Pain had yet to reach his awareness as the beast yanked him into the air. Before the agony of his broken limb could drive him into blackness, Kral hardened his heart against the pain.
He was a rock. Rocks did not feel pain.
Hanging in the beast’s grip, Kral bent at the waist and blindly swung his ax toward the wrist that held him. The iron blade shuddered slightly as it passed through the bone of the creature’s arm. He was allowed only a moment of satisfaction before he fell and struck his head on the ground.
Dazed, he rolled away from where he thought the skal’tum stood, hugging his ax to his chest. Blood flowed from a wound on his forehead, obscuring his view. He rolled to his one good knee, unable to stand, and swiped his ax before him. It encountered nothing. He rubbed the blood from his eyes and saw the skal’tum clutching the stump of its arm, trying to stanch the black river spurting from its wound.
Kral stared at the creature’s injured belly and arm. His weapon had truly pierced its dark magick! But why? How? He silently thanked the gods of his people. Whatever the reason, he now had a chance to wipe the shame from his heart. With a coward’s tongue, he had fled from these beasts earlier. This time he would show his courage!
The beast finally realized the futility of its effort to halt the bleeding and dropped its wounded arm. Blood hung in thick clots from the severed wrist. It again stalked toward him, more cautiously this time, wings raised in wary readiness.
Behind it, Kral spotted Elena’s face glowing in the flashes of lightning. She was caught in a claw of the other beast. Her captor still struggled to free its legs of the entangling roots and its wings of the clinging branches.
Before he could help her, Kral needed to dispatch the beast who now approached so carefully.
Kral eyed the creature, looking for weakness. It still had so many weapons: a clawed hand, two daggered feet, and a mouth of ripping teeth. And the beast was now alert, thinking instead of reacting. It would not again act rashly and underestimate its quarry.
Kral knew what he must do. He had to draw the beast closer.
He took a deep breath and stoked himself for the fire ahead. Once prepared, he released the magick from his heart. He was no longer rock. Stone melted to flesh once again. The pain from his fractured leg now flowed free. It stabbed and burned through his blood like a fire through dry brush, tearing him apart. His vision blacked, and he fell to the mud.
He fought to stay conscious, but the pain argued against it.
Through the fog of agony, he heard the skal’tum cackle as it leaped at its injured prey. “I will enjoy feasssting on your bowelsss, mountain worm,” the beast hissed.
Kral forced his eyes open. He lay on his side and saw the creature’s toes dig into the mud only a breath away from his nose. He twisted his head up in time to see the beast lunge its teeth for his throat. Kral ignored the agony spearing from his leg and threw himself into a roll, bringing his arm and ax up in a wide swing.
Only one chance, he thought. He felt his ax bite, but what? When he came to a stop, he saw the skal’tum lying sprawled an arm’s length away. Its head lay even farther.
Thank the gods!
Kral rolled again to one knee, but now it took all his effort to keep at bay the darkness that howled for him. He saw that Nee’lahn and Meric fared no better. The nymph lay curled in a ball by the base of her tree, one hand stretched up to the elm’s trunk. The tree’s limbs still moved, but they offered little restraint. Meric had collapsed to his knees, obviously spent. No glow traced his figure.
As Kral watched, he saw the surviving skal’tum snap the last of the roots from its limbs and brush off the feeble branches. It was free. And Elena still lay within its grasp. She fought against it with weak fingers; Kral saw her tears.
From the numb glaze coming to her eyes, Kral knew she was succumbing to the same darkness that hounded him. Yet where Kral’s darkness burned, hers promised the coolness of escape.
Do not lose heart, he silently willed to her.
Kral raised his ax a final time. He could not cross the clearing and reach the other skal’tum. But his ax could!
He would have only one throw.
As he hauled back his arm, he prayed that the gods grant him this one wish. Closing his eyes, he wrenched his arm forward, drawing on all the muscles in his back and shoulder. He opened his eyes; the ax flew from his hand.
The blade flipped in slow circles through the air.
The fate of the child was now beyond his grasp. His heart knew its duty done and allowed the blackness to swell. With a groan, Kral’s vision blurred, and he fell to the mud.
