Wit'ch Star (v5)

by James Clemens

  “I . . . Fardale . . . I didn’t do anything.” Lies again flowed freely from his warming tongue. “It must have been the silver lake. It cracked under the mage, and he . . . he transformed.” Mogweed kept his eyes averted from Thorn. She would know the lie.

  Inside, he felt his brother’s outrage. Mogweed didn’t know how long his subterfuge would last—hopefully long enough for him to escape before they all learned the truth of his betrayal.

  Harlequin Quail pointed toward the roof. “Whether luck or fate, time runs short. The moon rises already to reach the hole.”

  Mogweed craned his neck. Through a small hole in the rocky ceiling, a pale violet sky shone. A corner of the moon peeked past one edge.

  “Perhaps whatever magick Shorkan planned here ended with him,” Magnam said, wrapping his injured shoulder.

  Elena slid her sword from her sheath. “I won’t trust that until the Weirgate is gone.”

  Mogweed kept his eyes on the hole above. From the color of the skies, the sun was near to setting. Once it was gone, Fardale would be trapped until the morning. He’d have time to think of a strategy, perhaps escape. He bent to reach for his cloak when he felt his hand spasm, twitching on its own.

  No! Not on its own! His arm rose and clenched a fist he hadn’t formed of his own will. Fardale knew! Like himself, he had discovered the new freedom.

  Mogweed ground his teeth. I won’t give up, Brother! Still bent, hiding his struggle from the others, he fought his fingers open. Sunset is so near . . . I only have to hold out a little longer.

  Mogweed tried to straighten, but his body locked. He couldn’t move. With both wills fighting for control, neither could win. I won’t give up control!

  “Fardale, what’s wrong?” Elena asked behind him.

  She must have noted his trembling form, but he dared not give up the struggle, even to speak. The sun would set at any moment. He could almost feel its descent.

  “Fardale?”

  He heard her step closer, but even a moment’s lapse in his will and—

  Mogweed’s body suddenly jerked free. The abrupt release sent him wheeling up and backward with a shout on his lips, a cry of joy. Free!

  Then he felt a lance of fire jab through him. Only then did he hear the shouted warning. “Fardale, no!”

  He stared down. A sword blade protruded from his chest, impossibly bright. His blood welled thickly. He fell to his knees.

  “He jumped back,” Elena said, aghast. “I couldn’t get the blade out of the way!”

  Mogweed tried to cough out the heaviness in his chest. Invisible steel bands seemed to have wrapped his ribs, squeezing painfully.

  Thorn suddenly appeared in front of him. “ Fardale, no . . .”

  Mogweed managed a shake of his head. He met the eyes of his brother’s mate. It is not Fardale. The sun has set. He now knew why he was so suddenly released, caught off guard, off balance.

  “Oh, Mogweed . . .” Thorn said, glancing to the others. “It’s Mogweed again.” She turned back to him, taking his hand. Tears welled in her eyes—she knew both brothers would die from the one sword stroke.

  He felt himself slipping already.

  Thorn must have noted this, too. Her words became hurried. “Tell him, tell him . . .” Her amber eyes glowed.

  He could have turned away, but he didn’t. Fardale was still inside him. What did it matter any longer? Let him hear the last words of love from his mate. He kept his eyes locked on Thorn’s, taking it all in as his breath grew ragged. Someone grabbed his shoulders and helped him sit.

  Through their gazes, Mogweed took in all the love between the two. Flashes of images, scents, memories, small whispers of forgiveness. It was a light almost too bright to look upon. But even such brilliance began to fade as his vision darkened and his body grew colder.

  The line between the brothers grew less distinct again. But this time, there was no fight. Mogweed faced Fardale, twins, naked to one another.

  I’m sorry, Brother. It was hard to say who even spoke those words.

  Then darkness descended over them both . . . and they were gone.

  Sobbing, Elena knelt atop the silver lake, her face covered by her hands. “How? After all they’ve been through . . .”

  Er’ril helped lower Mogweed’s body to the ground. The sword was still impaled through the middle of his chest. Blood ran in a wide pool around his body. Er’ril turned to Elena, taking her in his arms.

