Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  She stared at Tyrus. Here stood the new Blood of the Wall.

  “So I fled,” he said, the words all but spat out, “leaving my father to die under the roots of the Grim. I fled as fast and far as I could—to here. Once I could flee no farther, my anger exploded and knew no bounds. I let my heated blood boil through these streets and out into the cold seas. Not all I did during that time was noble or even good. No man could stand in my way.” He laughed harshly, nothing like the amusement from a few moments ago. “After two years of such raving, my blood finally cooled, and I discovered I was lord of these pirates.”

  He stopped talking, picked up the ancient blade of his family, and sheathed it. The silence loomed like a fourth member of the conversation.

  Finally, Mycelle spoke. “I should’ve been there.”

  “No,” he said plainly. His eyes were no longer heated or amused, just tired and drained. “Contrary to appearances, you are not Dro.”

  His words wounded her, but she could not blame him. Though she had never heard the summons to the Northwall, she still felt as if she had betrayed her oaths. “Why did you end up here?”

  “It’s where my father told me to go,” he answered. “As Blood of the Wall, the land spoke to him and instructed him to send me here, to languish for near a decade among these heartless men.”

  “But why?”

  “To wait for the return of she who would give her blood to save the Western Reaches.”

  Mycelle knew he spoke of Elena and her blood magicks. The prophecies surrounding the child seemed to grow with each passing day, from all the lands of Alasea.

  Tyrus turned hard eyes toward Mycelle and dashed away her assumptions. “I came to wait for she who was Dro but not Dro, for she who could change faces as easily as the seasons.”

  Mycelle’s heart grew to ice in her chest.

  “I came to wait for you.”

  She stammered and fought to speak. “B-but that’s impossible.”

  “You are si’luran,” he said plainly, ignoring her shock.

  Jaston startled in the chair beside her, a gasp on his lips. “You’re mad,” he said. “I’ve known Mycelle since before she was—”

  Mycelle placed a hand on his elbow and shook her head, silencing him and acknowledging the truth in Tyrus’ claim. As the realization dawned in Jaston, she did not see the horror she had expected in his eyes, but simply wounded betrayal.

  “I’m sorry, Jaston . . .”

  He shook free of her touch.

  Mycelle turned back to Tyrus. “What do you expect of me?”

  “To come with me—back to Castle Mryl.”

  A rustle of cloaks announced the presence of others stationed behind her. Jaston turned, but Mycelle did not. She knew the rustle was done purposely to signal their presence. The Dro could move silently as ghosts. The trio of women warriors had probably been standing there all along.

  “Old oaths or not, I cannot abandon Elena,” she said succinctly.

  Tyrus smiled, all amusement again. “I’m afraid you must, or the wit’ch you guard will die.” He stood up, and she saw the granite behind his gaze. “Thus the Wall has spoken.”

  TOL’CHUK WORRIED ABOUT his mother. She had been gone only a short time, and though he imagined that dealing with pirates was best not rushed, he could not keep his heart from calling out to her. He had lost her when he was a mere babe, only to find her again and see her die. Now that he had her back once again, he feared having her leave his side for even the shortest time or the gravest necessity.

  Fardale approached from where the wolf patrolled their encampment along the docks. His eyes glowed amber in the foggy darkness. As he approached, the wolf sent a fuzzy image toward the og’re: A wolf cub nestled in the curl of its mother’s belly. All was safe, the wolf reported, but the maternal picture of mother and child only made Tol’chuk’s heart ache more.

  Tol’chuk stretched atop his clawed legs and followed Fardale as he passed along the troupe’s edge. He needed to keep moving, keep distracted. He was glad when Mogweed stepped out of the shadows toward them.

  The tiny shape-shifter greeted his brother with a nod as the wolf continued his sentry. Tol’chuk stayed at Mogweed’s side. It was clear the man wanted to talk. “I’m sure Mycelle is fine,” Mogweed said.

  “I know,” Tol’chuk said. “She be skilled with both swords and has little to fear from pirates.”

  Mogweed stared down the fog-choked alleys that led out from the docks. “But still you worry.”

  Tol’chuk remained silent. There were times when the shape-shifter rubbed Tol’chuk’s bristles the wrong way, but every now and then, the man surprised him with his empathy.

