Wit'ch Star (v5)

by James Clemens

  Then Hunt was torn from the dragon’s back, flung upward. His sword went flying as Ragnar’k shook the Bloodrider gripped in his jaws.

  No! Sy-wen sent, sensing the murderous intent of her mount. To the Ravenswing.

  Muscle surged under her, then they were aloft. She watched more barrels strike the ship, exploding with flame. It burned from prow to stern, igniting the marrow of the bone ship.

  Ragnar’k banked away as the ship sank under the waves. The last she saw of the monstrous thing was its living mast clawing at the skies before it, too, sank away.

  She closed her eyes, blacking out. When she opened her eyes, she was back on the Ravenswing. Men and elv’in bustled around her.

  She pushed up, but a familiar voice warned her, “Lie still, my dear.” It was Master Edyll. “We’ve taken the arrow out, but a healer’s gone to fetch more dragon’s blood.”

  She nodded weakly. The blood of a dragon could heal any wound—except for the evil inside her. She lay stretched atop the warm dragon. Ragnar’k . . .

  I’m here, my bonded . . . I’m safe.

  She sighed. Across the deck, she saw Hunt pinned to the deck, a Bloodrider on each limb. His upper torso had been stripped and an arc of bite wounds marked his flesh. An elv’in healer attempted to minister to his injuries, but he thrashed and fought, howling and snapping like a wild dog.

  I carried him to the ship, Ragnar’k explained, sensing her confusion. As you wanted.

  She remembered her last order when the dragon had attacked Hunt. She had only meant for the dragon to drop the Bloodrider and escape, but Ragnar’k must have divined her heart, known the affection she had for the large man.

  From atop the dragon, she watched Hunt struggle and howl. Soon she would be doing the same. Without the dragon’s magick, the demon would overwhelm her again, turning her into a raving beast. Tears welled at this thought—and with her vision blurred, she was a moment too late in noticing the danger to another. She shoved up despite the pain in her shoulder. “Sheeshon! No!”

  The tiny girl had broken through the milling warriors and dropped beside the pinned Hunt. She reached to her bonded Bloodrider. “I have need of you.” Her fingers touched Hunt’s tattoo, and his body convulsed with the magickal connection. The reaction was so violent and sudden that the guards holding the man were knocked aside.

  Sy-wen fought to go to her aid, but the dragon held her ankles, refusing to let her go.

  Hunt grabbed up the small girl.

  “No!” Sy-wen moaned.

  But instead of any harm, Hunt curled his limbs around Sheeshon protectively. A sob escaped the large man’s throat as he kissed the top of her head.

  Pikes and swords surrounded the pair. Master Edyll pushed forward. “Master Hunt . . . ?”

  “I’m myself,” he gasped. “Sheeshon’s touch—it broke the creature’s hold.”

  Sheeshon nodded, her small hands hugging tight. “But he still has worms in his head.”

  Master Edyll glanced between Hunt and Sy-wen. “Like Sy-wen’s bond to her dragon. As long as Sheeshon ignites the magickal bond and stays in contact—”

  “He’ll be free,” Sy-wen mumbled to herself. It cheered her to see the two together—it fueled her hope that one day the same might be true for her and Kast.

  A healer appeared at her side with a small cask of dragon’s blood. “We should see to your injuries,” he said.

  She nodded, but she knew there were no salves to heal her deepest wounds. Instead, she watched Hunt and Sheeshon as the healer worked on her shoulder. For the moment, she forgot her despair.

  One day, my love . . . One day I’ll hold you in my arms again.

  Belowdecks aboard the Dragonsheart, Kast leaned over a table covered with sea charts and maps. The high keel and his portly advisor, Bilatus, stood on the other side of the table. Three days had passed since the sinking of the bone ship, and in another two days, they would lead the fleets to Blackhall.

  Shaman Bilatus straightened with a groan. “Perhaps we could plan better strategies if our eyes weren’t crossing with exhaustion.” He ran a hand over his balding pate and shrugged his blue robes higher on his shoulder.

  The high keel matched the shaman’s tired expression, but he just stared harder at the scrolls and outlines. Kast understood his determination: the man had seen what had become of his son. Kast and the high keel shared this personal torment: to see a loved one suffer and be unable to help.

