Climbing out of the wagon, Breanna spoke to Sean, and asked him to stay with Rand if there was fighting. The boy was no more fearful than the others, and his skill with the bow was very good, but she felt he would be much safer and more useful beside the captain in close combat.
“I’m going to find Elida,” she said. “When I do, I will find the witch. I may need everyone here to help me overpower her. I only hope we all survive tonight, and if the Creator is on our side, we will. Take care,” she said to those listening. “You have but this one life—make it count.”
Not long after the archery event, one of Rand’s mates had loaned both he and Tom longbows, and though they weren’t tempered by elven magic, they would serve them well. Breanna had her bow, the only weapon she intended to use. She sent Kit to the back of the cart and told him to stay.
“You know the smell of smoke. If it begins in the cart, leave this place and find shelter where there is water.” She hated to leave him, but taking a fox into battle was not only foolish, it was dangerous to the animal. She stripped her extra clothing down, for the evening air was cool, but not uncomfortable, and pulled her hair back in a braid for ease of travel. She looked the part of a young boy out to create mischief in the night. Easing toward the village square, she noticed the fires burning on the east side. The cottages were ablaze, sending families out in the night among the terrors on the streets and in the heavens. Children’s cries could be heard near the village as more and more were forced to leave their homes. Breanna’s anger toward the witch grew even stronger as she saw the calamities of innocent people.
Off to the right, she saw Tom led some of the men toward the village circle, and she asked herself why were the dancers madly circling the fires. Something was awry, for the people dancing behaved like puppets in a child’s play. Such things had happened once in Weir, and the picture had never left her mind. Quickly, and as quietly as possible, she called to Tom and pointed to the witches. He moved toward her and heard what she had to say.
“Aye, lass,” he agreed, “there’s much about them to make me question. Let me send my arrow amongst them.” Saying that, he drew back the bow and pulled, the arrow flying true to target into the dancer’s midst as they continued circling, uninterrupted.
“We’ve been fooled—those are not witches, they are spelled villagers,” Breanna said, halting the rest of the shooters. “Go. Search all the houses still standing in the village. Someone will know where they have gone. Remember, though, some of the villagers are loyal to the witches.”
From across the center, in another place, Sean yelled, “Bree, come with us. There’s something you need to see. Hurry, Bree.”
Darkness was full upon the land, but the cloud fires, pure witch-work, lit up the few remaining undamaged buildings with swirling red light. The eerie popping of cloud lightning carried across the way, frightening the villagers who ran away from their homes. The heavens above Parth were particularly affected, although the outer boundaries of the swirling masses seemed to be increasing and dropping lower to the ground, setting fires across the land toward the Beltick Seaway as the storms blew there in full force.
“What is it, Sean? Are you hurt?” Breanna asked. Concerned for the boy, she followed closely behind Rand and his mates.
“Bree, see that old chapel over there? There’s light inside it, like someone is there. Unless the people are praying, there’s others that might be using it, thinking we wouldn’t suspect them of being there in a place where people are supposed to be reverent.”
“You’re right,” Breanna said, stepping higher as she placed her feet to push off, to jump across the distance. “We should go there to see who prays tonight.”
Bounding from the place where she stood, Breanna used Sheela’s memory to lift and carry her toward the chapel that appeared to be no more than a stable with walls and doors. In the darkness her vision was flawless and the details of the building were clear. Making one last high jump, she landed noiselessly near the window in the back of the church, where beams of a taper’s light mixed with the unholy red light in the sky. Through the shutter Breanna could see a large group groveling before a post in the center of the room where little Elida was tied. Her head leaned to the side, as though she was unconscious.
With a sharp intake of breath, Breanna recognized the child was being readied for sacrifice. She is to be burned whole. Elida must have refused the witches’ offer. A great pile of wood had been laid on the ground surrounding the post and the child. Someone dressed in bright reds and purples cast a long shadow in the light as she spoke from atop a tree stump, giving instructions to the groveling witches. It had to be Yahmara!
