Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  Joach spun around. From every street, skal’tum clawed their way into the plaza. Even from the countless black windows overhead, pale faces leered down at them, razored teeth smiling at them.

  Their group had entered a nest of skal’tum, an ambush.

  A massive demon stepped into the plaza. It was the largest skal’tum Joach had ever seen. Its wings spread wide, striking an ancient pillar and shattering it. It leaned toward them with a hiss.

  “Your delay hasss made us all very hungry!”

  SY-WEN’S ARM BURNED with fire, but she ignored the pain. The injury was not her own, but the dragon’s. She glanced to her mount’s right wing. They had been sailing too near one of the city’s towers when it had suddenly exploded in flames. The spout of fire and debris had caught Ragnar’k by surprise. Only a sudden dive and twisting turn had kept them from annihilation.

  Still, the dragon’s scales lay blistered and seared in a wide swath along the forward edge of his wing. Ragnar’k sailed in a long curve away from the city’s edge. They now flew over the waves, aiming back for the beset fleet. Enemy ships fired arrows at their passing form, but their height was still beyond bow range. But for how long? Ragnar’k continued to weaken with his injured wing, losing altitude rapidly.

  Below, the Dre’rendi fleet lay in chaos. Attacking ships, most smaller than the warships of the Bloodriders, plied among the fleet. Arrows flew across the waves, some flaming, some poisoned. Almost every dragon-prowed warship was harried by the smaller, swifter craft. Like remora on sharks, scaling lad-ders and boarding hooks had latched many of the enemy boats to the bigger ships’ flanks. Battles raged across decks and rigging now.

  Screams and shouted orders rang up from below.

  But all was not lost. Among the adversaries’ boats, the seas were not friendly. The mer’ai and their dragons surged from below to wreak havoc on the ships. Dragon claw and dragon fang ripped into keels and men alike. Ships foundered everywhere. Berserkers who were tossed into the water became dragon fodder.

  Yet even the mer’ai were not safe in their own seas. Tentacled beasts snatched unwary dragons or riders. The worst of the undersea battle raged near the city’s edge. A mountainous leviathan lay within a nest of the monsters. Flailing pale tentacles ripped at the giant. It was as if the leviathan drifted in a sea of pale, flickering flames. Dragons, mounted and alone, fought to free the creature, but even from this height, Sy-wen knew the seabeast would not survive its injuries. The waters around the sunken towers now frothed with blood. Wrecked boats and corpses clogged the narrow channels of the submerged city.

  Wincing away the pain, Sy-wen sent an urgent plea to Ragnar’k. We must make it back to the Dragonsheart.

  Ragnar’k tilted his head to flash one black crystalline eye at her. I will not fail you, my bonded. Hindered by the wounded wing, his body lurched under her as he fought for distance from the sea.

  She leaned closer to his neck, running a hand along his straining flesh. She willed her mount strength. They must reach the high keel. “Kast, if you can hear me,” she whispered, “add your heart to Ragnar’k. I need you both.”

  In her mind, she knew Kast was unaware of events that occurred after Ragnar’k took flesh. Still, her heart longed for him to hear her. Exhausted from the day of flying and fighting, Sy-wen allowed her eyes to close, just for a moment. With the wind whistling in her ears, the clash of battle faded to a dim roar.

  Kast, hear me, she urged silently.

  From somewhere deep inside, an answer arose. Sy-wen could not say for sure if it came from within her or the dragon. They seemed one spirit. I am here, Sy-wen.

  Her eyes fluttered open. “Kast?”

  We are both here, my bonded. This was Ragnar’k.

  How? she sent to them.

  I think, after the lightning strike, the line between the two of us blurred, Kast answered. I now see what the dragon sees, but only as if in a dream.

  And you can speak to me?

  It is hard for Ragnar’k to allow this. It strains his control of his own body.

  Sy-wen sensed a silent agreement from the dragon, almost a disgruntled embarrassment. Ragnar’k never liked to admit a weakness.

  Then we must end this talk, Sy-wen sent. Ragnar’k must have his full strength. We must reach the Dragonsheart and the high keel.

  I know. I saw. Ragnar’k only allowed me a moment of shared union to bolster your heart. He wanted you to know I was here, too. Sensing your own despair, he sought to ease it, even at his own expense.

