Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  Sy-wen concentrated on the dragon. Ragnar’k, wake! I have need of you!

  Somewhere far away she felt a slight stir. She reached out with her senses and sent forth her urgency. Awake! Help us!

  A faint thought came to her. Sy-wen?

  She knew this was not the dragon. She did not have time to ponder the miracle. Kast! You must wake Ragnar’k!

  The dragon’s body swept into a trough between gigantic walls of frothing waters. Instinct kept its wings wide, so they glided along the valley between the mountainous waves. But they had only another few heartbeats before the dragon struck the water.

  Kast struggled. I don’t know how . . .

  Do what you must! Or the girl and I die!

  Suddenly the dragon lurched under her. She was almost thrown from his back. The great beast wobbled, struggling with his injured wing. But finally his neck stretched long, scales slick with saltwater. His head swung side to side, surveying the situation.

  A tower of water threatened to topple upon them, its top edge thrashed white by the winds. The dragon arched his back up, turned on his good wing, and fought to pull up from the trough.

  Hurry! Sy-wen urged, watching the wave’s crest begin to tumble toward them.

  Muscle writhed under her; wings fought wind and rain. A roar of frustration and rage bellowed from the dragon as he dragged his bulk upward.

  Sy-wen twisted her neck and watched the wave chase them. It snarled and gnashed at the dragon’s tail.

  Then it was over.

  A final lunge and the dragon heaved above the monster wave. The waters crashed below, roaring their own frustration, missing the dragon’s tail by a mere handspan.

  Crying in relief, Sy-wen collapsed over the girl. “We made it,” she moaned. Sy-wen rubbed her hand appreciatively along the dragon’s neck. Thank you, Ragnar’k.

  It wasn’t just the dragon.

  Kast?

  I could not wake Ragnar’k. Sy-wen sensed the exhaustion and strain in the Bloodrider. The shock and pain had driven Ragnar’k too deep. I was only able to reach his baser thoughts—his simple instincts and reflexes. But it was enough. With my will giving direction and purpose, the dragon’s instincts and reflexes powered his body.

  But how . . . ?

  The dragon tumbled downward, then caught itself. It . . . it’s too hard to talk this way . . . and control the dragon. Watch over the girl.

  Sy-wen sent her silent thanks and warmth to Kast.

  Around her, thunder boomed as the squall’s fury heightened. As they flew, the winds grew fiercer, forcing Sy-wen to lean closer to the dragon, sheltering the girl under her.

  Suddenly out of the rain-swept darkness, a ship appeared. Triple masted and dragon prowed, it fought the waves with a fury that seemed almost alive. Sy-wen knew this ship from Pinorr’s description. It was the largest of the fleet—the Dragonsheart.

  Her mount must have spotted it at the same time. The dragon leaned his neck down, and his body followed, diving toward the ship. Sy-wen clutched the child as the ship grew under them. The tumble toward the ship’s deck was not the artful glide of Ragnar’k in full control. Kast must be struggling fiercely to fly the giant. Wings beat and fought to both slow their descent and guide their aim. It was a close battle, the outcome uncertain.

  The ship, rolling among the towering waves, made an unwilling partner. Its deck teetered, and the three masts stabbed at them like hostile spears.

  The dragon roared at the stubborn boat, banking and twisting to match the ship’s tumble.

  As the ship’s decks flew toward them, Sy-wen closed her eyes. It did no good to look. With her heart clenched in her throat, Sy-wen leaned and pinned the child under her, hugging the dragon tight. Kast, do not fail me.

  A shuddering crash was her only answer. Sy-wen fought to keep her grip, but the impact was too great. Her ankles popped free from their footholds, and she and the girl slid up the dragon’s neck. Gasping, Sy-wen willed her arms and legs to grip with every fiber in her small body. The screech of claw on wood stretched forever as the dragon skidded across the wet deck. Sy-wen waited for the snap of rail and the final tumble into the roaring sea.

  It never happened.

  The dragon settled to a trembling stop under her.

  Sy-wen kept her eyes closed and sent a silent prayer to all the gods of the world. Slowly, she opened her eyes. The tip of the dragon’s nose touched the rail. It had been close—too close. The great beast lay stretched across the deck, too exhausted to lift himself. His chest heaved in huge gulping blasts, steaming into the cold rain. Behind her, Sy-wen noted the deep gouges dragged across the deck. Pieces of broken silver nail littered the trail.