ELENA SAW THE ax fly toward her. She did not struggle to escape its path. She simply closed her eyes. Let it strike her. Let the horrors end.
A sharp rush of air passed overhead. The claw that clasped her shoulder tensed for a heartbeat, then dropped away. Surprised at the sudden freedom, her knees buckled under her own weight.
“Run, Elena!” Er’ril called to her from across the clearing.
His words took several heartbeats to penetrate her skull. Her head twisted to see what remained of her captor: It still stood above her, but the long hickory shaft of Kral’s ax protruded from its chest like a third arm. The blade had buried itself fully in the creature’s chest. Black blood dribbled from slack lips.
It still stood, one claw gently fingering the ax’s leather-wrapped handle. A cough bubbled up from its chest and cast forth more blood. It sank to its knees, as if crudely mimicking Elena’s pose. She was transfixed by the flow of black rivers from its lips.
“Get back!” Er’ril called.
“Elena, honey—run!” Her uncle’s voice broke the strange spell the skal’tum had upon her. She found her feet moving and hobbled across the sodden leaves. Yet she could not draw her eyes from the horrible creature’s death.
The skal’tum’s wings sank to the mud. Its eyes searched the clearing and stopped when its face found Rockingham. A single claw raised and pointed to the man. It spoke with specks of black foam accenting its words, “Blood speaks to birthright. Nai’goru tum skal mor!”
Elena felt a flow of power pass over her from the beast. The hairs on her neck stood quivering.
The beast fell backward, the halt of the ax pointing to the cloud-choked sky. Its chest heaved one last time, and a gout of blood fountained from nose and mouth. Then it lay still.
All eyes were on the dead skal’tum when Rockingham began to gasp and clutch at his throat. The man ignored the growling wolf and stumbled into the clearing. His face had reddened to a purplish hue, his eyes bulged out. He raised a hand to where Elena stood. “H-h-help me.”
His body suddenly snapped back, stretched taut. With his spine arched at such an impossible angle, Rockingham balanced on his toes. He screamed a single word to the sky—a name. “Linora!” Then a sharp crack echoed across the glade, and like a puppet with its strings cut, Rockingham collapsed dead to the mud.
Elena stared numbly at the man who had killed her family. She had thought to feel some satisfaction, but only an emptiness yawned behind her breastbone.
Silence descended over the valley. A wind moaned through the wet wood.
The wolf padded over to Rockingham and sniffed at him. Its hackles were still raised.
Her uncle spoke behind her. “Look there, I think Kral still breathes.”
“He lives?” the swordsman said, amazement thick in his voice.
Elena tore her eyes from Rockingham’s corpse and turned to where Kral lay.
Uncle Bol knelt by the mountain man and pulled Kral’s head from the mud. Leaves smeared one side of his craggy face. Kral’s eyes fluttered open, and he let out a shuddering breath. He coughed. “Did I . . . did I kill it?” he said with a weak tongue.
“Yes,” her uncle said. “Now don’t move until we splint your leg.”
“Let . . . let me see the girl.”
Her uncle waved Elena over to them. She rushed to the mountain man’s side, elated to find even
a single death cheated this night.
Kral’s eyes glowed with relief at the sight of her.
Er’ril accompanied her. The swordsman knelt beside Kral. “You saved us all.” He waved his hand to indicate Meric and Nee’lahn, who were now just starting to rise on shaky feet.
“We all did,” Kral mumbled. “With the help of the gods.” He pushed up enough to see where his ax protruded from the dead bulk of the beast. He sighed and sank his forehead to the mud. Elena heard him mutter a prayer of thanks.
Er’ril touched his shoulder. “Your ax flew true. Your arm’s strength saved this foul night.”
“But it did not save my craven heart,” Kral mumbled to the ground.
“What is this you mutter?” Er’ril asked. “You slew them bravely.”
“No, the gods did. My blade should not have cut through the beasts’ dark magick. It was the work of the gods, not my arm.”
“No, Kral, it was no god’s hand that pierced their black protections. Your blade was anointed in the blood of the creature you slew in Winterfell. Its black spirit bathed your ax. A weapon so treated will slice through their magick.”
