Now he could not deny this beast’s name. Even the structures of the wings were similar to those of its smaller offspring.
“A mul’gothra,” he huffed under his breath as he pushed the girl.
It was a birthing queen of the skal’tum.
39
ELENA RAN WITH Er’ril. Toward the protection of the forest, her loss still choking her heart. She kept her eyes far from Uncle Bol’s body, knowing she must resist the allure of paralyzing grief—if not for her own sake, then for the swordsman who would not forsake her but would instead die at her side.
As she ran, a savage rain began to lash down from the warring skies. Streaks of lightning played between the clouds, while crackling rolls of thunder shook from the peaks of the Teeth.
Elena darted looks behind her, expecting to find the beast at her throat already. Mul’gothra. Though the swordsman had only mumbled the word, her mind had caught it. It somehow fit the creature.
Across the dark glade, the beast stalked toward them, slightly weak on its jointed legs, like a chick new from an egg. It shook its wings, rattling bone and leather. Cold rain ran in steaming streams across its hot skin.
It sensed her stare. Its stalks waved in her direction as a low cry of recognition hissed from its mouth. Words crept through its hiss like a whispered scratching from a grave. “Come. It is useless to run, child.” The words flowed from deep down its dark maw.
Elena knew it was not the mul’gothra that spoke or even a creature in its belly. What spoke crouched in a web far from this rain-swept clearing: something far more sinister than the squealing horror crawling toward her, something from blasted lands and sunless pits.
Deep inside, she knew who spoke.
It was the Black Heart, the Dark Lord of the Gul’gotha.
Its foul words flowed again from the mul’gothra’s throat. “The world will scream unless you submit. I will destroy all you hold dear. Your name will be a curse to all ears. That I promise you—unless you come to me. Join with us, now.”
Elena ignored the words as she ran, trying not to hear but unable to block them as they wormed into her skull.
“Come hear how loud the screams will be if you resist. Thank you for leaving me such a choice tool to work with.”
Elena’s feet stumbled in their pursuit of the forest’s edge. What did the foul one mean? She stopped, half turned toward the creature.
Er’ril tried to urge her on, but she shook free of his poison-addled grip. The swordsman seemed not to hear the words spoken to her.
The beast twisted to the side, its many feet churning the mud. Its new target was clear. One of her party still lay sprawled in the clearing, like abandoned refuse: Kral. The mountain man lay prone across the wet leaves. Not even the rain woke him to the looming monster.
The mul’gothra crept toward him. Its gray tongue snaked closer.
Elena swung her head away, not wanting to watch. As she shunned the sight, her eyes ended up on the crumpled form of Uncle Bol. His face was turned to the sky. Rain struck his open eyes.
Her heart ran cold. Stripped of all family—as if the flesh had been stripped from her bones—all that was left of the young Elena was a core of brittle hardness. So many had died—and in her name!
She tore her gaze back to Kral and took a step toward the beast. She could stomach no further sacrifice. She was through resisting. Let all the horrors end. Please, no more, her heart sobbed.
Before she could take a second step, a streak of darkness shot past her knees and raced forward. The wolf flew to stand between Kral and the mul’gothra and howled at the monster, a cry that sliced through thunder and rain. The swiftness of the dog’s appearance must have startled the winged horror. It skittered back from the snarling wolf.
The stalks waved frantically. Then its tongue snapped out and batted the dog aside. The impact sent the wolf tumbling through the rain to strike the trunk of an oak. Elena saw him struggle to raise his head, legs pushing at the piled dead leaves. Then the wolf collapsed—unconscious or dead, Elena did not know. His pink tongue hung from slack jaws.
The mul’gothra again stalked toward Kral.
No! She stumbled forward.
“Elena! Stop! You cannot help him!” Er’ril tried to snatch at her, but his poisoned blood slowed his moves. She slipped his clutch. “Stop!”
She ignored the swordsman’s call. The beast would make short work of Kral and all of her friends. She ran forward now, her heart dead in her chest. The only way to keep her friends clear of its rending teeth was to give the Dark Lord what it wanted. Let her own sacrifice save the others. Let this night end.
