Hush, little one, I’m coming.
Stunned, Tol’chuk stared as the dark apparition flowed out of the Spirit Gate. “Elena?” he repeated.
The figure focused on him, her dark eyes shining like polished obsidian. Silver tresses continued to billow across her features, moving to unseen currents. Energy crackled along the curls and flowing strands, seeming to sweep out from the Spirit Stone to scintillate over the black skin of the apparition. As she moved from the heartstone arch, the features of her face grew in detail, as if she were arising from the depths of some dark sea.
Tol’chuk recognized his mistake. This figure, while similar in features, was not Elena. The ghostly woman here was much older. Her face was unlined, but the weight of ages marked her eyes and lips, and the silver of her hair was not all magick. Here stood a woman older than centuries.
“Wh-who are you?” he forced out.
The Triad answered his question, their voices full of awe: “The Lady of the Stone. Its guardian and keeper.”
The apparition lifted a single dark arm, sweeping back a mist of silver strands. “No,” she said, her black lips parting. “No longer.” Her words were faint. They also seemed strangely out of sync with the movement of her lips. “I cannot hold back the darkness that comes. My time is past.” Her eyes glinted at Tol’chuk. “New guardians are needed.”
As Tol’chuk drew back, the Triad stirred in confusion, their figures blurring. “But the Lady of the Stone has been the Gate’s eternal guardian.”
“No,” she repeated again with a shake of her head. “Not eternal . . . just ancient . . . I joined my spirit to the Stone in a time lost to myth and legend.”
The Triad murmured, their confusion dissolving their shapes into misty forms. “We don’t understand.”
“I once went by another name.” Her words grew faint. “Your great, great ancestors called me not the Lady of the Stone, but a title more cursed in its time: Tu’la ne la Ra Chayn.”
Tol’chuk frowned at her last words, for the name was spoken in ancient Og’re. But the elders understood, for a wail screeched from the misty figures. “It cannot be!” They fled back from the Gate in horror and shock, shredding apart.
“What’s wrong?” Tol’chuk asked, starting up to his feet.
One of the shades sailed past overhead, crying out. “Tu’la ne la Ra Chayn!”
“The blasted . . .” another moaned.
“The cursed one!” the third keened.
In their panic, the group had split, no longer united.
Tol’chuk backed a step. “Who?”
The first answered, “She is Tu’la ne la Ra Chayn . . . the Wit’ch of the Spirit Stone!”
Tol’chuk pinched his brows together in confusion. The Triad settled behind him as if for protection.
Before them, the dark woman continued to drift within a sea of silvery strands, ignoring their outburst. She seemed to grow blacker, her misty hair sparking more richly. The anger in her eyes was clear, as was an impossible sadness.
The Triad’s words sunk into Tol’chuk. “The Wit’ch of the Spirit Stone,” he mumbled, staring at the apparition, frowning. Then realization struck him blind as he again recognized the similarities to Elena. Another wit’ch . . . He stumbled back, choking for a moment, then gasped out the name by which he knew her: “The Wit’ch of Spirit and Stone!”
Her eyes remained fixed on Tol’chuk. “The march of time blurs so many meanings and names,” she said coldly. “It is strange to have all of your life’s successes and defeats boiled down to such a simple phrase, then to have even that misremembered.” She sighed. “But you know my true name, don’t you, og’re?”
He did, seeing in her tireless expression a bit of Elena even here. “Sisa’kofa,” he said aloud.
She nodded. “And I know you. The last descendant of Ly’chuk of the Toktala clan.”
Tol’chuk frowned in confusion.
“The Oathbreaker,” she explained.
Tol’chuk blinked. Ly’chuk! That was his ancestor’s name, the Oathbreaker’s true name. He found his tongue. “I don’t understand. How could you be here? Why are you here?”
She waved a ghostly arm. “To answer your first question, I’m not really here. My true spirit passed beyond the Spirit Gate ages ago. This form is but an echo, a bit of magick left behind, tied to the energy of the Spirit Stone. As to why? That is a story meant for another’s ears, not yours. I left my echo in the Gate, knowing one day the wit’ch who would come after me would be in need of guidance.”
“Elena,” Tol’chuk said.
