Tournament of Witches

by Jack Massa

  Glyssa turned her head and they peered into another cage nearby. A small, fragile form lay curled on a pile of straw. “Trippany is there. I think she is still alive.”

  We must get you out first, Amlina told her. Then we’ll come back.

  “Yes. I think our mates are outside. I heard Karrol shouting some time back.”

  Good. First we break open the cage. Then—Are you fit enough to overpower Arkasha?

  “Oh, I should think so.”

  Good. We’ll force her to let you out. And if our mates are waiting outside, they can come in and slay the ogre.

  “What if he wakes before we get out?”

  Amlina peered again at the creature. She didn’t expect he would break out of trance, not while the Tournament hung in the balance. I don’t think he will. But we’ll have to risk it.

  “How do we break the cage?”

  Let’s see.

  Prompted by Amlina, Glyssa stepped closer to the beams. Their joined minds probed, searching. Amlina perceived jeweled disks embedded in the floor and ceiling, projecting each fiery bar.

  Do you see the disks, Glyssa?

  “Yes.”

  If we can dislodge just one, it will shut off that beam. I think cutting off one will be enough for you to slip out of the cage.

  “Yes. I understand.”

  Together, they summoned power. Amlina had prepared herself to bend all her strength today to pure shaping. She could not have guessed it would be for this purpose. She and Glyssa focused on a single disk in the ceiling, prying and tugging. At first, the gemmed disk lay still, embedded in a sealant. Suddenly it shifted and specks of dust fell.

  Over by the wall, the witch Arkasha sat up and stared.

  Harder, Amlina urged.

  Peering suspiciously, Arkasha got up from her chair, picked up a staff, strode toward the cage.

  Amlina feared they would be too late. Arkasha would arrive and poke Glyssa’s body, disrupting their concentration. But then Glyssa summoned a burst of will. The disk dropped from the ceiling, and the light beam flickered out.

  Instantly, Glyssa charged through the opening. Arkasha gave a cry and raised her staff. But Glyssa was a trained warrior and eager for a fight. She leaped, grabbed the staff in both hands. As they grabbled for the weapon, Glyssa regained her balance. Planting one foot, she lifted the other and thrust her knee into Arkasha’s groin. The elder woman groaned and buckled. Tossing the staff away, Glyssa grabbed the witch’s wrist and twisted it behind her back, yanking the arm up violently. Arkasha cried in pain.

  Amlina exulted. Tell her to show you the way out.

  A glance told her the ogre was still locked in trance, unmoving. Glyssa whispered threateningly to the witch and Arkasha, grimacing, nodded in surrender. Glyssa kept tight hold of the woman’s wrist and shoulder. Staggering, Arkasha led her along the wall to a black iron door. From a shelf she took a bronze key and offered it over her shoulder.

  Make her open the lock, Amlina said.

  One arm still twisted behind her back, her other hand trembling, Arkasha placed the key in the air an inch from the middle of the square door. A lock of shiny mist appeared around the key, and Arkasha twisted. Chains creaked, and the massive door rumbled as it slid into the ground.

  Beyond stretched a dim tunnel. Weakly, Arkasha pointed.

  “Oh, no.” Glyssa said. “You lead me out.”

  “Very well.”

  The witch pulled the key from the misty lock where it hovered. Glyssa shoved to move her forward.

  The tunnel was ten or twelve feet high and at least ten paces across. The floor sloped up toward a distant metal door, just visible in the faint light from the chamber behind them. Faded murals adorned the walls, a procession of warriors and chariots. From the painting style, Amlina realized the tomb was ancient, from before the Age of the World’s Madness. As Keeper of the Keys, Clorodice would know many such hidden places.

  After about forty paces, they came to the second door. In the darkness, the key in Arkasha’s had taken on a shine of witchlight. Once more, she raised the key before the center of the door, and once more a misty lock materialized. Arkasha turned the key.

  With a hiss and growl, the door rolled downward. Bright daylight shone beyond, and Glyssa gave a cry of joy. From the steps outside, her klarnmates rushed to embrace her.