No more would die in her name.
Her eyes tight with dry tears, she lunged to the mountain man’s side just as the tip of the mul’gothra’s tongue brushed the crown of Kral’s head. She skidded to a stop in the mud and kicked aside the tentacle. She stood in a small pool of rainwater as the beast towered over her. Elena raised her arms, her head thrown back. Rain sluiced onto her face and ran cold through her hair. “No more,” she called in a strangled voice. “I am yours.”
As it leaned toward her, she saw down its puckering mouth. Its stench clenched her stomach. She fought her rising gorge. Deep in its throat, coiling and thrashing, was a nest of other tongues. But the tongue that spoke was none of these. “Smart child. It is useless to resist. Your heart knows its master.”
The mul’gothra crouched down on all its legs, like a spider about to bite. Elena wanted to stand brave, but her knees began to buckle. One of its tongues slithered from the gaping mouth and throbbed toward her. Its tip touched her boot, then crawled up her body. Like a foul lover’s embrace it slid under her soaking shirt and wrapped around her chest. Its touch burned. She felt its suckers kiss at her skin.
“We shall create things that will shudder the world,” the voice said, but Elena knew this was not spoken to her as much as it was whispered to the Black Heart’s own desires.
Her knees finally gave out completely, but before she sank to the mud, the tongue tightened its hold and lifted her into the rain. The suckers that had kissed now bit as they held.
Elena closed her eyes. Let him have his wit’ch. Let him have his prize. He would never have her soul. Death stalked all those around her. Perhaps it would claim the Gul’gotha, too.
“It is a long flight,” she heard it say.
She closed her mind, shut out the world, and sought a place within her where she would not hear the rattle of wings or the pounding rush of her own heart—somewhere to hide. She retreated, flying far away from this dark glade.
The Dark Lord’s next words stopped her flight. “But the mul’gothra is weak. It must first feed.”
Elena’s lids flew open, and she saw the beast whip another tongue from its long gullet to wrap around Kral’s neck.
Her body screamed. Ice ran cold in her veins. No! Her silent cry echoed to all corners of her being, awakening that which slept curled around her heart. The world dimmed. Not even a flash of lightning penetrated her darkness. Ice reached her heart—and a fire exploded within her.
“I said no more!” she shrieked. Her voice reached the clouds overhead. Thunder answered her. “No more!” she screamed again.
Her tormented shriek tightened the grip around her chest, trying to press her silent. Her words were still ignored. From down a narrow tunnel, she saw the tentacle dragging Kral’s limp form toward the mouth and teeth. Her vision squeezed to the point of a needle. A cold fire raged inside.
For the past two nights, she had reacted, lashed out, been blown this way and that, like a dead leaf in a whirlwind.
No longer.
She would no longer be ignored.
If the Dark Lord wanted a wit’ch, let him have a wit’ch, one flowing with magick!
Touching the fire within her, she opened herself to her power and let the cold flames glow through her skin. The energy raged within the shell of her body. It sought a crack to run wild into the night. It screamed for blood.
So be it!
She reached to the mouth of the mul’gothra and sliced her right hand on a razored tooth of the beast. As her blood poured free, her magick rushed out.
She struck with a hand whorled in red fires.
The beast screeched and dropped her to the mud.
Landing on her feet, she saw the mul’gothra had released Kral, too. The beast backed from her, scuttling away to the far side of the clearing. At her feet, the amputated end of its tongue convulsed and twisted like an axed snake.
Her heel kicked it away.
Elena again stood in a small pool of rainwater, her head raised to the heavens, her eyes cold on the mul’gothra and the malignant beast inside. At her toes, the water froze to ice and spread. The pool became a frozen pond. Mud at its edges cracked as her cold fire spread farther. Rain turned to ice around her, striking her cheek with sharp bites. She ignored the rain’s stinging kisses and stepped toward the beast.
“I told you—no more!” She took another step. Kral lay behind her. Determination burned through her: None would touch him now.