Surely she knows we are here, Breanna thought, watching the witch to determine her next move.
The woman’s head turned sharply toward her, with eyes bright, pupils glowing red from the firelight reflections, the wicked mouth smiling as its lips touched the child’s forehead. Lifting her hand, Yahmara pointed to Breanna.
You’ve come, little Mathena. At last, I will eat your heart and destroy your mother and your kin. Soon all the memories will be mine and there will be no more sharing.
Breanna listened to the voice in her head and knew fear. She was, after all, only a young girl about to take on a woman grown.
Smiling again, Yahmara read the girl’s thoughts and saw her panic, just as Breanna planned.
Boastful to the end, the witch screamed, “I am glad to see Mathena’s pup has some ability, but it appears she also is bright enough to see the hopelessness of her plight. The game would have been much more interesting with resistance.” She turned again toward her followers, uncaring who was listening outside the chapel.
“Set the wood ablaze,” she screamed. “Burn the creature and destroy this offensive place hated by my master.”
Breanna breathed a sigh, happy with her own performance. She believed the witch had never intended to put Elida through a ritual and take her heart. It was a bluff, to bring Breanna to her. Now that Yahmara believed Breanna to be frightened and unsure, the child was no longer important. Burning Elida’s body along with the chapel would take less time and suit the witch’s needs.
One of the witches heard the command and lifted a blazing taper, headed toward the pile of kindling and wood. Breanna pulled her bow and ran to the locked entry door. She had to get in, but there was no way, short of breaking through. Leaning into it, she sent a wish to the old memories, to Sheela, who projected her in time and space. Power hummed and pulsed and increased her pressure against the wooden beams. Splinters shot forth, spearing the groveling witches. All their attention turned toward the intruder, and they ran at her, intent on destroying the enemy, but Breanna’s arrow was aimed toward the witch with the taper, and when it was loosed, it entered the evil chest, piercing where her heart should be.
Those watching screamed with rage and fear at their sister, insisting she get up and light the fire. The others pulled lances from nearby walls, their spear points sharp and ready for killing. Noises of others approaching told Breanna her friends had arrived in time to help, and she was grateful. The coven of screeching women poured outside the chapel with lances poised and drawn back, and they threw them with abandon toward the oncoming group.
Yahmara’s surprise and anger knew no bounds. She hated it when she had been fooled. Breaking the binding ropes, she plucked the girl from the post and disappeared from sight as Breanna fought against those brandishing lances. Quickly, the remaining witches armed themselves with firebrands and began inching forward, thrusting their weapons in one hand, and fiery sticks with another. Breanna was surrounded, and her clothing grew hotter by the minute. It was time to fight fire with fire, and destroy the cruel followers of the Spectre.
The confidence of the crowd of crones made them grow careless, and they came too close. Lifting her hands, Breanna shot streams of blue fire into the witches’ heavy clothing, and the fabric exploded, sending them outside screaming from the pain of their burns. The clo
th burned faster as the wind whipped it against skin and hair. Some flamed like torches and ran at her, but Breanna jumped above them and landed softly on the far side of the chapel. She saw over her shoulder that men carrying hammers and axes made short work of the remaining witches both inside and on the grounds.
Turning again, Breanna searched the landscape for Elida, and finally spotted her on the roof of a cow stall, where the witch held her by her hair. Yahmara appeared to be taunting someone astride a black stallion on the ground below. Breanna looked deeper, separating the red sky from the sight below it, and saw Yahmara spin circles with her right hand, twisting the clouds above her head. She searched the sky, preparing for some magnificent feat.
The man on horseback was followed by several women whose skirts billowed in the wind. Some seemed familiar, especially the one in black near the front. She looked so much like the Mathena in her memory that Breanna gasped, wishing it were true. Now is not the time to gather dreams, she thought.