  Thirty-Five

  Snatched from the mind-link, Amlina gazed up into a dazzling blue sky. She sat slumped with her back to the wall of the fountain. A sea of faces gaped down at her. Among those closest, Amlina recognized witches from the Inner Council—Drusdegarde, Clorodice …

  “Amlina Len Tai, are you back in this world?” The speaker was Drusdegarde, the voice impatient.

  But Amlina was staring hard into the sharp face of Clorodice—the high witch, strict adherent of the austere Thread of Virtue, who had raised an ancient, murderous evil. Staring back at her, Clorodice’s eyes narrowed.

  “Amlina!” Drusdegarde called. “Are you well enough to continue?”

  Amlina struggled to her feet, glancing around at the faces. The Tournament of Witches, the final event … But what about Glyssa and the Iruks? Did they still need her?

  “Your … fainting spell has interrupted the contest for some time,” Drusdegarde said, stern but not harsh now. “We must know if you are fit enough to continue.”

  “Perhaps she should be disqualified,” Clorodice offered. “This bears the marks of suspicious practice.”

  Wicksa, Keeper of Swords, replied: “If tainted practice is at work, it would seem Amlina is the victim rather than the perpetrator.”

  “She cannot be disqualified without delaying the final event,” said Crandora, Keeper of the Books. “There must always be three. So it is written.”

  “The one who finished fourth could take her place,” Clorodice said.

  Drusdegarde watched Amlina keenly. “No. We will allow Amlina to compete—if she is ready.”

  Amlina needed time to think, to try to reach Glyssa again. She could not do that with everyone watching. She brushed off her robe. “Yes. I apologize for my fainting. I am ready now.”

  Drusdegarde nodded. “So be it.”

  The high witches returned to their chairs. The Mistress of the Tournament walked back out before the crowd. She spoke apologies for the delay and then introduced Amlina as the third finalist.

  Struggling to keep steady, Amlina stepped onto the platform. Cheers of acclamation rang in her ears as she paced cautiously over the plank bridge and climbed into her seat above the pool.

  “Now that the finalists are all seated,” the Mistress of the Tournament shouted. “Let the competition begin.”

  The crash of a gong reverberated over the water.

  Amlina shut her eyes and called to Glyssa in her mind.

  

  “Is Trippany here?” Eben shouted, as the Iruks and drell warriors clustered around the mouth of the tunnel.

  “Yes. And the ogre too,” Glyssa answered.

  She turned her head and Eben saw the black-robed witch who had stood there a moment ago skulking away down the tunnel. Glyssa darted after the witch and jumped on her back, toppling the woman to the ground.

  “Oh, no,” Glyssa cried. “You’ll not sneak away and shut the gate again.” Squeezing the woman’s wrist, she forced her to drop a gleaming key.

  Snatching up the key, Glyssa wheeled triumphantly to face the Iruks. “Now, mates, let us go and kill an ogre.”

  Grinning, Lonn handed her a spear. The mates started down the tunnel at a run, the drell warriors flying overhead.

  They had gone less than half-way when the air began to hum. The passageway shone with a weird gray light. Behind them, Eben heard a rhythmic chanting. He whirled to see the witch that Glyssa had overpowered, standing in the middle of the tunnel with arms thrust high. Her words echoed harsh and shrill, in a language Eben guessed to be an archaic form of Larthangan. The gray light flashed to silver and a shrieking wind tore through the tunnel. The Iruks st
opped and huddled back to back, raising swords and spears.

  The paintings on the walls had come to life.

  Warriors seven- or eight-feet tall jumped to the floor, heavy boots thudding. Helmets with visors hid their faces. They advanced with pikes and long, curved blades. In the air above, the drell warriors hovered and darted, seeking openings to attack. Karrol roared as she charged, and then the rest of the mates sprang after her.

  

  Deep in the foggy, glittering spaces of vision, Phingarr Pheng stared at the Pool of Perpetual Light. His mind bound with Clorodice’s, he pulled the arc of water toward her apprentice, Elani Vo T’ang.

  But something was wrong—an intrusion. Cocking an ear, he heard shouts of battle and the clash of weapons. His body, seated inside the tomb, stiffened and shifted as he perceived what was happening.

  “The tomb has been breached,” he growled at Clorodice. “We must break the trance.”

  “Not yet!” the witch cried. “We are close … a few moments more.”

  “Stupid woman! We are under attack!”

