Wit'ch Star (v5)

by James Clemens

  Blyth spoke as they crossed into the bay. “You needn’t have come, Captain. We could scout these lands on our own.”

  Tyrus remained silent. His first mate was right.

  “And even if it were a captain’s duty,” Blyth continued more softly, “it sure as the Mother’s sweet teat isn’t a prince’s.”

  Tyrus grimaced. Blyth had been at his side since he had first stumbled into Port Rawl, full of anger, sorrow, and spite. The bloody planks of the corsairs had suited him fine to vent his bile upon the seas. But now the world again called him to duty. The mantle of Castle Mryl was his to bear, left to him by his father. But deep in his heart, he wondered if he had the strength to be a king’s son, his father’s son.

  “You can’t hide forever among us pirates,” Blyth mumbled under his breath.

  Tyrus sighed. “Leave be.”

  His first mate and friend shrugged. “For now, Captain . . . for now.”

  As true night closed in, they maneuvered through the shallows to the remains of the village docks. They tied up to a piling and climbed onto the crumbled end of a stone jetty. A steep stair, carved from the rock of the cliffs, led up toward the village.

  Tyrus eyed the climb sourly. Mists had already grown dense as evening fog rolled in from the sea, thickening against the shore. The top of the cliffs could no longer be seen, but the glow from the signal fire lit a patch of fog.

  “Let’s be done with this business as quickly as possible,” Tyrus mumbled.

  No one argued.

  The climb proved even trickier than expected. Besides the damp from the mists, algae and moss covered each step, as slippery as ice.

  “No one’s used these stairs in ages,” Blyth said.

  Tyrus agreed. Any good townsfolk would maintain the steps with salt and moss-killer. The state of the stairs was not a heartening sign.

  “Then who set the fire?” Hurl asked.

  “That’s what I intend to find out,” Tyrus said. “That bonfire didn’t set itself.”

  At long last, they reached the top and found a cobbled thoroughfare stretching toward the village, dark and silent. By now, the fog lay like a smothering blanket. They entered the small town cautiously, weapons in hand. Nothing moved but the flickering glow of the fire beyond the village.

  The party signaled each other with practiced hand gestures. Tyrus, Blyth, and Sticks took one side of the street. Hurl and Fletch edged along the other side. They moved with care, ears pricked, muscles tense, weapons ready.

  Every structure they passed showed signs of damage: shattered windows, storefronts singed with soot, upper stories collapsed into lower. Clearly the town had been laid to waste, but amid all the devastation, something was plainly missing.

  “The town’s a graveyard,” Blyth muttered, “but where are the dead?”

  There were no bodies, not a single one, not even the bones of those who had died here.

  Tyrus frowned. “Maybe those that survived buried their dead before moving on.”

  Blyth raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “I’d more believe carrion feeders. At least one winter has passed since whatever befell this hamlet. The woods around here are full of starving wolves.”

  “You’d see nests of gnawed bones, then.”

  “Maybe if we searched the buildings, you’d find such things.” Blyth shrugged, as if dismissing the subject. The past was the past. What did it matter now?

  Tyrus, though, couldn’t let it go. What had happened here? Who had set the fire, and why?

  They passed the town square, now a ruin. Beyond its edge lay the open cliffs and the bonfire, its flames licking into the foggy night over the shattered rooftops of the last buildings. Even the crackle of its logs echoed out to them. The group closed tighter as they slipped to the edge of town.

  There lay a small cliffside park, edged by a flagstone wall. An overgrown garden of roses and holly bushes lined stone paths. There was even a tiny, raftered pavilion, untouched by the destruction. A statue guarded the entrance to the park. It stood unmolested, except for the stain of the bird droppings and the moss hanging from its stony limbs.

  Hurl stopped before it, his head quirked to the side. He reached and gently pulled away a few lengths of moss. The features of the granite statue were worn by rain and wind, but a dark glower could still be seen. The figure stood with his arms crossed, clearly guarding, standing post. “The Stone Magus,” he mumbled with a trace of worry.

  “What’s that?” Tyrus asked.

  He shook his head and muttered under his breath, then stepped around the statue and studied the park. Other statues dotted the overgrown landscape, some large, some small.

