“It be Kral,” Tol’chuk said needlessly.
Still cautious, Mycelle kept her sword in one hand as she unlatched the lock. Who was to say Kral was alone on the stair? With her senses muffled by the banesroot, Mycelle’s edginess remained keen. She swung the door open.
The huge mountain man greeted her with a broad grin. He was alone on the stair. She quickly studied him. His black beard had grown thicker and longer since she had last seen him, almost a wild tangle, but the flinty eyes and scent of rock magick were unmistakable. Mycelle stood aside to let him enter. She sensed no foulness tainting the man. Even the injured hand where the demon rat had ripped off a middle finger had healed cleanly, leaving only a pinkish scar.
Kral had to stoop his head and twist his wide shoulders to push through the doorway. “I thought you must be up here. I met Fardale down below guarding your mount.” As he straightened, his gaze passed over Mycelle’s unsheathed sword. “Not a very warm welcome,” he commented, but before Mycelle could even scowl, he softened his rebuke. “But considering what I’ve seen this day on the streets of Port Rawl, perhaps you’d best keep steel in both hands, even while you sleep.” He patted the ax hanging on his belt. “Among the scavengers of Swamptown, a weapon is always the safest greeting.”
Mycelle closed the door and latched it before turning around. “Is Fardale still with the horse?”
Kral slipped off a cloak coated in road dust and hung it on a hook. “I had a groomsman from a neighboring inn take your horse to where my warcharger is stabled. Fardale followed after him to insure the fellow’s honesty. I expect the shape-shifter will be bedding down at the stables to keep a watch over your horse and gear.”
“Good,” Mycelle said. “I want to be off at the first light.”
“Or sooner,” Mama Freda said. She had finished with Meric’s wraps and pulled the thin sheet higher across the thin elv’in’s chest. She faced the others. “The town grows more tense with each passing day. The foul incident on the docks has everyone clutching their swords tighter. It would take only the tiniest spark to ignite this tinderbox.”
“Still, before we leave,” Mycelle said, “I must check the Watershed Trading Post. A friend was due to arrive this past day from the swamps with the supplies and mounts we had abandoned in Drywater.”
Mama Freda shook her head. “Are these other horses worth the risk of spending more time on the streets of Port Rawl?”
“It is to Elena,” Mycelle said.
“Then I guess Mist must be with them,” Kral said.
Mycelle nodded. “The small gray mare means much to the girl. To know the horse is safe will hearten her for the journey ahead. A small delay to check the trading post could bring Elena great cheer.”
Mama Freda shrugged. “Or get us all killed.”
Mycelle frowned. “Perhaps it’s best we all try to get some rest. We’ve a long journey still ahead of us.”
Mogweed spoke up. The shape-shifter still sat slumped in the chair by the feeble fire. “And just where are we going?”
Mycelle straightened and glanced around the room. Though the elemental magick in the room struck her senses like a clear draught of spring water, a small part of her still balked at revealing Elena’s location. There was no taint of the Dark Lord’s touch here. But something else made her wary—something she could not name.
“It’d be best if that secret still remains close to my heart,” she mumbled, suddenly red faced at the clear lack of trust in her words.
Mogweed, though, persisted. He shifted higher up in his chair. “But what if something were to happen to you tomorrow? How would we find Elena and the others?”
Mycelle glanced to the rug. The shape-shifter was correct. These were Elena’s friends and had proven themselves countless times. And what if she were injured or captured? The others could still journey ahead to add their skills and strength of arms to Elena’s defense. Was she being overly cautious in this instance?
She opened her mouth, ready to admit her folly and share with the others Elena’s location along the coast, when suddenly an angry voice interrupted. “No.”
All their faces turned to the bed, where Meric stared back at them. His sky-blue eyes were open, his gaze edged by lightning and thunderclouds. “Do not speak,” he warned her, his voice no more than a whisper, his eyes drilling at her.
Mycelle crossed to his bedside. “Why, Meric? A secret shared among those you trust is safer in many hearts.”