  With a brutish roar, the phingarr strained to tear his mind free. Clorodice gasped in pain and fought to restrain him. The gleaming ribbon of light that bound them in the vision snapped tight.

  

  Seated above the pool, Amlina gazed at the arcing water spout. But she applied no effort now to the contest. Her thoughts focused on Glyssa, trying to reestablish the link. She sensed her friends were in danger again.

  Closing her eyes, she sought the peaceful, contemplative state of trance.

  Glyssa. Our minds are one. Our minds are one.

  Amlina! We need you. We are losing the fight.

  Reach for me Glyssa.

  Heat burst behind Amlina’s forehead. Blinking, she found herself again in Glyssa’s body. Her eyes looked out on violent chaos.

  The mates were surrounded, assaulted on all sides by giant warriors in armor from ages past. The murals on the wall had come to life! Standing back to back, the Iruks hacked and lunged. Glyssa held a sword she had taken from Karrol, who was down with a shoulder wound. From her knees, Karrol still jabbed left-handed with her spear. Lonn and the others fought on grimly, but Amlina could tell their limbs were growing heavy. As she watched, Brinda’s blade sliced open a warrior’s belly. The wound appeared with a sizzling sound and a blaze of light—and immediately closed.

  They stepped out of the pictures, Glyssa explained. Our weapons do not hurt them.

  Age-old sorcery, designed to protect the tomb, Amlina realized.

  A glance down the tunnel showed one of the drells had fallen. Four others clustered around him, making their stand in a circle. Their strength too was flagging.

  They must have a vulnerable place, a source of power, Amlina told Glyssa.

  “Yes. But where?”

  Amlina scanned the warriors with her deepsight. Drogs normally had a single point on their bodies where the animating force poured in from the Deepmind. But these ancient soldiers were no drogs. Elemental beings, they hardly had physical form at all—like the very pictures from which they sprang. Amlina cast her gaze at a nearby mural. A thought occurred.

  Glyssa, cast your spear at the wall, at a warrior’s picture.

  “What good will that do?”

  Try it, please!

  Glyssa dropped the sword, switched the hunting spear to her right hand. She crouched to get an opening and threw the spear. It flew the short distance to the wall and struck a painted warrior. The spear shuddered and hung there, as if it had pierced not paint and brick, but flesh. In the tunnel nearby, a warrior groaned and melted into the air.

  “That’s it!” Glyssa cried. “Mates! Strike their pictures.”

  The Iruks and drells both grasped her meaning. Soon they were darting and wheeling past the tall warriors to stab at the paintings. One by one the phantom soldiers shriveled in the air and faded like smoke.

  When the last of their adversaries were gone, Glyssa and her mates stood panting, elated.

  “Now for the ogre!” Glyssa cried.

  Lifting her sword, she led the charge down the tunnel.

  

  “We are attacked!”

  Roaring in fear and rage, Phingarr Pheng tore his body out of the chair. On the far side of the vision space, he heard Clorodice gag with pain. Only a slim ribbon now connected them, at their hearts.

  Wakening in the tomb, regaining control of his muscles, the phingarr snatched his staff from where it leaned nearby. Warriors rushed at him, Iruks with spears and swords, drells swooping from above with lances.

  Growling, he leaped at them, swatting a drell from the air, poking the freezing staff at an Iruk’s chest.

  

  As his mates and the drells rushed down the passageway, Eben had stopped. A quick glance behind showed the black-robed witch skulking toward the outer door. Eben made a quick decision and darted after her. Catching the witch at the bottom of the steps, he grabbed her arm. She gave a cry of alarm as he spun her around. His sword-point prodded her throat.

  “Come along,” he growled. “We may need you yet.”

  With her wrist in his grip, sword edge at her throat, Eben marched her back past the now flat and motionless wall paintings.

  At the end of the passage, they entered a wide, round chamber filled with wavering lamplight and the shouts of battle. Eben’s mates and the drell warriors circled the ogre, who roared and waved his magic staff to keep them at bay.

  Eben held on to the witch. His mates and the drells, he was sure, could handle the ogre. Scanning the edges of the tomb, he spotted alcoves and doorways and, along one wall, bars of yellow light forming a barrier. Just visible in the shadows lay a small winged figure.