  “Why?” she moaned.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t believe the fault here was solely due to chance. The blade is a blood sword. Such weapons are known to harm too easily and too often. Their tainted steel always seeks blood and death.”

  His words did little to console her. It was her hand that had wielded the blade. She had turned her attention away for the barest moment . . . Then Mogweed had flown backward as if intent upon skewering himself.

  Thorn knelt on the other side of the prone body, weeping.

  Harlequin spoke from a few steps away. “The moon is almost full risen. If we are to act against the gate, we’d best hurry.”

  Er’ril helped her stand. “I’ll get your sword.”

  Elena shook free, wiping her eyes. “No, I’ll do it.” She swallowed hard and stepped toward the body. The rose-pommel hilt ran red with the shape-shifters’ blood. Thorn turned away, unable to watch. Elena closed her hand over the hilt, and the sword sang free with ease, as easily as it had slain her friends. As the tip pulled clear, the body seemed to melt under it, as if the blade were all that had held the body together. The form dissolved into a rusty-colored flow. It spread across the silver floor, parting around Thorn’s knees. She backed in horror. The two flows drew in on themselves, welling up into bulky mounds that sculpted into two figures curled on the floor. The shapes grew more distinct and familiar: one a dark wolf, one a man.

  “Mogweed and Fardale,” Er’ril said. “They’re finally free.”

  Tol’chuk shook his head sadly.

  Thorn dropped down beside her mate, reaching a hand to his face. With her touch, the wolf suddenly inhaled deeply, then startled up, as if disturbed from sleep. Everyone jumped back, even Thorn.

  The shape-shifter spoke tentatively to the wolf as it gained its feet, wobbling slightly. “F-Fardale?”

  The wolf lifted its head. Amber eyes glowed toward the si’luran woman. Then Thorn’s eyes widened, too. She let out a sob of joy and wrapped her arms around the wolf’s neck.

  “I guess that’d be a yes,” Harlequin commented.

  To the side, Mogweed pushed up, rubbing his eyes. “Wh-what happened?” he asked.

  “You be alive!” Tol’chuk said, scooping him to his feet.

  Mogweed stared down at his limbs, clearly as surprised as any of them. He fingered his naked chest. “I’m healed. How?”

  Er’ril pointed to the sword in Elena’s stunned fingers. “Shadowsedge was made to break spells. I’d wager its piercing shattered whatever held you together.”

  “The Spirit Root said we were to take the sword and seek you out,” Thorn recalled.

  Mogweed stared over at his brother. “So it was the sword all along? We could’ve been freed anytime.”

  Elena stared around at the confluence. She remembered the trapped rock’goblin spirits. “I suspect such a miracle could only occur here. You had to die, but your spirits couldn’t pass beyond. The confluence held you safe until you were unbound.”

  Mogweed stared over to his brother. “Either way, we’re wolf and man again.” He lifted his arm, and a flare of fur sprouted along its length. “But truly bound no longer.”

  Fardale shifted from wolf to something half man so he could clutch Thorn in his arms. Then he faced his brother. “Mogweed . . .”

  Mogweed sighed heavily, then bowed his head and mumbled, “I know . . .”

  Fardale crossed to him and hugged him. “You’ve freed us.”

  Elena noted the shocked look on the other’s face.

  Fardal
e straightened, still resting a hand on Mogweed’s shoulder. “Thank you, Brother.”

  The shock on Mogweed’s face persisted. Elena smiled. She suspected the small man had received little praise in his life, always living in the shadow of his brother.

  “The moon,” Harlequin reminded them.

  Elena turned to face the Wyvern Gate. The black bird sat hunched on its ebon’stone claws, ruby eyes staring from its cowl of feathers, its wings outspread as if ready to leap.

  It was their last obstacle.

  Er’ril placed a hand on her shoulder. “If the sword could break the twins, let’s hope it can break the gate.”

  Elena nodded. If they succeeded, Chi would be free, and the Dark Lord would be stripped of his well of dark magick. She allowed herself a moment of hope—a strange sensation after the winters of despair.

  “Let’s do it,” she said. Even if she lost the blade, she wouldn’t shed any tears. She remembered the ease with which the blade had slipped into Mogweed’s back. After this night, she was done with the blood sword.

