Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  Still, Elena fountained her power into the night sky, destroying and fraying the horde above. She knew she must not abandon her own post, not even to help her brother, or all would be lost. If she relented in her attack, the boat would be instantly swamped with winged beasts. Elena knew she was all that stood between the mass of the horde and this boat.

  Finally, Flint yelled to Elena, giving her the sign. “Now, Elena! The flock is all above the lake!”

  Sighing in relief as the magick sang through her blood, Elena opened herself fully to the wit’ch. For the moment, she and wit’ch must be one. Bringing her palms together, she merged the coldfire of her left hand and the wit’ch fire of her right. In her heart, wit’ch and woman also fused into a deadly force. From these unions, Elena released her final weapon: stormfire.

  From her joined palms, the frigid cold of the moon’s ice exploded with the searing fire of the sun. A gale of winds mixed with hails of fire and spears of iced lightning tore up from her body. She gasped as a torrential whirlwind of energy coursed out to envelop the winged army.

  Across the lake, the scream of her own magick was greeted by the bellowed roar of a dragon. It was Ragnar’k. The flare of Elena’s stormfire had been the signal for the mer’ai to strike.

  Elena fell to her knees as her magick continued to hurl skyward. Around her, the battle grew more fierce across the decks of the Stallion. Overhead, the moon and stars were still masked behind the wings of the demon horde. No matter how many of the foul beasts died, the flow of skal’tum seemed endless.

  As Elena struggled with her own magick, she prayed the dragons would prove enough. But she still couldn’t shake Joach’s prophecy of doom—a vision of the dragons drowning in a sea of blood.

  SY-WEN CLUNG TO the back of her dragon. Ragnar’k bellowed his rage at the demon horde as he flew toward the flock’s underside. Off to the right, a torrent of flaming storm winds attacked the massive host of winged monsters and illuminated the ship far below. The boat seemed such a tiny target on the calm lake, a child’s toy bobbing in a puddle. How could they possibly protect such a defenseless target from this blanketing host?

  We must get atop the monsters! she sent to her mount.

  Ragnar’k roared his answer, arcing on a wing and stretching higher.

  Soon they were among the beasts. Wings, claws, teeth assaulted them. But Ragnar’k was no ordinary seadragon; he was the stone dragon of A’loa Glen, a font of elemental magicks. Once the great beast had faced the Praetor himself; the dragon’s roar had blown back the black magicks of the Dark Lord’s lieutenant, snuffing the flames of the mage’s darkfire and leaving the man without a source of power. And now Sy-wen hoped the same proved true here.

  As Ragnar’k attacked, he bellowed at the beasts and ripped at them with silver claws and daggered teeth. The dragon’s roar washed away their dark protections. Skal’tum screamed, wings torn and shredded. They fell, fluttering and struggling with broken wings, to crash into the sea.

  A single beast grabbed at Sy-wen. Even before she could scream, Ragnar’k was there. His head snaked back, snapped the monster’s neck, and spat its flailing form into the roiling flock of its brethren.

  Tastes bad, Ragnar’k complained.

  Chaos reigned as the skal’tum realized the dragon’s deadly potency. A hole opened in the flock, and Ragnar’k dove through the opening. Sy-wen knew there was no way Ragnar’k could significantly hurt the flock alone. There were too many. For every one the dragon killed, two more took its place. But conquest was not their plan.

  We must get higher, Sy-wen urged.

  Ragnar’k thrust upward, ripping his way clear of the flock. Soon he winged above the flow of beasts. Sy-wen glanced to the sky, appreciating the starlight and moonlight. It gave her some small hope to see the moon shining brightly. But she must not tarry. Glancing down, she prepared once again to assault the gathered host. Below her, the moonlight shone off the monsters’ pale flesh, a sick sea of wings and claws that spread across the wide lake.

  Sy-wen bit her lip against the hopelessness of their cause. But she gave Ragnar’k the signal: three thumps of her hand, her old signal for Conch to submerge. They must assault this foul sea.