“I will have you, child, whole or not.” The mul’gothra spread its wings in challenge.
She heard another voice behind her—Er’ril’s. He sounded so far away. “No, Elena! You aren’t ready! Come back to me! Run!”
She ignored him. No longer would she listen to others.
This night she would no longer be a pawn in a game of ages and lost bloodlines.
No leaf in a wind.
No child.
Elena reached a hand toward the beast. Blood dripped from her wounded palm, steaming and hissing as its hot touch met frozen mud.
This night she would be a wit’ch.
“You should have listened,” she warned, ice in her words. The beast cringed back a moment. Then, like a coiled viper, it lunged. As it raced toward her, hundreds of tentacles burst from its throat, tangling the air with their thrashings.
Elena stood still as it hurtled toward her. She closed her eyes and clenched her right hand into a fist. She let the fire build within her bloody fingers. The power swirled tighter and tighter upon itself. Her arm trembled with the energies warring within her fist. They became a cold sun in her palm.
The ground shook as the mul’gothra thundered toward her.
She felt the foul heat of its stench on her face.
Her fingers opened, like a rose at dawn.
The force of an exploding star burst from her palm.
ER’RIL WAS BLOWN back by the force of the magickal explosion. His back struck a tree. He shakily managed to keep his feet.
Tears had frozen in his eyes. He blinked his lids to warm his vision and saw a sight that stopped his breath.
The mul’gothra had been blown back from Elena’s throat. It lay on its back. She had killed it!
No!
He saw a wing twitch. Then in an explosion of muscle and wing, it rolled back to its feet. It swung to the child again. A screech flowed from its black throat.
Elena still stood with her arm raised above her head, fingers splayed wide.
Er’nl swore at the sight.
Her hand was no longer red! With her magick spent, she had no protection.
He stumbled toward her. As he wobbled on his feet, Elena slashed her arm down, fingers pointing at the mul’gothra.
Lightning cracked with such fury from above that Er’ril fell to the muddy ground. He raised his eyes in time to see a thunderhead dive from its place in the heavens. It swallowed the monster in its black grip.
She had called the very sky down upon the creature! Er’ril had never imagined she had such power.
Her magick was not spent, he realized. It had just been cast out into the world—and now it returned. Within the captured thunderhead, he saw her magick glow with the fire of blue ice.
Suddenly a gray tentacle shot out from the churning mists of the black cloud. It sailed for Elena’s outstretched arm.
ELENA DID NOT cringe. A smile of wicked delight pulled her lips tight. The power sang to her heart. She felt the bonds linking her blood to the magick, and she knew what she must do.
Her eyes hardened at the grasping tongue.
Her magick whispered in her ear. It told her the cloud that wrapped around the mul’gothra also stood in her hand. She clenched her fist closed.
The cloud shrieked with tormented winds, than shrank, collapsing around the mul’gothra. As it closed around the beast, all its stored moisture changed from mist to water. As the mists cleared, Elena saw a huge bubble of water mold around the thrashing mul’gothra. The beast was drowning.
Elena somehow knew the Dark Lord had fled back to his hole buried under Blackhall. He had left this shell behind.
The mul’gothra still fought its death as the magick sang inside Elena. Her power wanted more. More!
A part of her recognized the gasping creature as a mere tool of the Dark Lord, knew its death was nothing to bring such joy, but another part of her sang with the magick swimming in blue scintillations across the surface of the water.
Power still waited to be used, screamed in her ear with its need.
Elena heeded the call.
She stared at the drowning beast and clenched her fist tighter. Before her, the bubble of rainwater blew to ice, freezing the beast in its heart, like a fly caught in amber. The towering crystal of ice crashed and sank partly in the mud. Blue fire skated across its surface, a trace of power.
It sang so sweetly. It begged. More! Her blood thrilled with its song.
How could she deny it? It would be like denying her heart.
She tightened the muscles of her forearm until they bulged. Her fist now clenched so hard her nails dug into her palm. She did not feel the pain and squeezed tighter still.
Her smile grew ecstatic.
