Wit'ch Star (v5)

by James Clemens

  Magnam remained quiet for a long time.

  Everyone’s spirits had been sorely tested, leading to arguments and sullen silences. The flight here had taken much longer than any had expected. The elv’in captain, Jerrick, had tired rapidly, pitted against stormy weather and a growing malaise that sapped his elemental abilities. They were forced to land the scoutship frequently for rest breaks, and it took Jerrick longer to recuperate after each stop—sometimes days at a time. It was only with the help of Mama Freda’s tonics that the ship had reached the mountains by the first moon of summer.

  Magnam hunched against the wet wind and attempted to light his pipe with a wrapped coal from the fire. He finally gave up and threw the coal over the ridge, sighing loudly. “At least we’re finally here.” He reached over and patted Tol’chuk on his bent knee. “Welcome home.”

  Tol’chuk stared across the valley. The great Fang of the North loomed beyond, its upper slopes white from a crust of snow that never melted. Even the thunderclouds could not mask the peak’s majesty as it towered over its brethren. Only its sister mountain to the distant south, the Southern Fang, competed for dominance among the chain of peaks.

  Squinting his amber eyes, Tol’chuk tried to pierce the mists, to see into his homelands, but failed. Beyond the next valley lay the heart of og’re territory. His own people. Why did such a thought strike fear into his heart? One hand reached to his thigh pouch, bulging with his treasure, a chunk of heartstone larger than a goat’s skull, the revered and spiritual center of the og’re clans. Tol’chuk had succeeded in lifting the curse from the Heart of his people, restoring its full beauty and power. To complete his mission, he must return the jewel to the elders of his tribe, the ancient Triad. So why, after so long a journey, did he want to flee from here?

  Magnam seemed to sense his distress. “Homecomings aren’t always easy.”

  Tol’chuk remained quiet for a long moment more. “It be not just coming home that worries me.”

  “Then what?”

  Tol’chuk shook his head. He had left these lands as a murderer, an outcast, the last seed of the foul Oathbreaker. He now returned with a healed crystal, but his own heart had grown heavier. He would have to face the Triad and reveal that not only was he a descendant of the Oathbreaker, but his cursed ancestor still lived. The Oathbreaker was in fact the Dark Lord of these very lands, the one who bore such nefarious names as the Black Heart or Black Beast, or among the d’warves, the Nameless One. It seemed each people had their own curse with which to call his ancestor.

  It was this burden he carried in his heart, but he could not shirk his duty. He would trade his shame to learn more about this ancestor and the connection between heartstone and ebon’stone.

  “It must be done,” he whispered to the Northern Fang.

  The snap of a twig announced a newcomer to their early-morning reflections. A sodden mouse of a man stepped from the rain-laden branches. His brown hair lay in drizzled swatches over his face, half hiding his features. He came naked to the granite outcropping, unembarrassed by his lack of clothes. He strode toward them, moving with a certain easy grace. “The sun is up,” the man said.

  “Fardale?” Magnam asked.

  The newcomer nodded. Though he wore the face of Mogweed, this was clearly the brother, Fardale. Once twins in form, the two now shared one body. Mogweed occupied it during the night, Fardale the day. The only advantage to this strange change in their fates was the return of their shape-shifting abilities.

  “I’m off to scout the way ahead,” Fardale said. His eyes narrowed as he studied the highlands, cocking his head, nose in the air, already scenting the damp gusts.

  With a shuddering shake, he fell toward the ground. Reaching out, his arms and legs twisted and bent as if boneless, then settled to a new form, catching his weight. At the same time, naked skin rolled and sprouted a dense growth of dark fur. A growl rose to a wolfish howl. His neck arched back while his lower face stretched to a fanged and snarling snout. Soon Fardale the man was gone, replaced by a giant treewolf, a denizen of the deep wood. Only one feature remained the same between man and beast: a pair of amber eyes, glowing in the drizzling gloom.

  Images flashed into Tol’chuk as he met that gaze with his own eyes—a matching set of amber, the heritage from his mother, a si’lura changeling like Fardale and Mogweed. Though Tol’chuk could not shape-shift, he could mindspeak with another si’luran. The word pictures of the wolf filled his head: The open trail, dark at the end . . . a lone wolf traipsing the path, nose to the ground.