Before Meric could say another word, a loud pounding suddenly burst from the door. They all jumped and swung to face the only exit. The stout door shook in its frame. A loud, commanding voice followed the pounding: “By the order of the caste master of the city of Port Rawl, you are hereby commanded to turn yourselves over to the watch. Any resistance will be met with the point of our swords.”
There was a pause; then a resounding crash smashed into the door. Its planks split and cracked. One more blow and the door would be open. But even before the next blow struck, Mycelle sensed it: elemental magick flowing into the room from between the panels of split oak—not the pure elemental weavings that were pent up here, but something twisted and black.
Mycelle had both her swords out. Curse the healer’s coating of banesroot! Though it had helped hide the others, now it betrayed them, masking the evil that had crept so silently up the steps until it was too late. Mycelle stretched her senses. She recognized the foulness beyond the doorway. Only the ill’guard monsters gave off such a stench. She knew what she had to do.
Mycelle dropped both her swords. The steel blades rang as they struck the floor. “I must not be taken,” Mycelle whispered. She reached to her neck and pulled free the tiny jade vial that swung on a coarse thread.
“No,” Kral said, noticing what she was doing. He tried to reach for her arm.
She skipped free. “An ill’guard leads this assault,” she said to Kral. “I cannot risk capture. The Black Heart must never learn from me where Elena hides.” She pulled free the sliver of jade that plugged the tiny vial. “Thank the Mother, Meric kept me from speaking my secret.”
A second crash shattered through the room. The door flew wide, pieces of oak tumbling across the floor. Dark shapes rushed through the ragged opening.
“Save yourselves as best you can,” Mycelle yelled to the others, “but Elena’s secret dies with me!” She raised the vial to her lips and poured the poison down her throat. It was a burn that quickly spread from her belly to her limbs. “I’m sorry, Elena.” She dropped the empty vial to the floor.
Tol’chuk rushed forward. “Mother!”
As darkness swallowed Mycelle away, she fell into her son’s thick arms.
ELENA COLLAPSED TO her knees in the passageway. Behind his sister’s shoulder, Joach spotted the monster. Near the stair that led to the lower decks, one of the larger sea goblins crouched, skin the color of sour milk, eyes a baleful red. Its breath stank of rotted fish as it hissed at him, claws raking the air. It took a step closer, toward his sister.
“Get back, demon!” With fury narrowing his vision to a point, Joach slammed the butt of his staff into the face of the drak’il. His aim was sure. Bone cracked, and the beast howled. The force of the blow tumbled it down the stairs to the lower decks.
“Joach?” Elena moaned.
He hurried to his sister’s side as she swooned toward the deck. “El, I’m here.”
“It burns . . .” Elena collapsed into his arms. The back of her thin shift was hot and slick to his touch. In the lamplight, he spied the spreading pool of blackness across her lower back. So much blood! “Elena!” Joach pulled her tight to him and dropped his staff to press his palm against her wound, attempting to stem the flow of blood.
Drifting up the stairs from the lower deck, a low hissing began to gather again. Whether from the injured drak’il or a new foe, Joach did not know. He hauled Elena up in his arms and half carried, half dragged her to the large stateroom in back. He dropped her onto the narrow bed, ripped a s
heet into long strips, and wrapped the linen bandage snug around her midsection, tying it tight to keep pressure on the wound.
Once done, he hurried to the door, glancing back, a prayer on his lips. Then he did the hardest thing he had ever done in his life: He abandoned his sister. He left the stateroom and closed the door behind him. Elena needed help, more than he could offer. He must fetch the others.
Down the dim passage, he spotted his staff on the deck, like a black snake stretched across the passage. But beyond the weapon, between Joach and the hatch that led to the open deck, crouched his foe. Red eyes glowed in the shadows; claws gleamed silver in the lamplight. Its tail, whipping and stabbing at him, was black with his sister’s blood. From its splayed nose, blood still dripped from where his staff had struck.
Weaponless now, Joach had little chance of defeating the well-muscled predator, not unless he could reach his staff. Instinctively, he reached out with a bloody hand toward the gnarled scrap of wood. As if in answer to his silent wish, the staff shifted a handspan closer to him, the scrape of bark on planking loud in the narrow passage. The goblin noticed the movement and took a step closer, lowering its injured nose to the black talisman. It cocked its head and reached a claw forward, apparently curious and drawn to the magick.
