Wit'ch Star (v5)

by James Clemens

  Er’ril glanced up as they crossed the silver lake, passing under the dark reflection. Though he bore no magick himself, he sensed the enmity pulsing from that darkness.

  “If the gate is already here,” Elena said, “why have they not already tainted the confluence? What are they waiting for?”

  “The moon,” Harlequin answered, pointing toward the roof. “There’s a hole up there, right above the statue. You can see the light.”

  Er’ril frowned. Now brought to his attention, he could indeed see a feeble glow in the center of the dark whorl. The storm above must be breaking, the cloud cover opening.

  Elena spoke, her voice anxious. “They’re waiting for the full moon to shine down upon the Weirgate—but why?”

  “There’s power in moonlight . . . power from the Void,” Harlequin said. “Remember our trip from the castle to the Western Reaches? They must need that power to fuel their corruption.”

  Joach glanced back to them. “Fardale’s reached Shorkan.” He pointed his staff.

  “Hang back a moment,” Er’ril warned. His party was halfway between the shore and the statue. Across the way, Fardale edged closer to the prone mage, while Thorn loped in a wary circle around Shorkan and the statue. The Wyvern Gate loomed over all, a dark sentinel of black wing, beak, and claw.

  “Let’s see what they discover.”

  Mogweed trembled in his cell, cursing his brother’s bravery. He had no desire to face the demon mage alone. Fardale edged closer to the sprawled figure, growling deep in his throat—half man, half wolf—ready to sprint away at a moment’s notice. A long black staff rested an arm’s length from the scarred hand of the monster; his scowled face was turned away.

  Fardale stepped nearer, while Thorn circled around. The pair approached the mage from opposite sides.

  Mogweed cringed in the darkness. He knew he could break into control of this body whenever he wanted. With Fardale distracted, it would be simple. But what would he do then? There was nowhere to run.

  He fought against his rising panic. Think, he screamed to himself. There must be a way to escape!

  Then it was too late. On the silver floor, the black staff slid with a snap into the mage’s hand. With a surge, the darkmage flew to his feet with a howl of rage.

  A trap!

  Fardale scrambled back. “Run!” he yelled to Thorn, twisting around to do the same.

  But before he could even turn, the darkmage thrust up his staff. Tendrils of darkness lashed from above, snaring both wolves. Fardale was jerked off his feet and reeled into the air. Mogweed sensed their certain doom.

  Across the silver lake, the others stumbled back as cords sought them, too.

  Shorkan held his staff toward the roof. His cowl had fallen back, revealing a swath of ropy scars and burned-out sockets. As his lips moved, he wobbled on his feet. His staff trembled. It seemed his collapse had not been entirely feigned.

  As the darkmage fought for control, the snaking cords of darkness spasmed. Flowing like warmed oil, Fardale melted from cloak and pack, out of their grip. Thorn! he sent to his mate. Do as I do!

  Mogweed held his breath as Fardale streamed to the floor and formed a wolf, like wax poured into a mold. The body they wore screamed in protest, sorely used. There were limits to their transforming abilities; their flesh could only ply so much before needing to rest.

  Beyond Shorkan’s shoulder, Thorn clearly struggled. She had escaped the snare of darkness but had to fight her gelled body into a snowy wolf. She was clearly exhausted, too.

  Shorkan turned to her, his staff lowering.

  No! Fardale cried, leaping forward. He struck the mage and knocked him to a knee, then rolled up, ready to defend his mate.

  The fur on Fardale’s shoulder sizzled from contact with the malignant demon. The burn seared into Mogweed. He cried out in his silent prison.

  Fardale crouched before the darkmage, hackles raised, teeth bared. Thorn! Run to the others!

  The attack had given his mate time to finish her shift. She stood, a snowy wolf on a frozen silver lake. Then in a flash of fur, she was gone, flying away. Hurry, Fardale! she cast back at him.

  Mogweed willed the same, but his brother refused to risk his mate again. He stood his ground, allowing her time to escape.

  The mage regained his feet, staff swinging.

  Fardale! Run! Mogweed screamed internally. He reached for control of the body. If his brother wouldn’t flee, he would!

