartbeat, then dropped away. Surprised at the sudden freedom, her knees buckled under her own weight.
“Run, Elena!” Er’ril called to her from across the clearing.
His words took several heartbeats to penetrate her skull. Her head twisted to see what remained of her captor: It still stood above her, but the long hickory shaft of Kral’s ax protruded from its chest like a third arm. The blade had buried itself fully in the creature’s chest. Black blood dribbled from slack lips.
It still stood, one claw gently fingering the ax’s leather-wrapped handle. A cough bubbled up from its chest and cast forth more blood. It sank to its knees, as if crudely mimicking Elena’s pose. She was transfixed by the flow of black rivers from its lips.
“Get back!” Er’ril called.
“Elena, honey—run!” Her uncle’s voice broke the strange spell the skal’tum had upon her. She found her feet moving and hobbled across the sodden leaves. Yet she could not draw her eyes from the horrible creature’s death.
The skal’tum’s wings sank to the mud. Its eyes searched the clearing and stopped when its face found Rockingham. A single claw raised and pointed to the man. It spoke with specks of black foam accenting its words, “Blood speaks to birthright. Nai’goru tum skal mor!”
Elena felt a flow of power pass over her from the beast. The hairs on her neck stood quivering.
The beast fell backward, the halt of the ax pointing to the cloud-choked sky. Its chest heaved one last time, and a gout of blood fountained from nose and mouth. Then it lay still.
All eyes were on the dead skal’tum when Rockingham began to gasp and clutch at his throat. The man ignored the growling wolf and stumbled into the clearing. His face had reddened to a purplish hue, his eyes bulged out. He raised a hand to where Elena stood. “H-h-help me.”
His body suddenly snapped back, stretched taut. With his spine arched at such an impossible angle, Rockingham balanced on his toes. He screamed a single word to the sky—a name. “Linora!” Then a sharp crack echoed across the glade, and like a puppet with its strings cut, Rockingham collapsed dead to the mud.
Elena stared numbly at the man who had killed her family. She had thought to feel some satisfaction, but only an emptiness yawned behind her breastbone.
Silence descended over the valley. A wind moaned through the wet wood.
The wolf padded over to Rockingham and sniffed at him. Its hackles were still raised.
Her uncle spoke behind her. “Look there, I think Kral still breathes.”
“He lives?” the swordsman said, amazement thick in his voice.
Elena tore her eyes from Rockingham’s corpse and turned to where Kral lay.
Uncle Bol knelt by the mountain man and pulled Kral’s head from the mud. Leaves smeared one side of his craggy face. Kral’s eyes fluttered open, and he let out a shuddering breath. He coughed. “Did I … did I kill it?” he said with a weak tongue.
“Yes,” her uncle said. “Now don’t move until we splint your leg.”
“Let … let me see the girl.”
Her uncle waved Elena over to them. She rushed to the mountain man’s side, elated to find even a single death cheated this night.
Kral’s eyes glowed with relief at the sight of her.
Er’ril accompanied her. The swordsman knelt beside Kral. “You saved us all.” He waved his hand to indicate Meric and Nee’lahn, who were now just starting to rise on shaky feet.
“We all did,” Kral mumbled. “With the help of the gods.” He pushed up enough to see where his ax protruded from the dead bulk of the beast. He sighed and sank his forehead to the mud. Elena heard him mutter a prayer of thanks.
Er’ril touched his shoulder. “Your ax flew true. Your arm’s strength saved this foul night.”
“But it did not save my craven heart,” Kral mumbled to the ground.
“What is this you mutter?” Er’ril asked. “You slew them bravely.”
“No, the gods did. My blade should not have cut through the beasts’ dark magick. It was the work of the gods, not my arm.”
“No, Kral, it was no god’s hand that pierced their black protections. Your blade was anointed in the blood of the creature you slew in Winterfell. Its black spirit bathed your ax. A weapon so treated will slice through their magick.”
Kral’s head swung up as Er’ril spoke, his eyes suddenly focused and sober. He reached and clutched the swordsman’s knee. “What is this you speak?”
Er’ril seemed confused by the fervor in Kral’s eyes. The mountain man’s hand slipped from Er’ril’s knee. Kral’s eyes narrowed with a pain that was not just physical. “I thought it a ruse, a lie.”
“What lie?” Er’ril asked.
Kral hung his head again. “My tongue spoke falsely to escape the beasts at the cottage. I told them I knew of a way to pierce their skin’s shield—that my ax could kill them.”
Kral’s pain held the swordsman’s tongue.
Uncle Bol spoke to fill the hard silence, placing a hand on the mountain man’s chest. “But it ended up being the truth. You did not lie.”
Kral’s eyes continued to shine with pain. “In my heart, I did.”
Uncle Bol looked to Er’ril for help. He only shook his head, unsure what else to say. Kral’s eyes began to close again, his breathing hoarse with pain.
Elena found herself placing a hand on Uncle Bol and Er’ril. She guided them aside and knelt by Kral. He had saved her. She would not let him carry this pain in his heart.
Too many others had already given too much for her safety.
