Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  Moris must have seen him. “No! Man the wheel!” he ordered, raising his head. His voice was thick with pain. The black-skinned Brother raised his sword. “Save the ship! I’ll dispatch this fiend.”

  Already the darkness consumed his body. Flashes of white femur shone through snatches of parting shadows.

  Rockingham, still on his knees, tried to crawl away, but Moris towered over him. As the shadows ate away the man’s thick legs, the large Brother dropped like an axed tree. He bore his short sword gripped in both fists, his face a mask of pain. Still, his strength of will could not be tainted by the spreading darkness. Moris made sure as he fell that he toppled toward the cowering figure of Rockingham, his sword aiming true.

  Rockingham swept an arm up in useless defense, a cry on his lips. It was to no avail. Moris struck the demon clean through the chest with his sword, collapsing atop the golem as the shadows swallowed them both away.

  “Moris!” Flint cried.

  Er’ril rolled to his feet as the shadows swirled in on themselves, whirling tighter and tighter like water down an unseen drain. A shrieking wail echoed out from the shadows, growing shriller and more piercing as the pool of darkness shrank. Then, in another breath, the darkness was sucked away.

  Joach joined them. No one spoke.

  Atop the deck was a long, bleached skeleton, a short sword still gripped in the tangle of finger bones. Moris.

  Everyone stared in shock, too exhausted to find their tongues. Relief at the monster’s defeat fought in their hearts with horror at the final cost.

  Joach finally broke the silence with a whispered prayer. “Sweet Mother, take our friend safe to your bosom.”

  Er’ril found no words to add, struggling with rage and sorrow. How many such warriors would have to die before Alasea could be free?

  Flint bent and reached to the skeleton. He touched the white skull reverently, then retrieved a glint of silver from the deck. He stood up and held out his hand to Joach. The boy accepted the gift.

  Er’ril stared at the silver star in Joach’s palm. It was Moris’ earring, the symbol of his old order.

  “He would’ve wanted you to have it,” Flint said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  “I’ll wear it with honor.”

  Flint wiped at his eyes, then straightened. His gaze was still full of tears. “I must check the ship,” he said to Er’ril. Already the boat had begun to list in the water.

  Er’ril nodded, sensing that the old man also needed a moment to himself. He had lost a dear friend this day, and some grieving could only be done alone.

  Once Flint was gone, Joach pointed to the skeleton. “What of Rockingham? Where are that monster’s bones?”

  Er’ril remembered the tortured scream fading away with the shadows. “I don’t know. I fear even here he might have again escaped death.”

  “Then Moris’ sacrifice was in vain.”

  “No, his attack, even if not fatal, drove the monster from our decks. I don’t think we could have withstood another magickal assault.”

  Joach nodded, his fist tight around the silver star. “Next time,” the boy said with such venom that his words drew Er’ril’s eye, “I’ll rip his heart out with my own hands.”

  Er’ril gripped Joach’s shoulder consolingly, then noticed the length of white staff in the boy’s other hand for the first time. He could not miss the threads of crimson flowing in the wood. “Joach, let me see your staff.”

  Joach pulled out of his grip and held the staff away from Er’ril suspiciously. “Why?”

  Er’ril studied Joach, noting the streams of scarlet linking boy to staff. “Never mind. You’ve already answered my question.” Er’ril started to turn away, then added over his shoulder, “I suggest in the future, if you’re not in battle, that you wear a glove whenever handling the staff. You only have so much blood, boy.”

  Er’ril ignored Joach’s wrinkled brow and turned away, searching the far side of the deck. He finally spotted Elena seated by the starboard rail. She sat with her knees pulled up, hugging her legs, her face buried in her arms. From her quaking shoulders, he knew she was weeping.

  He crossed to her with a heavy heart, noting the cascade of red curls hiding her face. He was as much to blame for Elena’s rash action and its result as the girl herself. The other day in Flint’s kitchen, he should have explained to Elena in more detail about the spell. But at the time he had feared frightening her too much. She had been shaken up enough already. Er’ril sighed and stepped nearer.