  As he sprang from his cell, a searing blast of darkfire shot over his shoulder from behind. Fardale ducked as the spray of black flames struck the mage square in the chest and threw him against the ebon’stone statue. Shorkan spun his staff and broke the lance of darkfire.

  Joach stood a hundred steps away, his staff pointed at the mage. Shorkan gained his feet, but with his attention focused on the boy, the snaking tendrils were in disarray. From the roof, the cloaks and packs of the shape-shifters tumbled to the floor, no longer held.

  The rest of their party flanked Joach. Only Elena held back, protected. Thorn reached the others, spinning on her haunches to rejoin the attack.

  “You’ll never win, Shorkan!” Er’ril called to him. “We’ve more than enough magick to withstand you!”

  Shorkan laughed. “That will be seen, Brother! But either way, you are too late. The moon is risen. Your time here is at an end.”

  He stamped his staff on the silver floor. All around the edges of the lake, bones jittered and clattered. “It is time to pay in blood for your own misdeeds!” Shorkan called out, lifting his staff high. “To face your own transgressions!”

  From the piles, impossible constructions of bone formed. They clambered up as if they had merely been asleep, sprawled and sunning themselves on the shore. Now they arose and scuttled onto the lake, some small and quick, like crabs. Others towered twice the size of an og’re, all thick-boned, bearing clubs topped by skulls. Still others ran on all fours like dogs, but with maws full of tiny shattered bones.

  The legion converged on the group, encircling the smaller party. Er’ril shouted orders as the monsters closed in.

  Shorkan laughed again. He spun his staff toward the roof, readying to attack from above, too. The party would be assaulted from all sides.

  Fardale gathered himself. Clearly the wolf had been forgotten during the exchange or was perhaps considered to be no threat. Either way, Fardale meant to prove otherwise. Mogweed couldn’t allow that. It was sure death.

  As Fardale leaped, so did Mogweed—out from his cell and into the body. His brother was caught by surprise and tumbled back into the empty cell. Mogweed counted on Fardale to believe it was the natural transition from day to night; the sun had to be near to setting anyway. It would take him a few moments to realize the lack of walls to his cell. By that time, Mogweed intended to be away.

  But the transition was neither smooth nor unnoticed. Fardale had already begun his lunge. His legs, interrupted in midleap, went out from under him before Mogweed gained control. His frantic motions drew an eye.

  Shorkan turned to him. Mogweed backpedaled away but tripped on his own abandoned cloak and pack. A sneer stretched the pale lips of the mage.

  “It’s time a dog was beaten soundly by its master.”

  The world was all bones. Elena crouched as the monstrous constructions lumbered and skittered around them. Tol’chuk struck his hammer at a beast, shattering through its shoulder, but the broken bones re-formed, flying back into position.

  Joach sprayed out jets of balefire, turning all in his path to ash. But from the ash, bone re-formed and shook back into monster and beast.

  Their own party, however, did not fare as well. Magnam bled from a shoulder wound, pierced through by a sharpened shard. Harlequin Quail limped on his left leg. Thorn raced through the towering beasts, yanking out bones, snagging and toppling creatures. One of her ears was torn and bleeding.

  Er’ril fell back to her side. “Force alone will not win our way through here. We’ll need your mag
ick.”

  They had been holding her in reserve. Now she straightened, palms bloody with coldfire and wit’ch fire. She had seen the result of Joach’s balefire, so she kept her right fist closed and opened her left. With a skill born from winters of bloodshed, she cast out twines of coldfire, careful of her companions.

  “Everyone down!” Er’ril yelled to the others.

  They obeyed, dropping to hands and knees, even bellies.

  Elena sent out a wash of coldfire over them, all around her, freezing the bones of the creatures to the marrow. The damp air iced around them, frosting all. The lumbering monsters slowed and stopped their attack.

  “Well done, Elena.” Er’ril said.

  Harlequin Quail lifted his head, staring around him. “Yes, very good. We’ve built our own prison of ice and bone.”

  Elena saw that they were indeed encased in a pen of bone.

  “We can shatter a path to the gate,” Er’ril said and motioned Tol’chuk up with his hammer.