  Tol’chuk nodded his understanding.

  In a blur of shadow, the wolf vanished into the wood. Once again, Fardale would lead the way, scouting for them.

  “He really needs to think variety,” Magnam grumbled. “This wolf thing is getting tired. How about a badger?”

  Tol’chuk glanced to the d’warf.

  “A big, mean badger.” Magnam pocketed his unlit pipe. “Yeah, I’d like to see that.”

  Tol’chuk scowled, dragging himself up. “Do not judge Fardale. The wolf be a form he knows.” He glanced to where the shape-shifter had vanished. “I think he draws peace from it.”

  Magnam shrugged. “I’d feel the same, if I had to share my body with someone else . . . especially that brother of his.” The d’warf shook his head.

  “Mogweed bears no less a burden.”

  “I beg to disagree. He doesn’t have to hear himself whine night after night.”

  Tol’chuk climbed off the granite boulder. He had no patience to explain Mogweed’s irascible character, even if he could. Instead he pointed back to the woods. “We should help the others break camp.”

  Together they crossed through the trees. Overhead, pine needles trickled with water. A few paces into the forest, a sharp brightness marked their nighttime campsite. They followed the glow to a rocky overhang, beneath which a small fire still crackled merrily, out of place in the misty gloom of the forest. Magnam joined the remaining members of their small party—the el’vin captain Jerrick, and the elderly blind healer Mama Freda—storing bedrolls and clanking gear into packs.

  Most of the supplies had been left in the elv’in scoutship, safely ensconced in an open highland meadow a day’s journey from here. It was the closest they dared travel by wind among these now-constant storms. Also Tol’chuk feared how his tribesmen would react to such a strange craft landing in their territory. Og’res had a tendency to attack before asking questions. So for safety’s sake, they had left the ship behind as they made the final approach on foot.

  Tol’chuk watched them break camp and shook his head. “I still think it be best if you’d all stayed with the ship.” He feared bringing even such a small party among his people. Fardale disguised as a wolf was one thing, but bringing a d’warf, a woman, and an elv’in into og’re territory risked all their lives.

  “Stay behind?” Mama Freda straightened with a small pack containing her herbs and elixirs. “The fate of Alasea may rest on what we discover here. Besides, these highlands are no safer than your homelands.”

  Tol’chuk couldn’t argue that. On the flight here they had seen entire villages razed below, heard rumors from townsfolk of strange beasts prowling the night. As they crossed into the foothills, bands of armed villagers had warned them off from places of pestilence and quarantine. Then one night the ship had crossed high over a burning town. A long army, lit by torches, marched forth from it like a line of fiery ants. Jerrick had spied upon them. “Not men” was all he said as he lowered his spyglass.

  After landing, they had decided to travel on together. Few would bother a company with an og’re among them.

  Jerrick shoveled dirt over their campfire, then dusted his hands. The old elv’in captain looked pale, an effect accentuated by his long white hair. “We’re ready.”

  A tawny-haired creature the size of a small cat clambered out of the branches overhead. Chittering, it shook its wet fur. Its tiny bare face, set in a cowl of fiery fur, scowled. “Bad wet
. . . cold to the bones,” it griped, mimicking Mogweed’s whining tone and words.

  “Here, Tikal,” Mama Freda said. The gray-haired healer tapped her shoulder. Her pet clambered to the offered perch, then hugged tight. The two were sense-bonded: Mama Freda and the tamrink shared each other’s senses, a joining that allowed the blind healer to see through the beast’s eyes.

  Jerrick shrugged into his gear, then checked Mama Freda’s pack, one hand lingering on her shoulder. She leaned her cheek to his fingers, a small gesture of affection. The elderly healer had insisted on accompanying the captain on this long journey. “To help him fight the draining malaise,” she had claimed. But from their interactions, it was clear that deeper ties bound them together.

  Magnam waddled over with his bundle, patting the small ax on his hip for reassurance. “Let’s go see these lands of yours.”