She could erase this one debt.
As she knelt, Kral’s eyes opened a bit wider in acknowledgment of her presence, but deep sorrow still resided behind his pupils.
She raised his chin with a finger, then moved the finger to his lips. “No lie passed your tongue, man of the mountains. Your heart protected you, as you protected me. Do not let guilt sully your brave actions. Your heart held true.” She bent and placed a small kiss on his lips, then repeated in a whisper, “No lies passed these lips.”
Her touch and words softened the lines drawn deep on his brow and around his eyes. His body visibly relaxed. “Thank you,” he muttered softly, and his eyes drifted closed. His breathing resumed a more peaceful rhythm.
Er’ril squeezed her shoulder. “You may have just saved his life. His guilt would have sapped his will, and Kral’s heart must be strong, free of doubt, to heal his wounds.”
Elena fell back to Er’ril’s chest. The swordsman’s words were a balm on her soul, too. A long sigh rattled in her tired chest. Er’ril placed his arm around her and helped her rise.
Uncle Bol wandered over and knelt by Rockingham. The k
iller lay on his back in the mud, his limbs twisted at odd angles. Her uncle placed a hand on the man’s neck.
Elena waited. She suddenly had an urge to pull Uncle Bol away. Rockingham had killed her parents. She did not want anyone else near him. She opened her mouth, then closed it, knowing how foolish her words would sound.
“I feel no beat of his heart. He does not breathe,” her uncle said. He stood with a groan, one hand supporting his lower back. Turning to them, he wiped his hands together as if to remove any traces of Rockingham’s foul touch. “He is dead.”
Elena allowed herself to relax. It was over. Dawn was near. She suddenly had a heartfelt need to see the sun again.
Her uncle smiled at her.
She returned it, shyly at first, then stronger. This long night neared its end.
As she smiled, her nose warned her before her eyes. A stench of open graves swelled across the glade. Her nose curled from the smell, trying to shut out the noxious odor.
When Elena saw what rose behind her uncle, she screamed.
38
MOGWEED HEARD THE girl’s terror and retreated farther down the tunnel. Whatever created such fear had to be far worse than any goblins. Maybe he could find another way out. But fear of the dark passages and of hidden cave creatures kept him hovering.
Near the tunnel’s mouth, Tol’chuk stood by the drape of roots, still unable to free himself from the passage. The sounds of battle had ignited the og’re’s blood. He tore viciously at the iron-hard roots of the oak. Several of Tol’chuk’s claws had ripped and now bled.
Mogweed saw the og’re shake with a blood rage. Suddenly Tol’chuk swung from his attack on the roots to face Mogweed. The og’re’s eyes glowed, not with the amber of his si’lura heritage but with the red fire of an og’re. He pointed a ragged claw at Mogweed.
“You!” Tol’chuk boomed, funneling his anger toward him. “You knew!”
Mogweed felt the air thicken as the og’re’s rage enveloped him. His eyes grew wide with the memory of the og’re tearing the sniffer to bloody tatters when they first met. His tongue froze in his mouth.
“You knew what lay beyond the tunnel, yet your tongue be silent!”
Mogweed fought his throat and lips, trying to find words to deny the accusations. He could not.
Tol’chuk thundered down the passage, filling the entire tunnel. Mogweed covered his head with both arms. He felt he steam of the og’re’s hot breath. He cringed, awaiting the rip of teeth.
“Why?” Tol’chuk hissed in a small, deadly voice, much more chilling than his booming rage. “Why did you betray us?”
Mogweed knew he must speak. In his present fury, Tol’chuk would certainly kill him. But what could he say? He had betrayed them. Only Rockingham would know the words to escape this fate. Mogweed pictured the man’s snide demeanor. Yes, Rockingham would know, and as Mogweed thought of him, he suddenly knew, too. Rockingham had taught him something. Why deny?
Mogweed focused his breathing to a slower pace and swallowed several times. He tried to ignore the pungent smell of the heated og’re. “I did know about the winged beasts,” he finally admitted, his voice squeaking.
Tol’chuk’s breath rushed at him. “You confess it?”
“Yes.” Mogweed closed his eyes. He pictured himself as Rockingham. “But I was forced to. Nee’lahn’s life was held hostage on the strength of my silence.”
“You sacrificed all of us for the one?”
“No, they only wanted the girl. They swore safe passage for the others.”
Tol’chuk remained silent at his words.
Mogweed pressed his advantage, as Rockingham had done with the skal’tum. “I knew nothing of this girl child, but the nyphai are friends of my people—of your people, too. Si’lura and nyphai have been allies of the forest since ages lost in the past. I could not let Nee’lahn die for the sake of a female human child. Humans have hunted us, slaughtered us like mere animals. Why should I trade the life of a friend for an unknown enemy? So I agreed.”
“You could have warned us,” Tol’chuk said, but hesitation and doubt now laced his ire.
Mogweed struck harder. “My tongue does not make false promises. Though the pact was a foul one, I made it in an attempt to save the life of an innocent. Once spoken, I would not go back on my word. Would you? Is that the way of the og’re people?”