  All other eyes were drawn to the park’s center, where a blaze as tall as two men threw back the dark and the fog. It was a heartening sight after the gloom of the ravaged village. Even from across the grounds, the warmth of the fire was felt. After a moment of silent study, the party drew toward its light and heat like so many moths.

  Still, Tyrus knew better than to let his guard down. His gaze swept the park, the pavilion, the last edges of the town. Nothing moved. Nothing threatened.

  Ahead, logs shifted in the fire, popping and cracking like some old man shifting his bones in a chair. The noise filled the hollow silence.

  Tyrus signaled his men to fan out to either side. Blyth remained with him, while the others spread across the park and approached the fire from all sides.

  As he searched, Tyrus wished he had his ancient family sword, the length of Mrylian steel with the snow panther pommel. But he had left it with Kral, who carried it to his grave, a symbol of a blood oath between Castle Mryl and the mountain man’s lost people. Now the prince bore a sword from the armory of A’loa Glen, a fine and ancient blade, but one that seemed crude compared to the craftsmanship of the former. His fingers tightened on the hilt. A true swordsman made do with the weapons at hand, he told himself.

  A call drew his attention to where Hurl and Fletch stood before another statue. Fletch waved his bow, indicating they should all gather.

  Tyrus marched over.

  It was a statue of black granite, an amazing representation of a deer, its head bent to nibble at a rosebush.

  Fletch reached toward the stone, but Hurl batted his hand away. He turned to Tyrus. “We have to leave.”

  Tyrus frowned. “Why?”

  Hurl waved an arm. “Look around!” The whites of his eyes shone with growing panic. He crossed swiftly to a statue of a pair of children hiding behind a bush. On a casual glance, it appeared they were playing hide-and-seek, but on closer inspection, the terror on their faces told another story. The two clutched each other in fright.

  Tyrus crinkled his brow, glancing to neighboring statues: a man frozen in midrun, a trio of weeping maids, an elder on his knees. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “They’re the villagers!” Hurl cried. “Frozen in stone.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Blyth grumbled.

  Hurl continued. “The statue at the entrance—it’s the Stone Magus. He’s marked this park as his own.”

  “Why? Who is this Magus?” Tyrus asked.

  “We must leave—now!” Hurl began to head away.

  Blyth blocked him. “The captain asked you a question, Mate.” The threat was clear in his voice.

  Hurl still looked ready to bolt, but Fletch appeared at his shoulder and placed a hand on his arm. His touch calmed the man somewhat, but he still trembled.

  Tyrus moved nearer. “Tell us of this Magus. I’ve never heard of such a man.”

  “You’ve lived your life on the other side of the Teeth or in Port Rawl, not in the shadows of Blackhall like my people.” Hurl’s eyes darted at each flickering shadow. “We northerners here have a saying: ‘A silent tongue speaks loudly.’ ”

  “Now is no time for silent tongues,” Tyrus intoned. “Tell us what you know of the Stone Magus. Is he friend or foe?”

  Hurl frowned. “Both, neither—I don’t know. I only know pieces of storie
s. I thought them fireside fancies.” He waved an arm around him. “But this, and the statue at the entrance—it’s right out of those tales.”

  “Maybe you’d better tell us these stories.”

  A final tremor passed through Hurl. He touched his friend’s hand, drawing strength and collecting himself; his voice was stronger when next he spoke. “The stories of the Magus stretch far back, to the time when the Stone Forest was green and Blackhall never darkened our shores.”

  “Was there ever such a time?” Blyth muttered dourly.

  “There was,” Hurl said. “In the distant past, this northernmost forest was revered by all. It was rich in deer, rabbit, and fox, a spot of green when all the world turned to snow and ice in winter, and a cool bower from the summer’s heat. But for all its wonders, there was something unsettling about the dark wood, rumors of strange laughter, of mischief played on those that overnighted, of floating lights to mislead the unsuspecting, even sightings of tiny folk no larger than one’s hand—the fae-nee, they were called.”

  Blyth shook his head. “Wives’ tales.”

  Hurl ignored him. “With such stories, none dared make their home in that dark wood except one.”

