Joach’s fingers wandered to an ivory dragon’s tooth that hung from a cord around his neck; it had been a gift from Sy-wen. “No, this was no dragon.” His hands fought to describe the figure, but he gave up with an exasperated shrug of his shoulders. “It was something more shadow than flesh. But that’s not the important part of the dream. You see . . .” His voice died, and his eyes drifted away to stare out at the ocean. Her brother was hiding something from her, something that scared him deeply.
Elena licked her dry lips, suddenly wondering if she truly wanted to know the answer. “What is it, Joach?”
“You were not alone on the tower.”
“Who else was there?”
He turned back to her. “I was. I stood beside you bearing the poi’wood staff I stole from the darkmage. When the creature dove toward us, I raised the staff and smote the creature from the sky with a spellcast bolt.”
“Well, that proves it was only a nightmare. You’re no practitioner of the black arts. You’re just dreaming that I need your protection. It’s probably worry and fear that ‘thrilled’ your blood in the dream, not weaving magicks.”
Frowning, Joach shook his head. “Truthfully, after the first dream, I supposed the same. Papa’s last words to me were to protect you, and that has weighed heavily on my heart ever since. But when the dream came to me again, I was no longer so sure. After the second dream yesterday, I crept out at midnight—out here alone—and I . . . I spoke the spell from the dream while holding the staff.”
Elena had a sick feeling in the root of her stomach. “Joach . . . ?”
He pointed behind her. Elena turned. Only a handful of steps away stood a lightning-split pine, its bark charred and its limbs cracked. “The spell from my dream worked.”
Elena stared with her eyes wide, suddenly weak in her legs, not just from the thought that Joach’s dream might be real, but also from the fact that Joach had called forth black magicks. She shivered. “We must tell the others,” she said in hushed tones. “Er’ril must be warned of this.”
“No,” he said. “There’s still more. It’s the reason I’ve kept silent until now.”
“What?”
“In my dream, after I smote the beast from the sky, Er’ril appeared from the depths of the tower, sword in hand. He ran at us, and I swung the staff toward him and . . . and I killed him, like the beast, in a blaze of darkfire.”
“Joach!”
Her brother could not be interrupted; the words tumbled from his mouth in a rush. “In the dream, I knew he meant you harm. There was murder in his eyes. I had no choice.” Joach turned pained eyes toward her. “If I don’t go with you, Er’ril will kill you. I know it!”
Elena swung away from Joach’s impossible words. Er’ril would never harm her. He had protected her across all the lands of Alasea. Joach had to be wrong. Still, she found her eyes staring at the charred ruin of the nearby pine. Joach’s black spell—a spell he learned in a dream—had worked.
Her brother spoke behind her. “Keep what I’ve told you secret, Elena. Do not trust Er’ril.”
NOT FAR AWAY, Er’ril woke with a start from his own troubled dreams. Nightmares of poisonous spiders and dead children chased him from his slumber. They left him restless and sore of muscle, as if he had held himself clenched all night long. He tossed aside the blanket and carefully eased himself from the goose-down bed.
Naked chested, dressed only in his linen underclothes, he shivered in the chill of the early morning coast. Summer waned toward autumn, and though the days still warmed to a moist heat, the mornings already whispered of the cold moons ahead. Barefooted, Er’ril crossed the slate floor to the washbasin and the small silvered mirror hanging on the wall behind it. He splashed cool water on his face as if to wash away the cobwebs of the night’s dreams.
He had lived so many winters that his nights were always crowded with memories demanding his attention.
Straightening up, he stared at the black-stubbled planes that were his Standi heritage. His gray eyes stared back at him from a face he no longer knew. How could such a young face hide so completely the old man inside?
He ran his one hand over the boyish features. Though he looked outwardly the same, he often wondered if his own long-dead father would recognize the man in the mirror now. The five centuries of winters had marked him in ways other than the usual graying hair or wrinkled skin. He let his fingers drift over the smooth scar on his empty shoulder. No . . . time marked men in many ways.
Suddenly a voice rose from the corner of the room. “If you’re done admiring yourself, Er’ril, maybe we can get this day started.”