  Sy-wen reached and rubbed her mount’s flank. Warm sensations flowed back to her from the dragon. “You both truly are my bonded.”

  I must go, Kast sent back. Godspeed to you both. Your knowledge must reach the fleet.

  Sy-wen sensed Kast slip away. Ragnar’k seemed to surge slightly in strength, the heat off his body intense. He angled across the battle below. Smoke marred their views, but the three-masted Dragonsheart could be seen far ahead. It kept mostly to the rear of the fighting. The high keel directed the fleet with horn and pigeon.

  So far the battle was mostly a standstill, each force refusing to give ground. But not for long. The dark forces would win unless Sy-wen could reach the ship.

  Their reconnaissance of the enemy’s defenses had revealed two vital details, information that needed to reach the Bloodriders. First, they had spotted several roosts of skal’tum in the deserted city. Shunning the sunlight, the beasts had been hard to find. But the dragon’s keen sense of smell had rooted them out. Sy-wen estimated that at least another two legions, maybe three, were still kept in reserve upon the island. She gritted her teeth. So many of the monsters still lived! She had hoped the battle in the sargassum forest had reduced their numbers more drastically.

  Glancing back at the embattled city, Sy-wen knew speed was essential. The fleet needed to reach and subdue the docks before sunset. If they could at least gain a foothold on the island itself, their forces could use the crumpled buildings and tilted towers as a means of protection against the skal’tum. Upon the open seas, their fleet would be too vulnerable to the winged beasts. The tide of battle would quickly turn in favor of the enemy.

  But word of the skal’tum legions was not the worst news she bore. Sy-wen watched their approach toward the Dragonsheart. They needed to hurry.

  Must go lower, Ragnar’k said. The throb of pain in Sy-wen’s right arm flared harsher. The strain of their flight was taking its toll.

  Just get us there. Even swim if you must.

  The war loomed greater as they sank toward the embattled seas. Soon the tops of masts skittered just under the dragon’s wings. Arrows from enemy ships now reached them, peppering Ragnar’k’s underbelly, but so far the dragon’s thick scales protected him from harm.

  In a few more swipes of his massive wings, they were beyond the worst of the battle and gliding low over the waves toward the rear of the fleet. The Dragonsheart lay just ahead.

  Ragnar’k had to fight for additional height just to crest the ship’s rail. His landing atop the deck was more a crumpled crash. Silver talons tore into the deck, and his injured right wing collided with a mast. Agony shot down Sy-wen’s arm, but they finally came to a rest. Ragnar’k sank to the deck.

  Sy-wen straightened in her seat. “Dragon’s blood!” she called out. “Bring us a draught now!” She dared not reverse the spell and call Kast forth yet, not with Ragnar’k so wounded.

  Men who had fled from the crashing dragon now scurried about the deck. The high keel leaped from the stern deck and shouted for her to be obeyed. A cask was hurriedly rolled toward them.

  No longer flying, Sy-wen got a whiff for the first time of the dragon’s burned flesh. She fought her stomach. The smell warned how deep the damage was, more so than even the pain. She glanced to the blistered tissue. Black scale, now seared a sickly white, oozed a clear, yellowish fluid. Even bone could be seen through the rent tissue at the forward edge of the wing. Sweet Mother, she had not realized how badly Ragnar’k had been
injured. How had the great beast flown such a distance?

  She was answered. Your heart, my bonded . . . I would not fail you.

  She leaned forward and hugged his great neck, then quickly straightened. Before the dragon’s snout, a cask was rolled into position and tipped upright. The high keel himself stepped forward with ax in hand. With a single stroke, he chopped open the lid of the barrel.

  “Drink!” he commanded.

  Ragnar’k needed no urging. The scent of blood drew him. In Sy-wen, the hunger of blood lust almost overwhelmed the pain from the burn. Ragnar’k lowered his snout and drank the stored blood. In only a few heartbeats, the full cask lay empty.

  Almost immediately Sy-wen sensed the healing property of the dragon blood. The throb of pain in her arm dulled, as with a wash of cool water. She almost sighed aloud in relief.

  Ragnar’k nosed the barrel away.

  “Do you need more?” Sy-wen asked.