  Ragnar’k swung on a wing tip and dove toward the massive host. The dragon roared, and the flock fled from him, dipping lower to escape the dragon’s wrath. But Ragnar’k persisted, sailing back and forth over the host, driving the beasts lower and lower toward the lake’s placid surface. From the dragon’s throat, a constant cry flowed. Occasional stragglers would attempt to attack Ragnar’k, but their broken bodies were soon tossed back into the pale sea of writhing forms. At times, Ragnar’k would reach with his silver claws and pluck one of the beasts out from its brethren, rip and tear at it, then drag its bloody corpse over the host, dripping gore over them as warning.

  Slowly, as Ragnar’k wove a deadly pattern overhead, the sick flock was driven lower and lower. Like a herder’s dog among sheep, the great black dragon forced the host toward the lake, nipping at its heels. Sy-wen knew that eventually the waters would pin the skal’tum and force them to deal with the dragon above, but Flint’s assurance of the monsters’ cowardice proved true. The demons had grown to depend on their dark protections and were not accustomed to fearing anything but their lord. When faced with a true threat, they chose to flee rather than fight.

  Their cowardice here would prove their downfall.

  As the flock was finally driven close to the lake’s surface, Sy-wen sent a final message to her mount: Now!

  Ragnar’k stretched his neck, and a trumpeting blare burst from the dragon’s throat. The bright sound split the night.

  Upon this signal, the entire lake erupted. Snaking heads of hundreds of dragons shot up from the water’s dark depths and grabbed at the skimming skal’tum flock. Though not imbued with magick like Ragnar’k, the seadragons had their own weapons—fangs and sea. Across the lake, dragons seized limbs and wings of the flying monsters overhead and dragged them down into the lake. The lake became a frothing battlefield. Dragons screamed; mer’ai yelled; monsters wailed. It became hard to say where the sky ended and the sea began.

  Attacked from below, sections of the flock attempted to flee, but Ragnar’k was there with claw and tooth. Those few that broke past the great dragon were still not safe. They tried to band together, but the night sky was still afire with a magickal torrent arising from the boat. There was no safe haven. The lake was a bloody trap, and the skies were menaced by the black dragon and by flaming spears of magick. Though many of the beasts yet survived, perhaps enough even to swamp the ship, their ranks had been shattered. The skal’tum panicked among the chaos and fled toward the trees.

  Sy-wen watched the tattered fragments of the foul army flap away but felt little cheer, numb from all the blood. A chorus of screams tainted the air. The battle still raged below. Sy-wen urged her mount lower to help her people finish the monsters trapped in the lake. Below, Sy-wen saw many dragons torn and lolling in the waters, most too far gone for even draughts of dragonsblood to cure. Mer’ai swam beside their dying beasts, offering what little comfort they could. Moonlight, now unblocked by the broken host, shone on the water like molten iron, the blue seas ruddy with the blood of the slain.

  Tears rose to Sy-wen’s eyes but were quickly blown away by the winds of their flight. “Oh, Sweet Mother,” she moaned as more and more of the slain came into view, “so many.”

  TOL’CHUK HEAVED THE writhing form over the rail. Poisoned claws scrabbled at the entangling net, but it was too late. The screaming beast plummeted into the lake, and the stone-weighted net dragged it under the surface.

  Straightening, Tol’chuk snatched up the d’warf hammer and stared at the slaughter around the ship and in the skies. He knew the skal’tum host had been broken by their trap, but he also knew that now was the most dire time of the battle. The skal’tum would make one last furious strike at the boat.

  Tol’chuk eyed Flint. The grizzled Brother panted, almost
bent over with exhaustion. Across the foredeck, the four zo’ol masterfully teased and trapped another of the skal’tum in the net they carried. It wailed as it became fouled in the snagging ropes. Farther away, Joach held off two of the beasts with a blur of polished wood. Meric stood guard beside Elena, blasting demons from the deck with gales of wind, but the elv’in clearly weakened. Elena herself seemed lost to the battle, her eyes on the skies and her fierce sprays of magick.

  Flint drew back Tol’chuk’s attention by lifting the edge of a net in his hand. “This is the last one!” From the old man’s face, Tol’chuk knew Flint understood the situation as well as he did. Though the battle had been turned, it was hardly over yet.

  As if reading his thoughts, a scream of rage tore above them. Four of the slavering beasts crashed to the deck, dividing Tol’chuk and Flint.

  A pair of the skal’tum grinned at Tol’chuk, yellowish fangs glinting brightly. “We’ve never tassted og’re meat before,” one of them hissed.

