Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  Sy-wen again began to sob. “I just want it to end. Either way, I want it to end.”

  Come to me.

  “What?” she whispered.

  Close your eyes and reach for me.

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  Just do it. Trust us both.

  Sy-wen swallowed and did as asked. She closed her eyes and sent her thoughts toward him, sent her love and sorrow. The warmth she had felt a moment ago grew. Suddenly the warmth became two arms wrapped around her. She felt Kast’s body pressed to hers. The boundaries between the three—dragon, man, and woman—grew blurred. For just this endless moment, three became one. No words were shared. In silence, three spirits comforted each other in an embrace of warmth and love.

  Kast’s voice finally whispered to her. It was as if he spoke at her ear, his breath brushing against her neck. This is what we fight for.

  As answer, Sy-wen held Kast and Ragnar’k even tighter. She wanted to stay like this forever, but a thought—from Ragnar’k—intruded. Something comes.

  Sy-wen opened her eyes, and the moment was gone. She felt those arms of warmth dissolve away and knew Kast had retreated deep inside Ragnar’k again. The dragon needed all his faculties to face this new threat.

  Ragnar’k banked on a spread of black wing. Sy-wen now faced away from the island. The wall of inky darkness still marred the western skies, hiding the sun. The shaft of black energies continued to feed the foul construct.

  At first, Sy-wen failed to see what had alarmed the dragon, but Ragnar’k had keener eyes. As the dragon passed over the rear of the Dre’rendi fleet, Sy-wen finally spotted strange aberrations in the wall of darkness. Her mind could not fully grasp what it was witnessing. It was as if huge white clouds billowed through the barrier, piercing the magickal wall.

  Was this a storm front approaching? Sy-wen sensed that it wasn’t.

  Ships, Ragnar’k sent. Many, many ships.

  Crinkling her brow at the dragon’s strange words, Sy-wen could not understand the surge of excitement she received from Ragnar’k. What ships?

  Then the strangest thing happened. Her vision shifted to that of the dragon’s. Suddenly, she felt leagues closer to the coming storm. The wall of darkness swelled in her vision. What she had thought were clouds were actually billowing sails. She shook her head. How could this be? These ships sailed the air! Still, there could be no mistaking the timbered and masted boats under the huge sails. Through the dragon’s vision, she even spotted small figures manning the decks of the strange flying ships.

  As the vessels passed through the wall, Sy-wen was suddenly blinded. Like scores of arrows shot through a black sail, sunlight pierced the inky darkness, marking where each ship had thrust through the barrier. Bright shafts of sunlight outlined each ship. Sy-wen quickly counted. The aerial armada numbered twenty or thirty. Sunlight cast the ships in gold and set their sails ablaze.

  Ragnar’k swooped and sped toward these strange intruders. Who where they? Friend or foe?

  The ships flew higher than Ragnar’k, at least a quarter league above the island and seas. As they neared, Sy-wen saw that the keels under these strange boats were made of some peculiar metal that glinted under the columns of sunlight, a long rib of metal that glowed a bright red. Crackles of silver energy danced along the length of the keels.

  Then Ragnar’k was among the wondrous fleet. The dragon swept between two of the boats, flying fast in case they proved enemies. But no arrows chased him. Sy-wen had caught a glimpse of a tall pale man standing in the prow of each boat, arms stretched to the twilight skies. Silver hair, longer than the men were tall, flowed behind each of them like a ship’s banner.

  As Ragnar’k swung in a tight arc for another surveillance run, Sy-wen pictured the men and suddenly knew who they were. She could not mistake their slender forms, the brilliance of their silver manes, even the spark of their blue eyes as they tracked the passing dragon. Though Meric’s hair was only a sparse stubble, the resemblance of these men to the elv’in was clear.

  Sy-wen remembered some mention of the arrival of a sunhawk and how it supposedly heralded the launch of the elv’in forces. Ragnar’k sped back toward the flying armada, gliding through lances of sunlight. The brilliance of the setting sun cheered her heart and fired her blood. She had not thought the elv’in fleet would arrive so soon!