  Sheeshon also surveyed their surroundings. “This isn’t Papa’s boat,” she said. A trace of fear etched her words.

  Sy-wen placed a palm on the child’s cheek. “It’s all right, Sheeshon. You’ll be safe here until your papa comes.”

  A crash of wood sounded to the left as a hatch flew open. Sy-wen watched men rush out onto the storm-swept deck bearing spears and swords. When they saw what lay before them, they stopped, their faces mixed with fear and awe.

  Sy-wen knew Kast should do the talking here. She lowered Sheeshon onto the deck. “Stay by the dragon,” she urged the child.

  Then Sy-wen, conscious of all the eyes upon her, followed the child off their mount, careful to keep one hand on Ragnar’k. Once her feet were secure under her, Sy-wen took Sheeshon’s hand in her own and turned to face the growing audience.

  Even the wicked storm could not keep the crew away. From among their midst, the tallest man Sy-wen had ever set eyes upon shoved through the crowd. Older, but still well muscled, he was as wide as he was tall. She heard a few whispered comments from the others gathered here. One name was spoken by all: high keel. The man stopped and stared at the two small women and the sprawled dragon. He wore a hard scowl; no twinge of welcome softened his features. His eyes were dark with suspicion.

  Sy-wen swallowed. Kast was certainly the one to confront this man.

  Stepping forward, Sy-wen removed her hand from the dragon, releasing the spell. She cringed away from the whirlwind to come—but nothing happened.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Sy-wen saw the dragon still draped across the deck. Only his steaming breath gave sign he was still alive.

  “Kast?” she called out.

  A harsh voice drew her back around. It was the high keel. His glare promised pain. “What manner of storm demon are you?”

  AS PINORR RETURNED to his cabin, worry gnawed at his belly. With his plan now under way, he was not as confident of his idea. It depended too much on the truth of ancient tales. If he was wrong, it could mean not only the failure of Kast and Sy-wen’s hopes, but the death of Sheeshon as well.

  He reached for the latch to his door, thunder in his ears, lanterns casting twisted shadows. At that moment, a sudden lull in the storm saved his life. As the thunder’s roar died away momentarily, Pinorr heard the faint scrape of heel on wood. It was enough to draw his eye.

  Hunched a short way down the passage stood the stocky Gylt, a stained blade in hand. From his furtive posture and the sudden guilt in his eyes, the shaman knew the crewman meant him harm. After checking the rest of the passage, Pinorr turned to face the man fully. “So you come to murder in Ulster’s stead?”

  The crewman still stood frozen in midstep, indecision wavering his determination.

  “I see you draw the sea gods’ wrath to your own shoulders, sparing Ulster. How brave of you to damn your own spirit.” Pinorr narrowed his gaze. He began to understand the keelchief’s purpose here. “Even though you may trick the crew and blame my disappearance on the storm’s fury, do not think the sea gods will not know which hand wielded the sword. Even now, they watch you through my eyes. They stare at your heart.” A sudden burst of thunder shook the deck under their feet.

  Gylt gasped and backed a step away.

  Pinorr knew the man was easily cowed, especially when scared
. He leaned closer. “Hear how the gods call for your blood already.”

  Gylt’s eyes grew wide with horror. His sword trembled in his grip. “I . . . I wasn’t supposed to slay you, Shaman. Truly I wasn’t! I w-was only supposed to make sure you returned to your cabin.”

  Pinorr frowned at Gylt. He sensed the truth to the man’s words.

  Behind Pinorr, his cabin door suddenly swung open. He knew he had left his room empty. He had clearly stumbled blindly into an ambush. He had not thought Ulster could grow so craven—at least not this soon.

  In front of Pinorr, a shadow cast from the room’s lanterns spread on the far wall of the passage: a man with his sword raised. Pinorr watched the shadowy blade plunge toward his back.

  Pinorr had no time to turn, only to duck sideways, raising an arm in warding. The blade sliced under his arm, just missing his chest and catching the edge of his robe. Pinorr saw the blade’s tip thrust out from under his raised arm. At that moment, old instincts returned to Pinorr—under his shaman’s robe still beat the heart of a Bloodrider. Though he had untied his warrior’s braid long ago, a part of him remembered.

