Slumped in his shackles, Er’ril raised his head. Nearby, shadowy rats scurried through the hay and chittered angrily at each other, fighting for scraps of moldy crust left from last night’s meal. On his bare legs were scabbed bites from where those same rats had investigated his sleeping form, sampling his flesh for when his corpse would be theirs.
From the neighboring cell, something cried and thrashed in its chains. The strangled howl of madness echoed down the cell row.
Er’ril tried to ignore the noise, but it rattled into his skull. Suddenly, somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open; iron scraped iron as a lock was undone. Then came the heavy tread of booted feet. Er’ril listened. He judged four men approached. Too many just to deliver the morning’s gruel.
Straightening on his bed of hay, Er’ril strained his ears for some clue as to their intent. From the neighboring cell, the wailing creature had quieted. It, too, knew better than to attract the attention of any who ventured down here. Through the cracked mortar of the walls, only a soft mewling rose from the creature, like a dog about to be beaten.
But the beast need not have feared. The scuff of boots stopped before Er’ril’s small door.
Er’ril quickly fingered the tip of slivered wood poking from the back of his neck. It was still in place. With only his loincloth as clothing, Er’ril’s own skin was the best hiding place for Greshym’s “gift.” He had imbedded the staff’s sliver under the skin at the edge of his hairline until it was needed.
The small door slammed open, and two men dressed in the black and gold of dog soldiers crawled inside. A torch sizzled in one man’s fist. The sharp light stung. They scowled at Er’ril and crinkled their noses at his squalid accommodations. “Smells like a privy in here,” one commented.
The other scrunched up his face. He had only one eye, the other orb lost in a long wicked scar. “Throw in them leg shackles. Let’s get out of these here dungeons before the contagion gets us all.”
A set of chains and manacles clattered into the cell, chasing the rats back into their black warrens. But the fierce vermin did not flee too far. Their red eyes glowed out at the guards, watching warily over their scraps left abandoned in the hay.
The one-eyed guard crossed and kicked Er’ril in the shin. “Git yourself up. You’re to be taken to the baths and cleaned.” He leaned down and leered in Er’ril’s face. “It seems the Praetor has plans for you.” He nodded toward where the neighboring creature still mewled. “Maybe to make another pet out of you.”
The other soldier interrupted. “Nock, quit goadin’ him and give me a hand with these chains.”
Grumbling, the guard named Nock gave a final kick at Er’ril, then moved to take one end of the leg shackles. Both men quickly hobbled Er’ril’s legs and ran a chain up and around his waist. They then unhooked his arm from the wall bracket and reattached it to a single shackle on his waist chain.
Once trussed up, he was led from the cell, wearing only a stained loincloth and flushed from a slight fever. The air in the hall chilled Er’ril’s skin, raising a rush of gooseflesh. At wrist and ankles, the old shackles had left troughs of rent flesh, purplish with bruises and infection. He limped after the first two guards while two others, bearing spears and poking periodically at his back when his shuffling gait slowed too much, followed.
Soon he was escorted into a warmer room; steam and the scent of lye stung his nose. In the center of the room stood an iron tub. He was stripped of chains and loincloth and unceremoniously herded into the steaming water. He bit back a scream as the hot water burned his wounds.
“Clean yourself up and get dressed,” Nock commanded, throwing soap and a brush in with him. “And be quick about it. We don’t have all morn.” The guards backed to the room’s door and clustered in the hall.
The stone room was featureless except for a fogged mirror and a single stool with a set of clean clothes laid out. Er’ril drifted back into the water’s heat, letting its warmth drive away the dregs of his fever. Once his head stopped pounding, Er’ril took soap and brush to his wounds first. Clenching his teeth and struggling with his one hand, he scrubbed the filth and dried hay from the deep gouges. After the bath was red with his own blood and the wounds looked raw and fresh, he took the brush to his body.
As the water cooled, Er’ril let his thoughts drift to Elena and the others. In the days prior, he had purposefully kept his mind away from thinking about them. That path led to certain despair. Did they know he still lived? Had Sy-wen managed to bring the Dre’rendi to their cause? With the full moon rising this night, the darkmages would attempt the book’s destruction at midnight. If they succeeded, all the Bloodriders and wit’ches in the world would be of no avail.