  She urged Ragnar’k to slow, tears in her eyes. Here was the salvation that Sy-wen had prayed for all day. Already the ships had rent holes in the wall of darkness. Sy-wen’s gaze followed the shafts of sunlight to where they fell among the ships of the Bloodriders. She knew any skal’tum caught in the blaze of the setting sun would be vulnerable to attack.

  Ragnar’k pulled up and maintained a pace to keep even with one of the ships. Sy-wen yelled a greeting to the boat, but none of the men or women aboard seemed to acknowledge her. They continued their duties atop the deck. She tried shouting again, but still they gave no response. The winds must be tearing away her words. A few of the crew glanced her way. She raised a fist in the air. They could at least see her signal. But they simply ignored her and went back to their duties.

  Frowning, Sy-wen instructed Ragnar’k to bank away and try another ship. The dragon obeyed, but they had no better luck. Soon the elv’in fleet and the dragon were sailing over the war below. But the sky ships did not slow. They continued in force toward the island.

  As they passed over the ships of the Bloodriders, Sy-wen saw faces turn upward in awe. Even the skal’tum were wary of these new intruders. Their attack paused as they pondered, along with everyone else, what these new ships intended. None of the beasts dared risk winging up to investigate.

  Finally, Sy-wen noticed that one of the sky ships was much larger than the others—twice as large, in fact. It must be their flagship. She needed to get their attention, to ask them to aid the beleaguered forces below. Already time was running out. The holes in the twilight barrier were closing, healing the wounds.

  By the time Sy-wen flew abreast of the flagship, the armada had reached the island. The fleet spread, encircling the city below. Five ships separated from the others and floated forward, over the city itself, to hover in a ring around the central castle. What were they doing? Sy-wen had a momentary gnaw of worry that perhaps she had judged them wrong. Maybe these were a new enemy.

  She urged Ragnar’k to follow the flagship as it rose higher than the rest of the armada. Ragnar’k had to arc away then back to gain a matching height. The flagship now drifted above the center of the ring of five ships, taking up a post directly above the towered citadel.

  In this thin air, Ragnar’k fought to maintain a matching position. At the prow of the flagship stood not a man, but a woman. She wore a long, flowing gown, its fabric so thin that Sy-wen could see her lithe form as easily as if she were naked. Her silver hair shone with a brilliance that had nothing to do with any ray of sunlight. The woman turned to her. As her gaze met Sy-wen’s across the wide distance, Sy-wen sensed the energy that flowed from this woman: She was lightning given form.

  The woman’s lips moved, and Sy-wen heard the words as clearly as if the woman had been sitting beside her. “Go. This is no longer your battle.” Then the elv’in woman turned away.

  “Wait!” Sy-wen called, but the woman ignored her except to raise an arm in the dragon’s direction.

  Suddenly the skies were a whirlwind around them. Her mount fought to remain beside the ship, but his wings seemed incapable of catching wind. They fell in a spiraling plummet away from the flagship.

  Sy-wen clung like a starfish as Ragnar’k tumbled. She was sure they would crash into the island. But then the whirlwind was gone, and the dragon’s great wings caught the air. They pulled out of their dive and sailed smoothly again.

  Ragnar’k flew with care now; their fall had put them among the towers of the lower city. Banking past the tilted statue of a man with an upraised sword, Ragnar’k took them up and out of the city.

  Sy-wen twisted in her seat to m
onitor the circle of five ships. Ragnar’k began a slow turn around the island to keep the ships in view, but he dared not approach closer. And Sy-wen did not urge him, either. She had seen the look in the tall woman’s eyes. It was like staring into a cold void. Sy-wen had sensed no hate or enmity in that gaze, only a profound indifference. It was as if Ragnar’k and Sy-wen were too small to warrant a second glance. They had been swatted away like a pestering gnat.

  As Sy-wen continued her sweeping survey, she saw the crackles of silvery energy grow more violent along the keels of the five ships. Something was about to happen. The metal of the keels grew from a deep bloodred to a fiery pale rose, almost as if the ore were heating up. The crackling grew more intense, sparking now with small bolts of lightning, feathering out from the keels like jagged spears.

  Ragnar’k flew too near one of the ships; Sy-wen’s hair rose around her head, sparking with traces of power. The dragon swept away, sensing the danger looming here.

