Wit'ch Gate (v5)

by James Clemens

  Wennar nodded, but his eyes appeared hopeless.

  After a short rest, the party moved on, led by the vorg. It hurried them down a steep slope of loose stone. Jerrick took a tumble on the sliding shale. Er’ril caught him and helped the captain down the remainder of the slope. The elv’in was weakening from the long day of hiking, but he refused to return to his sling and slow them down. Mama Freda hovered alongside him.

  Luckily, once into the valley, their way became mostly flat, the going easier for all. They followed a dry streambed past steep cliffs and broken scree. Around them, nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Their footsteps sounded loud to Tol’chuk’s ears. He sniffed. Even the air was dead here.

  By now, the deep gloom of twilight had set in.

  “Maybe we should stop for the night,” Elena said. “The moon will rise soon.”

  Greegrell heard her. “No, not far.” The vorg pointed its arm frantically forward.

  “He’s been saying that,” Jerrick complained, “for the past two leagues.”

  Tol’chuk grumbled deep in his throat. “Perhaps we should heed the vorg. We be not alone out here.” He nodded to where a few distant mines glowed with firelight. “The sooner we be done here the better.”

  No one argued; the pace even increased.

  The night slowly wore on, and the moon crept up from the horizon. This was the second night of its fullness, when the moon was most bright. Elena pulled out the Blood Diary, and the gilt rose on its cover glowed with a brilliant light.

  “Pretty, shiny,” Greegrell said, mesmerized by the book.

  “How much farther?” Er’ril asked, redirecting the vorg’s attention.

  Greegrell pointed forward as the streambed rounded a short peak.

  Ahead, no more than a league, the mountain climbed into the sky. It towered higher than any of the nearby peaks, a black shadow against the stars. Even its silhouette stirred dread in Tol’chuk’s heart. Here was where the Heart of his people had been mined, and from whose dark throat the Black Heart had entered this world.

  “Gy’hallmanti,” Magnam mumbled.

  The vorg urged them along. “Quick, fast, fast.”

  Er’ril kept to Elena’s side, while Wennar maintained her flank. The party continued onward, following the riverbed as it wound through an ever-narrowing defile. Soon sheer cliff faces rose on both sides. Tol’chuk began to grow uneasy. His eyes studied the ridges for movement. His skin began to itch with warning—but nothing moved.

  The party closed ranks and proceeded more cautiously. Ahead, the dark shape of Gy’hallmanti filled the sky, a monstrous black hole. The moon climbed toward its highest point, but still failed to shine upon the peak’s dark slopes. Tol’chuk understood how the mountain had gained its reputation. It was all shadow, no substance.

  Tol’chuk tore his eyes from the sight. It seemed to sap his will. At last, after another tense quarter league, the cliffs fell away to either side. The roots to the great mountain lay before them, spread to either side, as if a dark-cloaked figure were kneeling before them. Tol’chuk could almost feel the eyes of this black stranger staring down at him. He feared looking up, afraid of what he might see.

  The dry streambed led between the roots of the mountain to a hole in its side. Long ago, a deep spring must have once fed this waterway, but now it was all dust and dry rock, as dead as the peak itself.

  “Does the Manticore Gate lie within?” Elena asked with clear dread.

  The vorg pointed not toward the opening from which the old river flowed, but up toward the face of the mountain.

  “Maybe he means one of the old mine shafts,” Magnam said. “The ancient peak is hollowed with old tunnels and pits.”

  “If so,” Er’ril said, “we could spend an entire winter searching for where the manticore is hidden.”

  But the vorg pointed its arm more vigorously. “Bad nasty dark!”

  “Show us,” Tol’chuk said. “Where?”

  Greegrell sighed and pointed both arms, spreading them wide.

  Er’ril scowled. “He must not know, or doesn’t underst—” Then the plainsman’s voice cut out. “Sweet Mother above!”

  In the sky, the moon moved a fraction higher, now poised above the very tip of the jagged peak. Moonshine flowed down the face of the mountain like a rush of silver water, washing away the shadows to reveal the peak at last—or what had become of it.

