“I . . . I don’t understand.”
“That is because you are blind. Though you do not know it, we are both the same—spirits entombed in stone.”
“Wh-what?”
“When I shed my body, allowing its substance to rot and nourish the roots of the sargassum, my spirit remained here to commune with the great forest. As the grave marker was erected, I bound myself freely to the stone.” He indicated the granite pillar. “Stone does not rot. It is not a part of the cycle of life and death. In stone, a spirit may reside for eternity.”
Rockingham spoke before fear restrained him. “But what does this have to do with me?”
“You are also bound in stone—but I sense the binding was against your will. It is your pain that has called me forth.”
Finding it difficult to breathe, Rockingham dared hope. “How? Why was I bound?”
“Why? I cannot see that far. I am no god to see into the mind of your tormentor. But I can see who stands before me now. I can see your heart and know it to be stone—a chunk of black rock from the land’s bowels.”
“Ebon’stone,” Rockingham groaned, raising a hand to his scarred chest.
“There your spirit is entombed forever.”
“Is there no way to free me?” Rockingham asked, almost a moan.
“Ah . . .” The shade’s lips drew into a sad frown. “Here is your desire spoken aloud.”
“Can you answer it?”
“Yes, but once I do, I can answer no more. It is this need that has drawn me forth. Once I have answered, I can remain no longer. I do not belong to this world.”
Rockingham fought to voice his heart’s most intimate desire. “How? How do I free myself?”
The shade smiled, almost fatherly. “It will mean your death. Your spirit has already been cast from your body and can never return to inhabit it. If freed of the stone, your spirit will simply move on.”
“I care not. I just want to be free.”
“Very well then. To unfetter your spirit, the stone must be broken.”
“But how can I—?”
“Shatter the black rock in your chest, and you will be free.” With these few words, the apparition slowly began to unravel, fraying at the edges first, then dispersing in folds of mist and cloud.
Still kneeling, Rockingham sank to his hands, hopelessness dragging him down. “But . . . but there is no way to break forged ebon’stone. Only the Dark Lord himself can do that.” Rockingham raised his face, begging for more of an answer.
But the stone pillar continued to draw the mists back into its cold embrace. Unsupported, the staff tumbled to the damp weeds.
“Please!” Rockingham cried to the empty forest.
A faint whisper answered him, a voice from an unimaginable distance. Brother Lassen’s final words echoed out to him. “There is a way, my friend. Only time itself is unchanging. Know yourself, and a path will open.”
With that, the hill grew silent. Only the pillar remained as if to mock him. He had come so close to answering the mysteries of his life, only to have more riddles cast at his feet. Rockingham pushed up out of the tangled vegetation. In the moonlight, the weeds were the color of dried blood.
Standing now, Rockingham stared at the pillar. “Know yourself, and a path will open,” he said, repeating the shade’s final words. “Useless words for someone whose past has been stolen from him.”
Rockingham turned his back on the stone and stared at the skies. Greshym had promised to return his lost memories if he succeeded in his duty this night. “ ‘Destroy the wit’ch, and you will have what you desire.’ ”
Rockingham sighed. If the shade spoke truthfully, regaining his past could perhaps hold a key also to freeing his spirit. He pondered this realization. If true, was this the reason why his past had been kept from him? To keep him forever trapped in stone? But what mystery of his past life could break ebon’stone?
Somewhere, buried in a guarded corner of his memories, a scent similar to honeysuckles and soft whispers still existed. It was a single rose growing in a barren field. He knew the name of this sweet flower—Linora. But there was nothing more, only that fragile memory he kept near his heart, protecting it from harm. Who was she? he cried in his head.
Rockingham shook his head at this useless quandary. There was only one way to answer the mystery. “Destroy the wit’ch,” he mumbled to the stars.
As if he had been heard, the northern stars winked out one after another, swallowed away by an approaching storm. But it was not thunderclouds that rolled toward his position. Rockingham watched a single winged shape blacken the moon’s glow overhead. His skin crawled at the sight.
The legion of skal’tum had arrived.