Er’ril knew the voice and did not startle. He merely turned and stepped to the chamber pail. He ignored the grizzled gray man seated in the thick pillowed chair in the shadowed corner. While relieving himself of his morning’s water, Er’ril spoke. “Flint, if you’d wanted me up earlier, you had merely to wake me.”
“From the grumbling and thrashing as you slept, I figured it best to let you work out whatever troubled your slumber without interruption.”
“Then you had best let me sleep another decade or two,” he answered sourly.
“Yes, yes. Poor Er’ril, the wandering knight. The eternal warden of A’loa Glen.” Flint nodded toward his old legs. “Let your joints grow as hoary as mine, and we’ll see who complains the louder.”
Er’ril made a scoffing sound at his words. Even without magick, time had eroded little of that older Brother’s strength of limb; instead Flint’s many winters spent on the sea had hardened his frame like a storm-swept oak. “The day you slow down, old man, is the day I will hang up my own sword.”
Flint sighed. “We all have our burdens to haul, Er’ril. So if you’re done feeling miserable, the morning is half over, and we still have the Seaswift to outfit for the coming voyage.”
“I’m well aware of the day’s schedule,” Er’ril said bitingly as he dressed. His night’s disturbed rest had left him short-tempered, and Flint’s tongue was rubbing him especially raw this morning.
The Brother sensed Er’ril’s irritation and softened his tone. “I know you’ve borne a lot, Er’ril, what with hauling that lass across all the lands of Alasea while pursued by the hunters of the Gul’gotha. But if we are to ever free ourselves of that bastard’s yoke, we cannot let our own despair weigh down our spirits. On the path ahead, the Dark Lord will give us plenty to plague our hearts, without the need to look to the past for more.”
Er’ril nodded his assent. He clapped the old man on the shoulder as he passed to the oak wardrobe in the corner. “How did you grow so wise among these pirates and cutthroats of the Archipelago, old man?”
Flint grinned, fingering his silver earring. “Among pirates and cutthroats, only the wise reach a ripe ol’ age.”
Retrieving his clothes, Er’ril pulled on his pants and began working his shirt over his head. With only one arm, the chore of dressing was always a struggle. After so many centuries, time had not made some things easier. Finally, red faced, he accomplished his task and tucked his shirt in place. “Any word from Sy-wen?” he finally said, searching for his boots.
“No, not yet.”
Er’ril raised his eyes at the worried tone in the old Brother’s voice. Flint had grown protective of the small mer’ai girl since plucking her from the sea. Sy-wen, along with the mer’ai army, had been sent to the oceans south of the Blasted Shoals in search of the Dre’rendi fleet. Also named “Bloodriders,” the Dre’rendi fleet were the cruelest of the dreaded Shoal’s pirates. But old oaths bound the mer’ai and the Dre’rendi, and Flint hoped to gain the Bloodriders’ aid in the war to come.
Flint continued. “All I hear from my spies upon the seas is foul rumors of A’loa Glen. Perpetual black clouds cloak the island, sudden vicious squalls beat back boats, storm winds scream with the cries of tortured souls. Even farther out from the island now, trawling nets are pulling up strange pale creatures never seen before, beasts of twisted shapes and poisoned s
pines. Others whisper of flocks of winged demons seen far overhead—”
“Skal’tum,” Er’ril spat, his voice strained with tension as he picked up one of his leather boots. “My brother gathers an army of dreadlords to him.”
Flint leaned forward and patted the plainsman’s knee as Er’ril sat down on the bed. “That creature masquerading as the Praetor of A’loa Glen is not your brother any longer, Er’ril. It is only a cruel illusion. Put such thoughts aside.”
Er’ril could not. He pictured the night five centuries ago when the Blood Diary had been bound in magick. That night, all that was just and noble in his brother Shorkan and the mage Greshym had gone into forging the cursed tome. But all that remained of the two—the corrupt and foul dregs of spirit—had been given to the Black Heart, to use as pawns in the Dark Lord’s dire plans. Er’ril’s jaws clenched. Someday he would destroy the foulness that walked in the shape of his beloved brother.
Flint cleared his throat, drawing Er’ril back to the present. “But that is not all I have heard. Word from down the coast reached me this morning by pigeon. It’s why I came to fetch you from your bed.”
