Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  Richald glanced up and down his brother’s body, his nose slightly curling at what he saw. Burned, scarred, and now broken limbed, Meric knew he hardly resembled one of the royal blood of their house.

  Meric spoke into his brother’s appraisal. “You must stop Mother. She must not strike again!”

  Around them, the star of power winked out. Meric could sense the energy now stored under the keel of the Sunchaser. It trembled the deck beneath his knees.

  The crowd of elv’in opened before Meric, and a woman shining with power stepped toward him from the prow. Her skin glowed, and her eyes shimmered too bright. His mother had linked to the storehouse of energy below. Her voice quavered with the suppressed might. “Why should I stop, my son? Is this not what you asked?”

  Meric attempted to stare up at his mother, but the blaze in her gaze stung. “I was wrong, Mother. The fate of these people depends on what happens next on the island below. We must not interfere.”

  “I care not about the fate of these people.”

  Meric cleared his throat, his voice sharp. “But I do.”

  His mother waved a hand as if to whisk away his statement, crackles of energy playing across her fingers. “You have been walking in the dirt for too long, my son.”

  “Yes, I have. So I am the best judge to decide if these people are worth saving.”

  His mother lowered her hand, pondering his words.

  Meric pressed on. “And what of our own bloodlines?”

  His mother cocked her head slightly. “What are you saying, Meric?”

  “If you care so little for these people, then consider our own. The last of our lost king’s heirs struggles below. Destroy this island and you destroy half the heritage of the elv’in.”

  These words finally reached her, but she showed little emotion. She simply turned on a heel and nodded to Richald. “Pull back the Sunchaser. We will discharge our load into the sea.”

  “No! Wait!” Meric called to her. “I know where this energy can be best spent.”

  His mother glanced back, eyes blazing. “Where?”

  Meric did not answer. He waved for Richald to assist him to the rail. Meric stifled a cry as he was pulled to his feet. In the distance, he saw the black-winged form of Ragnar’k swing around and sail back toward the ship. Once close enough, Meric waved an arm to Sy-wen. He wind-spoke to her so she could hear him.

  “Lead us to the battle in the sea! Scout for the worst skirmishes that still rage! It’s time to end this! We will use the might of the Sunchaser to smite the last of the attackers!”

  Once he received acknowledgment from Sy-wen, Meric sagged against the rail. The pain of his broken leg and his weakened state finally overwhelmed him.

  His mother slid beside him, still cool and passionless. “You care this much for these people of the land?”

  Meric turned to her, this time not even flinching from the blaze in her eyes. “Yes, Mother, I do. I would give my life for them.”

  Reaching to her son, Queen Tratal rested a palm over his hand. She gave him a quick squeeze of affection, then raised her other arm. On her signal, the Sunchaser heeled around and followed the dragon. “Then as you said, let’s end this.”

  SOMEWHERE AMONG THE rubbled streets of A’loa Glen, Greshym leaned against the wall of an ancient distillery. His breath rasped and wheezed from between lips clenched with pain. The creation of the portal so soon after battling Shorkan had taken its toll on the ancient mage. As a creature sustained by black magick, to empty his well of power so thoroughly wasted him physically as well. At the moment, he felt every one of his over five hundred winters. Even the air itself felt too thick to breathe.

  In the shadows of the crumbling old building, Greshym leaned his head against the cool brick. He had only been able to leap as far as the city. At full strength, he could have created a portal strong enough to transport him all the way to Blackhall, not that he would have dared. Er’ril’s last words to him were true. Once Shorkan passed word of his betrayal to the Dark Lord, he was a marked man. Every demon hound and netherworld beast would be hunting him.

  Greshym eyed the Edifice far above. The second strike by the flying ships had taken out the easternmost tower. The spire had been aptly named the Broken Spear due to its cracked parapet. Now it was just a smoldering pile of blasted stones. It’ll have to be renamed the Smoking Heap, he thought sourly.

  “A shame it wasn’t Shorkan’s tower,” he groused aloud. If the ships had struck the Praetor’s Spear, most of Greshym’s problems would have been solved. With Shorkan dead, Greshym’s traitorous actions in the catacombs could have remained a secret. But today the gods had not smiled on him. All his careful plans had not only failed to bring the book into his grasp but had doomed him as well.