A crash of breaking limbs sounded off to his left. Swinging around, Rockingham saw stalked branches shatter as something large forced and clawed its way through the canopy. Rockingham fled back a few steps.
The pale-muzzled face of a skal’tum burst from the shredded foliage. It hissed at him, needled teeth shining in malign mischief. A long snaking tongue licked its lips, and its tall ears twitched this way and that. It tore itself free from its perch and crashed to the hill, knocking over the stone marker of Lassen’s grave and snapping the Brother’s staff under its claws. It stepped toward Rockingham. Its twin black hearts could be seen beating through its translucent skin. Behind its skeletal shoulders, wide pale wings shook and spread menacingly.
Rockingham stood his ground.
“It is time to cast assside our masksss,” it wheezed at him. The heat of the beast’s skin steamed in the damp weeds.
Rockingham shrugged. He knew their masks were no longer needed. The wood, through the shade of Lassen, had already declared its neutrality. From here, each side would fight alone.
Stepping forward, Rockingham opened his arms to the foul beast. It had been assigned to carry him to the ship of the wit’ch. “Let us be off,” he commanded the creature.
“Ssso eager,” it hissed at him, then scooped the small man up in its oily arms. “Do you lussst so much for the bloodshed to come?”
As the skal’tum’s leathery wings spread for flight, Rockingham answered. “Yes. I am ready for death.”
IT WAS NOW more than ever that Elena missed Er’ril. Alone at the rails of the Pale Stallion, she stared across the silent moonlit waters. She did not miss his sword or his strength. What she missed most was simply his quiet presence—how, whenever danger lay ahead, he would stand at her shoulder, speechless but never silent. His scent would whisper to her of his Standi plains, of home and peace, while his breathing, steady and unhurried, spoke of calm power and untapped vigor. Even his slight movements, the rustle of leather on wool, the scuff of boot, sounded like a stallion testing its bit, ready to explode forward with the slightest flick of a rein.
All this she would hear. And as he stood guard, a part of his iron would enter her. He gave her the strength to face even the worst horror. With Er’ril nearby, anything seemed possible.
But no more.
Elena glanced back to the empty decks and sighed. Other of her companions were also missing. Right now, Elena could use the stony calm of Kral, the flashing blades of Aunt My, the stout heart of Fardale. Even the tricky wisdom of Mogweed would be welcome now.
Across the ship, Flint must have noticed her melancholy. The grizzled Brother finished his discussion with the zo’ol sailors and crossed toward her. One of the zo’ol followed. Flint’s face was grim as he joined Elena at the rail.
“Strange news,” he said. “I just got word from the mer’ai guardsman, Bridlyn, that something has changed in the weed. The channels leading out from the lake have again reopened. The sargassum no longer holds this region clenched in its strangling grip.”
“But does it open a path for us to escape or open a channel so the enemy can reach us?” Elena asked.
Flint shook his head.
Surprisingly, the zo’ol answered. “Neither. The forest no longer looks at us. I sensed its distaste fo
r a moment, then nothing. It has abandoned us.”
“But why?”
The zo’ol simply shrugged and turned away, as if the question held no interest for him. The tiny man stared out across the glassy surface of the surrounding sea. At sunset, the dragons of the mer’ai and their riders had retreated beneath the lake’s placid surface. Hiding in ambush, they lay in wait for any attackers. To any who would spy upon them, all that would be seen was the Pale Stallion, drifting alone in the center of the great lake.
Elena swung back to Flint. “Maybe we should take the chance and leave? Should we reconsider our—?”
The zo’ol spoke again, talking to the empty seas. The black-skinned sailor raised a hand toward the northern skies. “A sickness approaches.”
Flint pushed forward to study the dark skies. A few thin clouds obscured the stars, but otherwise the skies were clear of any enemy. “Call the others to their stations!” Flint ordered the small man.
“What—?” Elena began to ask, but then she heard it, too: a distant flapping, like a large rug fluttering in a strong wind. At first it was faint; then it grew in volume and number. It sounded to her like the angry thrum of wings heard from a toppled hornet’s nest. Something vile disturbed the night skies and flew this way.