The dark figure nodded. “For untold centuries, I’ve been guardian of the Spirit Stone. From this post, I’ve guided your people as best I could, but even I could not stop your ancestor’s betrayal.”
“The Oathbreaker . . .”
“Ly’chuk took the vow of spiritual guardianship and came as a supplicant to this very Gate. He was strong in spirit and even stronger in elemental gifts.”
Tol’chuk jerked with surprise. “The Oathbreaker was an elemental?”
“His gift was the ability to sculpt another person’s natural magicks—to take raw talent and refine it.”
Her words rang with truth. Tol’chuk remembered all the ill’guard encountered during their long sojourn. They were examples of this very handiwork, elementals whose gifts were warped to serve the Oathbreaker’s need or amusement. “What happened?”
“That even I don’t know. One day your ancestor opened the Gate to the Spirit Stone. I felt the magick and came to see Ly’chuk kneeling, crying in pain, his arms raised. As I approached, I felt something tear in the fabric of the world. After that, the Gate slammed shut and remained closed for the next six centuries.” She faced the shades of the Triad, “What happened in this chamber that day I do not know.”
The og’re spirits shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “We know no more than you,” they whispered in unison again. “The Oathbreaker took his vows. But we also sensed the wrongness, that rip in the fabric, that you speak of. We rushed here, but we only found the Heart, resting on the floor. When we touched the stone, we knew immediately it was cursed. Tainted, the Heart would no longer fully awaken the Spirit Gate. We were cut off. And in the heartstone, the Bane grew, feeding on our spirits. One of us dreamed that the curse could only be lifted by the last seed of Ly’chuk, the Oathbreaker.”
“So we waited . . .” the first elder said, breaking from the others.
“And waited . . .” the second said.
“And waited . . .” the third echoed.
“Until I came,” Tol’chuk finished, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.
A silence settled in the room. So many ages pressed down upon them.
At last, the shadow of Sisa’kofa spoke. “It would seem your burden is not over, og’re.”
Tol’chuk glanced up. “What do you mean?”
She glanced to the Spirit Gate, her silver hair billowing. “The Land tainted your heartstone with the Bane for a reason: to lock the path to the Spirit Stone. Since that time, I have sensed corruption trying to dig through, have felt the Land’s flow of energies being twisted. Something out there hunts for the heart of this world.”
“My ancestor,” Tol’chuk whispered. “The Oathbreaker.”
The shade sighed. “And he grows stronger. Soon he’ll break through; my echo of power is no match. But the Spirit Gate opens again.” The shade of the wit’ch focused on Tol’chuk. “New champions have arisen, chosen to protect the purity of the world’s heart: both you and the new wit’ch.”
“Elena.”
A nod. “Before my true spirit passed beyond the Gate, I dreamt of her. I saw the dark time ahead. She stood before this same Gate, the blood of friends flowing across the floor . . .” The shade of the wit’ch sighed. “I bear a warning meant only for her. It is the reason I am here, a call from the distant past to the present.”
“You won’t tell us this warning?” Tol’chuk asked, bone-tired of magicks a
nd secrets.
“I cannot. I am an echo of desire and purpose. I have no other path. The young wit’ch must be brought here, and the Spirit Gate must be protected until that time.” She stared hard at Tol’chuk. “You must be this guardian.”
The Triad whispered again, their eyes aglow with prescient wormlight. “We saw this also. It was why we summoned an assembly at Dragon’s Skull.” All eyes focused on Tol’chuk. “You must unite the clans. The Gate must be protected!”
Somewhere far away, a howl echoed, traveling down from above.
“Listen,” Sisa’kofa said. “Already the darkness closes around us.”
Tol’chuk cocked his head, recognizing the cry. Fardale.
He began to turn, but the Triad drifted up, wormlit eyes seeking his. “A spirit has been released,” they whispered. “One of your companions.”
Tol’chuk bolted to his feet. “Who?”
“The old woman,” the og’re ghosts intoned, keening.
Mama Freda! Tol’chuk swung away, meaning to hurry to his friends’ sides.
“Wait!” Sisa’kofa called to him. “Take the Heart! Close the Gate! Above all else, the path to the Spirit Stone must be protected.”