  “Come,” he said to the witch. “You will free the drell lady. I hope she is still alive—for your sake.”

  

  His attackers were too many!

  Seized by terror, Phingarr Pheng gazed past the darting and thrusting weapons, desperately seeking an escape.

  An Iruk blade gashed his arm. As Pheng yanked it back in a spray of blood, a drell flew behind and drove a lance point deep into his back. Bawling in pain, Pheng tried to stab the drell with his staff. But now his front was exposed. With howls of their own, the Iruks thrust deep into his chest and belly.

  The phingarr fell to his knees. His head lolled down, eyes staring at the plunging steel and spurting blood.

  No! From far away, Clorodice shrieked in dismay.

  Yes, witch. You have brought me to this!

  The phingarr collapsed, sprawled on his belly. As his back was stabbed again and again, he retreated from the pain, back into the vision. Across the inner space, he saw the witch, their hearts still linked by a ribbon of power. With hate and spite, he poured the last of his strength into that link, binding the witch to himself.

  As his life bled away, a glittering abyss opened beneath him. Falling, he gripped Clorodice and dragged her down.

  

  Amlina’s awareness poured back into her body.

  The ogre was slain. Her friends were safe.

  Dazed, she stared at the gleaming, rippling water. On the far side of the pool, the arc of the spout wavered. Splashing near the wreath of Elani Vo T’ang, it now crept toward Shen Tra Lo.

  A commotion made Amlina turn her head. Behind her, in the Archimage’s box, the witches gathered around one who had collapsed. Clorodice, Amlina thought, her life perhaps ended by the monster she had made.

  Amlina looked back at the fountain. She still had time. She could still win.

  Lifting her shoulders, she summoned power. All her heart, all the force of her soul, all the wild strength that rightfully belonged to her as a klarnmate, she poured into deepshaping. Casting her will across the pool, she focused, summoning the arc of water.

  The spout quivered, wavering again. Then it shifted back toward the center, back toward Amlina. In her mind she felt her opponents tugging, fighting. Elani seemed baffled and frigh
tened—perhaps sensing the loss of Clorodice’s influence. Her strength was ebbing. But Shen Tra Lo was a strong and confident soul, a witch of deep power. Undisturbed by the changing circumstances, she continued her pure shaping from a place of inward calm.

  The spout stalled near the central island, hovered, then drifted back toward the wreath of Shen Tra Lo. Amlina grimaced, sucking air between her teeth. She fought to steer the falling water.

  The spout wobbled and shifted. Doubts nibbled at Amlina’s confidence. If she weren’t so exhausted, if she had not turned her attention away from the contest … But she had no regrets. Glyssa and the others were safe—that was what mattered most.

  Inexorably, the tumbling spray moved across the pool. The clamor and cheering around the plaza grew louder. Amlina watched, weary, serene, disappointed yet grateful, as the water fell into her opponent’s wreath of flowers.

  Shen Tra Lo had won the Tournament of Witches.

  Thirty-Six

  Two days later, Amlina was summoned to Ting Ta Roo to appear before the Inner Council. She was uncertain what to expect. She hoped she might receive honors for finishing as a finalist in the Tournament, perhaps be offered a post at the House of the Deepmind or in the provinces. She might be rewarded for her part in ending the threat of the phingarr. On the other hand, she might be censured for disrupting the final event, or for using foreign magic—if the presence of the klarn-soul had been detected in her. She might even be blamed for the death of Clorodice. Anything seemed possible.

  After the final event, a banquet had been held at the Tuan’s palace to celebrate the end of the Festival. Amlina had excused herself early, pleading exhaustion. Since that evening she had stayed in seclusion in the Iruks’ apartment. Eating, resting in bed with Draven, feeling the joy and love of her mates—all had been wonderful. Eben in particular was heartened that Trippany had been found alive. The winged lady was now in the care of Prince Spegis’ household and expected to recover.

  Through the prince, the Tuan had been apprised of the events at the tomb, the slaying of the ogre, and the Iruks’ part in the adventure. A flurry of investigations and conferences had ensued, but Amlina didn’t know how far they had progressed—in particular, whether the inquiries had reached the House of the Deepmind or if the role of the deceased Clorodice and her circle been uncovered.