  As her mount sailed over the city, Sy-wen watched the rage of energies now racing back and forth along each of the five keels. It was almost blinding. Sy-wen sensed that here was the power that propelled these great ships through the air, only now it was directed toward another purpose.

  Even from this distance, Sy-wen could taste the energy in the air. The keels blazed with crackling power. Spates of lightning stabbed down at the castle but never quite reached. Suddenly it was as if the air around the castle were sucked away. Sy-wen gasped, clutching her throat.

  Along the five keels, lightning bolts raced from stern to prow, jettisoning skyward in fonts of energy that struck the thicker keel of the flagship above. For a moment, a five-spoked star with the flagship at its center blazed in the twilight sky.

  Then in a blink, the star vanished, and Sy-wen could breathe again. The five ships fell away from the citadel, drifting down and back, like spent lovers. Their keels were again a deep dull red. No energies crackled along their underbellies.

  The same, however, was not true of the mighty flagship. It still hovered above the castle, ablaze with fire and energy.

  Sy-wen’s heart clenched with terror. “What are they—?”

  Then all the power trapped in the flagship’s keel released. A bolt of lightning as thick as one of the castle towers struck straight down. It blew Sy-wen and Ragnar’k backward. Then the explosive boom followed, deafening, blinding them.

  Even dazed, Ragnar’k helped keep Sy-wen in her seat, squeezing the ankle holds tighter as he tumbled away. Finally, their roll ended and Ragnar’k righted himself. They were over the seas again.

  Ragnar’k sent his concern to her. Do you fare well, my bonded?

  I’m fine, she answered, though in truth she was still dazzled by the bolt of energy. She could not blink the glare from her eyes. Then suddenly she sat up straighter. No, it wasn’t the burn of lightning that still plagued her eyes! Sy-wen craned her neck all around her. It was the sun!

  Sy-wen stared as the last of the inky darkness sank to the horizon, exposing the setting sun. She swung around. The spear of black energy was gone! In its stead, a pall of smoke rose from the castle’s center. Its towers all stood, but Sy-wen knew that its central court must be a blasted ruin.

  “They destroyed the source of the black barrier!” she said with a cheer in her voice. It was echoed from the seas around her. With the sun up, even a setting sun, the skal’tum were now vulnerable. Cheers and roars of blood lust rose from the boats and from the throats of dragons. The tide of battle had shifted! Victory could again be imagined!

  Sy-wen, a weary smile on her face, turned to view the island and the armada overhead. She meant to wish them a silent thanks, but what she saw dimmed her smile.

  Five new ships broke from the armada to rise toward the island, beginning to form a new ring under their flagship.

  Sweet Mother, the elv’in were continuing their attack on the island!

  Sy-wen feared for her companions. They must surely be down there already, somewhere in the castle or city. If these sky ships persisted, the island would soon be a smoking ruin.

  Glancing over the hundreds of spires, Sy-wen prayed to spot the blaze of their signal fire. But there was nothing, only smoke and cold stone. Her friends could be anywhere. Maybe they were dead already. Sy-wen dismissed this last thought. She would not give up hope.

  She glanced to the flagship far above and the cold woman who stood at its prow. “Ragnar’k, we must stop them!” she called out.

  JOACH PICKED HIMSELF off the stone floor as dust continued to settle. He shook his head to clear the roaring inside his skull. Gods above, what had happened? He had been sure when the blast struck that the island itself was being torn apart. He had never expected to live.

  Nearby, Meric rose to his feet with a groan. He bore a large bloody scrape on his forehead. He fingered the injury, then ignored it and helped Mama Freda up.

  Without any eyes, the old woman’s expression was difficult to read. But Joach guessed how she felt. Her hands grasped at Meric’s arms like a drowning woman. Joach saw her lips move, but he heard nothing except the roar in his own ears. He gave his head another shake, and his hearing suddenly snapped back with a painful whine.

  “—happened?” Mama Freda finished.

  Meric glanced up and down the corridor. “I don’t know. But I expect it’s some type of black magick.”

  “Maybe it was a quake,” Mama Freda offered. She clung to Meric’s arm. “The volcanic islands around here are always giving us a good shake.”