Kral’s head swung up as Er’ril spoke, his eyes suddenly focused and sober. He reached and clutched the swordsman’s knee. “What is this you speak?”
Er’ril seemed confused by the fervor in Kral’s eyes. The mountain man’s hand slipped from Er’ril’s knee. Kral’s eyes narrowed with a pain that was not just physical. “I thought it a ruse, a lie.”
“What lie?” Er’ril asked.
Kral hung his head again. “My tongue spoke falsely to escape the beasts at the cottage. I told them I knew of a way to pierce their skin’s shield—that my ax could kill them.”
Kral’s pain held the swordsman’s tongue.
Uncle Bol spoke to fill the hard silence, placing a hand on the mountain man’s chest. “But it ended up being the truth. You did not lie.”
Kral’s eyes continued to shine with pain. “In my heart, I did.”
Uncle Bol looked to Er’ril for help. He only shook his head, unsure what else to say. Kral’s eyes began to close again, his breathing hoarse with pain.
Elena found herself placing a hand on Uncle Bol and Er’ril. She guided them aside and knelt by Kral. He had saved her. She would not let him carry this pain in his heart.
Too many others had already given too much for her safety.
She could erase this one debt.
As she knelt, Kral’s eyes opened a bit wider in acknowledgment of her presence, but deep sorrow still resided behind his pupils.
She raised his chin with a finger, then moved the finger to his lips. “No lie passed your tongue, man of the mountains. Your heart protected you, as you protected me. Do not let guilt sully your brave actions. Your heart held true.” She bent and placed a small kiss on his lips, then repeated in a whisper, “No lies passed these lips.”
Her touch and words softened the lines drawn deep on his brow and around his eyes. His body visibly relaxed. “Thank you,” he muttered softly, and his eyes drifted closed. His breathing resumed a more peaceful rhythm.
Er’ril squeezed her shoulder. “You may have just saved his life. His guilt would have sapped his will, and Kral’s heart must be strong, free of doubt, to heal his wounds.”
Elena fell back to Er’ril’s chest. The swordsman’s words were a balm on her soul, too. A long sigh rattled in her tired chest. Er’ril placed his arm around her and helped her rise.
Uncle Bol wandered over and knelt by Rockingham. The killer lay on his back in the mud, his limbs twisted at odd angles. Her uncle placed a hand on the man’s neck.
Elena waited. She suddenly had an urge to pull Uncle Bol away. Rockingham had killed her parents. She did not want anyone else near him. She opened her mouth, then closed it, knowing how foolish her words would sound.
“I feel no beat of his heart. He does not breathe,” her uncle said. He stood with a groan, one hand supporting his lower back. Turning to them, he wiped his hands together as if to remove any traces of Rockingham’s foul touch. “He is dead.”
Elena allowed herself to relax. It was over. Dawn was near. She suddenly had a heartfelt need to see the sun again.
Her uncle smiled at her.
She returned it, shyly at first, then stronger. This long night neared its end.
As she smiled, her nose warned her before her eyes. A stench of open graves swelled across the glade. Her nose curled from the smell, trying to shut out the noxious odor.
When Elena saw what rose behind her uncle, she screamed.
38
MOGWEED HEARD THE girl’s terror and retreated farther down the tunnel. Whatever created such fear had to be far worse than any goblins. Maybe he could find another way out. But fear of the dark passages and of hidden cave creatures kept him hovering.
Near the tunnel’s mouth, Tol’chuk stood by the drape of roots, still unable to free himself from the passage. The sounds of battle had ignited the og’re’s blood. He tore viciously at the iron-hard roots of the oak. Several of Tol’chuk’s claws had ripped and now bled.
Mogweed saw the og’re shake with a blood rage. Suddenly Tol’chuk swung from his attack on the roots to face Mogweed. The og’re’s eyes glowed, not with the amber of his si’lura heritage but with the red fire of an og’re. He pointed a ragged claw at Mogweed.
“You!” Tol’chuk boomed, funneling his anger toward him. “You knew!”
Mogweed felt the air thicken as the og’re’s rage enveloped him. His eyes grew wide with the memory of the og’re tearing the sniffer to bloody tatters when they first met. His tongue froze in his mouth.
“You knew what lay beyond the tunnel, yet your tongue be silent!”