  No. Ragnar’k is strong. Blood from puny dragons was enough.

  Sy-wen sagged in relief. If the dragon’s haughtiness was returning, she knew he fared much better. “Then I must seek the counsel of these others, my mighty bonded.”

  Ragnar’k sent her a dismissive snort, as if such matters were beneath his attention.

  Smiling at his growing arrogance, she slid from her seat to the deck, almost tumbling, her legs numb and tired from flying all day. Still, she managed to keep her feet with the timely aid of the high keel’s supporting hand. “Thank you,” she whispered to the tall chief.

  With her palm still on her dragon’s flank, Sy-wen turned to Ragnar’k. Rest now, my bonded.

  Return soon. He swung and touched her gently with the tip of his snout. I will miss your scent.

  “And I yours,” she said aloud and removed her hand.

  Sy-wen and the high keel retreated a step as the spell reversed itself. Wing and scale exploded out wildly, then whirled back down until only a naked man crouched on the deck.

  Kast straightened and stumbled a step forward. His right arm was seared a deep red from shoulder to wrist. But even as Sy-wen rushed toward him, the injury paled to a pink glow. She fell into his arms as the high keel waved a man to fetch a set of breeches and a shirt.

  Sy-wen felt the heat of his bare skin against her cheek and wished to stay in his arms forever, but the urgency of their news required them pulling apart too soon.

  Kast leaned next to her. “I missed your scent, too,” he whispered.

  Sy-wen glanced up to him, her cheeks burning now. He kissed her deeply, once. Her knees buckled under her, but his strong arms were there to keep her from falling.

  Too soon, one of the warriors hurried forward, his arms laden with clothing.

  Kast brushed his fingertips across her cheek and down her neck, then quickly dressed. He spoke to the high keel while slipping into his breeches. “We must get word to the other keelchiefs. A change in the battle looms, and we must be prepared.”

  “Come,” the high keel ordered once Kast was dressed. “We’ll retire to my cabin. I’d have Bilatus hear your news, too.”

  Kast nodded. He embraced Sy-wen under one arm, and together they followed the high keel below. Sy-wen noticed that the war seemed to have energized the aging chief. He walked with vigor in his steps; even his eyes sparked with the excitement of battle.

  In the chief’s cabin, they found the portly ship’s shaman poring over a set of tomes and maps. Bilatus raised his balding head, his cheeks rosy from the room’s heat. He pushed to his feet with a small groan. “Master Kast and Mistress Sy-wen, I had not known you had returned.”

  The high keel stepped forward. “Did you not hear the crash atop our decks and the commotion?”

  Bilatus wore an apologetic expression as he waved an arm in the direction of the laden table. “My books . . . When I’m studying, I’m lost to the world.”

  The high keel clapped the fellow good-naturedly on the shoulder as he crossed to perch on a stool. “I would have it no other way. That is the role of shaman. You stick to your scrolls and maps, and let us warriors handle the swords.” The tall man waved for Sy-wen and Kast to take the pillowed chairs near the small hearth.

  Once they were settled, the high keel shoved off his stool and stalked back and forth across the room, his energy too large for the small chamber. Sy-wen sensed that the man longed to return to the deck and the smoke of battle. “What news do you bring?”

  Kast glanced at Sy-wen, but she nodded for him to tell. Kast quickly related their discovery of the skal’tum legions still awaiting release in the crumbled ruins of the city. “Once the sun sets, they will take wing and attack. We must take the island before that happens. We’ll need the cover of the buildings to wage a proper defense against the beasts.”

  Kast’s tale slowed the high keel’s pacing. By the time Kast was finished, the chief had stopped, the fire dimming in his eyes.

  “Dire news,” Bilatus said from near the table. “So what you’re saying is that we must direct all our forces in a full affront against the city’s docks? If we can commandeer the piers, we may survive.”

  The high keel clenched a fist. “We must do more than survive. We must win. The Dark Lord will not let us survive a half victory. If we don’t wrest his forces from this island and take it over, there will be no safe seas anywhere for the Dre’rendi.” The high keel began pacing again. “You have brought us vital news. I must alert the others and redirect our forces.”

  He began to march toward the door, but Sy-wen stopped him. “Before you act, we bring other news.”