  Tol’chuk grabbed up the largest pack, heavy with supplies and equipment. With a final scrutiny of their campsite, they set off.

  Tol’chuk led the way. By midday, he would be among his own lands. And by nightfall, he’d be within sight of his home caves. He set off through the weeping forest as thunder echoed in the distance, the voice of the mountains calling him home.

  Magnam tramped beside him. “You’re not alone,” he said softly.

  Tol’chuk remained silent. He found himself surprisingly comforted by the simple words. Risk or not, he was glad the group had decided to remain together.

  Reaching a deer track heading in the right direction, Tol’chuk set off down it. The way descended a steep slope, slick with mud and pine needles. They proceeded slowly, grabbing tree limbs and bushes to keep their footing.

  “Where’s Fardale?” Jerrick finally grumbled from behind. “Shouldn’t he have returned by now to let us know the best path from here?”

  Tol’chuk frowned. The wolf usually trotted back to them periodically, alerting them to obstacles or the best way over creeks or rivers, but this morning there had been no sign of Fardale. And it was now near on to midday. The wolf had never been away for so long.

  “Probably found a rabbit to chase,” Magnam said. “Forgot all about us.”

  Despite his light manner, Tol’chuk heard the worry in the other’s voice. They slowed their pace as they reached the bottom of the vale. A swift brook ran down the center, swollen from the rains. Tol’chuk pointed to an uprooted tree that had fallen across the rushing waters. “We can cross there. Mayhaps Fardale crossed already.”

  Fording the river they entered a denser forest, darker of needle and shadow. The climb from here was steep, and beyond this last ridge lay the og’re lands.

  Tol’chuk prayed Fardale had not ventured into those lands on his own. Wolf meat was a delicacy among his people, their warm pelts a valued trading commodity. But it was doubtful many og’res were out in this dreadful weather; most preferred their dry caves and sweltering fires. Still, where was Fardale?

  A crackle of lightning split the midday gloom, forking like a net overhead. Thunder immediately followed, rolling down the slope with a roar. It escalated into a howl of anger and challenge.

  Tol’chuk froze, well familiar with the call of their companion.

  “Fardale . . . ,” Mama Freda said. Her tamrink wrapped its tail around the old woman’s neck, cringing.

  As the thunder rolled away, the howl pitched higher, red with fury.

  A new noise accompanied the challenge: coarse bellows, like the grind of boulders.

  Magnam glanced to Tol’chuk.

  He answered the question in the d’warf’s eyes. “Og’res.” He stared up the slope. “A hunting pack.”

  A thousand leagues away, in the sweltering jungle of the Southern Fang’s lower slopes, Jaston heard the cry of an enraged animal. The howl cut through the croaking frogs and the buzz of blood-hungry flies. He froze on the trail, glancing around him. The call had a faraway sound, yet it seemed as close as his own heart. He squinted his eyes, searching. From this ridgeline, the swamplands were visible in the distance, blanketed in familiar mists.

  They were the Drowned Lands, his home. He was a swamper—a hunter among the bogs and marshes. He wore gray leather leggings and a matching cloak of kroc’an leather. How he longed to return to his own lands—but he had a mission here.

  As he turned back to the Fang, the strange howl rose in pitch, echoing around him. Even the sounds of the jungle died down. And despite the clarity of the call, it still had a faraway feeling to it. Strange. Jaston fingered the scars on the left side of his face, a nervous habit.

  “A big doggie got loose,” a voice said at his hip.

  Jaston glanced down to the small boy and patted his head. “It’s just an echo. The Fang plays tricks.”

  “Is the doggie lost?”

  Jaston smiled. “He’s fine.”

  Apparently satisfied, the boy popped his thumb in his mouth. The black-haired lad in simple rough-spun looked no older than five winters, but he was only a fortnight old, a construct of moss, lichen, and swampweed—a golem given life by the swamp wit’ch, Cassa Dar.

  Jaston continued up the deer track, shrugging his pack higher on his shoulder. The howling seemed to follow, clinging to him, nipping at his heels. He stopped again. What strangeness was this?

  He turned to the boy. “Cassa, can you hear me?”

  The boy frowned, then scratched in his ear as if a bug had crawled in there.