He covered his face with his one hand—not against this dreadful fate, but because he found himself strangely disconnected from any true feelings about the book or the destiny of A’loa Glen. He would attempt to thwart the mages’ plot with every fiber of his body, but in his heart, there was truly only one concern. His mind conjured Elena’s image in the shimmer of bath steam. Whether the Blood Diary survived or not, Elena must live.
“If you’re done soaking, Your Highness,” Nock snapped at him from the doorway, “git your scrawny arse out and dried.”
Er’ril pushed from the tub with his one arm and stepped onto the icy stones. Crossing to the mirror, he toweled himself dry and awkwardly dressed in the linen underclothes and fine gray breeches, taking care to wrap his wounds with the clean bandages left by the tub. Slipping into a white, billowed shirt, he inspected himself in the mirror.
Gaunt, with his cheeks and chin covered in dark beard, his gray eyes seemed shadowed hollows in his face. If he was to meet his brother, he would not walk to him a defeated man. He ran a hand over his rough neck and finger-combed his hair roughly in place. As he worked, his eyes grew hard with the flint of his homeland.
Nock and another soldier entered. Kicking the chain and shackles at Er’ril, Nock ordered him to truss up.
Er’ril barely heard his words, still staring in the mirror. He ran his fingers over the prickle of wood at the nape of his neck. Touching the sliver from the staff, Er’ril allowed himself a moment of hope. Black magick to fight black magick.
“Are you deaf? Git in those chains!”
Er’ril turned to face Nock. The guard saw something in the plainsman’s eyes that stumbled him back a step, the pale scar on his face going white. “Y-you heard me,” he squeaked out, glancing at his companion for support.
With a tired shake of his head, Er’ril bent and retrieved his shackles, then locked his ankles. Nock waved for the other guard to hook Er’ril’s chains and wrist manacle in place. Er’ril stared at Nock while this was done. The soldier tried to meet and maintain the plainsman’s gaze, but he glanced away and grumbled as he led Er’ril toward the door.
The trek to the westernmost tower of the great citadel, the Praetor’s Spear, was a long one. Er’ril kept his back stiff and his gait unhurried. Now that he was dressed and cleaned, the guards with the spears no longer harried him. They seemed to sense that a new man had risen from the steam of the baths, one who would not tolerate such barbs, even when chained.
At long last, they reached the twisting tower stair. Er’ril sighed; after so long without proper nourishment, the climb would be interminable. Even his old leg injury, where the rock’goblin had stabbed him almost a winter ago, complained at the number of steps. By the time the group reached the top landing, Er’ril was gasping between clenched teeth.
Nock crossed to the two guards stationed before a pair of huge, iron-bound oaken doors. Before he could speak, the doors swung open at his approach. The tower guards did not even register the movement, just stared straight ahead. Nock’s single eye, though, grew huge. He bowed his head before the presence that seemed to flow from the opening portal.
Words trailed out to them. “Tell my brother he is welcome.” The icy voice belied the warmth of the invitation.
Stepping aside, N
ock turned to Er’ril and waved him forward. The plainsman even felt the slight poke of a spear’s point in his back. It seemed the guards were more than eager to be rid of their charge.
Er’ril did not balk. Here was his quarry if he was to stop the book’s unbinding. With a clink of chain, he shuffled past Nock and entered Shorkan’s tower home.
As he stepped onto the thickly cushioned rugs of the study, the rattle of Er’ril’s leg irons became muffled. Inside, he found the towheaded boy mage, Denal, lounging on a short couch, heels tapping the frame, and Greshym, smirking like a cat that just ate a pigeon, seated at a small cherrywood table. Only Shorkan, still robed in the traditional white of the Praetorship, had his back to Er’ril, indicating how little the plainsman’s presence impacted him.
Shorkan stared out at the drowned city beyond his window as the sun’s early rays bathed the toppled and crooked towers. In the distance, Er’ril spotted the glint of blue that marked the ocean and even a few humped islands. Shorkan spoke as if continuing a conversation that Er’ril had rudely interrupted.
“They come with full sails. The Bloodriders and the wit’ch will be at our doors before night falls.”