  A cry of pain arose from where Flint fought the other two beasts with his flailing net. Tol’chuk saw Flint stumble, his left leg torn and bleeding. Still, the man fought to keep the creatures from where Elena stood on the middeck; injured, he would not last much longer.

  The og’re raised the hammer in his claw. The lightning-wrought iron glowed like spilled blood in the moonlight.

  The other eyed the hammer. “So you think to ssslay those who can’t be harmed with a stick, do you?”

  Tol’chuk roared, leaping and swinging his weapon with all the might of an og’re’s back. Before the skal’tum’s smile could even fade, the iron split the beast’s crown and drove into the softer matter inside. Gore splattered out. Poisoned blood burned where it struck Tol’chuk’s bare chest.

  The other skal’tum froze, stunned by the damage to its companion.

  Tol’chuk yanked his weapon free. “This be no ordinary stick!” Turning, the og’re drove the hammer into the face of the remaining beast.

  Around him, more skal’tum, the final wave of the assault, crashed aboard the ship. Tol’chuk carried his fight to the two creatures who harried Flint. His gaze reddened as a growing fire stoked his blood. Tol’chuk hammered his way through to the grizzled seaman.

  Once free of the two demons, Flint warned Tol’chuk, leaning on one of the zo’ol. “We’ve no more nets. It is up to you to keep the monsters back.”

  Tol’chuk only grunted. He was beyond words. The fire of the fer’engata, the blood lust of an og’re, was upon him. Lifting his hammer, now steaming with blood poisons, Tol’chuk hewed a swath of death across the deck. All the strangling rage in his heart at the loss of his ancestor’s spirits fueled his march. Guilt, anger, despair—all exploded out in raw savagery.

  Unaware, Tol’chuk howled his clan’s ancient war cry as he struck and bludgeoned his way throughout the ship. His sight became a red blur. One skal’tum swiped at his chest, gouging long burning tracks in his thick skin, but still Tol’chuk did not pause. He continued his deadly march. None would keep him from his revenge.

  He sang his rage against the cruelties of fate. Half-breed, orphan, cursed seed of the Oathbreaker . . . Skal’tum now fled from him, leaping in the air and flapping away. Still, he continued his swath of destruction, leaping, hammering, even tearing at the beasts. If he was descended from a cursed heritage, then let him not deny who he was any longer. He howled his lust and rage and opened his heart to the monster within.

  Suddenly, a small figure stepped in front of him. Tol’chuk struck at him, but the man darted to the side. As the iron slammed into the deck, Tol’chuk was jarred enough to realize he had almost killed one of the zo’ol.

  From off to the side, words finally penetrated his grief and rage. It was Flint. “Stop, Tol’chuk! Put down the hammer.”

  The og’re raised red-rimmed eyes toward the old Brother.

  Flint limped closer, leaning on another of the zo’ol. About the ship, only two or three skal’tum still survived, but Joach and Meric dealt with them. Flint indicated the zo’ol pushing to his feet near the splintered deck. “The man sensed you were about to lose all control, to become a larger menace than even the monsters here. He tried to stop you.”

  The hammer fell from Tol’chuk’s limp fingers, clattering to the deck. The og’re sank to his knees. Tears finally began to flow, washing the blood lust from his eyes and his blood.

  His heart felt as drained as the stone in his pouch.

  Flint crossed to him, shooing away the zo’ol. He knelt beside the og’re. “Do not despair, my friend. I know from where this pain and rage arose. There is evil in this world, but trust an old man—it does not lie in your heart.”

  Tol’chuk reached a claw to grip Flint’s hand. “Do not be so sure.”

  AS THEY FLEW, Ragnar’k rolled an eye toward Sy-wen. It shone brightly in the moonlight. Still, Sy-wen could sense her mount’s growing exhaustion. Even a dragon’s heart had limits. For an endless time, they had thrust themselves into countless skirmishes between skal’tum and dragon, slashing and roaring from above to slay the floundering monsters.

  Little dragons die well, Ragnar’k sent to her. For once, the usual disdain of the great black for his tinier brethren was not present. Sy-wen sensed the sadness in his huge heart.

  Sy-wen leaned and rested her cheek upon the scaled neck of her mount. She shared her grief with Ragnar’k. Below, the battle slowly died down. The skal’tum had no defense against the drowning sea. The cries of war dwindled to spates of shouted orders and the occasional pained trumpet from a dying dragon.