  “You need not fear for her, Tol’chuk. Besides her swordsmanship, Mycelle is a skilled shape-shifter. With the return of her heritage, she can slip away from any tight noose—even fly away if she needs to.”

  Tol’chuk rested a hand on Mogweed’s shoulder. He heard the longing in the shape-shifter’s words. For a brief flicker, he sensed how trapped Mogweed must feel in this one form. Escape for him was impossible. Tol’chuk offered him hope. “If my mother could regain her abilities—”

  “It’s not the same,” Mogweed cut him off sourly. “To cure me—I mean both Fardale and myself—it’ll take more than a magick snake.”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  Mogweed turned moist eyes toward Tol’chuk. “I truly want to trust your words, but time runs short.”

  Fardale suddenly raced back into their midst. His images were rushed, vague, but the meaning clear. A large group approached.

  Tol’chuk followed the wolf back toward where a dark street delved into the black heart of the port. Kral appeared at his side, blade in hand. Meric, Mama Freda, and the others hung back. Mogweed retreated to join them by the horses and wagon.

  From out of the fog, a large, shadowy group took form. As they approached, the ghostly silhouettes became solid flesh. Tol’chuk recognized his mother leading the group with the swamp man on one side and a tall stranger on the other. Mycelle raised a hand in greeting, empty palm forward, indicating that those she led meant them no harm. Still, Tol’chuk noted that Kral kept his ax in hand.

  Mycelle had no smiles of greeting as she joined them. She came with grim news. Over her shoulder, Tol’chuk spotted a trio of dark shadows: women with braids as golden as his mother’s, all outfitted with the characteristic crossed swords. They could have been his mother’s sisters.

  Tol’chuk finally noticed a similar resemblance in the stranger who stood beside her. Like the women, this stranger could also pass as a relation to his mother—a younger brother perhaps. Even his clothes were the same mixture of worn leather and steel, but instead of twin swords crossed on his back, he bore a long sword at his waist.

  “We have a ship,” Mycelle stated plainly, drawing all their attentions from the strangers. There was no satisfaction in her voice.

  Kral spoke next. “And who are all these others?”

  “Crew and fighters sworn to take you safe to Elena’s side,” she answered, her voice tight.

  Tol’chuk heard the extra meaning in her words. “What do you mean ‘take you’?” he asked.

  She would not meet his eyes. “I don’t intend to travel with you all. I have been called to pursue another path.”

  The shock ran like lightning through the group.

  “What?” Tol’chuk could not keep the wound from his voice.

  The stranger stepped forward. “We’ve arranged a small sloop that is well worn to the straits of the Archipelago, and a crew of four.” The man waved to a group of four tall black-skinned men who stood behind him. They wore feathers in their hair and had eyes of piercing jade. Scars marked their brows—not from battle but from some old ritual. A crisscrossing of pale scars formed a different pattern on each man’s forehead. They’re marked with runes, Tol’chuk thought.

  The stranger continued speaking. “This crew will serve you well on the journey ahead. The zo’ol are sk
illed warriors and seamen, and well familiar with the channels of the Archipelago.”

  Kral growled at the stranger. “But just who are you?”

  Mycelle stepped forward. “This is Lord Tyrus,” she said as introduction.

  “The leader of this city’s cutthroats?” Kral asked with clear disdain.

  “Also a prince of Castle Mryl,” she said significantly.

  This statement quieted the mountain man. “Mryl? Below the Dire Fells?”

  “Yes,” she said, still not meeting Tol’chuk’s eyes. “You must know of the castle. It once housed your people as they fled the d’warf armies.”

  Kral finally hooked his ax to his belt. “Yes, during the Scattering of our clans. We owe the Blood of the castle a debt that can never be repaid.”

  Tyrus strode forward. “Never is too final a word, man of the mountains.”

  Kral crinkled his brow at this mysterious statement, but no further elaboration was offered. Tyrus turned to survey the others in their troupe while Mycelle and Jaston started organizing for their departure. Tol’chuk could only stare numbly at his mother. She was leaving? The thought still had not fully reached his heart—and he feared what would happen when it did. Sighing, he busied himself with loading the wagon and hitching the horses.