  Greshym pushed off the wall and moved down the avenue. He needed to get free of this island, but first he needed an infusion of magick. But from where? He crouched for a moment where the street of ancient ale houses ended in a wide square. He watched for any skal’tum. All that remained of their immense legions were ragged bands of panicked beasts. In his weakened state, without even a staff, he would be easy prey for the monsters. Since he was one of the darkmages who had sent them to this slaughter, they would not treat him kindly.

  Greshym sidled around the corner, sticking to the deepest shadows cast by the setting sun. As he hurried, he caught a whiff that stirred his withered heart. He stumbled as the scent struck him to the core. He leaned his stumped wrist against the wall, panting. Dare he hope? Had it been his imagination? Once he collected his breath and calmed the clamor in his heart, Greshym lifted his nose like a hound on a scent. His eyes closed with the pleasure of the tang in the air.

  If he had not been so starved, he might have easily missed it. He sniffed again. He knew what he smelled. Black magick! Somewhere nearby someone or something reeked of power, raw and untapped. Greshym thought of Shorkan, but quickly dismissed it. Not only would the Praetor avoid the streets, but after crossing the mage ring and enduring their short battle, Shorkan did not have the amount of magick he sniffed now.

  But where was it coming from?

  Revitalized by the scent, Greshym shoved from the wall and began to hunt the trail. Pausing at every corner to sniff the breeze, the old mage tracked the whiff of magick. His legs began to hurry along the dusty streets as the scent grew richer and more potent. Famished, his weak sight blurred further, but he continued on, drawn by the smell. His nose became his eyes, leading him onward to the source.

  Finally, he scurried along a narrow street on the highest level of the city. Though the air was still fouled by smoke from the castle above, the tang of magick could not be obscured. Its source was just around the next corner. Caution slowed his feet. With the power he sensed, he could escape this tortured island.

  Greshym dragged himself along the square base of a tall statue, creeping carefully. Once at the corner, he closed his eyes and focused himself with a rattling breath.

  First, he needed to discover what lay ahead. Leaning forward, straining his old back, Greshym peeked around the corner. What he saw in the alley beyond almost tumbled him out of hiding. But he managed to pull back, one hand rising to throttle a shout of surprise and delight.

  It was the boy! His boy! The wit’ch’s brother! How could he be so lucky? Maybe the gods were smiling on him after all!

  The view around the corner still burned in his mind. The lad stood in the center of the alley, staring up at the neighboring tower, lost in thought. But that was not all Greshym had spied. In the boy’s grip was a staff. And Greshym would recognize that length of poi’wood anywhere. It was his own staff! He had thought it lost forever. The boy must have retrieved it.

  Greshym closed his eyes and drank in the scent of ripe magick in the staff. He licked his lips. He would have it again. He would have them all again!—his staff, the boy, and his magick! But first he needed a plan.

  Greshym’s mind spun with various scenarios. He could not just snatch the sta
ff from the lad. It was clearly bound to him. Greshym had seen the spurts of darkfire skittering its surface. He clenched a fist in frustration. He had forsaken the staff, and to retrieve it now, the staff must be handed back to him freely. But how? How could he get the boy to relinquish the staff?

  The darkmage sent his thoughts probing around the corner and grinned when he discovered that the old strings of his woven spell remained in the boy’s mind, frayed but still there. The boy had never had them removed, but then again how could he? There were no mages left with the skill to do so. It would be a simple thing to retie those old knots and trap the boy again in his mind, making the lad a slave once more. But even that would not help much. To take the staff in this manner would be the same as snatching it from him. To keep the magick potent in the staff, it must be given freely from the heart. Otherwise, it was just an ordinary stick.

  Greshym coiled his thoughts around the puzzle. He needed to hurry lest more of the wit’ch’s companions should appear. But how to get the boy to trust him? Then, like a light dawning after the blackest night, the answer appeared in his mind. He could not coerce the boy by enslaving him, but he could still use the fragments of magick imbedded in the lad’s mind.