  Crying a warrior’s roar, Pinorr brought down his arm, trapping the flat of the blade against his chest. He clamped hard and twisted on a heel. As expected, his attacker was slightly off balance by his failed thrust. The clamped blade tore free of the other’s grip. Pinorr did not pause. As he continued his turn, he reached for the freed blade. After forty winters, his hands again settled around the hilt of a sword.

  Sweeping the weapon forward, he faced his disarmed attacker. A rage burst in Pinorr’s heart. His vision narrowed to sharp edges.

  Pinorr heard the gasp from Gylt on his left. “You must not bear a sword. You must not shed blood. You’re a shaman!”

  Ignoring the man’s outburst, Pinorr stared at his attempted assassin. He was not surprised to find Jabib standing before him, always Ulster’s dog. The first mate reached for a dagger. Pinorr was faster.

  The sword buried itself in the first mate’s chest. Pinorr thrust deeper, stepping toward Jabib, until they were nose to nose, the sword’s hilt lodged between their bellies. Hot blood washed over Pinorr’s cold hand. He trembled with rage as he faced his attempted assassin. “May the sea gods feed your spirit to their worms,” he spat as he stepped away, twisting the sword as he pulled it free.

  Jabib gasped and fell to his knees. Blood frothed from his mouth and poured down his chest. Before the man could tumble onto his face, Pinorr grabbed the man’s braid, holding him up by his corded hair.

  Jabib raised his eyes in horror.

  “I send you to the gods without honor,” Pinorr said coldly and sliced the braid away in one sweep of his sword. Unsupported now, Jabib crashed to the planks, his life’s blood pooling under him.

  Pinorr turned, sword in one hand, Jabib’s braid in the other.

  Gylt dropped his sword, eyes white with fear. “You have cursed us,” he cried. “You have soiled yourself with blood.”

  “You have cursed yourselves,” he said. “The sea gods warned me of your treachery, protected me. They silenced the storm so I might hear your tread. They cast Jabib’s shadow on the wall, revealing his craven attack.” Pinorr stepped closer to Gylt. “They bless me this stormy night, so I might seek their vengeance upon those who plot against the gods.”

  Gylt shook his head, violently denying Pinorr’s words. He slipped to his knees. “No . . . no . . .” he moaned.

  Pinorr towered over the sobbing man. “Yes,” he said, his voice as harsh as the storm raging above.

  Gylt must have sensed Pinorr’s heart. He lunged for his sword—but it was too late.

  Pinorr swung his own blade with all the rage in his bones. Blood sprayed over his forearms. Pinorr stepped over Gylt’s body while the man’s head still bobbled down the passage ahead of him.

  With Jabib’s braid dragging at his side, Pinorr continued deeper into the ship’s bowels. He knew that for too long he had allowed a foulness to fester in this ship. Fear for Sheeshon, fear for himself, had stayed his hand. With Sheeshon gone, Pinorr knew it was time he acted. This night, tides of prophecy drew all the players together, allowing none to escape their destiny.

  By morning, the Dre’rendi would either be forged into their final purpose—beaten into a weapon against the Gul’gotha—or sunk under the waves.

  His people’s final fate would depend on a shaman’s cursed sword and the heart of a child.

  16

  WITH LIGHTNING RIBBING the sky, Sy-wen faced the high keel. Raindrops pelted the decks in a constant, splashing rattle. Behind the man, the deck bristled with spears and swords. She ignored the other crewmen. All that mattered was the huge man standing before her. He was the leader here, the one she and Kast had been sent to sway. But nothing was going according to the old shaman’s plan. Kast, as a fellow Bloodrider, was the one who was supposed to herald their cause, not her.

  Glancing behind to the collapsed dragon, Sy-wen knew their plans needed to be hastily reworked, but she could not think clearly. Her thoughts worried on Ragnar’k and Kast. What had happened? Why hadn’t the spell reversed itself? Was it the lightning strike? Was Kast forever trapped in the dragon’s form? Her mind spun with the implications.

  A small hand squeezed her own. Sheeshon tugged on Sy-wen’s arm. “That man’s bigger than Papa,” she commented plainly, pointing to the high keel. The drenched child shivered in the wind.

