Wit'ch Star (v5)

by James Clemens

  Kast gripped his sword tighter. He remembered all that had been done to him and those he loved, all the good lives spent to bring them to this moment. He would not give in to despair, not even when he gasped his last breath.

  Across the cavern, the Black Beast howled. “Do you feel it? The Land succumbs!”

  With the sounds of bones breaking around him, Meric shoved both hands overhead, driving a blast of wind into a diving skal’tum. The beast tried to bank away, but Meric was quicker. The creature was struck in the chest and driven clear to the ceiling.

  At his shoulder, Nee’lahn hummed, desperately but firmly. She waved an arm, and a nest of roots tangled forth from the high stone and snagged the demon.

  “Another,” she warned, pointing left.

  Reaching out, Meric drew wind from the blustery night, still wet from the storms, and swept it toward their new foe. The skal’tum bobbled—then the winds suddenly died, extinguished like a snuffed candle.

  Nee’lahn gasped. “The woodsong . . . it’s gone!” From the walls and ceilings, roots suddenly drooped. Skal’tum dropped from their wooden cages, enraged.

  Dark laughter flowed to them. “The Land is almost mine!”

  Meric realized what had happened. “He’s cut us off from the flow of elemental magick!” A despair settled to his heart, he sensed their doom. He had come to these forests to return a king to his people. And now all was lost: both royal families sundered, his people scattered to the winds or dying in the clouds in this last great war. And to what end?

  He reached a hand out. Fingers entwined into his own. He found comfort there. Come what may, he would not face this night alone.

  Overhead, the flock of skal’tum gathered, ready to drop upon their group.

  Around them, the others were faring no better.

  Joach spun his staff, casting forth fonts of balefire, turning bone to ash. But his dark magick was a beacon to the twining snakes of darkness. He had cast illusions of himself to confound the grasping tendrils, but suddenly all his dream-sculpted twins vanished, along with his elemental magick. He had only a bit left, stored in his staff, but he held it in reserve.

  With his illusions gone, he was alone, exposed.

  A bone dog leaped at him, taking advantage of his startled state. It dove for his throat, but this demonic creature was beat out by its own ally.

  A thick band of darkness dropped a noose around Joach’s neck and yanked him upward, choking. The bone dog shot under his heels and away, to meet a crushing death under the hammer of Magnam.

  Gasping, Joach brought his staff up and cast a stream of balefire at the constricting rope of darkness, but the black energies only seemed to strengthen the noose. His vision tightened to a small knot. He could not breathe at all.

  His body swung around in time to see an ax flying toward his face. If he’d had breath, he would have screamed. The ax cleaved just over his head, all but parting his hair, and suddenly he was falling. He struck the floor hard, and rolled away just before a bony behemoth stomped him.

  Magnam shoved a sword into his free hand. “Here, plain steel will serve you better.”

  Joach nodded, taking the weapon. “Thank you.”

  Magnam grinned, swinging around in time to take a sickle of bone through the chest. The d’warf was lifted high, impaled, his blood flowing down the white bone of the blade.

  Joach stared in horror as Magnam was thrown lifeless through the air. Joach lifted the sword as the same bloody creature turned toward him.

  How many more would die?

  Mogweed hid in a cluster of boulders sheltered against one wall. He was no fighter. He crouched with a dagger in one hand and a short sword in the other. Nothing could get at him here. To enter the cramped space, he’d had to flow his flesh and squeeze through a gap too small to allow in any real threat. He watched the battle from his shelter.

  Thorn raced past in her wolf form, chased by a pair of bone creatures. Mogweed had no real concern. He had watched her ploy a few times. As she leaped a certain boulder, Fardale would pop up with two short swords in hand and cleave the monster’s legs off. The limbless beasts would crash to the stone and shatter. Then the trap would be set again.

  But this time Fardale wasn’t waiting. Thorn landed and spun around, searching for her partner. The moment’s distraction was all it took. The two bone beasts struck her full broadside. Razored claws tore deep gashes. Then she was down, under them both.

  Before Mogweed knew what he was doing, he was running across the floor, bounding over rubble. He bore his sword and dagger and shifted into a half-wolf form for more speed. He leaped the boulder and struck the two beasts in a tackle, driving them from Thorn’s side. He rolled to his feet and hacked and slashed.