  “The Magus,” Tyrus guessed.

  Hurl nodded, still watching the park. “Deep in the wood, a great healer kept a homestead, a place where even the animals of the forest would go for a touch of his hand. He held the trees of the forest in deep reverence, so he made his home inside a hillside, in a warren of chambers lined by stone, warmed by many hearths, bright from windows that opened right through the hillside. He kept his home there for as far back as any could remember.”

  Sticks spoke. For such a large man, he had a very soft voice. “And the wee folk didn’t bother him in their forest?”

  “Ah, there’s the rub. For some say the fae-nee were the children of the Magus.”

  “What?” Blyth blurted.

  Hurl ignored the first mate. “In his loneliness, it was said he carved tiny men and women out of the wood of his homeland trees. And with his healing touch and deep love of forest, he brought the figures to life.”

  “Tiny wood people,” Blyth scoffed. “Why are we wasting time with such addled stories? I thought we were looking for who set this fire.”

  Tyrus frowned and waved for Hurl to continue. “What became of this Magus?”

  Hurl rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Blackhall. That’s what became of him. When the volcano erupted off the northern coasts, its ash and heat seared the forests, turning wood to stone. The Magus was never seen again.”

  “And that’s the end of your story?” Blyth threw his arms in the air.

  Hurl shook his head. “No. A century later, it begins again. People began to tell tales of someone living in the stone forest. A figure of stone, like the forest, but one that stalked its dead bower with vengeance in its cold heart.”

  “The Stone Magus,” Tyrus said.

  Hurl nodded. “A sect of worshipers formed, and said they could call upon the Stone Magus to protect a home or village.”

  “And you think he was called here?”

  Hurl stared back at the ruined village shrouded in mist. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe he was. Maybe the Magus could turn flesh to stone with a glance.” The man’s gaze settled back to the pair of huddled children. “But the stories vary. In many, the appearance of the Magus was as much a curse as a boon, destroying the good with the bad. Many of the tales end with these words: ‘Remember and never forget, the Stone Magus’ heart has also gone to stone.’ ”

  Tyrus frowned and turned to the fire blazing in the park’s center. “Well, Stone Magus or not, someone’s been here recently, and I won’t leave until I find out more.” Tyrus waved back to the fires. “Let’s see if we can discover who set this blaze and be done with this place.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Blyth and the others circled through the park and again approached the fire from all directions. Five pairs of eyes studied the empty grounds and took up posts with their backs against the fire. Shadows cast out in all directions.

  Blyth frowned. “What now?”

  “I guess we’ve been too subtle in our approach. Maybe something more bold.” Tyrus cleared his throat, then filled his lungs. “Ho!” he bellowed out into the misty night. “We mean no harm! We seek news of lost companions! If whoever set this blaze is out there, we ask gently that you show yourselves!”

  His pleaded words echoed out over the cliffs, unanswered.

  Sticks spoke from the other side of the flames. “Maybe they fled when they saw us coming. After what happened to the village here, they may be shy of strangers.”

  Tyrus sighed. If Sticks was right, any hope to gain knowledge of the fate of Wennar and his army ended here. But whoever had set the mighty blaze had done so to attract a passing eye: This was no tiny campfire, but a beacon set against the night. So why hide now?

  Tyrus widened his stance and studied the park. Had some surviving member of the Magus’ sect set this bonfire as a simple act of worship, then moved on? Was their nighttime search so much wasted effort? Or was there something more going on? He glanced back to Hurl. “This Magus, when did—?”

  A muffled explosion erupted behind them, followed by a flare from beyond the cliffs. All eyes turned to the sea, where a sheet of fire stretched high into the sky with a roar, then collapsed down on itself.

  “The ship!” Tyrus shouted.

  They raced to the cliff’s edge. Tyrus skidded to a stop and looked down upon an awful sight. The Black Folly lay where it had anchored, but flames now consumed it, turning the ship into a bonfire brighter than the one behind them.

  “Wh-what happened?” Blyth asked weakly.

  The answer was soon revealed in the waters around the ship. Lit by the flames, dark shapes moved through the waters, swimming toward shore with webbed fingers and snaking tails.

  Sticks pointed one of his clubs to the cliff face below. “There!”