“What is it?” Er’ril worked his boots on, his brow dark.
“More dire news, I’m afraid. Yesterday, a small fleet of hunting boats put in at Port Rawl, but the fishermen on board had been corrupted. The men were like wild dogs, attacking townsfolk, biting, slashing, raping. It took the entire garrison to fend them off. Though most of the berserkers were killed, one of the cursed ships managed to break anchor and escape, carrying off several women and a few children.”
Er’ril laced his boots, his voice strained. “Black magick. Perhaps a spell of influence. I’ve seen its like before . . . long ago.”
“No, I know the magick you speak of. What was done to these fishermen was worse than a simple spell. Ordinary wounds would not kill these berserkers. Only decapitation would end their blood lust.”
Er’ril glanced up, his eyes hooded with concern.
“A healer examined the slain and discovered a thumb-sized hole bored into the base of each skull. Cracking the skulls open revealed a small tentacled creature curled inside. A few of the beasts were still alive, squirming and writhing. After that horrible discovery, the carcasses of the dead were immediately burned on the stone docks.”
“Sweet Mother,” Er’ril said sullenly, “how many new horrors can the Black Heart birth?”
Flint shrugged. “The entire town reeks of charred flesh. It has the townsfolk edgy and jumping at shadows. And in a town as rough as Port Rawl, that’s a dangerous mix. Mycelle’s journey there to search for your friends will be fraught with risk.”
Er’ril worked silently as he finished tying his boots. He pondered the news, then spoke. “Mycelle knows how to take care of herself. But this news makes me worry if perhaps we shouldn’t set sail on the Seaswift earlier than planned.” He straightened to meet Flint’s eyes. “If the evil of A’loa Glen has reached all the way to the coast, perhaps it’s best to leave now.”
“I’ve had similar thoughts. But if you want your friends to rejoin you, I see us leaving no earlier than the new moon. Besides, it’ll take at least until then to man and outfit the Seaswift, and who can say if the seas will be any safer than where we are right now?”
Er’ril stood up. “Still I don’t like just sitting here idle, waiting for the Dark Lord to reach out for us.”
Flint held up a hand. “But if we rush, we may find ourselves placing Elena right into his foul grip. I say we stick to our plan. Sail at the new moon, and rendezvous with the mer’ai army in the Doldrums at the appointed day. With the growing menace at A’loa Glen, we must give Sy-wen and Kast time to reach the Dre’rendi fleet and see if their old oaths will be honored. We need their strength.”
Er’ril shook his head. “There is no honor among those pirates.”
Flint scowled. “Kast is a Bloodrider. Though he now shares his spirit with the dragon Ragnar’k, he was always a man of honor, and his people, worn hard by storms and bloodshed, know the importance of duty and ancient debts.”
Er’ril still doubted the wisdom of the plan. “It’s like putting a wolf at our back when facing the Dark Lord’s army.”
“Perhaps. But if we’re to succeed, any teeth that can rip into the flank of our enemy should be welcome.”
Er’ril sighed and combed his stubborn hair into order with his fingers. “Fine. We’ll give Sy-wen and Kast until the new moon. But whether we hear word from them or not, we sail.”
Flint nodded and stood. With the matter decided, he fished his pipe from a pocket. “Enough talk,” he grumbled. “Let’s find a hot taper and welcome the morning with a bit of smoke.”
“Ah, once again proof of your wisdom,” Er’ril said. A smoke sounded like a perfect way to set aside the foul start of the morning. He followed willingly after the grizzled Brother.
Once they reached the kitchen, Er’ril heard a familiar scolding voice echo through the open window next to the cooking hearth. The shouted complaints were accompanied by the occasional clash of steel. Apparently, the swordswoman, Mycelle, was finding her pupil’s last lesson to be less than exemplary.
It seemed everyone was having a sour morning.
MYCELLE BATTED ELENA’S short sword aside. Then with the flick of a wrist, she sent her pupil’s blade flying through the air. Stunned, Elena watched the small blade flip end over end across the yard. The move was so swift that Elena’s gloved hand was still aloft as if bearing her sword. Elena slowly lowered her arm, her cheeks red.