  This entire face of Gy’hallmanti had been worked and carved, hollowed out and chipped, to form a towering granite figure. The detail must have been the work of countless masters slaving for decades: the strain in the figure’s face, the muscles bunching with both triumph and pain, the lines of anger around the eyes. It seemed as if the subject were climbing out of the bulk of the mountain, one arm stretched toward the sky, one leg still sunk in the rock. Behind its massive shoulders, its scorpion tail arched over its back, poised to strike.

  “The manticore,” Elena gasped.

  No one spoke for several heartbeats, too stunned by the sight.

  “But it’s carved of granite,” Er’ril said. “Not ebon’stone.”

  “No, you’re wrong,” Elena said, and pointed toward the outstretched arm of the figure. In its clawed grip lay a boulder as big as a small cottage. Its oily surfaces shunned even the moon’s brightness. It was as if the figure clutched living shadow, waiting to be molded into something sinister. Even looking at it chilled one’s blood. “There lies the true heart of this statue—ebon’stone. The first of the four Weirgates.”

  As the others stared in awe, Tol’chuk dropped the d’warf hammer into the dirt. He fumbled to his thigh pouch and removed the Heart of his people. His fingers ran over its surfaces, dreading what he would find, but already knowing the truth. He had carried the Heart across all the lands of Alasea. He knew every facet, every chink as if it were his own face.

  Tol’chuk stared up, unable now to turn away. He now knew the source of the dread that had clamped around his heart. Deep inside, a part of him must have known it all along.

  Magnam spoke, pointing toward the sculpture. “The depiction of the manticore climbing forth from Gy’hallmanti. It must represent the Nameless One’s rise from the heart of the mountain. We may be the first in centuries to peer upon the face of the Nameless One.”

  Tol’chuk’s legs weakened, and he fell to one knee. He held up the Heart of his people toward the ebon’stone boulder, praying the two were not the same. His prayer was shattered as he lifted it high.

  They were an exact match. But that was not the worst—not by far.

  Nearby, the vorg was the first to realize the horrible truth. The toady creature stared at Tol’chuk, then back up at the manticore statue. Its eyes flicked back and forth, then grew huge. It squeaked and backed away from him, trembling with terror; then it fled back down the narrow defile.

  The others turned to see Greegrell scramble away.

  Lowering his arm, Tol’chuk slumped in despair. There had been so many hints: The Triad choosing him for this mission. The shape of the Bane in the stone. And deep in the cellars below Shadowbrook, the d’warf lord who had tortured Meric and Kral had fled from Tol’chuk in terror—just as the vorg did now. But it wasn’t only fear in their eyes, but also something worse: recognition.

  Tol’chuk opened his eyes.

  Slowly, one at a time, their faces paled with dawning realization. Heads turned to the manticore, then back to Tol’chuk.

  Elena was the first to state it aloud. “The carving . . . the face and body of the creature . . . it’s Tol’chuk.”

  Magnam backed a step. “The Nameless One.”

  Dropping his heartstone, Tol’chuk covered his face with his hands. “Our people call him by a different name. Not Dark Lord, not Black Heart, not Black Beast . . .”

  “What name then?” Magnam asked.

  Tol’chuk dropped his hands, hot tears flowing down his face. “Oathbreaker.” He sagged to the ground, crushed under the realization of his true heritage. “He betrayed
the trust of the Land and cursed my people. His blood runs in my veins.”

  Elena moved up to him. “But he is not you.”

  “It does not matter.” Tol’chuk glanced up to the statue. “The stone does not lie. I am the last born of the Dark Lord.”

  ELENA PUSHED ASIDE her shock. She recognized the grief, guilt, and despair in Tol’chuk’s face. She had felt similar emotions when confronted with her own heritage. She went to Tol’chuk and gently touched the crown of his head. “A heart is stronger than one’s blood, and you’ve proven your heart in countless battles. You’re no monster.”

  Tol’chuk would not look up, only mumble. He reached and squeezed the chunk of heartstone. “I’ve failed my people. The Heart died in my care. I be no better than the Oathbreaker.”

  Magnam moved closer and shrugged. “Better or worse, what does it matter? At least you scared the vorg off.” He placed his fists on his hips and searched around. “So we’re here . . . Now what?”