  Hugging the girl closer to keep her warm, Sy-wen turned. Even from a few paces away, Sy-wen still had to crane her neck to face the man. His eyes were shards of blue steel, his braided mane dark but silvered along the edges from passing winters. In his right fist, he clutched a whaling harpoon that towered over him. His eyes flicked between Sy-wen and the huge black dragon. With Ragnar’k behind her, he was cautious.

  “Again I ask you,” he said, “what manner of demon are you?”

  Sy-wen finally freed her tongue. Silence was not going to sway anyone. “I am no demon, High Keel of the Dre’rendi,” she said solemnly, bowing her head slightly in greeting. “I am Sy-wen, emissary of the mer’ai. I have been sent by Shaman Pinorr to seek your counsel.”

  His crew were too well trained to speak out of turn, but Sy-wen saw furtive glances pass among those who backed the high keel. Doubt and anger were mixed in their nervous stances. From their responses, Pinorr’s earlier warning proved correct. The mer’ai name was not well received.

  The high keel spoke into the stretch of silence. His voice cracked slightly from the shock of her announcement, but it soon returned to its commanding tones. “Do you have proof for such wild claims?” he asked.

  Sy-wen waved her free hand back to the dragon. “If this is not proof enough,” she said as she pulled Sheeshon in front of her, “Shaman Pinorr also sent his only blood as his seal of support.”

  The high keel seemed finally to notice the small girl. He squinted at Sheeshon. “I know this child . . .” he said hesitatingly.

  Another man pushed forward, coming around the high keel’s shoulder. He was blue robed like a shaman, but where Pinorr was weathered thin and hard, this man was full bellied, one hand resting on his ample paunch. He eyed the skies fretfully. “We should take the captives below,” he said with a slight lisp. “I fear this is but a calm before the storm’s true fury strikes.” He glanced to the dragon, his gaze frightened. “Bad omens still scent the winds.”

  The high keel nodded. He waved for two guards to flank the pair of girls. The men bore sickle-shaped swords; lightning reflected off their wet blades. “If you are not demons, then come with us. Tell us why you’ve come, why my old friend would send you.”

  Sy-wen noted the raised blades. The high keel’s statement was no request, but she nodded anyway. “We appreciate your offer of shelter,” she said, then indicated the dragon. “But my mount has suffered a grievous wound. I must first beg a boon from you.”

  Thunder again began to build around them. “What is it?” the high keel said impa
tiently.

  “The dragon needs a healer.”

  The Dre’rendi leader nodded to the boat’s shaman. “Bilatus is this ship’s healer, but his arts serve men, not dragons.”

  The portly shaman nodded his agreement vigorously, his eyes fixed on the steaming hulk of black scale and silver claw. “I have no herbs or salves for such a beast. I could harm as easily as heal.”

  Sy-wen’s heart quailed at the thought of leaving the collapsed dragon unattended on the deck. What if a wave should wash him overboard? She glanced back at her huge companion. Twin streams of white billowed from his flared nostrils, but his eyes still remained closed.

  A hand touched her shoulder, making her jump. It was the high keel; he had come so silently upon her. “Fear not. Your dragon will remain safe, Sy-wen of the mer’ai. I have given my welcome. Until this matter is heard and judged, none will dare break my invitation. We will tether your mount with thick lines to mast and rail. Unless the Dragonsheart sinks, your beast will remain secure.”

  “Thank you.”

  The high keel stepped closer to the great dragon, reaching a hand to touch it.

  “Careful, my high keel!” the shaman called out from be-hind them.

  The broad-shouldered man ignored the warning and placed his palm upon a wet fold of scaled wing. “I never imagined I’d see such a wonder.” He shook his head and pulled his hand away. As he returned to his line of men, Sy-wen spotted the whisper of a smile again on his face.

  “Come,” he said as he passed her.

  She followed this time, discovering a twinge of respect for the man. She now understood why Pinorr had placed such trust in the high keel. There was no question that steel flowed through his veins. But she found that a keen curiosity also shone forth from his eyes.

  With Sheeshon clinging tight to her side, Sy-wen followed the high keel’s back. Shaman Bilatus kept close to the man’s shoulder, constantly glancing back at them as they entered the ship.