  Little green one died well, too.

  Sy-wen just rubbed her great dragon’s scaled neck. It took her a few heartbeats for these last words to penetrate her grief. Her heart suddenly clenched. Ragnar’k could not mean—?

  Pushing quickly back up in her seat, Sy-wen asked, “Do you mean Conch, my mother’s jade?”

  Yes. Tiny green dragon, friend of my bonded.

  Sy-wen’s breath choked in her throat. Sweet Mother, no! Conch and her mother were not supposed to engage the flock, only direct and supervise. Conch was too old to fight. Ragnar’k must be mistaken. The black dragon had a huge heart but was not too bright. Ragnar’k must be wrong!

  “T-take me to where you saw the tiny green dragon,” she said, unable to mask the pain in her voice.

  The equivalent of a dragon’s shrug was sent to her; Ragnar’k swung upon a wing and swept over the carnage below. Small pale mer’ai faces turned up to watch the great black pass overhead. A few raised an arm in salute, but most were as dull eyed and shocked as she was.

  Too soon, Ragnar’k skidded onto the lake’s surface, wings stretched wide to cup the air and slow their landing. Once drifting across the lake’s surface, the floating corpse of a skal’tum bumped Sy-wen’s knee. It seemed to claw at her even in death. Crying in disgust, Sy-wen kicked it away.

  Ragnar’k worked through the bloody waters. Just ahead, Sy-wen saw the green hide of a jade dragon bobbing in the gentle swells. Its huge head lolled lifelessly. It was not Conch. Sy-wen was sure of it.

  But as Ragnar’k neared, Sy-wen spotted her mother clinging to the far side of the dead beast’s neck. As the black approached, her mother lifted a face whose usual cold countenance had broken into a mask of pain and grief. Wet locks of normally sunbright hair clung damply across her face. Her eyes were sunken and hopeless.

  “Oh, Mother,” Sy-wen moaned. “No . . .”

  “He . . . he tried to protect me.” Her mother’s eyes drifted back to the body of Conch.

  Sy-wen still could not believe this dead dragon was her dear companion. Where was the gentle humor that always seemed to cling to him? Where was the ever-present love in his eyes? With his spirit gone, this bulk of green scale and torn wing was not Conch. Still, Sy-wen could not move her eyes from the lolling form.

  Her mother continued to moan the details of her story. “One of the monsters broke free. Under the sea, the creature thrashed and twisted.” Her mother
raised panicked eyes toward Sy-wen. “I couldn’t get away in time. It came upon me and attacked savagely.”

  “Oh, Mother, where was your personal guard? Where was Bridlyn?”

  She waved her daughter’s question aside. “Gone. Dead. I don’t know. Only Conch remained. He fought back.” Her voice cracked with sobs.

  “Leave it be, Mother. We’ll talk of it later.”

  Her mother did not seem to hear. “But . . . but the monsters are pure poison. They could not be harmed by a dragon’s tooth or claw. All Conch could do was hold the beast away from me. But all the while, the monster tore at his neck with claws and teeth. It was horrible. The blood . . . So much blood . . .”

  Sy-wen could tell her mother was near mad with grief and horror.

  The woman droned on, eyes wide with the recent pain. “Even after the skal’tum finally drowned, Conch clung to it, fearing it might yet attack. Even as blood flowed in thick rivers from Conch’s wounds, he would still not let me near.” Her mother’s voice broke into sobs. “Only when his great heart finally ended, only then did he finally let the monster loose.” She raised her eyes up to Sy-wen. “Wh-why did he do it? I might have been able to save him. If only I had been quicker.”

  Sy-wen urged Ragnar’k beside the sobbing woman. “No, Mother, you couldn’t have. Conch loved you. You know that. He died to protect you. It was the way of his heart.” Sy-wen reached an arm toward her mother. “Come, Mother, we must return to the ship.”

  “No, let someone else go. I must stay here.” She wrapped her arms tighter to the jade dragon’s neck.

  The pain from the loss of a bonded dragon was known to cripple its rider. Sy-wen could not let that happen. She needed to get her mother away. A draught of numbweed tea and a warm bed was what her mother needed most right now—along with the love of her daughter.