  “The attacks grow bolder upon us,” the high keel grumbled. “The mer’ai had to fend off another assault by a kraken this morning.”

  “I heard,” Kast said. “And the elv’in were harried by patrols of skal’tum last night.”

  The high keel slammed a fist on the table. “We should strike now! Why this cursed waiting?”

  “You know why,” Kast answered. “Tyrus leads the d’warves through the Stone Forest. They aren’t in position to attack the north entrance of the mountain.”

  “Let them join the fighting when they can! What’s to stop us from striking at the south?”

  Kast sighed. It was an old argument; the broader plan had already been laid out. There were only two ways into Blackhall. As the sun rose two days from now, the d’warves would attack over the land bridge from the north while the Dre’rendi and mer’ai assaulted the southern seaport and the elv’in warships gave support from the air to both parties.

  The finer details were still fluid and under discussion by various fleets. Day and night, crows flew between ships on the sea and in the air. Messenger riders swept through the ocean depths atop their dragons with final orders or suggestions. The complete plan was coming together. Now was not the time to rush.

  As the high keel grumbled, Kast glanced to Bilatus. The shaman placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “You need to rest.”

  The high keel shook out of his grip. “Leave me be!”

  Kast cracked a kink in his back. “Well, I need some fresh air,” he said. “We’ll come back to this at moonrise.”

  “I could use something from the galley,” the high keel conceded grudgingly.

  “I’ll join you down there,” Kast said. “I’m going to walk the deck first.”

  The other pair nodded. Together they left the room and went their separate ways.

  Kast climbed atop the deck and breathed in the night air. It smelled of salt and sulfur. The cold winds turned steamy for a breath as a stray breeze gusted from another direction. These were strange seas indeed.

  He crossed to the starboard rail. The dark sea was filled with sails all around. Overhead, elv’in ships hovered or floated over the masts, great black thunderheads aglow with ruddy fires. In the distance, Kast could make out the piping of dragons. Closer by, a lute was playing softly, while somewhere else, a seaman sang to the night of some missing love.

  Kast leaned on the rail. It would all be over soon. He shook his head. All this planning was for naught. The true war would be fought on another field far from here.

  Whatever final evil the Dark Lord expected to visit on this world, its heart was not to be found among these strange seas. Their efforts here were no more than a feint, a distraction against the true attack.

  Kast didn’t even dare glance to the east, toward the distant mountains and the small town of Winterfell. That was not his battle.

  Instead he focused on the north, where the horizons glowed a fiery red, where a dark shadow loomed, waiting.

  A shadow named Blackhall.

  Book Five

  WINTER’S EYRIE

  19

  Tol’chuk sat before the fire at his family’s hearth. Dawn was a short way off; the others were still rolled into blankets around the floor.

  He gazed into the flames, content with these quiet moments before the true day started. Across the cavern, a calm silence filled the space. No shouts, no challenges, no demands on his time.

  But that would change as soon as the sun rose. As the new spiritual leader of the tribes, the clans were hi
s responsibility. It was a weight as heavy as the stone in his thigh pouch. His fingers settled to the goatskin satchel.

  The Heart remained corrupted, transformed into ebon’stone by the blood of the ill’guard Vira’ni. He feared bringing the stone near the Spirit Gate in the core of the mountain, lest its corruption spread into the heartstone arch. Thus he dared not open the Gate and consult Sisa’kofa for guidance. Days passed, while the last words of Sisa’kofa still echoed in his chest: The Spirit Gate must be protected . . . You must be this guardian.

  But what was he to do from here? He had united the clans, rooted out the treachery of the Ku’ukla. But the tribes grew impatient. Og’res were not known for their cooperation nor for their easy temperament. Skirmishes broke out daily among the gathered og’res.

  Some direction was needed, and all eyes turned to him. But what was he to do? Where did they go from here?

  The sound of running feet drew his attention to Mogweed. The shape-shifter raced across the cavern toward the hearth. He had taken to nighttime sojourns, getting braver each evening, venturing farther from the warmth of the hearth.

  From his pale face, it looked as if something had frightened or excited him. “A ship!” he blurted, gasping.

  Tol’chuk stood, frowning.