  “Cassa . . . ?”

  The boy spoke again, but with a different voice. “I hear you, my love.”

  The sound of her voice warmed him. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine she was next to him. Even her scent seemed to enter this humid and damp forest: moonblossom, the fragrance sweet and heady. Like the selfsame flower, Cassa Dar was as deadly as she was sweet, a most powerful elemental wit’ch.

  “What is it?” Cassa asked, speaking through the boy. The wit’ch had once been a student of the feared Assassins’ Guild, sent to Castle Drakk from her d’warf homelands. But an attack by the Dark Lord had fused her to the lands around the stronghold, granting her both longevity and a gift of poisonous magick. And bound to her lands, she had been unable to join Jaston on his journey, forcing them to part. She could only send a bit of her magick as company—her swamp child.

  “Do you hear that howl?” he asked.

  The boy cocked his head, listening; then one arm raised, palm outward. The child turned in a slow circle. “Treewolf,” Cassa said finally.

  “Here?” he asked, surprised. Wolves were not native to these lands.

  “No.” The boy stopped his circle and stared up the slope. “You were right to contact me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The boy glanced to him, but Jaston sensed Cassa Dar’s gaze behind those eyes. “It echoes from the Northern Fang.”

  “That’s a thousand leagues away.”

  The boy nodded. “But you recognize that voice, don’t you?”

  Jaston didn’t understand.

  “Listen . . . not just with your ears, but also your heart.”

  Jaston frowned, but he obeyed the wit’ch he loved. He let his eyelids drift closed. He breathed deeply. The howl wrapped around him, filling his senses.

  “He seeks you . . .”

  Suddenly Jaston understood. He felt it in his bones. “Fardale,” he breathed out. “The shape-shifter . . .” Jaston opened his eyes, now fully recognizing the strange call. He had traveled with the wolf, even saving its life at one point from a tentacled and winged monster.

  “It is your past connection that opens this path. Such is the linked magick of these twin peaks.”

  “The Fangs,” he mumbled.

  Cassa Dar had explained to him about the two mountains, two fonts of the Land’s raw elemental energy. It was a flow of this energy from the Southern Fang that sustained the wit’ch and her swamp. Then a moon ago, she had sensed a sudden thinning of this power, in turn growing weak herself, beyond the general malaise all elementals suffered. This recent weakeni
ng was more sudden, sharper. And unlike other elementals, Cassa Dar’s life was tied to this energy.

  As it waned, so did she.

  Jaston could not sit idle. So a fortnight ago he had set out alone to investigate who or what had stanched the flow from the Fang. If possible, he would tear down the magickal dam.

  Jaston stared up at the mountain. “Then Fardale must be at the Northern Fang.”

  The swamp child nodded. “Elena said that the shape-shifter, the og’re, and a few others were headed to the homeland of the og’res.”

  The howl pitched suddenly higher.

  “From the sounds of it, they’re in trouble,” Jaston said. He clutched the swamp child’s hand tighter.

  “Follow the howl,” Cassa said through the boy. “Find the source. We must not lose the connection while it’s still open. Only strong emotions keep the peaks linked.” The boy headed up the trail, tugging Jaston with him. “Maybe we can open a door at that point.”

  “Open a door? How?”

  “I’ve lived for centuries in the shadow of the Southern Fang,” Cassa explained. “And the libraries of Castle Drakk go even farther back. For ages, folks have believed the mountain haunted. Stories and myths abound. Bodiless voices, ghostly apparitions, disappearances. But the mages of Alasea knew the truth. With strong bonds and dire need, portals can be opened between the two peaks.”

  “And you know how to do this?”

  “No.” Cassa Dar’s voice grew winded. “I’m heading to the libraries to investigate that answer as we speak, but it’s hard for me to maintain this connection while doing both. So take the child to as near the source of the howl as possible. Call for me then.”

  “Wait! My mission here is to find what weakens the flow of your magick from the Southern Peak.”

  “The shape-shifter is in more immediate danger than I.”

  “But—?”

  The boy’s voice lowered. “And I don’t believe it is happenstance that you hear the cry of the wolf.”