  Panic and fear turned him wild. Bone shattered all around him. Soon he was just fighting empty air. Gasping, he fell back to Thorn. She lay on her side, blood pooled under her, still in wolf form. Her breathing was wet.

  Mogweed glanced up, searching for help. Motion drew his eye from overhead. A skal’tum dove toward him, wings tucked, claws outstretched, mouth open in a silent snarl. Mogweed could not move, frozen in place by terror.

  Then just before the monster struck, a huge dark shape leaped over Mogweed’s head and struck the skal’tum, tumbling away with it. Mogweed cried out, gaining his feet, ready to flee.

  The skal’tum and his adversary struck the rubble of boulders. A gnashing, snarling fight ensued. Mogweed spotted dark fur in flashes behind the beating wings. Fardale!

  Blades in hand, Mogweed leaped toward the pair. But before he even took a second step, the skal’tum was peppered with arrows. The d’warves had finally reached them.

  The skal’tum screeched and fluttered up, trying to escape, but a well-thrown ax, shining ruby, split its skull and sent it wheeling back to crash against the wall.

  Mogweed ignored it and ran to his brother’s side. “Fardale!” He skidded to his knees. Bloody claw marks raked his brother’s shoulder. Poison sizzled from the wound.

  Like himself, Fardale was in his half-wolf form. “Thorn . . . ?” His voice was harsh with a pain that had nothing to do with the deep wound.

  Mogweed simply shook his head.

  “I . . . I was chased away by another skal’tum. I couldn’t get back in time.” Fardale clutched his arm. “I saw what you did . . . what you attempted . . .”

  Mogweed rocked in place, choked on tears. “Why?” he croaked out.

  Fardale met his gaze, amber eyes glowing. You are my brother.

  His silent words made no sense to him. Fardale had sacrificed himself to save him. His heart clenched too tight. Why? he repeated.

  A wolfish sigh escaped Fardale. His sending grew fainter. Like it or not, we are one. Whether you see it in yourself or not, we are twins.

  Mogweed shook his head. Around them, the fighting grew more fierce as the d’warves smashed into the monsters with their ruby weapons.

  There is much in you that you have yet to discover.

  “Fardale . . .”

  Care for my son . . . your son . . .

  “He is not my son.” His voice cracked. What did Fardale think he could give a child?

  His brother tightened his hold on his arm. Promise me.

  “I . . . I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  Fardale stared into his eyes, too weak now to speak, even to send. But in those eyes, Mogweed saw everything . . . maybe everything he could be.

  With tears flowing, he nodded.

  His brother’s fingers slipped from his arm. He was gone.

  Mogweed rolled from his side and half crawled back to Thorn, expecting her to have already passed. But as he neared her, he saw her chest move weakly.

  She must have sensed his presence. A moan escaped her, full of hope.

  He sidled up to her, coming into sight.

  Her eyes glowed. Fardale . . .

  Mogweed began to object, then realized in his half-wolf form that he was indeed his brother’s twin.
>
  You live. He sensed her relief across the fading bond.

  He stared into her eyes.

  Our son . . .

  Mogweed took a deep breath. “I’ll take good care of him. He’ll live a long and happy life. I promise this.”

  She sighed, content. He leaned to her and pressed his cheek to hers, one wolf saying good-bye to another.

  A scuff sounded as Tol’chuk rushed up. He stared among them, his eyes suddenly crinkling, unsure.

  Mogweed stood. For most of his life, he had been the master of lies. While others had skills of magick or blade, his only talent was a well-turned tongue. For this one last time, he would tell one great lie. He met the og’re’s gaze. “Mogweed’s dead.”

  Tol’chuk covered his face. “Fardale, I be so sorry.” He then turned away. “But we must hurry. We are far from finished here.”

  He nodded and glanced back to the pair of bodies. A moment ago, he had wondered what he could give Fardale’s son. He now had his answer. He could give him back his father.

  Elena had failed. Cho would not help in the battle against the Dark Lord; she hid somewhere, mourning, leaving only Aunt Fila here to offer guidance.