  Elena knelt beside Tol’chuk. “We go on. We destroy the Gate as planned.”

  Er’ril stood behind her. “We all go on. You were sent by your Triad, guided by the Heart of your people. Both elders and spirits judged you the best one to right the wrong of your ancestor. Whether you name him Oathbreaker or Dark Lord, you don’t have to accept his name as your own. You can forge your own future.”

  Tol’chuk finally lifted his head.

  Elena stared him in the eye, urging him up. “We’ll stand by your side.”

  “Or at least behind your back,” Magnam added with a snort.

  Tol’chuk pushed up, wiping his nose on his forearm.

  Wennar moved forward and lifted the Try’sil from the dirt. He offered Tol’chuk the rune-carved handle.

  Tol’chuk shook his head. “I be not worthy.”

  Wennar thrust the hammer farther forward. “Long ago, the hammer was used to shape ebon’stone and doomed our lands at the hands of the Nameless One. Use it now to free us. Destroy what has been wrought in his cursed name.”

  Tol’chuk lifted his arm and gripped the handle. “I will try.”

  Wennar nodded and stepped away.

  Jerrick hobbled up to them. His face shone with a returning fever. The day’s exertion had worn the captain’s health. “If we mean to continue this night, we should move on.”

  With the matter decided, Er’ril led the way with Wennar. Elena kept beside Tol’chuk, sensing the og’re needed support. It seemed their two lives were intertwined by more than just a chance meeting long ago in the highland forests of Winter’s Eyrie. Their twin stories stretched back generations—hers to the wit’ch Sisa’kofa, and his to the Dark Lord himself.

  “We’re not our pasts,” she said softly to the night.

  Tol’chuk nodded. “I know this in my head, but it be hard to convince my heart.”

  “Then trust those around you,” she said. “Trust me.”

  The og’re turned in her direction.

  She met his gaze. “I know in my heart that you are a spirit of goodness and honor. I will never doubt otherwise.”

  He swallowed hard and turned away, his voice a whisper. “Thank you.”

  The group continued in silence. Four d’warf scouts fanned out to survey the empty stretch of bare rock that led to the mountain. The party seemed small as it fell under the shadow of the manticore.

  Elena craned her neck. The statue towered above them.

  Jerrick spoke at her shoulder. “We’ll need to find a way up onto that arm. I almost wish that sticky-fingered vorg were still here.”

  “No need,” Mama Freda said. “Tikal is just as agile and has sharper eyes. He may be able to hunt a way to the top.”

  But as they neared the mountain’s base, they discovered neither of the creatures’ skills would be needed. Carved into the granite, a steep stair led up the mountain’s face toward the statue.

  “An old work trail,” Wennar guessed. “Crude, narrow, meant for the sculptors as they labored here.”

  A d’warf scout stood a few steps away, a spyglass fixed to his eye. “It’s too dark to say with good certainty, but the stairs do seem to climb all the way up.”

  “Then let’s go,” Elena said.

  Wennar led the way. The stairs were only wide enough for a single d’warf, but two people could walk abreast. Elena now marched with Er’ril, Tol’chuk on the step behind them. Jerrick had attempted to keep up, but it was soon evident the elv’in captain was too weak and worn from his recent fevers to continue. His pale face glistened with fever sweat, and his breath had grown ragged. A short way up the cliff face, they abandoned him on the steps in the care of Mama Freda.

  “Tikal and I will watch over him. You all continue on.”

  Elena was loath to leave the two elders alone and ordered three of the d’warves to watch over them. “They can also guard our back trail,” she added before Mama Freda could protest.

  With their numbers lighter, they set a harder pace. Elena’s last view of Mama Freda and Jerrick was of the old woman taking the captain’s hand. The sight buoyed her spirit. Even in this cursed land, a bit of love could grow.

  With this thought held in her heart, she continued up the long staircase with Er’ril at her side. The d’warf scout had proven to have good eyes. The steps climbed to a tunnel near the base of the statue, where the leg of the og’re stretched out of the mountainside.