Elena glanced to Flint. The zo’ol sailor had already left to raise the alarm. His other tribesmen lit signal torches along the boat’s rigging. In the distance, Elena heard the soft splashes as some of the mer’ai sentinels who had been stationed in the branches of trees along the forest’s edge dove down to alert the hidden army.
The grizzled Brother spoke to the skies. “It is time.”
Elena slipped the pair of lambskin gloves off her hands. They were no longer needed; she dropped the gloves to the deck. From here, it was useless to hide her heritage. The wit’ch could no longer be denied.
Vaguely, the faint sound of drums carried on the wind. The rhythmic beat, though just a whisper, drove to the bones, shivering the marrows. It made Elena want to bolt.
Flint gripped her elbow. “Dreadlords. Skal’tum,” he whispered. “They sound their bone drums to unnerve their enemies.”
“How many do you think?”
Flint listened, then spoke with worry. “I judge at least a legion.”
The hatch to the lower decks crashed open. Tol’chuk, bearing the d’warf warhammer in one huge claw, led the others atop the deck. Once the og’re was out of the way, Meric and Joach pushed to the decks.
Joach clutched his staff under the crook of his arm. As he approached, he pulled off one of his own gloves with his teeth and spat it to the deck.
Before he could grip the length of wood with his bared hand, Elena touched his arm, halting him. “Not yet. Save your blood until it’s needed.” From the fire in her brother’s eyes, she knew the magick called to him. The lust shone bright in his eyes.
Joach positioned the staff before him, still holding it with his one gloved hand. Small flames of darkfire coursed its length, drawing the warmth from the night. “Should I try striking with black magick first?” He glanced to Flint.
“No,” the older Brother said. “As your vision revealed, it is skal’tum that approach. Striking with black magick will only heighten the creatures’ dark protections. Do only as we planned. Change your staff into a blood weapon and use its magick-wrought skills to guard your sister. Imbued with Elena’s magick, your staff should strike blows that will harm the beasts at close range.”
“But how can we hope to defeat an army of them?” he asked.
“We must trust in our plan,” Flint said. He nodded to Elena.
She already had her silver wit’ch dagger in her grip. She sliced a small cut in each red palm, the hilt of the dagger now bloody. She then turned to Meric. “Rein the winds to your will, but wait for Flint’s signal.”
The elv’in nodded. “I will stay at your side. None of the winged beasts will get near you.”
Elena gripped Meric’s shoulder in thanks. He and Joach would be her bodyguards: Meric keeping any of the skal’tum from reaching her, and Joach guarding her back with his blood stave. Tol’chuk and Flint, along with the zo’ol, would man the stone-weighted nets along the ship’s rails. Though the skin of the skal’tum could resist most attacks, the creatures were still beasts of the land. They could drown like any other. Their best weapon of attack this night would not be a sword, but the sea itself.
A tiny voice whispered above Elena’s head from the rigging. “Tikal, good puppy . . . Want cookie . . .” Elena glanced up to where Mama Freda’s tiny pet clung to ropes high above and hid behind a fold of unfurled sail. Its dark eyes were huge as it stared at the skies, too. Mama Freda remained below with Tok. With the boy’s help, she had set up a ward in the galley, her elixirs and balms already bubbling on the hearths in preparation for the injured. As she readied herself, Tikal was her eyes and ears above the deck.
“There!” Tol’chuk bellowed from near the bow. He pointed his d’warf hammer toward the northern skies. “The stars vanish!”
All eyes swung to watch the black cloud sweeping across the night sky. “Sweet Mother,” Elena moaned. It was as if the entire horizon swarmed with the beasts. How could they ever hope to survive this night?
Flint stood at her shoulder. “Do not let their enormity overwhelm you. Battles are not fought across wide landscapes. They are won at the length of your sword or flight of your arrow. Ignore all else around you but the foes within reach. Let the rest of the battle rage around you.” He then raised his voice as he stepped away. “To your stations! The battle begins!”