  Once outfitted, Tyrus led his pirates and their group along the docks to a long pier. Berthed near the end was a twin-masted sloop. The name, Pale Stallion, was painted in red on the blond wood. It was not a big ship, but it would fit their company and house the horses.

  With all the extra hands, the boat was loaded quickly. They would depart with the morning’s tide. Already birds were stirring from their nests under the boards of the pier, greeting the dawn’s approach with song and noisy squawks.

  Once all was ready, the group gathered on the pier. Mycelle had her back to Tol’chuk, talking to Jaston. Tol’chuk slid closer to overhear them.

  “. . . I should have told you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you owe me no apology. When we were together, there was always a part of you that was kept hidden from me. I knew it then, and it was probably that reason more than any I knew that we could never fully share a life together. I knew you cared for me, and I did you. But there was never a sharing of hearts that is true love, a love that will last until gray marks our hair.”

  Tears were in his mother’s eyes. “And Cassa Dar?”

  Jaston smiled and kissed Mycelle on the cheek. “Some things only the fullness of time will reveal truly. In many ways, she is as wounded as you.”

  Mycelle returned the kiss. “Something tells me you will find a way to heal her.”

  He smiled, a bit sadly, and bowed his head. “I should see to our wagon and horses.”

  She nodded, touching his arm one last time as he turned away and left. Mycelle stared for a few moments, then turned around to find Tol’chuk standing behind her. She met his eyes finally. The pain was clear in her face.

  Before any word could be spoken, Tyrus intruded. He had stridden to Mycelle. “Something is wrong here,” he stated.

  “What?” she snapped, venting her pain and frustration at him.

  The prince’s eyes widened a bit, but he seemed to understand her tension and spoke a bit softer. “There are other shape-shifters here,” he said, nodding toward Fardale and Mogweed. “Their eyes give them away.” He stared closer at Tol’chuk’s eyes. “And I’m not sure about this large fellow.”

  “He’s my son. A half-breed og’re,” Mycelle said sullenly, the fire blown out of her. “What does it matter about the other two?”

  “They must come with us,” he stated firmly.

  “Why?” By now, the content of their words must have reached the wolf’s keen ears. Fardale and Mogweed approached nearer.

  Tyrus acknowledged their presence. “My father’s prophecy spoke of two other parties who must come to Castle Mryl. I thought we’d meet them on the journey home, in the Western Reaches, not find them all here with you.”

  “Who?”

  “First, a pair of shape-shifting brothers—twins, I believe?”

  Mogweed’s startled eyes revealed the truth in Tyrus’ assessment. “How did you . . . ?”

  Tyrus faced them. “Twins frozen by a curse.”

  Mogweed stepped closer to Tol’chuk. This was the first time either of the shape-shifters had been mentioned in any prophecy. The thought seemed to frighten Mogweed. A low growl even rattled in Fardale’s throat. “D-did your prophecy mention a cure?” Mogweed whispered, hope hushing his voice.

  “ ‘Two will come frozen; one will leave whole.’ ”

  The brothers glanced at each other. Hope and doom were mixed in these words. It sounded like only one of the twins would survive the lifting of their curse. A silent exchange passed between brothers. Tol’chuk caught a glimmer of it. One was better than none.

  By now, the entire party had gathered around them.

  Mogweed touched his brother’s shoulder. Fardale turned and sat on his haunches, the matter settled. Mogweed spoke. “We will come with you.”

  Their decision upset Mycelle. “We can’t all go with you, Tyrus. They’re needed to lend their strength to defend Elena.”

  Tyrus’ brows drew up doubtfully. “A spindly man like him and a large dog? If the fate of this girl rests on this pair, then she is already doomed.” He turned away. “Besides, their decision has been made.”

  Mycelle was left red faced and frustrated.

  Tol’chuk was calmer. He spoke at Tyrus’ back. The stranger was leaving something still unsaid. “You mentioned two parties. The pair of twin shape-shifters and one other. Who?”

  “Another shape-shifter,” Tyrus said, not turning around.