  Climbing toward them were a score of leathery shapes. The beasts scrambled up the slick rock, using clawed hands and feet. Spotted, the hairless creatures revealed their razored teeth. A hiss, like steam from a boiling kettle, rose from the waters and cliffs.

  “Sea goblins!” Blyth swore harshly.

  Tyrus now understood what had happened to the seaside township—the fate of the villagers, the lack of bodies. He risked a glance behind him and was not surprised to see black forms scuttling out from the ruins: hundreds of goblins. He heard the rattle of their flinty tail spikes, the poisonous weapons of the creatures’ females. The blaze here had nothing to do with the Stone Magus or lost d’warves. It was simply a crude lure to attract prey to these shores.

  The village, the cliffs, the cove . . . it was a feeding nest for the drak’il, the sea-dwelling race of goblins—and Tyrus had led his men blindly into it.

  The pack of drak’il closed in.

  “We’re trapped,” Blyth said.

  Kast huddled with Hunt in a corner of the dungeon and searched for some means of escape, some weapon besides his sword and Hunt’s torch. The locked room echoed with the pops and crackles of opening eggs. The entire clutch was hatching. Empty shells clattered to the stone floor, while the green gases from the fractured eggs choked the chamber, reeking of maggoty meat and swooning the two men’s senses.

  Kast’s head swam; his ears rang.

  He fought to maintain his vigilance, stomping and spearing any of the tentacled slugs that drew too near. A moment ago, one had managed to slide down his blade and touch his hand. There had been a burn of poison as he shook it away—then his hand had gone numb, forcing him to use his left arm to battle the beasts.

  He now understood the fate of his love. Between the noxious gases and the deadening touch of the creatures’ tentacles, Sy-wen and Brother Ryn must have been caught by surprise, numbed and poisoned before they could defend themselves, allowing the creatures to root into their skulls and possess their minds.

  Hunt plunged his bur
ning torch into more of the creatures, searing them from the ceiling and walls. He limped as he worked, one leg as useless as Kast’s right hand. But the slimy creatures continued their relentless approach, flowing from scores of broken eggs.

  All around the room, the slugs slimed across the floor, oozed up the walls, and hung from the roof. With each choking breath, their numbers swelled, while Kast’s vision grew fuzzy.

  So many . . . He sensed their doom, but a more disquieting thought intruded on his despair. In this room, there were enough of the slime creatures to contaminate half the castle’s residents. So why feed so many of these slugs to Hunt’s flame and his sword? Was it simply to possess the dragon? Or was there something deeper at work?

  He stared down at his own sword. He knew one way to thwart the ambush here, a way to stop the enemy from gaining what it so clearly wanted. If he had to take his own life to save Ragnar’k, then so be it.

  He gripped his hilt tighter.

  “I . . . can’t last much . . . longer,” Hunt mumbled blearily. The tall Bloodrider wobbled on his one good leg.

  Kast offered his shoulder to support, still guarding with his sword.

  Sy-wen spoke from the door. “Breathe deep, my love,” she mocked. “Soon you’ll be back in my arms.”

  Kast had avoided looking toward the dungeon door. It unnerved him to find the face of the woman he loved staring so blandly at his own destruction. But now he spoke with passion: “Sy-wen, if you hear me, fight the demon! I know your heart! Nothing can withstand its strength!”

  At the doorway, Sy-wen’s left eye twitched. Her face tightened with lines of strain.

  Was he heard? “Sy-wen, please try.” His heart ached for her. He sent the last of his strength, falling to one knee.

  But it was no use. Like the ocean after a passing storm, Sy-wen’s face relaxed, and sibilant laughter, cold and mirthless, flowed from the lips he so longed to kiss. “Such love,” the demon said bitterly. “But nothing can resist the Master’s command.”

  At his side, Hunt collapsed with a groan.

  Kast tried to haul him up but his numb hand fouled his grip. The Bloodrider fell to the stone floor, and his torch skittered out of reach. Before Kast could help, a score of gelatinous beasts dripped from the ceiling and fell atop Hunt’s body. Hunt struggled to rise, but the numbing poison of the many beasts overwhelmed him.