  Mogweed waved an arm toward the brightening entrance to the cavern. “An elv’in ship! Coming from the south!”

  His shouts roused the others. Blankets were thrown back. Magnam rolled to his feet. “Is it Jerrick’s scoutship?” the d’warf asked, rubbing at one eye. “The one we hid?”

  “No, it’s larger! Someone comes! Maybe they mean to rescue us!”

  Jaston sat up, half cradling the small swamp child in his arms. Her wings stretched as she woke. “It must be from A’loa Glen. Maybe they received the crow sent from Cassa Dar.”

  Tol’chuk hoped so. Through the swamp child, they had communicated all that had occurred here to Cassa Dar, and she had sent a crow to A’loa Glen with the information. But so far there had been no response.

  Magnam scowled. “I doubt a ship could reach here so quickly from the island. It’s been only a handful of days.”

  “But it is an elv’in ship!” Mogweed all but danced. “Come see! The og’res camped outside are already rousing—the sight has them spooked.”

  Tol’chuk grabbed a cloak and waved Mogweed forward. They’d best hurry. A flying ship could set the whole encamped valley into a panic.

  Mogweed rushed toward the entrance with the others trailing. But as he reached the threshold, his feet suddenly went out from under him, sending him sprawling with a howl to the stone floor.

  Tol’chuk reached a clawed hand to help him up, but the man shoved to his feet on his own. He straightened and ran a hand through his hair, then turned a baffled face toward Tol’chuk. “What’s happening?”

  Tol’chuk sighed and nodded to Magnam. “Tell Fardale about the ship.” He pushed past the dazed shape-shifter and stared at the sun rising to the east. Dawn. The twins had traded places again.

  Beyond the cavern entrance, the valley floor was aglow with hundreds of campfires. The meadow grasses were beaten to mud by the many og’res assembled here, as if a rain of boulders had fallen from the slopes of the Northern Fang. Already sounds of alarm were spreading throughout the valley. Og’res stood and pointed toward the southern skies. Females bleated nervously.

  Tol’chuk stared across the valley. Night still ruled the skies to the west, but the uppermost cliffs of the Fang were already bathed in sunlight. As he searched the skies, he spotted the ship sailing from the south. Still in darkness, its iron keel glowed with ruddy magick, while lamps in the rigging lit the billowing sails. Then the ship hoved around the flank of a cliff and crested into sunlight. It burst into dawn with a shimmer of sailcloth and the gentle warmth of its dark wood.

  Cries grew louder among the og’res.

  Hun’shwa appeared from among the mass and loped over to the group gathered at the entrance to the Toktala cavern. “What new demon attacks?” he asked in Og’re. The war leader of the tribes bore a club in his free hand, knuckling on his other. He was ready to fight.

  “I believe they be friends,” Tol’chuk answered in the common tongue. “Allies.”

  Hun’shwa glanced doubtfully to the ship sweeping toward the valley.

  “Find the head of each clan,” Tol’chuk said. “Spread word that the ship must not be attacked.”

  Hun’shwa nodded with a grunt. “It will be done.” Then he loped down the slope, bellowing for the clan heads to gather.

  Jaston stepped forward with the winged swamp child at his knee. The girl sucked a thumb and stared wide-eyed at the sky. “Pretty,” she mumbled around her thumb.

  “I’ll send the swamp child up to the ship,” Jaston said. “Cassa Dar can let them know where we are, what the condition is down here.”

  Tol’chuk nodded, but one eye narrowed as he watched the ship. As the elv’in craft flew closer, a great flock of birds followed, swooping and diving in its wake, as if blown up from the rimwood forests in the lower valleys. With each breath, more and more appeared, filling the skies.

  “What’s with all the birds?” Magnam asked on his other side, voicing Tol’chuk’s own concern.

  As answer, Fardale shoved through them, knocking into Jaston. He craned up, his face frozen in disbelief. “Si’lura!” he gasped.

  Tol’chuk moved alongside him. “What be you saying?”

  Fardale swept a hand across the sky. “The eagles and hawks . . . they’re all my people!”