The swordswoman gave her pupil a sorrowful shake of her head, fists resting on her hips. Mycelle stood as tall as most men and as broad of shoulder. Her coarse blond hair hung in a thick braid to her waist. Dressed in leathers and steel, she was a formidable swordswoman. “Fetch your sword, child.”
“Sorry, Aunt My,” Elena said, chagrined. Mycelle was not truly Elena’s blood relative, but the woman had been as much a part of her life as any real relations. The woman’s true bloodlines traced back to the shape-shifters of the Western Reaches, the si’lura. But Mycelle had given up her birthright long ago when fate and circumstance had convinced her to “settle” into human form, abandoning forever her ability to shift.
“Where’s your mind at this morning, girl?”
Elena hurried over to her vagrant sword and grabbed its hilt. She knew the answer to her aunt’s exasperated question. Her mind was still on Joach’s earlier words, not on the dance of blades. Returning to her position, Elena held the sword at ready.
“We’ll try the Scarecrow’s Feint again. It’s a simple move, but when mastered, it’s one of the most effective methods to lure an opponent to drop his guard.”
Nodding, Elena tried to push back the nagging doubts that Joach had raised in her mind—but she failed. She could not imagine Er’ril ever betraying her. The Standi plainsman had been steadfast in his loyalty to both Elena and the quest. They had shared many a long afternoon together, heads bowed in study, as she learned simple manipulations of her power. But beyond their words and lessons, there was a deeper bond unspoken between them. Through sidelong glances, she occasionally caught the trace of a proud smile on his usually dour features as she concentrated on some aspect of her arcane arts. And other times, though his lips were frowning at some mistake of hers, she spied an amused glint in his gray eyes. Though he was a complex man, Elena suspected she knew his heart. He was a true knight in spirit as well as word. He would never betray her.
Suddenly Elena’s fingers stung with fire, and she found herself again staring at an empty glove.
“Child,” her aunt said in a tone that bordered on fury, “if your attention is not on this lesson, I could be saddling my mount for the journey to Port Rawl.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt My.” She crossed once again to her fallen sword.
“Magick is unpredictable, Elena, but a well-oiled sword will never lose its edge when you need it. Remember that. You must become proficient at both. Once sk
illed in magick and sword, you will be a two-edged weapon. Harder to stop, harder to kill. Remember, child, where magick fails, a sword prevails.”
“Yes, Aunt My,” Elena said dutifully. She had heard it all before. She raised the sword and cast aside any further doubts about Er’ril.
Mycelle approached across the packed dirt of the yard, feet poised, sword balanced easily in her left hand. Her aunt’s other sword was still sheathed in one of the crossed scabbards on her back. When armed with both her twin swords, Mycelle was a demon of steel and muscle.
Still, her aunt’s single sword was threat enough. Elena barely managed to stop a sudden feint and parry, and her aunt’s follow-up thrust tipped Elena off balance. The girl struggled to keep upright, determined to show Mycelle that the fortnight of lessons had not been for naught.
Her aunt continued her furious assault. Elena dragged her sword up to block the next thrust. Mycelle’s blade sang down the length of her pupil’s steel to strike the sword’s guard with a resounding blow. Every bone in Elena’s hand felt the impact, her fingers numbing.
Elena watched Mycelle’s wrist flick, a move meant to dis-arm her once more. Biting back her frustration, Elena forced her weak fingers to match her aunt’s movement just in time, catching the edge of Mycelle’s weapon across the meat of her thumb. Elena felt the blade slice through glove and skin, stinging like the bite of a wasp.
Ignoring the minor cut, Elena kept her sword up as Mycelle retreated a step before her next assault. “Very good, ch—” Mycelle started to say when Elena brought the attack back to the master, taking the offensive for the first time.
Elena’s blood suddenly sang with energies flowing from her wound. Holding her magick in check, Elena fought with renewed vigor. If her aunt wanted her to be a two-edged sword, so be it! Magick and steel now mixed in her blood.
Mycelle tested Elena’s mettle for a few strikes, clearly surprised with her pupil’s sudden skill and daring. Then the master set to break the pupil’s attack and force her back to a more defensive posture.
Wit'ch War (v5) Page 2