  Around them, the fighting raged. There seemed no end to this war, no way to win. The bone army simply re-formed. The tendrils from the sky regenerated when sliced. And the skal’tum continued to seep into the chamber from the tunnel that led to the pit.

  At least they had the help of the d’warf army—but it was only more fodder for the monsters.

  She stared around at her companions on this long journey. They were far fewer than when they first entered the pit.

  Er’ril met her eyes. “Are you ready to attempt this?”

  She nodded and stood. He reached a hand to hers, but she drew back. His eyes widened with understanding. She examined her fingers and palms. They were no longer pale, but whorled in dark crimson. It wasn’t her Rose. Cho still refused to let her renew, even in the moonlight.

  It was simply blood—but the Dark Lord didn’t know that. She remembered something Mycelle had once told her. Sometimes the strongest magick is the strength in one’s heart. She took courage from these words and glanced through the fighting to the ebon’stone figure. “Let’s go.”

  An escort of d’warf ax soldiers forged a path toward the center of the room. Underneath, the floor went from silver to black as they neared their quarry. Beside her marched Tol’chuk, with Aunt Fila trailing a few paces behind, amid wisps of moonlight.

  “That’s as close as we dare,” Er’ril said.

  She nodded. The escort of guards parted before her.

  She faced Ly’chuk from ten steps away. The stone figure looked scarcely worn; his ebon’stone carapace healed as fast as it was damaged. And now he had developed a new defense: Any weapon, heartstone or otherwise, melted to slag before it could touch his ebon’stone surface. He was impossible to harm. He no longer even paid attention to the war around him.

  His focus instead was downward. Where he stood, the floor was darker than black, a color that was the void of light. It was as if he floated in empty air. Elena suspected that once the corruption here was complete, the darkness would open a portal to the heart of the world.

  That must not happen.

  She and Tol’chuk stepped out across the dark floor. Around them, d’warf armies held ready as skirmishes raged around the cavern.

  Ly’chuk frowned at the pair. “A parley, is it? Seeking a truce?”

  Elena held up both hands, revealing her ruby fingers and palms. She spoke boldly. “I offer you one last chance to forsake this purpose!”

  The black frown deepened, then relaxed as laughter flowed.

  “You should listen to her,” Tol’chuk intoned.

  He began to turn away, a whale ignoring a minnow.

  “I will show you what I can do!” Elena said.

  He glanced back, one black eyebrow rising.

  She waved her hands before her and hummed under her breath. Aunt Fila floated through her and up her arms to hover over her fingertips. She danced atop there and wailed a death cry.

  With the figure’s attention focused on her aunt, Harlequin flew through the air, tossed from behind her by two of Tyrus’ pirates. The small man somersaulted through the apparition with a tinkle of bells. Two daggers with ruby blades flew from his fingers and impaled themselves into the stone figure’s startled, fiery eyes.

  Ly’chuk screamed, holding his head.

  From behind, Wennar flung an ax with both arms. It flew end over end and struck the figure clean in the back. Distracted by the frontal assault, Ly’chuk’s attention had wavered enough for the thick blade to penetrate his guard.

  As the ax fell away, Sy-wen was already there, running fleet-footed past the back of the stone figure. Something tiny flew from her fingertips. It spun through the air and shot into the cleaved crack before the ebon’stone could heal. A stunner, she had called it. The small starfishlike crustacean bore a painful stinger with the strength to stun a giant rockshark.

  Ly’chuk trembled on his legs, then let out a ghastly scream, falling to his knees.

  “Now!” Er’ril yelled.

  Archers from all around the chamber let fly a barrage of arrows, ruby streaks through the air. The impacts sounded like the strike of crystal chimes. Feathers festooned the figure: head, limbs, torso.

  Before Ly’chuk could rally against so many different assaults, his entire form turned to bright heartstone.

  Tol’chuk had already leaped from Elena’s side with the first twang of bowstring. He rushed now at the figure with his hammer raised high. Ebon’stone might resist ordinary weapons, but heartstone was like any gem, easily cut with ordinary hammer and chisel.

  Tol’chuk’s slammed his sledge toward the heartstone figure.