Er’ril could not help but smile with these words. So the Dre’rendi had been convinced to add their might to the assault!
Greshym spoke. “With the loss of the skal’tum legion in the sargassum, how stand our remaining defenses of the island?” Er’ril caught the bent-backed mage’s glance toward him. Greshym’s lip twitched. “Will they hold out until the ceremony at moonrise?”
Shorkan turned. Brother looked upon brother. Er’ril felt a momentary twinge of old memories: racing through fields, wrestling out behind the barn, manning snow forts on the windswept plains. But then Er’ril spotted the man’s eyes, and any thoughts of a shared childhood evaporated into a foul smoke of blood and torture. Behind those gray eyes was no sign of the brother Er’ril had once loved. Instead, a presence that had little to do with men born of women lurked behind that gaze; it whispered of creatures hatched in poison and bred amid torture. Thankfully, the Praetor turned his full attention quickly away, fixing on Greshym.
“Will our forces hold out?” Shorkan mocked with clear disdain. “We’ve still another two legions of skal’tum on the island and a fleet of ships that number in the hundreds, manned by ul’jinn-controlled berserkers. With an additional thousand dog soldiers ensconced in the peripheral towers with longbows and flaming pitch, you’ll have no need to worry about the safety of your hide, Greshym.”
“Ah . . . But if we are so safe, why are two hundred d’warf ax warriors spread throughout the Edifice?”
“A mere precaution. I will not have this night’s ritual in the catacombs disturbed by anyone.”
Greshym bowed his head, but not before once again glancing to meet Er’ril’s eye. This litany of the island’s defenses had been coaxed from the Praetor for Er’ril’s benefit. The ancient mage wanted Er’ril to understand the current situation on the island.
Denal spoke up, his voice high and sibilant, a child’s voice but with the boredom and malice of too many years. “What of the golem Rockingham?”
“Gone,” Greshym answered. “I sensed his spell’s unraveling.”
Denal squirmed his face into a boyish pout. “But I so wanted to play with him some more.”
“It is of no matter,” Shorkan commented. “With the wit’ch and her army here, he was of no further use. He delayed her long enough for us to prepare our defenses. The wit’ch will find the island impregnable, and by dawn tomorrow, her armies will be nothing but shark chum. Now enough talk of the wit’ch’s approach. Instead, we must make preparations for the ritual at sunset.”
Shorkan turned to Er’ril. “It is time our roles were reversed, dear brother. Long ago, it was our blood that bound the book. To unbind it, the spell will require your blood this time, Er’ril. Unfortunately, we will require all of it.”
Er’ril shrugged.
Shorkan raised his eyebrows at this lackluster response. “This does not concern you, Er’ril? Have the passing centuries weighed so heavily that you welcome your life’s end?”
Er’ril spoke for the first time. “I have no worries of death.”
“And why is that?”
“There is a traitor who stands amongst you, dear brother.”
Er’ril saw Greshym twitch in alarm.
Shorkan did not seem to notice the old mage’s surprise. “A traitor? And who might that be?”
Sighing, Er’ril shrugged again. “Now if I told you, where would be the sport in that, dear brother?”
ABOARD THE DRAGONSPUR, Kast stood beside Pinorr as the shaman studied the horizon, his eyes partially closed. Kast waited patiently, fingering the tattoo of the dragon on his cheek. It was best not to disturb a ship’s shaman when he sought his rajor maga, his sea sense.
To the stern of the ship, the Dre’rendi fleet spread from horizon to horizon. The sails from over a hundred ships were like the billowing clouds of an approaching storm front. Mixed among the boats were the remains of the mer’ai forces, some hundred or so dragons and riders. Though a full quarter of the mer’ai had died in the sargassum forest, the presence of those remaining kept the spirits of the Bloodriders charged. The victory against the skal’tum had been sung on many decks this past evening.
Kast turned his attention back to his own vessel.