  The high keel turned, and in the man’s eyes, Sy-wen could see the fire flaring within. Here stood a true man of battle. Talk and strategy were not as important as sword and pike. “What else?” he demanded.

  Sy-wen swallowed and spoke rapidly. “We risked a flight over the city’s castle to see what else may lie in wait. In a central court, we saw that the mighty tree there had been chopped down and its limbs were being axed to rubbish.”

  “So?”

  Kast answered. “The tree had always been a font of magickal energies. This sudden action by the darkmages strikes me as suspicious.”

  Sy-wen nodded. “Also around the stump of the tree, we spotted a ring of black-robed men circling and chanting. Spread-eagled across the top of the stump, a young girl lay chained and writhing.”

  The fire died in the high keel’s eyes as he understood what they were trying to suggest. “They strive to call forth some black magick to thwart us.”

  “Yes,” Kast answered. “So besides striking for the docks, we’d best be prepared for other surprises. I suspect the worst is yet to come.”

  The high keel nodded more soberly. Now when he crossed toward the door, his stride was more urgent than excited. “I must alert the fleet.”

  As he reached for the latch, a sudden pounding on the door erupted from beyond. “Sir! You must come atop the decks! Something is amiss.”

  The high keel glanced back at them. Worry now replaced the fire in his eyes. They all rose to follow him. In a rush, they fled from the cabin, almost knocking aside the Bloodrider who had brought the warning.

  Once atop the deck, Sy-wen knew instantly from which direction the current crisis arose. Everyone on deck stared and pointed north toward the island. Sy-wen hurried to the rail along with the others.

  Across the battlefield, a hush seemed to have fallen over the seas, as if the combatants all held their breath. In the distance, the island stood in sharp detail as the sun sank toward the west. From the central peak, from the Edifice that crowned its top, a black pall rose into the blue sky, a column of darkness that could never be mistaken for smoke. It was more like a black beacon, a spire of dark light cast up from the depths of some foul netherworld.

  “What is it?” the high keel asked.

  No one answered.

  As they watched, the spear of darkness began to tilt like a toppling tower. It fell westward.

  “Sweet Mother, no . . .” Sy-wen
moaned. She knew the dire beacon arose from the magicked stump of the koa’kona, its last vestiges of white magick corrupted for this foul purpose.

  The black shaft continued to fall until it pointed toward the setting sun.

  “They cannot possibly wield such power,” Kast mumbled.

  As they all watched, the end of the column of darkness bloomed like a foul rose and spread farther and farther across the western sky, pumping its blackness like spilled ink over the horizon. An eerie twilight descended over the seas as the sun was blocked. Sy-wen had only once before experienced such a strange quality to the light—when she was a child and had witnessed the moon eclipsing the sun. Such was the illumination now. Not night, but not day either, a shadowless half-light that weighed on one’s spirit like the pressure of the deep sea.

  “They steal the sun from us,” Bilatus stated. “But why?”

  Sy-wen knew. She glanced from the western sky back to the island. “That’s why,” she mumbled and pointed.

  Kast, Bilatus, and the high keel all turned. Across the seas, a new menace arose from the island. In the strange twilight, flocks of winged creatures rose like a pale fog from the city, rolling out toward the fleet.

  “The skal’tum take flight,” Sy-wen said.

  The high keel studied the approaching menace. “Then we are too late.”

  23

  IN A LONE plaza, deep in the heart of A’loa Glen, Elena stood in the center of a maelstrom of energies. Raw magick sang in her blood, but it was an old song. Instead, she bent the tendrils of energy to her will, striking out in all directions with spates of coldfire. Blue tails of flame lashed out and whirled in a tangled net around her. None dared approach too close.

  When first confronted by the skal’tum ambush, Elena had quickly bloodied her hands and brought the attack to the monsters. The others had followed suit, moving in stride to bolster her attack. While she lanced forth with coldfire, freezing and slowing the beasts, the others had struck.

  Joach, with his staff already bled into a blood weapon, skillfully kept step with Elena’s dance of ice. What Elena froze, Joach shattered with a stroke of his stave. Meanwhile, Tol’chuk used the rune-carved d’warf hammer as an ordinary maid might use a broom. Directed by Flint, the og’re swept a deadly path through the beasts.