  Meric merely shrugged, but Joach was glad to hear some conversation from the old woman. These were the first words the old healer had spoken since their group had left Elena. At least the explosion had shaken her from the paralyzing shock of losing both her pet and her sight.

  Joach moved closer to them as Meric retrieved the torch he had dropped. Luckily it had not sputtered out. “I wouldn’t count on it being a volcano,” Joach said. “Some evil is at work here.” He glanced toward the lower passage. There was no sign of the ill’guard who pursued them. But how far back was he? Joach’s thoughts went out to his sister. Could the explosion have been due to some effort of hers to free the book? If so, had Elena survived? With this worry nagging him, Joach nodded them all forward. “We must keep going!”

  Ahead was the side passage that left the main concourse of the catacombs and led toward the staircase where Tol’chuk was posted. Meric collected Mama Freda under an arm and led them into it. Here again the walls to either side grew cruder and rougher. They kept their pace quick but noisy. They wanted to stay clear of the ill’guard’s grip but not so far as to lose him. Before long the stair appeared on the left.

  Pausing to let Mama Freda catch a breath, Meric studied the steep stair. “Once we reach Tol’chuk, we’ll need to either make a stand or lead the ill’guard into the streets above.”

  Joach shook his head. “We make a stand. I won’t leave with Elena still down here.”

  Mama Freda spoke from beside Meric. “It’s too late. He’s already here.”

  Meric and Joach both swung back toward the corridor. Joach raised his staff, and Meric slipped a long dagger from a wrist sheath. But the corridors behind them were still dark.

  “I see no sign of torch or lantern,” Meric whispered.

  “He hides in the dark,” Mama Freda answered.

  Joach fought a shiver down his back. Beyond the reach of their feeble torchlight, the passage was a wall of blackness. Joach had heard of how the blind were often gifted with heightened senses. “Are you sure?”

  The old healer simply nodded, showing no fear at her revelation. Instead, her lips were grim with anger. “He listens to us even now.”

  Joach waved to Meric. “Take Mama Freda from here. I’ll hold the monster off while you fetch Tol’chuk and his hammer.”

  “You can’t hold an ill’guard off by yourself—not for that long.”

  “He’s right, Joach,” Mama Freda said, shoving free of Meric’s grip. “I’ll s
tay and fight alongside you.”

  Joach bit back a retort. How did this old blind woman expect to help? In any fight to come, she would prove more a burden than an asset.

  Meric seemed to agree. He glanced doubtfully from over the old woman’s shoulder. Then he leaned his torch against the wall and turned to Mama Freda. “If you mean to stay with us, you’ll need a weapon.” He handed her his knife. Its long blade glittered in the torchlight. “It’s an ice dagger forged by my ancestors. If necessary, strike sure and deep. It will slice through bone as easily as air.”

  Mama Freda awkwardly handled the knife. Her lack of sight hindered her. She almost cut her thumb on its blade. “Thank you,” she said to Meric. “This will do nicely.” She turned to face the black passage below them.

  Joach followed her gaze. “Why doesn’t he come?”

  Mama Freda slowly shook her head. “He listens, hoping we will give him some clue to Elena’s whereabouts.”

  Seeming to hear her words and knowing his ruse was over, Brother Ewan pushed into their circle of torchlight. “Right you are, my fine old woman. And before I slay you all, I will have my answer. Now where have you hidden the girl?”

  Joach stepped forward to meet the ill’guard monster. He positioned his staff in front of him. His lips moved silently, and the length of wood blew to flame with spurts of darkfire. “Stand back!” Joach ordered.

  Brother Ewan had stripped his robe to his waist. His arms, chest, and neck were draped with thousands of tiny purplish worms, each the color of a deep bruise. They seemed to reach for the darkfire of Joach’s staff, their slender bodies stretching toward the flames. “Young man, I see you’ve been touched by the black arts, too. So why do you fight when you should be joining me?”

  Joach waved the staff before him in a warding motion. The leeches followed its motion, swaying in sync with his staff. “Magick is only a weapon,” Joach said coldly. “I wield it; it does not control me.”

  Brother Ewan waved a hand dismissively, and a few leeches flew from his fingers to strike the stone wall. “You argue semantics. Touch darkness, and darkness touches you. Flint should have taught you that by now.”