Elena and Flint stood nearby. Flint’s head was bowed in quiet conversation with the ship’s new keelchief. Hunt, the high keel’s own son, had been assigned to the ship after the mutiny during the night of the storm. Kast’s brother, Ulster, had been found slain upon the first mate’s sword. Both the first and second mate were later also discovered dead; obviously the mutineers had fallen into some disagreement. Further investigation had turned up no other conspirators. Though Ulster had been no true brother, Kast still felt a twinge of anger at the man’s death. He gripped his sword’s hilt in an iron fist. If any others were involved . . .
Finally, Pinorr straightened his stance by the rail. He cleared his throat. “It is of no use.”
Kast tightened his brows. “Can you read nothing of what awaits us?”
Pinorr turned his dark eyes on Kast, then swung away. “The seas are dark to me now.” He reached for the hand of his granddaughter, Sheeshon, who sat on the deck nearby. But the girl ignored his offered palm, fiddling instead with the webbing between her toes.
Kast’s eyes were drawn to the same. It was hard to fathom the transformation of the child. Even when faced with his people’s shared heritage with the mer’ai, it was difficult to accept it fully. Kast turned his attention back to Pinorr. “We’re only a half day’s voyage to the Archipelago. Does the evil entrenched among the islands resist your abilities?”
Pinorr grunted noncommittally.
Kast reached to the old shaman’s sleeve. “Do not fault yourself, Pinorr. If you can’t read anything on the wind, then no one can. We will have to trust that the mer’ai outriders will bring back sufficient warning.” Kast’s mind momentarily flashed on Sy-wen. She had returned with her mother to the giant leviathan that trailed the fleet. Linora sought the guidance of the elders in the battle to come.
Pinorr glanced up at Kast as if about to say something but then turned away. A certain awkwardness grew between them.
Before either could speak, Elena moved toward them. She knelt beside Sheeshon, giving Kast a quick smile. The wit’ch’s other companions had been left aboard the Pale Stallion while the boat’s damaged mast and sails were mended. As soon as the southern isles of Maunsk and Raib’s Saddle came into view, the wit’ch and Flint would return to the Stallion. As the battle ensued, she and the others would take the smaller sloop west toward where Flint claimed to know a secret route onto the island. Meanwhile, it would be up to Kast and Sy-wen, along with the Bloodriders and the mer’ai, to keep the main forces of the island distracted.
Or so it had been planned. Kast only wished Pinorr had been able to ascertain som
e information about what lay ahead. The morning sun now climbed to midday; they would soon be in sight of the island and its drowned city.
“You sense nothing from the seas?” Elena asked Pinorr.
Sheeshon suddenly stood and waved her webbed hands through the air. “Look, Papa! My hands are like birdies!”
Pinorr smiled sadly and pushed her arms down. “Yes, little Sheeshon. Let’s go see if Mader Geel has our meal ready.”
The girl wiggled in his grip, freeing an arm. She pointed out toward the northern horizons, toward the empty seas. “That island over there has got big birdies flying around it. White ones with sharp teeth. But they’re not nice birdies.”
Elena and Kast exchanged glances.
“More skal’tum,” Kast mumbled. He nodded to Sheeshon. “Pinorr’s granddaughter shares his gifts of the rajor maga. She can read magick and the seas, like her grandfather.” Kast leaned closer to Sheeshon. “Do you see any other monsters around the island?”
Sheeshon scrunched up her face as if she had eaten something sour. “I don’t like that place. It smells like bad fish.” She turned her attention back to the webs of her hands.
Pinorr patted her head. “She does not understand what she sees.”
“But at least she does see something.” Kast stared significantly at Pinorr.
“The rajor maga is a fickle gift, Bloodrider.”
Before the shaman could leave, Kast stopped him with a touch on the shoulder. “Is there something you’re not telling us, Pinorr? Since the night of the storm, you’ve grown quiet and withdrawn. Do you see something that you fear voicing? Do you know what will come this day?”
Pinorr shook free of Kast’s grip and picked up Sheeshon. “As I told you before, the seas are dark to me.”
“But why?”
Pinorr turned away from Kast. “Some answers are best left unspoken.” With those mumbled words, the old shaman crossed the decks. Kast watched him leave and knew it was more than the weight of the old man’s granddaughter that bent his back.
Elena spoke from the rail. “Those shadows on the horizons, are those storm clouds?”
Wit'ch War (v5) Page 46