  Together, they approached the statue cautiously, but it remained stone. Elena slid one hand, then the other, down the length of the sword’s razored edge. Blood flowed freely.

  She glanced back to the others; then, setting her lips, she turned. Above the statue, almost all of the moon’s fullness filled the hole. They had not a moment more to spare. Stepping closer, she gripped the hilt with both bloodied hands. Immediately she felt the connection to the steel, the surge of confidence, the keen understanding of magick.

  “When you’re ready,” Er’ril said.

  She smiled and drove the blade into the sculpted chest of the bird.

  Her arms were ready for the blade to clang on stone or shatter against it, but the blade sank into the ebon’stone as if it were mere smoke. But the effect was immediate. The stone bird awoke with a scream, its neck arching up as its wings snapped wide.

  “Elena,” Er’ril warned.

  She drove the sword all the way to its hilt.

  Connected to the sword, she felt the Weir beyond the gate, that immensity of madness. But she held tight. Through her bond, she felt the sword’s elemental substance bleed into the Weir, its magick sucked into the bottomless well.

  Shadowsedge was gone, but Elena continued to hold its hilt pressed to the breast of the stone bird. This sword was not only steel; it was also her own blood, a flow rich in magick—but not elemental magick. The Weir did not want her energy. Her magick came from Cho, the Weir from Chi. The two twin but contrary magicks fought each other explosively.

  Elena held tight. The elemental steel had pierced the stone, allowing her blood access to the Weir beyond. She felt the build-up of opposite forces within the heart of the bird. It was this fiery fight that tortured the stone wyvern. The bird continued to scream. It beat its wings, but it could not take to the air. It had to await the moon and remain connected to the confluence of silver. Still it tried to shake her free, lifting her off her feet.

  “Elena!” Er’ril screamed. From the corner of her eye, she saw him knocked aside by a blow from a stone wing, sliding across the silver floor.

  Still, she held tight with both fists to the hilt, hanging from the rose pommel. She would not fail. She fed more and more of her own blood through the hilt and into the Weir. The bird writhed with agony. She glanced up to its ruby eyes, on fire now. Its beaked maw dove at her, ready to rip her away.

  But Tol’chuk was there. Heaving with both shoulders, he swung his huge hammer across the side of the bird’s head with a clang. The impossibly hard ebon’stone remained intact, but the wyvern’s beak was knocked aside.

  “Hurry, Elena,” Harlequin called out. “The moon comes!”

  With the others protecting her, Elena held fast and pumped volumes of magick and blood into the monster. Within the heart of the bird, a fierce tension of forces built to impossible dimensions. She kept her focus, willing her fingers to hold. But from the loss of blood, she had begun to weaken. Her hands were also paling from ruby red to a pale pink. She could not last much longer.

  The wyvern fought harder yet. Now it was Tol’chuk’s turn to be batted aside like a fly by a horsetail. Unprotected now, she knew she had only one option.

  With a final thrust, she emptied the last of her magick into the heart of the stone, giving everything in her. The bird wailed, neck stretched toward the roof. Above, Elena spotted the full face of the moon staring back at her. Was she too late? Silvery light bathed down upon them.

  Her fingers began to fail. She pushed a final flow of blood into the monster before falling free. But as her last finger slipped away, she felt the tidal force inside the bird cross some threshold. She understood the two opposite energies—from Cho and Chi—could no longer be contained within the one vessel.

  “Back!” she yelled hoarsely, spent.

  The blast shattered out, tossing Elena away. The others were buffeted as well, scattered in all directions. She felt the sting of stone striking her body like icy sleet in a windstorm.

  She was flung back to the boneyard, rolling among the old remains. Then the blast subsided.

  She rolled to her hands and knees, numb and bleeding. Her hands were pale and white, her magick gone. She would have to renew in the spear of moonlight across the room.

  But before she could even stand, Meric and Nee’lahn tumbled into the room from the tunnel. Meric had his hands raised. Winds screamed out from him, whirling the small bones around their feet. Then from the tunnel, clinging to stone with claws, skal’tum climbed out, crawling up the walls like so many roaches.