  Tol’chuk’s heart leaped, believing the prince meant him. Even Mycelle glanced to her son, a glint of hope lighting her eyes. He winced from her gaze. He could not go with her. Even now, the heartstone called to him to continue out into the Archipelago, an ache in his heart and bones that he could never refuse—not even to stay with his mother.

  But the choice was taken from him. Tyrus turned, swinging his sword out in a smooth pull and pointing it square into the chest of Kral. “You, mountain man, are the last shape-shifter.”

  ALL EYES TURNED to Kral. He fought to keep the shock from his features. Although forged in darkfire, he was still one with the Rock. His features maintained a stony countenance. “You’ve been too deep in your cups, pirate,” he said with a dark glower. “I’m no more a shape-shifter than you are.”

  “The mountain man speaks the truth,” Mycelle spoke up. “He has no si’luran blood. My son—”

  “No,” Tyrus said, dismissing the swordswoman with a flash of fire in his eyes. “Blood does not always show its true color. I am pirate and prince. You are Dro and not Dro.” He waved his arm at Fardale and Mogweed. “They are shape-shifters, but then again not. In life, few people are whom they appear to be. We all wear masks.”

  “Not I,” Kral said boldly.

  “Is that so?” Tyrus continued his condescending grin. “Then tell me, are you a mountain nomad . . . or an heir to the throne of Tor Amon?”

  These words stunned Kral. Even among his own people, few remembered that his clan, the Senta flame, had once composed the royal house, and his family, a’Darvun, still bore a direct line to their abandoned throne. This secret was both his family’s honor and shame, for it had been Kral’s own ancestor who had lost their homelands ten generations ago to the d’warves, cursing their clans forever to their nomadic trails. Even now, the memory inflamed Kral’s blood, the beast in him snarling for revenge.

  Tyrus must have read his thoughts. “Does your heart still cry to reclaim your homelands, to return your clan fires once again to the Citadel’s watchtowers?”

  Kral fought his cracking voice. “Do not provoke me, small man. What is this you rant about?”

  Tyrus partially closed his eyes, reciting from long memory. “ ‘With the twins, there shall come a mountain of a ma
n who wears many faces, forms shifting like snowdrifts in a gale. You will know him by his hard eyes and a beard as black as his heart. But do not be fooled. In him, you will find a king who will bear a broken crown upon his brow and sit again the throne of the Citadel.’ ”

  Kral dared not hope the pirate’s words held any truth. It was too cruel a dream. After being driven off by the d’warf hordes, his people had become nomads—not because they enjoyed the wandering life, but simply because they refused to give up the belief that someday their lands would be returned to them. Could Kral make this hope come true? Could he end his people’s centuries-long journey and take them home again?

  Mycelle explained why not. “He needs to join Elena.”

  The mention of the wit’ch’s name pushed aside Kral’s dreams of thrones and crowns. He could not deny his master’s will.

  “If the mountain man seeks Elena, he will kill her,” Tyrus said simply.

  No one moved. Eyes glanced at Kral. From their worried gazes, they expected blood to be spilled for the insulting words. Little did they know how true Tyrus spoke; not even the pirate himself was aware of it.

  Tyrus continued, revealing the limits to his prophetic knowledge. “I don’t mean to imply that Kral would betray your young friend and slay her with his ax, but if he does not come with us, she will die just as surely. My father’s words were exact: ‘Three must come, or the wit’ch will die.’ ” Tyrus sheathed his sword and crossed his arms.

  Mycelle turned to Kral. “The Northwall is rich in elemental magicks; it is a pure font of power direct from the land’s heart. When I could still seek, its power was like a lodestone. Its call drew me north, where I eventually learned the sword from the wardens of Castle Mryl. There I also learned of King Ry’s scrying powers when he linked to the stone. Though the old man’s prophecies were rare, they never proved wrong.” Mycelle glanced back at Tyrus. “But sometimes the interpretations were. So beware of making your decision based on these words, mountain man.”

  Kral felt pulled within himself, two choices warring in his heart. The part of his spirit forged in darkfire refused to give up its quest for the wit’ch, such was the Dark Lord’s brand upon his blood. But as in all ill’guard, a shard of his true self persisted, a spark of elemental fire that fed the Black Heart’s spell. And this sliver of spirit could not ignore the call of his homeland. It swelled with the hopes of all his clans.