  Elena kept her flow of magick trickling to the bone army; she did not want them awakening. But linked to the monstrosities, she sensed a presence, thoughts that fed back through her connection into her heart. Frowning, she focused her attention inward.

  Words formed in her head, whispers in an ancient tongue, but understood by her heart: Lightbringer, stealer of spirits. She knew who spoke.

  “Mother above . . . not again . . .”

  The whispers continued to feed into her. A handful of voices grew to hundreds—the spirits of the rock’goblins, those slain at her hand. Drawn to her magick, they had burned to death in her light. Their spirits were still here! They had never passed beyond.

  All along, she had thought her crime upon these simple folk to be over and done, a tragedy of the past. She gaped at this army. It had never ended! They were trapped and tormented, and now foully used by the darkmage, their spirits twisted back to their own bones.

  Shorkan’s earlier words echoed in her heart. It is time to pay in blood for your own misdeeds . . . face your own trangressions.

  The crash of a hammer sounded on her left. Inside her, it was answered by a howl of pain. Not one voice, but many. Even the squeals of young ones, bleating cries for help.

  “They feel it,” she moaned, falling to her knees.

  Er’ril heard her, saw her fall.

  Another hammer blow set up more cries. They filled the hollow ache in her own heart.

  Er’ril clutched her. “What’s wrong?”

  “We’re killing them all over again.”

  She stared up into his face. “Stop Tol’chuk. It has to stop!”

  “Why?”

  “Do it!” she cried fiercely, tears springing to her eyes. “If you love me, stop him now!”

  Er’ril stared for a breath longer, his face worried, but he leaped away.

  Elena cut off her magick, hugging her arms around her, rocking. “No more . . . ,” she muttered.

  Around them, the bone prison remained, but frozen limbs began to creak and pop, fighting through her fading magick.

  “What do you want us to do?” Er’ril asked as the bone army began to reawaken.

  Elena shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Shorkan stepped nearer to Mogweed. “You shall be the first among your companions to suffer.”

  Mogweed tried to scramble away, but his feet remained tangled in his cloak, his pack under one knee. He struggled to pull his tired flesh from wolf back to man, but it resisted. He fought harder. His only hope lay in freeing his tongue. He had to tell the demon that they served the same master, but his tired flesh was sluggish to obey.

  The staff lowered toward him.

  He sensed Fardale urging him. Fight! his brother seemed to yell.

  But Mogweed was no warrior. His mind spun, settling instead on another way of convincing the mage. With his limbs half shifted, he grabbed his pack and ripped it open. His crude hand pawed into its contents, digging deep to the small ebon’stone egg given to him by the Dark Lord. It was meant for Greshym, now twice dead. Surely the egg contained some dark magick, a tool to have helped the mage escape their captivity. Mogweed lifted his prize, struggling to speak.

  Shorkan’s scarred features widened with shock.

  Mogweed fought his dull flesh. He gurgled out words. “For you!” He rolled the egg toward the mage. Surely this would prove his loyalty.

  The response was not what he expected. Shorkan howled, backing away, the length of his black staff ignited into black flames. “No!” But the prior attacks had weakened the demon. Now it was his turn to stumble.

  The egg reached the mage’s toes. As it bumped against Shorkan, the egg hatched with a boom, exploding as if thunder itself had been trapped inside the stone shell. The silver lake shattered like thin ice under the darkmage’s feet. Cracks skittered from his heels. The ground shook.

  Mogweed cowered back as realization dawned: The egg had not been meant as a boon, but as a doom.

  Trails of smoke shot up from the egg, wrapping over the demon. Where they touched, flesh and clothes turned to dark crystal. The mage continued a stumbling retreat, but his legs were already hardened. He fell with a crash, and still the smoke pursued him.

  The fire in his ebon’stone staff died as his scarred fingers turned to dark crystal. A scream rose from the demon, ending in a tinkling cry. Then after another breath, even this ended.

  Mogweed pushed to his feet—still half man, half wolf. Sprawled before him on the silver lake was a statue made of dark crystal. Though he couldn’t read Fardale’s thoughts, he sensed the confusion, the shock, and also the silent question. What have you done, Brother?