  Nee’lahn turned for the first time into the chamber. Her eyes widened with horror.

  Elena followed her gaze, swinging around. Her companions were climbing to their feet, bloody from the flying shards. The shatter of stone spread in a circular blast out from the center of the confluence. All that remained of the wyvern was a cloud of ebon’stone dust, aglow in the moonlight. Even the silver floor was gouged by the blast.

  The final Weirgate was broken!

  Then around her, the goblin bones began to stir, shaking and rattling, then beginning to slide and build on one another. Elena hurriedly gained her feet and stumbled out of the boneyard, while Meric and Nee’lahn ran through the shivering bones to join her.

  “There were too many.” Nee’lahn gasped. “Jaston . . .” She shook her head with a sob. “He gave his life to buy us time to escape.”

  Elena’s heart ached for the poor man, but her attention remained on the situation at hand. The bone army was awakening again. The skal’tum were still attacking. Why? The Weirgate was gone . . .

  Er’ril ran to her side, bleeding from a deep gash on his forehead. “We must get away. There are tunnels on the far side. At least there we’d be better sheltered.”

  Behind them, the skal’tum began to scream. The plume of dust ahead obscured the view, but she remembered the tunnel openings on the far side. “I must renew,” she said, pointing to the pool of moonlight in the room’s center.

  But as she stepped forward, something shifted within the fading cloud of rock dust. Skal’tum screeched, and bones clattered behind her, but she froze, her eyes fixed forward. Er’ril noted her attention and swung back to the blasted section of floor.

  Bathed in moonlight, something stirred within the dust, a figure rising from the debris. Arms lifted, stretching, and legs unbent. From the heart of the Weirgate, a creature was born.

  The others gathered to them. The skal’tum held back. In the center of the room stood a huge black figure. Bathed in bright moonlight, the form was clearly made of ebon’stone.

  But its eyes were fiery pits.

  Elena recognized what type of creature this was. She had been chased through the swamplands by a blackguard, a spirit armored in melted ebon’stone. But this one wore familiar features—a dark mirror of Tol’chuk.

  No one spoke. All knew who stood before them: Ly’chuk, the Oathbreaker, the Black Beast of Gul’gotha.
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br />   His words shook the room. “I am born anew.”

  27

  Tyrus rallied his men, fighting to be heard over the roar of the dragon, the screams of the dying, and the crackle of the flames from the fire pit.

  A bellow drew the prince’s attention back to the arch of the dark volcanic room. The dragon swooped higher after its last attack, one of their hill horses in its maw. With a toss of its neck, Ragnar’k flung the bleeding corpse into a phalanx of d’warf archers. They had been trying to wound the dragon with their arrows, but the bolts passed harmlessly through its shape. How did one kill a dragon made of smoke?

  He had already tried his petrifying magick to no avail. All he earned was a gash across his back as he rolled from a claw. It made no sense. Though the dragon was mere smoke, its talons and fangs bore enough substance to rip and tear.

  Tyrus rounded his own mount among his men. Fletch rode double with Hurl; the Steppeman had come close to joining his mount in the dragon’s teeth. Only a last-minute roll from the saddle had saved him.

  “What now?” Blyth asked.

  “There it goes again,” Sticks mumbled from Tyrus’ other side. He pointed one of his clubs.

  Overhead, the smoke dragon wafted high into the dark chamber, disappearing into the gloom overhead. It was its usual ruse—using the shadows to hide itself, then springing out of darkness to maim and kill.

  “Watch for its eyes!” Wennar bellowed from a short distance away.

  That was the only warning of an attack. Against the darkness, the dragon’s eyes glowed with crimson fire. It was the last sight many of the d’warves saw before meeting a bloody death. So far the men on horses fared better, able to escape Ragnar’k if they were quick enough.

  “Our only recourse is retreat,” Blyth continued. “We can’t win here.”

  Tyrus remained silent. Winning wasn’t the game; they needed to harry the Dark Lord and his forces. Their blood was spent to buy time. “Lead Sticks and the others back to the Black Road.”

  “And the d’warves?”

  Wennar shouted. “Keep your backs to the fire! Use its light!”

  “I think he intends to stay.”