  Elena must have heard his tread. She kept her head bowed, and her words were muffled by her arms. “I’m sorry about Moris,” she said. “I hardly knew him, and yet he gave his life to protect me. I should have . . . I could have . . .”

  “No,” he said sternly. “We lost a good man this day, but it’s not right for you to assume any blame. If you do, you dishonor my friend. He gave his life to protect you, and you should accept his sacrifice with good grace. Honor Moris by knowing he saved you and that there was nothing you could do to prevent it.”

  Her sobbing worsened for a few moments. Er’ril let her cry. They still had much to discuss, and he let her grief run its course. Finally, he spoke again. “About Joach . . . and the staff.”

  Elena flinched visibly at his words. She seemed to shrink farther in on herself, pulling her face away. “I thought I had no choice,” she mumbled, her voice full of pain.

  “And perhaps you didn’t. But your decision didn’t allow Joach any choice either. You took that from him.”

  She remained silent.

  “Do you understand what you did?” he asked. “Do you know what you created?”

  She nodded, her face still covered. “I . . . I forged a blood weapon. Like those blood swords you told me about. And . . . and I linked it to Joach.”

  “Yes,” Er’ril said, glad at least that she recognized what her magick had wrought. He had feared that perhaps the wit’ch had controlled her actions. “He is a strong boy, and your whole family has an affinity for magick. There is a possibility that he can control the weapon with training. But he is also rash and quick to temper. These qualities could lead him to become enthralled to the staff’s magick. Only time will tell.”

  Elena pulled tighter into a ball. “I’m destroying my entire family.”

  Er’ril knelt beside her. “Freedom is always costly.”

  “But must my whole family bear the debt?”

  Er’ril reached and pulled her into his one-armed embrace. “I’m sorry, Elena,” he said as he held her tight. “It’s a heavy burden, but it’s not just your family that bears it. All of Alasea bleeds.”

  She trembled in his arms, leaning deeper into his chest. “I know,” she whispered, her voice so hopeless that Er’ril wanted to shelter her like this forever. They sat silently in each other’s embrace for several breaths more. Finally, Elena’s trembles died away, and she raised a hand. “And what of this?” she said, indicating the overgrown fingernails. “Why did this happen?”

  At last, she turned to stare Er’ril full in the face. Her eyes were puffy from grief, her cheeks pale and stained by tears. For the first time, he saw the woman who had hidden behind the softness of a young girl’s features.

  Framed by curls the color of fire, Elena’s green eyes were now flecked with a commanding gold. Her cheekbones were arched high and begged a finger to trace the long curve past her strong chin to her slender neck. Her lips were slightly parted as she stared up at him, and they had fully bloomed into the heavy bud of a rose.

  “Er’ril?”

  He blinked a few times and pushed slightly away, clearing his throat. He had known the cost of forging a blood weapon and knew there would be changes in the girl. Still, he was momentarily shocked by her visage. He had not expected this woman to be staring back at him.

  Sensing his sudden discomfort, Elena glanced down at herself and tugged the woolen edges of Joach’s shirt tighter around her physique. “What’s happened to me?”

  S
wallowing, he pried his tongue loose. “To forge a blood sword, or any such magick-wrought weapon, a part of the mage has to be given freely. A part of his life must be granted.”

  Her brows wrinkled together. “What do you mean?”

  He sought to speak more plainly but found his thoughts hard to organize. He could not keep his mind from dwelling on the changes in her. “Years were stolen from you and given to the staff. You’ve aged, Elena. In the moment it took you to create Joach’s blood staff, I estimate that you’ve aged at least four or five winters.”

  Her hands fumbled to her face, as if she wanted to feel the truth of his words, but her long nails made it difficult. “My hair . . . my nails . . .”

  “It’s as if you’ve slept for four winters and just now awoke.”

  Her face paled further, and again tears began to well.

  Before either could speak, Joach interrupted. The boy called across the deck, waving his staff to urge them up. Behind him, the grizzled figure of Flint could be seen crawling out of the stern hatch. He was soaked from top to bottom. Joach’s words flew to them. “We’re completely stoved in! Seawater’s swamped the lower holds. We must abandon the boat!” He finally reached them, out of breath, his leggings soaked with seawater. “We’re to gather our belongings and retreat to the skiff.”