  Greshym knew what he needed to do. It would take only the slightest touch of magick to reach to those familiar strands and tug on them. Maybe he couldn’t get the boy to dance for him like a marionette, but he could tug hard enough to move the boy’s heart.

  Knowing what he must do, Greshym reached out with the last dregs of his power. In his weakened state, even this small bit of magick weakened him as if he had cast a major spell. Greshym stumbled around the corner. He did not need to fake the groan as he fell to the cobbles in the alley.

  Joach swung around at the sound, eyes wide with threat. The staff burst with darkfire. To Greshym, the magick wafting from the staff was like heat from a hearth in the middle of a winter storm.

  Then as quick as the flames had appeared in the staff, they died away. Joach ran at Greshym. He fell to his knees beside the old mage. The boy’s eyes were bright with concern and worry as he reached to help him.

  “Elena!” the boy called out. “What happened to you? How did you get out here?”

  Greshym smiled as he pulled and tweaked the various strands of magick to maintain the illusion in the boy’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he said feebly, not needing to feign weakness or confusion. Greshym knew that his voice sounded like the boy’s beloved sister’s in Joach’s ears.

  “We must get off these streets,” Joach said, reaching under his shoulders to help him up.

  “Yes. Yes, we must hide.” With the boy’s aid, Greshym allowed himself to be led, half carried in his depleted state. His fingers secretly brushed the poi’wood of the staff affectionately. Soon, he thought silently.

  Joach spoke, words tumbling from his mouth. “It seems Meric was successful in getting the elv’in fleet to pull back. We need to get atop a tower and signal them.”

  “To escape?”

  Joach nodded, gathering Greshym tighter to his side. “Save your strength, El.” As they limped across the alley and headed toward the door of the neighboring tower, Joach’s eyes met his own, a tired grin on his lips. “It seems we cannot avoid our fate,” he said, then nodded to the doorway ahead. “We must go up.”

  Not understanding the boy’s cryptic words, Greshym craned his neck to stare at the parapet of the tower. He wrinkled his brow. Why did the boy think they needed to climb the Spire of the Departed?

  HIS HEART HEAVY with despair, Er’ril shouldered aside the warped iron gate to the catacombs. He stared at the destruction in the central courtyard. Rubble and smoke filled the square. Fires still burned, mostly from the smoldering ruins of the ancient koa’kona tree, now a cratered ruin. Er’ril winced at the destruction of the mighty tree.

  But like himself, the tree had lived long past its usefulness. Both of them were just hoary and ancient remnants of Alasea’s past glory. With the Blood Diary free, his duty to the centuries was finally completed. From here the fate of these lands would now rest on shoulders younger than his. It would be up to them to wrest the Dark Lord from his seat of power. And if prophecy held true, the wit’ch and the book were the land’s only hope. He would offer what strength of arms he could, but in the greater schemes of prophecy and destiny, the wit’ch must walk alone from here.

  At this thought, a sharp pang clutched his chest. He ground a fist against his ribs. He blamed the pain on the searing heat and smoke-filled lungs, but he could not entirely fool himself. He had come to define himself as Elena’s knight, and some of this ache was from knowing that he would never share the same closeness with her again. He sensed that the book would replace his role. From this day forward, he would be as useful to Elena as the smoldering limbs of the dead koa’kona.

  He stared at his new arm for a moment and swore a silent curse. He had gained so little and lost so much.

  Sighing and girding himself to continue onward, Er’ril studied the open court for any dangers or foes. Overhead, he spied a huge flying ship retreating from the citadel. Lightning danced along its iron keel. Er’ril guessed this was the source of the destruction here. Silently, he thanked the unknown allies. Their aid had broken the mages’ control of the island. Ahead, the castle itself now seemed dead and deserted. Er’ril only hoped that Shorkan had not been driven away just yet.

  He eyed the towers as he stepped from the cool stone of the catacombs. The heat of the court instantly smote his bare skin, raising a sheen of sweat. From here, Er’ril surveyed the full destruction of the eastern tower. Through part of the shattered wing of the castle, he looked upon the city and ocean beyond. Even from here, Er’ril could see the ships embattled below. The war still raged in the seas surrounding the island.