Tol’chuk hesitated, then ran to the arch. His clawed fingers grabbed hold of the Heart in its keyhole.
At his side, the spirit of the wit’ch drifted back through the Gate, her silver tresses sweeping away with her. Over her shoulder, the crystal of the Spirit Stone shone out from the well of darkness.
“I’ll be waiting,” the spirit promised. “Waiting for you all.”
Tol’chuk felt a sudden chill at these last words, but the wolf howled again. He had no time for misgivings. He tore the Heart free. The window upon the world’s center vanished, replaced again with a cliff of granite.
The trio of spirits dissolved and flowed back into the chunk of heartstone. Words trailed. “A darkness comes. Only united will the og’re clans survive.”
Tol’chuk shoved the Heart into his thigh pocket. With one last glance to the heartstone arch, he dashed toward the tunnels. “Then I’ll let nothing stop me.”
As Fardale howled his grief, Jaston knelt by the healer’s body. The elv’in captain cradled her form, tears flowing down his face. “Why?” he moaned.
Jaston touched his shoulder in sympathy. He knew no words to ease this pain. If it had been Cassa Dar on the floor here, he would have been inconsolable.
Magnam stood over them all. “We’ve got company.” He nodded to the circle of og’res that had closed around the hearth. They stood a few paces away, clearly fearful of approaching any closer, but bright menace shone in their eyes.
Jaston pulled to his feet. “They know something is wrong. Panic may make them strike out before Tol’chuk can return.”
“Where is Lord Boulder?” Magnam said with a scowl. “We could use someone who can speak the local lingo.”
One of the largest og’res pushed through the crowd to approach the gate to this hearth. Jaston recognized the one Tol’chuk had been talking to before—Hun’shwa, the clan leader.
The monster knuckled toward the door, shoulders bulled forward. When he spoke, he rumbled like boulders grinding together, but his words were in the common tongue, crudely spoken. “What be wrong here? What be the howling for?” He eyed the wolf.
Fardale had gone quiet, but the giant treewolf kept his post by the gate, hackles raised.
Jaston stepped forward. “One of our elders has died,” he said. “A strain on her heart.”
Hun’shwa narrowed his eyes. “There be much death this day.”
A couple og’res grumbled behind their leader, but Hun’shwa waved an arm for them to be silent.
Jaston spoke up, “We ask for a moment of peace to grieve our dead.”
The og’re knuckled around and grunted for the others to back away. Slowly the group obeyed, but not without many glares and warding gestures toward the cursed homestead. Hun’shwa turned. “You grieve now. Then we take your female to the Chamber of the Spirits.”
Jaston nodded and faced the others as the og’re left. “I’ve bought us some time, but I don’t know for how long.”
Magnam moved closer. The d’warf spoke in low tones. “So who is this Verny that Mama Freda warned us about?”
“Vira’ni.” Jaston crossed his arms. “An ill’guard. Elena’s group killed her in the rimwood forests not far from here.”
“Maybe she did,” Magnam said with a scowl. “But for those once touched by the Nameless One, death has no meaning.”
“Or maybe her fright was some delusion from the pain and approaching death.”
Magnam shook his head. “No, the healer’s pet is missing. And I distinctly heard her call out Tikal’s name. She saw something—through its eyes—something that froze her heart.” The d’warf glanced to Jaston. “What do you know of this Vira’ni?”
“Very little. Something to do with spiders?”
Jerrick cradled Mama Freda’s body and spoke through clenched teeth. “I will hunt this demon myself and burn her to ash.”
Fardale crossed to the healer, sniffed at her, then circled the fire. As he padded around the flames, he climbed out of his wolf form and back to human. Fur slipped back to bare skin, fangs became teeth, and claws retracted to nails. He rose to stare across the flames at them, panting slightly from the exertion of shifting.
Jaston could still see the wolf in the man: there was the feral set to his lips, the unblinking sternness to his gaze, the stone stillness to his posture. There was no mistaking this man for Mogweed.
“If Vira’ni is near,” Fardale said, “we’re all in grave danger.”
“What do you know of her?” Magnam asked.