  As if accenting his words, the ship suddenly rolled and a shuddering rip reverberated through the planks of the deck. Er’ril helped Elena stand, then passed her to Joach. She seemed wobbly on her legs. Er’ril was not sure how much was due to exhaustion and how much was due to the sudden increase in her height. She would have to grow accustomed to her longer limbs and new physique.

  Joach eyed his sister’s height, then took her arm. He now had to glance up at his sister, where before it had been the other way around. The boy of fourteen winters now stood beside a woman of eighteen or nineteen.

  “Get her to the skiff,” Er’ril ordered. “Then help me gather our gear.”

  Nodding, Joach led her away.

  Er’ril crossed quickly to where Flint stood near the stern wheel, a spyglass fixed to his eye.

  “How long until she sinks?” Er’ril asked.

  “Depends,” Flint answered, still studying the surrounding seas with his glass. “If she rolls off the reef she’s caught on, we could sink in moments. If she stays hooked, she might stay above water until sundown. But that’s the least of our worries.” He lowered the spyglass.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Another boat’s spotted our tilted masts. It just changed course toward us.”

  Er’ril frowned. “In these waters . . .”

  Flint finished his thought. “Pirates for sure, looking for a quick and easy bounty.” Flint shook his head as he stared at the approaching ship.

  “What?”

  “I know the colors of that ship. The captain and I were once friends.”

  “So why isn’t this good fortune?”

  Flint scrunched his face sourly. “I said we were once friends. No longer. The approaching ship is Captain Jarplin’s shark-beamed hunter.”

  “Captain Jarplin?” The name rang familiar in Er’ril’s ear.

  “I told you about him. He’s the fellow from whom I stole Sy-wen’s dragon. A treasure of a lifetime. So I don’t think he’ll take kindly to meeting up with me again.” Flint glanced significantly at Er’ril. “Or anyone I’m with.”

  “Can we escape in time in the skiff?”

  “Not in these currents.”

  “Any other ideas?” Er’ril knew their party was too bone-tired from the day-long battle with demons to handle a shipload of fresh pirates. Elena, especially, was too worn and shaken by her transformation. To use any more magick without a proper rest would threaten her control and her spirit.

  Er’ril eyed Flint, silently asking for help.

  Flint nodded, letting out a long sigh. “I have a plan.” He turned to stare over the waters, quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “But we’ll have to give the hunter what he wants.”

  Book Two

  OLD DEBTS

  8

  WALKING IN SILENCE, Mogweed followed the others deeper into the coastal forest. Up ahead, Mycelle led the way down a faint deer path, guiding them toward where she had hidden their horses and to where Meric awaited them. Mycelle had already explained her sudden change of fate: from death to full revitalization. She had also explained that Mama Freda would be joining them on the journey to meet the wit’ch. But Mogweed had heard little of this, too stunned by Mycelle’s sudden demonstration of her shape-shifting ability.

  Ahead, Tol’chuk marched beside Mycelle. He stuck close to his mother’s side, reaching to touch her every now and then as if he feared she would melt away into the surrounding wood.

  Behind Mogweed, Kral and Fardale guarded their rear. They had left the gates of Port Rawl far behind, but there were still bandits who frequented these woods, so caution was needed. Though well guarded, Mogweed still jumped at every crack of twig or rustle of brush.

  Not all of his edginess was simple fear.

  As he stared at Mycelle, odd feelings worried his belly. He could not deny that a sliver of joy thrilled his blood at seeing a full si’luran after so many seasons, someone who had complete use of her shape-shifting abilities. But mostly a gnawing anger and frustration burned in him.

  Why her?

  A slight scowl etched his hard mouth as he hiked. It wasn’t fair! The swordswoman had chosen to settle into human form. It had been her own choice—unlike Mogweed and his brother. Their shifting abilities had been stolen from them through the abuse of an ancient spell. In search of a cure, the two brothers had traveled far, through so many dangers. If anyone should be free of this curse, it should be them.