Tol’chuk sagged to the tunnel floor. “No, it be just such a betrayal by one of my ancestors that started my journey and cursed my people.”
Mogweed sensed he should keep quiet.
“I apologize,” the og’re said after a period of silence. “The road of honor can often be difficult.”
“Your words are spoken with respect,” Mogweed said solemnly, bowing his head, though his heart soared with laughter. “I accept your apology.”
From down the tunnel, the girl screamed again.
ER’RIL PULLED THE screaming child to his chest. A gray tentacle, thick as a man’s thigh and laced with splotches of red, whipped from behind Bol to wrap around the old man’s waist and chest.
Gods above! Er’ril stumbled back, yanking the girl with him. Large suckers, like tiny mouths, glued to the old man’s clothing and skin. Before Bol could raise a hand against the creature’s hold, he suddenly spasmed in its grip. His mouth opened in a cry that never sounded. Then he fell limp.
The tentacle thickened and lifted the old man’s thin frame. It flung his body, like a rag doll, to the forest’s edge. As the tentacle unwrapped, Er’ril saw what had killed Bol. Horned daggers, poking from each of its sucker mouths like hundreds of spearing tongues, pulled from the man’s flesh. A steaming red oil dripped from the tip of each horn: poison. The horns retracted.
Elena moaned as Er’ril guided her backward toward the forest’s edge. She sank to the mud, her eyes fixed on her uncle’s collapsed form.
With his one arm, Er’ril tried to hold her up, but his weak muscles were racked with the strain. Elena slid in his grip. He fought to drag her back from the beast, his boot heels slipping in the mud and dead leaves.
Er’ril stared in horror at what awaited them if they failed to reach the trees.
Rockingham’s chest had split open like a chiseled melon, and a cauldron of black energies swirled forth. From this void, the tentacle had wormed into the world.
It continued to throb and undulate as it dragged farther out of the swirling densities.
Now Er’ril understood how the Dark Lord had tracked them. Rockingham was not a man, at least not any longer, but a construct of black magick. Er’ril had heard rumors of such creatures. He was a golem, a hollow shell created from the dead heart of a suicide.
He tugged the child farther from the emerging creature, gaining small strides.
Like a malignant birth, parts of the beast pushed through the black magick billowing from the dead man’s chest. What followed the tentacle was more than a creature of nightmare. Er’ril could never have imagined a beast so foul of form. His mind fought against accepting what he saw.
The tentacle was not an arm of the beast, but a tongue. As it shoved into the world, its blubbery mouth appeared, puckering and swelling around the poisoned tongue. As its lips pulled back, a ring of jagged teeth gleamed like broken glass. Rows of teeth continued deep into its throat.
Above the mouth waved hundreds of tiny stalks, each longer than Er’ril’s arm, tipped with black orbs the size of hens’ eggs. Er’ril’s instincts told him these orbs were not eyes, but some other organ of sense beyond this world’s comprehension.
A keening wail, like the cries of slaughtered rabbits, flowed from the creature.
It lurched and rolled into the clearing.
Elena slipped from Er’ril’s weakening arm and fell fully to the mud. He tried to move her but was too weak. He searched for help. Across the clearing, he saw Meric hauling Nee’lahn along the edge of the forest. The elv’in struggled to circle around the beast toward them.
Suddenly, Elena jerked under Er’ril’s touch.
Her feet scrabbled to push her up. The shock of her uncle’s death had faded enough for her to become aware of what crept closer. Er’ril helped her stand. “Hurry,” he cried in her ear. She obeyed him.
No longer needing help, Er’ril waved Meric back from them, knowing the elv’in bore enough burden with the nyphai. Meric’s eyes settled on the girl now moving on her own. He nodded to Er’ril, then limped with Nee’lahn into the cover of thick trunks and twining branches.
Er’ril and Elena retreated toward similar safety.
By now the beast, as tall as two men and longer than four, had fully entered this world. Its body resembled a large slug, gray skin glistening with a mucus that steamed hot in the cold night. Streaks of black and red, like slashes in its flesh, decorated its sides. Lining its bulging torso were suckers larger than swollen pumpkins.
Suddenly its body shuddered and gave one sharp spasm.
Elena screamed.
From the torso’s suckers, ten jointed legs burst forth, armored like some massive insect. The legs lifted its bulk off the mud. Only its tongue still draped to the ground, curling and twisting like a snake in nettles.
Knowledge of this beast’s nature suddenly gripped Er’ril’s heart. He had never seen such a creature, but he had heard it described long ago. Though ages had passed, he had not forgotten. Here stood a creature from the volcanic lands of Gul’gotha. In the burning sulfur pits of their homelands, these creatures burrowed to lay their eggs among poison and fire.
Er’ril’s mind fought against this knowledge. He prayed he was wrong.
But what happened next confirmed his fears.
The beast’s back bowed up and spasmed again. Its skin tore open along its sides, and wet wings shook free. Bone and webbing spread from one side of the clearing to the other.
Er’ril drove Elena faster.
Wit'ch Fire: Book One of The Banned and the Banished Page 40