Flint gave her a quick smile, a fire lighting his eyes that had nothing to do with magick. After so many centuries, the Brotherhood was once again on the attack. He strode toward Tol’chuk and the nets.
Elena glanced to Meric. The elv’in’s eyes were partially closed, and his cloak billowed about his form, even though not a wind stirred this night. As she watched, he floated until the toes of his boots just brushed the deck. “I am ready,” he intoned. He lifted one hand toward the slack sails, and Elena felt the brush of stiff winds on her cheeks. The sails filled, and the Pale Stallion drifted back from the approaching horde filling the sky. Meric would keep the boat tacking and turning across the lake, trying his best to keep the ship clear of the worst fighting.
Joach touched her shoulder, a question in his eyes. Elena nodded. Her brother gripped the staff with his bare hand. Elena saw his knees buckle slightly as his blood was drawn into the wood. Around his hand, the dark wood paled to a stark white. With each beat of her brother’s heart, the darkness was driven from the wood, spreading from end to end. Vaguely, streaks of red, Joach’s blood, could be seen coursing within the staff, fusing wood to wielder. Once the transformation was complete, Joach regained his footing. The staff was no longer a shaft of black magick, but a blood weapon bent to Joach’s will.
With lips tight, Joach lifted the staff. He practiced a few parries and blows with the weapon. The flash of wood moved too fast for Elena’s eyes to follow. Joach seemed satisfied and halted his staff’s twirl. He met Elena’s eyes. “I only wish Father could see this,” he said quietly.
“He would be proud of you, Joach,” Elena said. They shared a sad smile for their lost family.
From the rail, Flint signaled her.
Swallowing hard, Elena turned away from her two bodyguards. She faced the cloud of winged death that now dove toward their tiny ship. Flanks of darkness spread to either side, meaning to encircle the small boat.
Sheathing her dagger, Elena raised her head and unfettered the magick locked in her heart. Her palms burst with flame; her right bloomed with the rosy flames of a sunrise, while her left burned with the cold blue of the moon. “Let it begin!”
She thrust her arms toward the night skies, reaching for the two flanks of her enemy. Tossing back her head, she screamed as the magick ripped out from her very bones. Elena felt herself lifted from the decks by the burst of energies. Above her head, twin shafts
of fire—one red, one blue—split the black night. Where the flames struck, the dark clouds were shredded. As Elena had learned in the streets of Winterfell so long ago, the dark protections of the skal’tum were no barrier against her blood magicks. All around the boat, pieces of blackness tumbled from the night sky to crash into the seas.
But even such an assault could not entirely block the horde of demons that flew this night. Drums beat at her ears, and winds whistled as Meric fought to keep the Stallion from the grip of the beasts. He tried to buy the ship as much time as possible.
Suddenly overhead, sails ripped. A yardarm snapped. Too soon, Meric had lost his chase. Distantly, Elena heard the thud of massive bodies striking the deck. Screamed orders echoed. She ignored them as Flint had told her. Her battle was with the mass of demons still flocking above. She cast her magick across the night sky, searing the darkness. But these were not dumb beasts she hunted; they were sly and learned quickly to avoid her flares of fire, banking and swinging away from her flames.
Elena noticed from the corner of her awareness that the decks had become a battlefield. Meric had given up maneuvering the ship and had turned his fight upon the winged creatures. He blasted the beasts as they tried to land, buffeting them into the seas. Meanwhile, those that did manage to land soon found themselves entangled in the weighted nets of the sailors. Tol’chuk would then heave the writhing creatures over the ship’s rail and into the drowning depths. The og’re’s roar of blood lust echoed across the decks, drowning out even the bone drums of the skal’tum
While the battle raged, Joach danced around Elena, his staff a weapon of death. Christened with Elena’s blood magicks, the stave penetrated the skal’tum’s black magick and struck deadly blows. The heightened skill of the magick-wrought weapon forged Joach into a murderous force. But even skill and magick could be overwhelmed with sheer numbers. Elena saw the deep wound in Joach’s shoulder. It steamed with poisons from a demon’s claws. Her brother could not maintain his dance much longer.
Wit'ch War (v5) Page 42