The wall of ice exploded. Like Er’ril’s sword in the caves, the frozen beast inside shattered into thousands of pieces. Ice and beast blew away from her, leaving her untouched. The forest behind the beast did not fare so well. Trees were tumbled for a league into the forest. A jumble of ice boulders and sections of mul’gothra spread in a fan from where she stood.
Elena’s fist fell open at the sight of such massive destruction. She fell to her knees, then to her palms. What had she done? Her mind pictured the struggling, gasping mul’gothra, argued that it was dangerous and had to be killed. And she knew this to be true. Such a beast would have ravaged her valley home. Yet she also knew how she had felt as she lashed out—joyous with its dying, elated at its death.
Worst of all, as she stared at her hands, so white against the black mud, a part of her desperately craved the light of dawn—not for its warmth, but only for the sun’s ability to ignite her power again.
Here she recognized the wit’ch in her, calling out. Elena could not dismiss this as the voice of her magick. No. It was her own heart singing for the power.
But what about the woman who could not stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks at the death of a living creature, a misused tool killed so savagely by her hand? This was her, too.
Who was she?
What had she become?
Boots appeared in the mud before her eyes. Er’ril knelt down beside her. He lifted her chin with his fingers. His touch was warm on her skin. Her magick had left her so cold.
He pulled her to his chest and said no words.
There were none to heal her heart.
40
ELENA PULLED THE deerskin parka tighter around her houlders, trying to squeeze every pocket of frigid air from underneath the coat. The first clear morning since they had arrived three moons ago drew her from the home caves of Kral’s clan. Snowy peaks, tinged a rosy hue by the dawn, reached for the blue sky. The sight took her breath away in streams of white as the cold bit at her nose. She buried the lower half of her face in the furred collar of her parka.
A morning this clean made her wonder if all that had happened to her was nothing more than a bad dream. Here, she awoke to t
he sound of giggling children and the prattle of cookwives preparing a morning meal of warmed oats and raisins. Cinnamon spiced the air as well as the food. Pottery clinked with spoons. Voices raised to shout greetings, not warnings.
Yet Elena had only to walk a handful of steps to be reminded that this peaceful world was all an illusion. In a side cave, Er’ril rested on a bed, wrapped in down-filled blankets. The bones of his face shone through his skin. He was a skeleton of a man now, his muscles wasted by a raging fever. The poisons had reached his heart at the same time the party had reached Kral’s home. The swordsman had collapsed at the head of the pass.
If not for the broad back and strong legs of the og’re Tol’chuk, Er’ril would not have even made it that far. Even the surviving horses—Kral’s Rorshaf and her dear Mist—had been too exhausted to safely carry the injured man up the last of the treacherous mountain trails. But with Tol’chuk’s help, the limp form of the plainsman finally reached Kral’s home caves.
Not until an entire moon had passed did his fever finally break. Only the steamed leaves boiling in pots, prepared with care by Nee’lahn, and Er’ril’s own strong spirit kept death from his cave those long days. Elena had spent many nights sitting beside his bed, mopping his brow with cool mineral waters from deep in the caves, listening to him moan and tangle his sheets. Once, he had opened his eyes straight at Elena and screamed, “The wit’ch will kill us all!” She had cried and run from the room, even though she could tell from his glazed eyes that he was deluded by the poisons in his veins. It had taken her many days before she could return to his cave.
This morning, after sneaking Mist a bit of dried apple, Elena had visited Er’ril and found him sitting up in bed, conversing with Kral. The mountain man’s lower leg was still clamped between splints, but he managed to hobble through the caves with a crutch of hickory wood under his arm. The wolf had sat by Er’ril’s bed, ears perked as the two men spoke. Elena still had trouble fathoming the animal as a shape-shifter and could not resist scratching him behind an ear and patting his head. She had done so as she entered the small cave. The wolf had wagged his tail, and Er’ril had offered her a smile. His color, though pale, had glowed with the warmth of life instead of the ashen shades of death. Returning strength had shone from his eyes.
Wit'ch Fire: Book One of The Banned and the Banished Page 41