  Elena tugged a glove from her right hand and nicked a fingertip with the tip of her wit’ch dagger. They had no torches and had to risk a bit of magick to light their path. She cast free the tiniest thread of wit’ch fire and wove it around and around like a skein of yarn, forming a ball of fire. It floated just above her fingers. Lifting it high, she stepped to the tunnel. The fiery light revealed a spiraling staircase leading up.

  “More steps.” She glanced over a shoulder.

  Wennar took the lead again. His long shadow, reflected in the firelight, stretched upward. They followed again.

  Elena wove a spell to keep the ball of wit’ch fire floating above her head, attached by the thinnest thread of magick to her right hand.

  Er’ril marched beside her. Their climb slowed as side tunnels branched off periodically. The party approached each with caution, fearing attack from unknown monsters. But each passage proved empty, with only the wind moaning through the dark throats.

  “Where are the defenders?” Elena finally asked.

  “In this desolate land, what is the need?” Er’ril said. “It seems this land protects itself with its fireballs, poisons, and ill creatures. Besides, considering the vorg’s reaction to this place, I doubt any will near it.” But even his own explanation did not seem to satisfy the plainsman. He kept a tight grip on his sword and studied every shadow ahead.

  The others, too, grew more wary with each step. The climb seemed endless. But at last they reached a cavernous side tunnel. It gaped so wide that the entire party could have walked abreast.

  Elena stared down the passage. “Are we high enough to have reached the arm of the statue?”

  “I think so, my lady,” Wennar said. “I’ll go see.”

  Elena detached a thumb-sized ball of fire from her own sphere and sent it sailing down the tunnel. “To light your way.”

  Wennar nodded, then departed with one of the d’warf scouts, disappearing into the darkness. The remainder of the party rested on the stair, the globe of fire floating above them all. Elena leaned against Er’ril. He put his arm around her.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked, and nodded to the fireball. “Is it sapping much of your strength?”

  She shook her head. “It’s but a drop.” After the events at the gorge, Elena had renewed both fists: one in sunlight, one in moonlight. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, sharing his warmth and breath.

  For a moment, as they waited, exhausted and worn, Elena dozed off in his arms—but it was a short respite. A horrible scream shattered out from the cavernous tunnel. They all jerked to their
feet, but the cry was sliced from the air. Distantly, the strike of iron on stone reached them.

  “It seems we aren’t the only ones here,” Magnam said.

  Elena stepped toward the tunnel, but Er’ril had a hand clamped on her shoulder. She turned to him. “We have no choice but to go on. The fate of Alasea lies in destroying the Weirgate here.” She fed more energy into the small fireball, no longer worrying about keeping her magick hidden. It swelled out and shone deep into the tunnel.

  She cast the fireball ahead and followed it. “We cannot turn back now.”

  A bellow of rage echoed down the hall toward them.

  “It’s Wennar,” Tol’chuk said. “He’s still alive.”

  “But for how long?” Elena asked.

  They ran at a fast trot, the ball of fire rolling across the roof of the tunnel ahead of them. It lit the passage for some distance.

  “Up ahead!” Er’ril warned.

  Elena saw it, too. Moonlight flowed from around the curve ahead, signaling the end of the tunnel.

  Their pace slowed to a more cautious approach. Er’ril led the way, flanked by a pair of d’warves on each side. Tol’chuk kept near Elena’s shoulder, the d’warf hammer ready for battle.

  They rounded the corner and saw a sight born of nightmares. The tunnel did indeed end ahead, but it was not open. Something blocked the passage. At first Elena thought it was a huge spider crouched in a web across the opening, but as her ball of wit’ch fire rolled forward, the true horror revealed itself.

  It wasn’t a monstrous spider, but something much worse.

  Lodged in the opening and held in place by ten articulated legs was a single creature. Its main body hung in the opening, gray and glistening, like a netherworld slug, striped in slashes of black and red. But mostly it was all mouth: a black maw that writhed with poisoned tentacles. A tangle of stalked eyes as black as polished obsidian waved above the razor-lined mouth.

  Elena knew this creature. She had battled one in the highland forests of her home after it had killed her Uncle Bol. It was a mul’gothra, one of the birth queens of the skal’tum. Elena watched its thick gray body convulse in a violent spasm, and something green and steaming squeezed from its lower belly and fell with a wet plop to the tunnel’s floor.