Dismissing the vision before her, Breanna armed her bow, and prepared to pull the fire-tempered arrow back as far as it would go. She loosed it and caught Yahmara in the right shoulder, making her drop Elida from her grasp. Quickly Breanna fired another red-fletched arrow, skewering the witch’s hand against the tall post.
Screeching like a trapped animal, the witch jerked the arrow from her flesh just as her eyes found the hateful girl standing on the windowsill, paying no attention to the fire behind her. The chapel was aflame, and Yahmara stood unbelieving as she saw the circle of fighters around her, readying their arrows to shoot her dead.
“How dare they come at me?” Once more the witch looked to her master, but he had turned his head away. Her agenda was different from his, for the Spectre shared power with no one. She was on her own.
The black arts had taught her well how to pull heat from the sky and direct it toward those she hoped to destroy. From the cloud above her Yahmara sought lightning, and threw it toward her closest enemy, but Breanna jumped above the fiery bolts. Yahmara wildly drew more fire and threw it at the girl’s position, but the jagged strikes missed again, setting fires in the stable below her.
Inside the other burning buildings, the flames quickly spread, forcing everyone outside. Rand and his fighters evacuated the chapel and surrounded the surviving witches and warlocks who had emerged from the trees when they saw their mistress on the roof of the stable. Few of Yahmara’s following survived as the men from Tick attacked with their crude weapons and fought hand to hand. A few of the coven’s faithful deserted the group and ran away, but the band of men chased the harridans down. Most were captured, but some died fighting as they spewed invectives against the volunteers and the villagers. Only two of the men from Tick were killed, although a few were injured by spears or knives.
Breanna stood ready to face Yahmara, but the man on the horse dismounted and climbed toward them both. Sword in hand, he moved quickly, lithely swinging his body from log to log until he reached the rooftop.
Eliandor knew Yahmara would try to escape, and he couldn’t give her any opportunity, for he knew the gift she carried; he had given it to her when she was young. Who could have dreamed that the small Qay girl would one day seek the black arts of the underworld, and face her kin in a duel that might end in death?
The witch laughed in the old elf’s face, taunting him even as her shoulder and hand ached from her injuries. There was no blood, but the councilor could see she was in pain. He entered her mind and read her thoughts, but quickly withdrew from the hatred there.
Filling her lungs with air, Yahmara roared at him, “You will never catch me, Eliandor of the elves. Look at me. I am beyond your rules.” She ripped her torn gown, exposing the long, ragged black scar. “You cannot hurt me, councilor, for I belong to the Spectre.”
Breanna heard the witch’s hubris and shouted, hoping to give the climber a greater advantage. “Yahmara, you’re nothing. The Spectre knows of your disloyalty, he knows you seek power for yourself, and that is why he has deserted you.”
A wreath of fire from Breanna’s hands encircled the witch, setting her hair and the shredded gown ablaze. Watching the frantic movements of the evil woman, she taunted her, hoping for an advantage. “Call down to your master and see if he comes to your aid. He knows you are prideful, and you only want power for yourself,” the Qay girl said.
Yahmara entreated the Spectre again, all the while hovering near Elida, staying between the girl and Eliandor. Calling for mordants to take vengeance upon the land, Yahmara sought relief, but the Spectre’s children were no longer hers to command. She had offended her master, and he refused to help her. No magical beast made of flies or locusts appeared to destroy her enemies.
“Do you want this miserable human?” Yahmara roared, changing her tactics. “Come and take her from me.” She knew Breanna’s affection for the girl, and was ready to destroy the human child with her black powers, but an arrow came straight from the bow of Eliandor. The point pierced the long black scar on her chest. Straight through it went, penetrating the empty cavern.
On the ground, fighting near the stable continued between the last of Yahmara’s followers and the women who had arrived on horseback. Jumping down from their mounts, the seven fought hand to hand with the ill-equipped witches. Without the Spectre’s interference, the battle on the west side came quickly to a close.