  Elena sensed movement overhead. Aunt Fila swirled down, eyes bright with stars and empty spaces. “No!” Cho wailed.

  The hammer struck home with a shattering crystalline note.

  The noise became a physical wave, exploding outward, taking all light and sound with it. Elena felt a tug; then a strangely familiar burning sensation spread all over her body.

  She blinked; then her vision returned. She stood alone on the floor of the chamber. Everyone and everything was shoved back to the walls, even ceilings. She turned to see d’warves, men, monsters, bones, all pinned to the stone, impossibly held in place. What was holding them?

  A tingling passed over her. She stared down at herself. She was naked. Her body, her limbs . . . all glowed ruby red, whorling in darker tides of crimson. Cho had fused with her again, as when she floated inside the Weir.

  Elena’s eyes widened with horror. She felt the familiar pressure on her ears. She was in the Weir again, inside a well of Chi’s spiritual energy. She didn’t know whether to be glad or worried.

  She stared toward where the Dark Lord had once stood.

  Amid a scatter of ruby shards lay a pale, naked figure, more skeleton than anything. Ly’chuk—or what was left of him. Then a slow horror filled her. She spun in a circle. The silver floor—the entire confluence—had gone black.

  As she gasped, the pressure suddenly popped in her ears. Cries reached her from all around as folk tumbled to the floor. Bones rained down. She crouched, half hiding her nakedness, still ruby from head to toe.

  Folk picked themselves up, bewildered, searching out weapons. But they weren’t needed.

  The bone army, smashed against the walls as Chi burst from his broken vessel, remained just scattered skulls and broken shards. The magick was gone, as was the dark whorl across the roof. Skal’tum took wing, flying toward the tunnel openings.

  Er’ril appeared at her side. He held a cloak, but he didn’t seem to know if it was safe to approach her. She ran a hand through her hair, relieved that she still had hair. It was burned shorter, but still present.

  Suddenly a cool sensation swept over her, chilling her and raising gooseflesh. Mists wafted from her body and formed the azu
re figure of Cho again. Elena stared back down at herself as Er’ril rushed forward. Her skin was pale again, even her hands. She pulled into the cloak.

  “The floor’s gone black,” Joach said, his face full of concern, his eyes on the pale creature in the room’s center. “Were we too late?”

  Cho turned back to them. “It is Chi.”

  “He’s free, isn’t he?” Elena asked.

  Cho nodded, but her normally stoic expression was wide with fear. “He’s gone to kill your world.”

  29

  As the others began to gather, Er’ril took Elena in his arms. “What do you mean Chi has gone to kill the world?” he asked the ghostly figure of Cho.

  Elena reached a hand to him. He grasped her fingers, snowy white. It was strange to see her without the Rose. She seemed fragile, like porcelain.

  Cho scanned the room. Her gaze focused on the pale and skeletal figure half curled on the black floor. One hand scrabbled weakly, all bone and withered flesh. “Chi has gone to finish this one’s dark will.”

  Er’ril drew out his sword. “So the Dark Lord still controls him.” He stepped from Elena’s side, intent to end this now.

  “No,” Cho warned. “He is free of this creature’s bondage, and is now ruled by madness. He goes blindly, lashing out like a wild beast.” Cho flew up from the floor. “I must go to him, draw him back.”

  Elena stepped after her. “Can you stop him?”

  Cho stared back at her for a moment. Then her words repeated softly: “I must go to him.” With a flume of moonlight, the spirit flew high, then shot like a silver arrow down toward the floor and through its dark surface, vanishing away.

  Er’ril returned to Elena’s side. “Do you still have the Blood Diary?” she asked.

  He patted his own cloak as answer. She nodded and leaned against him.

  By now, Joach and others joined them. All had heard the spirit’s words. Their faces were grim. Nearby, Tol’chuk crossed toward the feeble figure of his ancestor. He still bore his hammer.

  Tyrus spoke, clutching a silver coin in his palm. “I was able to link with Xin. The black monster guarding Blackhall died. The stronghold has fallen.” He turned to Sy-wen, who stood with Kast, and Nee’lahn with Meric. “Hunt and the children made it back to the Dragonsheart. They’re all fine.”