  Tol’chuk frowned at the dark flock building up behind the handsome ship. A shape-shifter army? Either it was an invasion from the Western Reaches, or more forces than the og’re legions had been swept here by the tides of fate. Tol’chuk wished he had risked unlocking the Spirit Gate and consulting Sisa’kofa. “Send the swamp child,” he ordered Jaston. “Let’s find out who comes with such an army.”

  “Look!” Magnam called out.

  All eyes focused back to the ship. A bloom of fire suddenly flared over the ship’s prow. It blazed high into the sky, shooting above the masts.

  Og’res fled from the ship’s shadow, panicked by the display. Hun’shwa could be heard bellowing for calm.

  In the sky, the ball of fire coalesced into a giant rose, petals of fire opening to the dawn. More gasps and shouts echoed over the valley.

  The group at the cavern entrance had gone mute, mouths hanging open. They all knew the sigil blazing in the skies.

  “It be Elena!” Tol’chuk finally said, his voice full of shock.

  “How could she be here?” Magnam asked.

  Tol’chuk gaped up at the ship, the fiery rose, the gathered army. A cold dread entered his heart. He sensed many paths gathered here this day, paths foretold in prophecies as old as these same mountains. But from this day forward, no magick could divine the road ahead. They stood poised on a cusp of fate, darkness all around, and only one light to lead them from here.

  Tol’chuk stared up at the blazing rose of wit’ch fire and prayed Elena was strong enough to bear such a burden.

  Er’ril lowered the spyglass. Elena stood beside him, her right hand extended toward the skies. He watched as she deftly tied off her magick and slipped a calfskin glove over her ruby hand, now a touch paler after the magickal display.

  He stepped to her side. “I’ve spotted Tol’chuk and Mogweed by the cavern entrance,” he said.

  “So they’re still here . . . good.” Her eyes still shone with the song of her wild magicks.

  “I also saw Jaston with them.”

  Her brow crinkled. “The swamper? Are you sure?” The confusion dimmed the glow of magick in her face, and Er’ril was glad for it. Warmth reentered her features.

  “It’s hard to mistake that scarred face,” he assured her, taking her arm. The others lined the rails to either side, but he didn’t care who saw; he was long past hiding his affection for Elena. “I watched Jaston kneeling beside some strange chil
d. It takes wing toward us as I speak.”

  “A winged child?” She searched the skies until she spotted the small figure in flight. “Could it be one of Cassa Dar’s creations?”

  Er’ril shrugged. “It seems we’ll all have stories to share.”

  Together, they gazed out at the valley below, lit with morning fires and covered with the rocky shapes of hundreds of og’res.

  “It’ll be good to see Tol’chuk and everyone else again,” Elena murmured.

  Er’ril heard the trace of regret in her voice. He kissed the top of her head. The last days here aboard the Windsprite had been calm and restful: no threats, no monsters, no dark magicks, only the sun, the wind, and the skies. But now the signs of the war showed clearly on the earth below: burned homesteads, skeletal remains of towns, and bands of strange beasts roaming the forest.

  Er’ril suddenly understood the elv’in nature a little better. Above, in the open skies, the world seemed a simpler and brighter place.

  “We could always just keep flying,” he whispered in her ear.

  She slipped her arms around him. “Don’t tempt me.”

  How he wished it were that easy. But he knew there were no words to sway Elena from her true course. So he allowed her this small illusion of this possibility of escape. “The winged child comes,” he noted.

  He felt her sigh. “Then it’s time to return to the world,” she whispered into his chest.

  Er’ril lifted her face and wiped the tears from her eyes before anyone else saw them. “We’ll face it together.”

  By midday, Elena was bone-tired as she called the war council to order. The tensions between the shape-shifters and the ogres remained thick. Both sides had long histories of isolation and mistrust. How could she forge them into a single army, when she doubted she had the strength for even this meeting? Earlier, the reunions between Elena’s group and Tol’chuk’s had been joyous but still heavy with sorrow.

  Jerrick, Mama Freda, and little Tikal . . . all dead.

  She sat, her eyes still puffy from unshed tears. After she heard the story of Vira’ni reborn and the treachery here, a hopelessness had dragged on her spirit, and she had seen the stricken look on Er’ril’s face. He had once loved Vira’ni—and now this abomination had been unleashed upon the mountains and had taken the lives of their friends. Did the evil in this world never die?