  Fardale padded quietly through the brush to join Mogweed, as if sensing the strong emotions warring in his brother’s breast. The wolf nudged Mogweed’s tight fist.

  “What do you want?” he snapped sourly, glancing toward his brother.

  The wolf’s eyes glowed a deep amber in the darkening wood. Images formed: A flower growing from desert sand. A small bird hatching from a cold nest. A stillborn pup revived by a wolf bitch’s warm tongue. All were glimpses of new life springing forth from hard circumstances.

  Mogweed knew what his brother was trying to communicate. Fardale’s images all spoke of hope. If Mycelle could regain her abilities, then so could they. Mogweed grasped at this thin prospect. He reached for Fardale, hoping to share this sliver of renewed hope. But Fardale was already gone, twisting on a paw and slipping back to join Kral.

  Pulling back his hand, Mogweed tried to hold onto his renewed faith, but like smoke, it faded away. Mogweed knew better. Mycelle had had to die to regain her abilities. Was he willing to go that far? In his breast, Mogweed knew the answer. Frustration and despair swelled through him.

  But there was even more reason for consternation.

  Fardale had always been an eloquent speaker, whether by tongue or mind. But this last sending had been coarse, the images rough and blurred at the edges. Perhaps it was just Fardale’s excitement, but Mogweed doubted this simple explanation. He had sensed something wilder behind his brother’s amber eyes, like the howling of a feral wolf. Fardale was beginning to lose his ability to spirit speak as the wild wood claimed him. Time was running out. In less than three moons, the curse would consume them both, freezing them permanently into their current forms. Both brothers’ eyes would lose their amber glow, and any chance of regaining their si’luran heritage would be gone forever. Fardale would become another wolf in the wood, and Mogweed would become another man among many. They would forever forget their heritage.

  Mogweed’s legs trembled under him. Never! Even if it meant betraying everyone here to the Dark Lord of this land, including his own brother, then so be it. He glanced to where Mycelle smiled warmly at Tol’chuk. Mogweed’s eyes narrowed with determination. One day I will again enjoy my own freedom. I swear it!

  As he scowled at the un
fairness of fate, he failed to notice the motion to the right of the path until too late.

  A figure stepped silently out of the neighboring cluster of skreebushes. Mogweed gasped and stumbled, not only from the shock of the man’s sudden appearance but also because of the figure’s monstrous countenance. Half his face was eaten away by a roil of pinkish scar tissue, consuming one ear and half his black-bristled scalp.

  Swords and axes appeared up and down the deer path. Tol’chuk lunged toward the intruder, moving surprisingly fast for sucha bulky creature. The man’s eyes grew wide at the onrushing og’re. He backed deeper into the surrounding brush. Behind him, Mogweed spotted other shadowy figures and the glint of steel farther back in the wood.

  “Stop!” Mycelle suddenly cried harshly. Her command split through the woods like a thrown ax.

  Tol’chuk obeyed his mother and skidded to a halt on his thick, clawed legs. The og’re leaned one huge fist in the loam of the wood, panting and baring his fangs at the man.

  Mycelle pushed to join them. As she elbowed forward, she shoved down Kral’s ax with her palm, then crossed to stand between Tol’chuk and the bandit. “He’s a friend,” she scolded them all. “I had left word in the city for him to join us here.”

  Kral’s voice was more growl than human. “Who is he?”

  Mycelle scowled and dismissed Kral’s question for a moment. She stepped forward and embraced the man warmly. “How is Cassa Dar?” she asked as she released him.

  He smiled at the swordswoman, a most gruesome sight due to the twist of scarred flesh. “She rests in Castle Drak. The attack last moon drained her, but she recuperates.” The man suddenly squinted at Mycelle, frowned a moment, then held her at arm’s length, studying her. “Your eyes . . . They’ve changed! What happened?”

  Mycelle seemed to shrink back from him, lowering her gaze.

  Mogweed realized that the stranger must know nothing about her true si’luran heritage. Mycelle finally spoke, not lying but dancing around the truth. “I died,” she said, then exposed the snake on her arm. “A healer and the magick in a snake brought me back. My eyes were like this afterward.”