  Mogweed shook his head. He had no answer. He stared up at the looming Weirgate and slowly backed away. Inside he sensed his brother’s quiet suspicions. Were you betraying us or saving us?

  Er’ril lifted his sword as the bone army creaked from its frozen prison, lumbering toward them again. The others backed to his side. Despite Elena’s protests, he meant to fight. He would not let her fall.

  A huge bone beast clambered from among its icy brethren. It towered twice Er’ril’s height and bore a sickle of broken bone in each clawed hand. It stalked forward.

  Elena reached for Er’ril’s cloak. “They’re not demonic, just victims of the darkmage.”

  He ignored her. He knew that Shorkan must have set this trap, knowing it would undermine Elena when she most needed to be strong. But he would not let Shorkan win. Er’ril had borne guilt that stretched centuries. For Elena, he would bear even more. Er’ril stepped forward to meet the giant.

  “No . . . ,” Elena moaned.

  As if it heard her, the bone monster froze. A tremble passed through its frame. Then like a house of tumbling cards, it fell apart, clattering down. Bones bounced across the silver floor. The two sickles shattered as they struck.

  All around, the army fell apart, collapsing into bony ruins.

  Er’ril stood amid the chaos.

  “What happened?” Tol’chuk asked.

  Elena rose to her feet. “The spell that bound them. It . . . it’s gone!”

  Er’ril looked beyond the boneyard. What new trick was this? He searched out his brother. Under the gaze of the Wyvern Gate, he saw Fardale collapsed to his knees. Before him lay the darkmage, unmoving on the silver lake.

  “Something’s happened,” Magnam said.

  Narrowing his eyes, Er’ril waved them forward. They pushed and kicked through the piled bones; then Er’ril led the way across the lake, sword in hand. Elena followed, her eyes still haunted.

  As they neared the Weirgate, the fate of his brother became clear. The darkmage’s body had turned to pure crystal, black as sin and hard as ice. Er’ril felt his own body growing numb, but he forced his limbs forward. He stared down at the face of an enemy, the face of a brother he had once loved. He read the lines of torture in the ravaged countenance. Er’ril suspected the agony wasn’t all the pain of this crystallization. In those lines, he read the an
guish of his brother’s true heart.

  “Shorkan,” he whispered.

  “He’s gone to crystal,” Elena said. “Like De’nal.”

  “Can he thaw?” Magnam asked ominously, fingering his hammer. “Like the bone monsters?”

  “Never,” Er’ril said harshly, shuddering at this thought. Never again. He glanced to the d’warf. “Give me your weapon.”

  Magnam hesitated, then did as he asked.

  Er’ril hefted the hammer to his shoulder and frowned down at the crystal form of his brother. He remembered all the horrors done in his brother’s name. “If you’re like De’nal,” he said coldly, “a spirit composed of crystal, then you can hear me. I can’t deny that part of you was once my brother. But a part does not make a whole. Where De’nal was brightness and light, you are darkness and corruption. And long ago, I promised to see your corruption gone from this world.”

  Before his sorrow weakened him further, he swung the sledge down with both arms. The crystal shattered into a million pieces, bouncing and skittering in all directions. “And I keep my promises.”

  Afterward, Er’ril dropped the hammer and turned away. Tears rose to his eyes. He wiped them away roughly. Why should he shed a tear for the demon here?

  Elena answered him, as if reading his heart. “Though he was evil, he was still the last of your brother in this world. You are right to mourn.”

  Er’ril shook his head, clearing his throat. He allowed his Standish iron to harden him. “I’ll mourn my brother once this is over.” He swung around to the shape-shifter. “Tell me how this happened.”

  Mogweed stared up at the plainsman. How he wanted to run, to flee his disgrace, but he could not. Those storm-gray eyes bore down on him, pinning him in place. But he was too shocked to answer, to construct a clever lie.

  Tell them, Fardale seemed to howl inside him.

  Tol’chuk stepped to his other side, clapping him on the shoulder. “Fardale, how did you save us?”

  Mogweed startled with this question, his eyes wide. Fardale? He bit back a laugh. Of course—they all still thought him his brother. This realization shook him out of his shock.