  Only able to wish them luck from here, Er’ril turned away. His own goal was closer at hand. He faced the westernmost tower, Shorkan’s lair. Atop its crown, in the last rays of the setting sun, Er’ril spotted a black figure perched among the tower’s parapets. At first he thought it a living creature, but then he recognized it. It was the ebon’stone statue of the wyvern. And if Greshym was to be believed, it was also one of the four Weirgates that opened to the source of the Dark Lord’s power.

  Stopping to collect a long sword from the blistered corpse of one of the catacombs’ guards, Er’ril entered the courtyard. If he could not find Shorkan, he could at least topple that statue off its perch. Maybe a fall from such a height would crack the cursed sculpture.

  Passing the edges of the crater in the center of the courtyard, Er’ril avoided several dark-robed corpses that lay blackened on the blasted stone. He scowled at them. Disciples of the darkmages.

  As he moved on, he thought he heard a stifled gasp and the sound of something striking the stones a few paces back. He swung around, crouching, eying the nest of corpses. But nothing stirred. Er’ril straightened. The winds and the crumbling castle must be playing tricks on his ears.

  Studying the bodies for one more breath, Er’ril swung away. He hurried across the remainder of the open courtyard, fearful of any eyes in the hundreds of dark windows. But no arrows were shot at him, nor were any shouts raised against his intrusion. Soon he pushed through the charred and shattered grand doors to enter the castle proper.

  AS ELENA WATCHED Er’ril disappear into the dark castle, she rolled to her feet, rubbing the knee she had twisted after tripping over a loose stone. A moment ago, Er’ril had come so close to catching her. When the plainsman had swung around, Elena had panicked and frozen like a startled rabbit, her face just a handspan above one of the blackened corpses. Even now the stench of charred flesh clung to her nose.

  Straightening, Elena took a step toward the castle. Her knee protested strongly, shooting lances of pain up her thigh. She could walk, but only slowly. Elena studied the looming mass of the Edifice, the ancient citadel of A’loa Glen. Its black windows stared back at her nakedness. Though none could see her, she felt exposed.
Sighing, she knew there was no way she could follow the plainsman, not as fast as he was moving now. Already he must be lost deep within the castle. She would never find him. If only she had paid more attention to her own feet a moment ago . . .

  Biting her lip against the pain of her injured limb, Elena hopped back. She craned her neck. Where was Er’ril heading? He said he sought his brother. But was this true? She swung her gaze to the tower that had captured Er’ril’s attention when he had first entered the court. The setting sun’s last rays painted the western tower’s parapets in gold.

  Far above the blasted court, she spotted what had drawn Er’ril’s attention. Atop the spire stood the familiar black-winged figure of the wyvern, the ebon’stone statue of the darkmages.

  As she stared, a stray breeze shivered her bare skin. Elena wrapped her arms around her chest, trying to hug away the dread that had settled under her ribs. Though not certain of his true heart, Elena still feared for the plainsman.

  Tears suddenly rose in her eyes, blurring her vision. After almost losing Er’ril once already to the black magic of the statue, Elena could not face such a loss again. The wounds were still too raw. She watched the tower for some sign of the plainsman, some clue to guide her.

  “Be careful, Er’ril,” she whispered as winds sighed through the blasted courtyard. “Come back to me.”

  IN THE EMPTY halls of the Edifice, Er’ril increased his pace. Well familiar with the Edifice, he knew the shortest path to the Praetor’s Spear. His feet led him quickly toward his goal while he stoked the fires in his heart. In a battle with his brother, he must not let despair slow or weaken him. With Shorkan’s black magick currently at an ebb, here might be his last chance to rid the lands of his evil.

  Er’ril leaped up steps three at a time and raced along dark halls. In short order, he found himself mounting the winding tower stair. He slowed his pace just enough to snatch glimpses from the slitted windows along the steep stair. He surveyed the battle around the island. By now, the sun had sunk into the western horizon, blazing the skies with fire. Below, the war in the seas continued.