Joach clenched his fists. He must not let the drak’il reach his only weapon. “No!” he spat loudly, meaning only to draw the beast’s attention. The result, though, was more dramatic.
The staff jumped into the air, as if startled by his loud command. A scintillation of black flames blew across its surface. The drak’il froze in place. So did Joach. He had never seen the staff behave in such a manner. Was this display powered from the energies drawn earlier from Elena or simply a reflection of his own urgency? Joach’s eyes narrowed. He did not care. He needed a weapon—any weapon!
He thrust his arm out farther toward the floating staff. “Come to me!” he yelled with all his heart. But nothing happened. The gnarled wood just continued to float.
Though ineffectual, his shouted words had at least managed to scare back the drak’il. It cowered a step away, slinking from the flames of the staff, wary of these black magicks. Maybe he could use this to his advantage.
With no plan, he simply pounced toward the goblin, arms raised in the air, a scream of rage and hate flowing from his lips. The beast jumped back from his abrupt display, retreating until its rump pressed against the deck hatch.
Joach reached the staff, and using both hands, he grabbed its length. He cringed slightly, expecting to be burned by the dark flames. But at his touch, the fire dimmed until the flames were vanquished, leaving only a deep rosy glow, as if the staff were a glowing ember just removed from a hearth. Yet its heat did not burn; instead it was frosty to his touch, as if his hands gripped a shard of icicle from the coldest peak. The iciness spread into his fingers and seemed to sink into the vessels of his arms. As he gripped the wood, he could feel the frostiness travel up through his veins as if the staff were some cold heart pumping its ice into him.
Ignoring this effect, he swung the staff toward the beast who still blocked his escape. The words of power he had learned in the dream came again to his mind, unbidden, rising like steam to his lips. His tongue moved with the first words of the spell.
The drak’il dropped to its knees and splayed itself before him, forehead pressed to the planks. A soft mewling rose from its throat. It clearly begged for mercy.
But the magick’s ice had reached Joach’s heart—now was not the time for tender feelings, not when his sister lay bleeding from a wound inflicted by this same beast. As his lips grew cold with the ancient spell, the end of the staff bloomed into a rose of black flame. Smiling without warmth, Joach finished the last garbled syllable and thrust his staff at the goblin.
The petals of the black rose burst open, and balefire lanced from its heart in a furious storm. At the last moment, the goblin must have sensed its death. It raised its face, eyes reflecting the flames. Then the fire struck. The beast was thrown back with such force that its flailing body crashed through the bolted hatch behind it. Iron rods tore loose, and storm-hardened wood splintered like dry twigs. The carcass of the sea goblin, licked by hungry flames, skidded across the open deck. In the time it took Joach to climb through the debris of the hatch, only the charred bones of the drak’il remained.
Joach straightened as he reached the deck. All eyes were on him, both goblin and man. The air reeked of burned flesh and charred bone. The deck was awash with goblin blood, and everywhere Joach looked the hacked remains of the small predators covered the deck. Joach’s eyes were wide with horror. The Seaswift had become a foul charnel house.
Joach stared at the burned remains of the sea goblin on the deck. Its bones lay contorted into a small ball, smoking in the cool night air. Every bone seemed to speak the pain of the flame he had unleashed. The sight reminded him of another time, another night, when fire had consumed his mother and father, leaving only blackened bone then, too. Only this night he was the wielder of death. Oh, Sweet Mother, what had he done?
Joach raised the staff over his head and cried his pain into the night. The ice in his blood fled his veins, and flames blew from both ends of his staff, like the last licks of a dying hearth.
The fiery display ignited the frozen drak’il army. The beasts fled in fear to the rails, leaping and diving into the black seas. Soon the deck was empty, except for the three men and the many dead goblins.
“Joach!” Er’ril crossed to him. A bloody raking of claws marked his left cheek. “What have you done?” Both wonder and horror etched the plainsman’s words. He had sheathed his sword and now reached toward Joach.