Mogweed fought his throat and lips, trying to find words to deny the accusations. He could not.
Tol’chuk thundered down the passage, filling the entire tunnel. Mogweed covered his head with both arms. He felt he steam of the og’re’s hot breath. He cringed, awaiting the rip of teeth.
“Why?” Tol’chuk hissed in a small, deadly voice, much more chilling than his booming rage. “Why did you betray us?”
Mogweed knew he must speak. In his present fury, Tol’chuk would certainly kill him. But what could he say? He had betrayed them. Only Rockingham would know the words to escape this fate. Mogweed pictured the man’s snide demeanor. Yes, Rockingham would know, and as Mogweed thought of him, he suddenly knew, too. Rockingham had taught him something. Why deny?
Mogweed focused his breathing to a slower pace and swallowed several times. He tried to ignore the pungent smell of the heated og’re. “I did know about the winged beasts,” he finally admitted, his voice squeaking.
Tol’chuk’s breath rushed at him. “You confess it?”
“Yes.” Mogweed closed his eyes. He pictured himself as Rockingham. “But I was forced to. Nee’lahn’s life was held hostage on the strength of my silence.”
“You sacrificed all of us for the one?”
“No, they only wanted the girl. They swore safe passage for the others.”
Tol’chuk remained silent at his words.
Mogweed pressed his advantage, as Rockingham had done with the skal’tum. “I knew nothing of this girl child, but the nyphai are friends of my people—of your people, too. Si’lura and nyphai have been allies of the forest since ages lost in the past. I could not let Nee’lahn die for the sake of a female human child. Humans have hunted us, slaughtered us like mere animals. Why should I trade the life of a friend for an unknown enemy? So I agreed.”
“You could have warned us,” Tol’chuk said, but hesitation and doubt now laced his ire.
Mogweed struck harder. “My tongue does not make false promises. Though the pact was a foul one, I made it in an attempt to save the life of an innocent. Once spoken, I would not go back on my word. Would you? Is that the way of the og’re people?”
Tol’chuk sagged to the tunnel floor. “No, it be just such a betrayal by one of my ancestors that s
tarted my journey and cursed my people.”
Mogweed sensed he should keep quiet.
“I apologize,” the og’re said after a period of silence. “The road of honor can often be difficult.”
“Your words are spoken with respect,” Mogweed said solemnly, bowing his head, though his heart soared with laughter. “I accept your apology.”
From down the tunnel, the girl screamed again.
ER’RIL PULLED THE screaming child to his chest. A gray tentacle, thick as a man’s thigh and laced with splotches of red, whipped from behind Bol to wrap around the old man’s waist and chest.
Gods above! Er’ril stumbled back, yanking the girl with him. Large suckers, like tiny mouths, glued to the old man’s clothing and skin. Before Bol could raise a hand against the creature’s hold, he suddenly spasmed in its grip. His mouth opened in a cry that never sounded. Then he fell limp.
The tentacle thickened and lifted the old man’s thin frame. It flung his body, like a rag doll, to the forest’s edge. As the tentacle unwrapped, Er’ril saw what had killed Bol. Horned daggers, poking from each of its sucker mouths like hundreds of spearing tongues, pulled from the man’s flesh. A steaming red oil dripped from the tip of each horn: poison. The horns retracted.
Elena moaned as Er’ril guided her backward toward the forest’s edge. She sank to the mud, her eyes fixed on her uncle’s collapsed form.
With his one arm, Er’ril tried to hold her up, but his weak muscles were racked with the strain. Elena slid in his grip. He fought to drag her back from the beast, his boot heels slipping in the mud and dead leaves.
Er’ril stared in horror at what awaited them if they failed to reach the trees.
Rockingham’s chest had split open like a chiseled melon, and a cauldron of black energies swirled forth. From this void, the tentacle had wormed into the world.
It continued to throb and undulate as it dragged farther out of the swirling densities.
Now Er’ril understood how the Dark Lord had tracked them. Rockingham was not a man, at least not any longer, but a construct of black magick. Er’ril had heard rumors of such creatures. He was a golem, a hollow shell created from the dead heart of a suicide.
Wit'ch Fire Page 40