The thatch-covered roof of the stable caught fire, suddenly surrounding the witch and the child. Eliandor’s arrow had injured her terribly, but Yahmara had elven recuperative powers, and she quickly pulled the long stick from her chest and threw it with contempt. A strong thrust of her arm sent it back toward Eliandor with the power of a tightly strung bow. Surveying the land, she saw some of her followers lay upon the ground, most of them dead. The time had come to admit defeat. Her pride was seared, and she screamed obscenities toward all the elven people and the upstart who was her enemy’s child.
Yahmara prepared to use her gift and leave Elida, who had collapsed unconscious on the roof. All the while, the witch edged toward the burning eaves. She stepped from the rooftop and screamed, “We are not done. My time will come, and all of you will die. The gifts are mine!” She sent a withering glance toward Eliandor in one last defying movement.
“Give it up, Yahmara. The gift isn’t yours to keep. It never was, and you knew this from the start. Do the right thing for once in your life.” He was sure his time was wasted, but the councilor fostered a thin hope she might capitulate.
Laughing harshly, the witch lifted both hands into the wind and manipulated air currents, sending her body into flight above the stable. Her injuries took their toll, and slowed her movements, allowing Eliandor to send another arrow, catching and severing her left ear before the witch could turn away.
Breanna ran to Elida and pulled her from the roof of the building, then jumped with her to the ground, clearing the flames. The little girl was thin, her clothing ragged, and her bare feet bled from the rocks and briars on the pathways, but she was breathing. The sweet face Breanna remembered was swollen from insect bites, and her mind and eyes were closed to the terror of the night.
Sean ran to them with his eyes streaming tears and put his arms around his sister. He carried her to a safe place away from the flames and the bodies littering the grounds, and laid her down.
“Elida, wake up,” he begged. “We came, just as we said. Wake up, Elida. Sean and Bree are here for you.” The child didn’t move, nor did she wake from the place she had gone. Her life appeared to be in grave danger.
“Can you take her back to the cart?” Breanna questioned Sean.
“Aye, I can get her there.”
“Then go. It’s still not safe here. Stay and watch her, give her water if she will drink, food if she wakes and wants it. Take care of her, Sean.”
The boy nodded, and, lifting his little sister from the floor, he slipped out the door, into the swirling red lights that shone down on the village and countryside.
&
nbsp; Breanna grabbed her bow and ran toward the east, where the battle was still raging. The witches and some of the spelled villagers on the east side of the village were fighting against the men from Tick. Their weapons were lances and bows, and most of the time they missed their targets in the smoky air. Grass and trees were afire and spreading across the town center, where most of Parth was already destroyed.
Rand was hidden behind an old fence, his bow aimed, the arrow poised, when Breanna found him. “Are there any less than when you began?” she asked him.
“Aye, but they are tricky,” he said as he loosed the arrow from his bow. “Got one.” He grimaced.
“Come with me, Rand. Let’s see what we can do to end this.”
Breanna used her own fire-throwing abilities, finding that when she concentrated, the distance of the flame’s projectile increased to almost twenty yards, much farther than she had ever thrown before. The battle slowed more and more as Yahmara’s followers threw down their weapons and raised hands in the air, searching the sky for their departed leader. They were sullen and grumbling, but they surrendered.
Afterward, Eliandor spoke words to the heavens and twirled his arms, unwinding the turning of the clouds. He was not without his own influence on the elements. Without the witches’ fire to reignite them, the flames disintegrated.
Breanna stood still, leaning against a post, staring at the seven women approaching from across the way. She saw them clearly, her vision flawless in the dark of night.
“Mam? Is it my mam?” she asked. She trembled as she reached for the woman with long black hair.
“Breanna? My child? My Breanna? You are a woman grown!” The girl was dumbfounded, unable to talk. She could only sob, refusing to let go of her mother.
“Where did you come from? How are you here?” They asked the other the same questions, all except for the person standing near the black stallion. He appeared to be the age of Tom, who stood nearby with his borrowed bow, staring at all the new faces.
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