Joach stepped back. He could not bear to be touched right now. He simply shook his head and pointed through the ruins of the door. “Elena . . . She . . . she’s badly hurt. In the rear stateroom.”
Er’ril lowered his arm, his eyes wide. He dashed into the passage without another word.
Joach knew he should follow. Elena was his sister. But his legs were numb. He could not move.
Flint strode briskly across the fouled deck. His eyes were fixed on Joach, but his words were for his fellow Brother. “Moris, take the wheel! Guide us out the mouth of the cove, but mind the reefs to port in these shallow tides. We need to reach the open seas. The boy’s performance will cow the drak’il for only so long.”
In response to his shouted orders, the sails billowed and snapped overhead as the black-skinned Brother brought the ship about.
Flint reached Joach and grabbed his shoulder. “Listen, boy, I appreciate what you did. The drak’il had us pinned down, and we were lucky not to have the keel torn out from under us on the rocks. But I know the magick you wielded. It—”
“Balefire,” Joach mumbled, naming the flames he had called forth.
Flint knelt down to stare Joach in the eyes. “Yes, and the fact you can utter its name means it’s touched you—marked you. It’s one of the darkest of the black arts, and I’d rather lose the ship than see you succumb to its allure.”
“I had to,” Joach answered. “I needed to protect Elena.”
Flint sighed. “Your sister has enough defenders. She needs a brother more than another guardian. Remember that.”
Joach shook free of Flint’s grip on his shoulder. “A sister who is murdered has no need for a brother.” He backed a step and positioned the black staff between him and the grizzled seaman.
Flint stood up, his eyes on the staff. “Be that as it may, look to your heart, boy. Study it closely. Soon the staff will become more important than your sister.”
“That will never happen!” he said fiercely. “I can—”
A call echoed up from inside the foredeck. “Flint, get down here! Now!”
Flint stepped toward the opening but spoke over his shoul-der. “Are you so sure of your heart, Joach? Why are you still up here when your sister lies injured below?” Flint ducked into the passage.
Joach stared at the black poi
’wood gripped in his fist. He remembered its frigid touch and the ice in his veins. Though the wood was no longer cold and the ice in his blood had thawed with the realization of what he had done, he sensed that somewhere deep in his heart a seed had taken root. A small shard of ice still lay imbedded there.
The power will mark you, Flint had warned. Joach glanced to the ruins of the doorway. Maybe it already had. But black or not, he would risk his own spirit to keep Elena safe.
Joach bowed his way into the narrow passage, keeping a firm grip on the poi’wood staff.
KRAL LUNGED AT the soldier of the watch. His ax sliced the man’s arm off at the shoulder; blood sprayed his face as he swung the edge of his weapon into the side of the next assailant. Fury fed his rage. He had been so close to learning the secret his master craved: the whereabouts of the wit’ch. Now, the only person who knew Elena’s hiding place lay dead on the rug of the room. Curse the blind loyalty of the damned swordswoman! Only a moment more and she would have betrayed her niece to the Dark Lord.
Spinning on a heel, Kral tossed his ax from one hand to the other and swung his blade with practiced skill into the face of another attacker. But as quickly as he moved, other armed men still swarmed into the room. He parried a sword thrust at his belly, then used the wooden haft of his ax to club the man aside.
A quick glance over his shoulder showed that he fought alone. Tol’chuk stood guard over both his mother’s body and the bedridden elv’in. Mogweed had fled his chair and now cowered in the farthest corner. If Kral was to free their party, he would have to carve a path out of here by himself.
“Tol’chuk! Grab Meric and follow me!” Kral yelled.
In a flurry of blade and muscle, he hacked his way toward the door. Men fell in tortured screams and writhing limbs to both sides of him, his beard soaked in their life’s blood, his white smile a beacon in the ruin of his face. An old war song came to his lips as he sliced his way through the city’s watchers.
None could defeat him! His blood lust almost ignited the black magick buried in his ax. He craved to bury his teeth into the throats of these rough men. But he knew that with the others looking on, he had best rein in this lust and satisfy his desires with the edge of his blade. His heart thundered in his ears, deaf to the wails or cries for help.
Wit'ch War (v5) Page 8