Fardale ignored his question and sniffed at the air, raising his face high. “Tol’chuk comes.”
A commotion arose from the dark shadows of the deep cave. Og’res grunted in agitation, then parted. Tol’chuk came lumbering through and quickly crossed to the hearth.
“What happened?” His eyes were large, staring down at Mama Freda.
As Magnam explained, Jaston saw the clan leader, Hun’shwa, staring over at their group, as if weighing them. A smaller og’re grumbled at his shoulder, but the Hun’shwa growled him away.
“Vira’ni!” Tol’chuk boomed, drawing Jaston’s attention around.
Fardale nodded. “Mama Freda died with that name on her lips—a warning. I spied her beast leave the cave near the time you left with your dead elders.”
All faces turned to the shape-shifter.
His expression remained stoic. “The healer must have sent him after the og’res wearing the wolfskin cloaks.” He all but growled this last bit.
Tol’chuk responded in kind. “Wolfskin!”
Fardale nodded.
Tol’chuk glanced to the eye of the cave. “That could only mean—”
“The Ku’ukla clan,” a stern voice said behind them all.
As a group, they all turned. Hun’shwa stood there, head half bowed. “You killed Drag’nock, their leader,” he said. “They came with the morning sun and demanded the head of Tol’chuk or their clan would declare war.” The eyes of the og’re glanced to the floor. “I gave my word that it would be done.”
Magnam pulled his ax free. “I’d like to see you try!”
Tol’chuk lifted an arm to calm the d’warf. “And now, Hun’shwa?”
The big og’re lifted his eyes. “There be something wrong with the Ku’ukla. After my own fury for my son’s death calmed, I could smell it on their skin. They lie as easily as a stream flows.” He turned to the cave’s entrance. “Your head or not, war will come. The Ku’ukla crave to rule the six clans. The death of Drag’nock will rally them. But . . .” His eyes narrowed.
“But what?” Tol’chuk asked.
Hun’shwa turned to Tol’chuk. “Something else be wrong. Cray’nock be the one who came . . . the last brother of Drag’nock . . . saying their new leader demanded your head.”
“H
is brother?” Tol’chuk asked, his face hardening with suspicion.
“What’s the significance?” Jaston asked.
“Cray’nock should be leader after the death of his brother,” Tol’chuk explained. “It be our way.”
Hun’shwa nodded. “A new leader has arisen. So why didn’t he come with his clan’s demands? A strange scent clings to the Ku’ukla clan.”
“And there be no nose more keen than yours,” Tol’chuk said, clearly accepting this statement.
Jaston spoke up. “The Ku’ukla threat . . . and a warning from Mama Freda about the spider wit’ch.”
“Darkness closes around us,” Tol’chuk whispered, as if repeating someone else’s words.
“What do we do?” Magnam asked, still holding his ax.
After a long moment, Tol’chuk turned to them. “Our only hope be to rally the clans this night. United, the og’re clans be a force few dare to threaten.” He turned to Hun’shwa. “Do I have the support of the Toktala?”
Hun’shwa stared at Tol’chuk, then slowly nodded. “We stand beside you.”
“Then prepare the clan. We march for the Dragon’s Skull with the setting sun.”
Hun’shwa half bowed, then departed.
“What of us?” Magnam asked.
Tol’chuk stared at them, a strange light in his eyes. “You be also my family, my hearth. That makes you og’re. And when I speak of uniting the og’re clans, I mean all og’res.”
Jerrick still knelt by the body of the healer. “And Freda? What are we to do with her?”
Tol’chuk’s voice grew hard. “She gave her life to bring us warning. She will be honored . . . and revenged. This I swear on our new family.” Tol’chuk held out a claw toward them all.
Magnam was the first to step up, placing his hand atop Tol’chuk’s. Fardale came next, stoic, expressionless, but his eyes glowed stronger as he rested his hand upon the others’.
Jaston felt a stirring in the air, something larger than them all. He moved forward, adding his hand.
Slowly, Jerrick rose to his feet. The elv’in captain stepped to their side. He reached an arm, and with a last glance to his lover, he joined his palm to theirs. Something seemed to spark out at that moment, something that had nothing to do with elv’in wind magick.
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