“I don’t mean to. That’s not why I stopped you here.”
“Then why?” he asked sourly.
“To thank you.” Er’ril took a step closer and reached up to grasp the man’s shoulder as Kral’s eyes grew wide. “I’ve already thanked you for sheltering us and healing me of the goblin’s poison, but I never thanked you for the risk your tribe took in taking me in. You knew the prophecy, yet took me into your home.”
“You owe us no . . . thanks,” Kral said, stumbling with his tongue. “We could do no other. We are bound to the Rock and will not shirk our duty—or its burden of prophecy.”
“Still I owe you a debt, friend.” Er’ril squeezed Kral’s shoulder a final time, then turned around to lead the way up to the Pass of Spirits. “And we of the plains, too, know something of honor.”
Elena followed Er’ril, but not before noting the shine of respect in the mountain man’s eyes.
As they continued higher, toward the pass, Er’ril began to limp slightly on his right leg, the climb obviously worrying the bone struck with the goblin’s knife last autumn. The dagger’s poison had wasted the Standi plainsman to a hollow figure. Though he had quickly regained his muscle and form afterward, echoes of his injuries still persisted, especially with exertion. And Er’ril wasn’t the only member of the party bearing scars. Each member carried wounds—not all of them visible—from their first confrontation with the Dark Lord. And who knew what other battles were yet to be fought before the party reached the lost city?
Er’ril reached the top of the trail and stopped. His eyes were toward the open pass. “I still think the plan is foolhardy,” he mumbled.
Elena and Kral joined him.
The Pass of Spirits spread in meadows and gentle slopes away from them. Here spring had truly reached the highlands. Blooming crocuses spread in splashes of blues and whites, and at the edges of the pass, some flowers were even pushing right out of patches of persistent snow, as if spring itself were trying to shake its shoulders free of winter’s mantle. Besides the flowers, the pass teemed with life. At the fringes of budding birch trees, the spotted red flanks of a family of deer could be seen, slowly working up the pass. Overhead a circling hawk screeched and dove into the green sea of meadow grass then sprang back out, something small and furred wriggling in its talons.
Er’ril’s eyes obviously saw none of this. “Look at that wagon,” he said. “It looks like a cheap tavern whore, painted and draped in bells to attract every eye and ear.”
Near a small creek that murmured among mossy boulders, Elena spotted the herd of tethered horses grazing by a large covered wagon. The wagon’s wooden sides were painted a burnt orange, and its canvas covering, stretched taut over a frame of bent maple saplings, had been stained dark blue with hand-stenciled white stars. Cowbells ringed its flanks, each painted a different color.
“I sort of like it,” Kral said beside her.
Scowling, Er’ril marched toward the milling horses and people waiting nearby. “I should’ve just taken Elena by myself. Then we would not have needed this foolishness.”
“It’s been long decided. We all cast our stones,” Kral said. “Besides the elv’in Meric—who wanted to abandon the entire journey—you were the only one who wanted to split up the group.”
“We are too many. A smaller party could move more swiftly and attract fewer eyes.”
“Perhaps, but if you should attract an enemy’s eyes, you’ll need the strengths and skills of all to keep the girl from the Black Heart’s grasp. It is not just brigands and thieves we must protect her against.”
“I’ve heard the arguments.”
Elena had to half run to keep up with the bigger men. She spoke between gulps of air. “Uncle Bol warned us that we must stay together.”
“I know, Elena,” Er’ril said, slowing slightly to allow her to keep abreast of him. “I don’t mean to disparage your uncle. He was a brave man. But the portents he attempted to decipher are tricky to interpret with accuracy. He might have been mistaken.”
“He wasn’t,” she said firmly, and in her heart, she truly did sense the importance of keeping the group intact. Maybe in part because she had already lost her entire family: her parents burned to death by her own hand, her aunt and uncle slain by beasts of the Gul’gotha, and her brother Joach stolen from her by black magicks. So much loss would have been inconsolable without the support of those around her. After six moons together, this group had become a second family, united not by the blood of birth but the blood of battle—and she did not want to see this family sundered. “We must stay together.”
“So we will,” Er’ril said, but doubt rang in his voice.
“It’s a sound plan,” Kral argued. He pointed at the gaily painted wagon. “There stands our banner. Disguised as a small circus, one among many plying the warm roads of spring and summer, we will hide in the open. While searching eyes will seek for us along back roads, we will travel open and free, loud and noisy. Not only will this keep furtive eyes from looking too closely at us, it will also earn us coppers and gold to replenish our supplies. I say it is a sound plan.”
“Yes,” Er’ril said with sarcasm. “And you mountain folk only speak the truth.”
Kral harrumphed and patted Er’ril good-naturedly on his shoulder. “Ahh . . . I see your time among the clans has taught you a bit of wisdom.”
Close to the wagon now, Kral’s loud voice drew the attention of the others away from their final preparations. Nee’lahn turned her head from where she had been cinching a saddle atop a roan stallion. She raised a hand in greeting, then froze as her eyes settled on Elena. Blinking a few times, she dropped the currybrush she had in her other hand and crossed closer to them.
As she approached, Nee’lahn wiped a smudge of mud from her cheek while speaking: “Sweet Mother, Er’ril, what have you done to the poor child? Her hair!”
Elena, suddenly self-conscious, raised a hand to her shorn hair. Where once long auburn curls had draped past her shoulders, now only a coarse crop of hair that barely covered her ears remained. And that hair was no longer auburn, but dyed as black as Er’ril’s own locks.
“If we are to hide Elena within this daft circus,” Er’ril said, “what better way than to mask the girl herself? So . . . meet my new son.”
ER’RIL WATCHED THE others gather around Elena.
Amongst the thronging party, Tol’chuk’s bulk was like a boulder in a stream. Twice the weight of even the huge mountain man, the og’re did not crowd too closely, seeming to sense that his massive form still unnerved the much smaller girl. Even though the creature was foul to the eye—with his leathered skin, fanged teeth, and hulking mass—Er’ril had grown to respect and admire the og’re for his calmness and intelligence. It was Tol’chuk’s quiet words during the oft-heated discussion of their plans that had finally persuaded Er’ril to their present course.
In contrast, dwarfed in the og’re’s shadow hid the quiet Mogweed. To Er’ril, the shape-shifter remained a blank slate. The skinny man with mousy hair and nervous movements hardly spoke a word, and when he did, he talked so softly he could hardly be heard. Yet, as little as the si’luran man revealed through his manner and speech, Er’ril felt something oily and slippery about him. Even now, as Mogweed studied Elena, darting quick glances from a few paces away, he struck Er’ril as being like a hungry bird studying a squirming worm. Er’ril could practically see Mogweed’s mind swirling with thoughts and plans he never voiced.
Whereas Meric, dressed in his usual white linen and billowy green pants, never kept his opinions to himself. The tall, silver-haired elv’in leaned closer to Elena, reaching a narrow finger to raise her chin, but his words flew to Er’ril. “How dare you touch her? You had no right to mar the beauty of our royal line in such a manner.”
“It was necessary,” Er’ril answered coldly. “Her disguise might just very well keep that precious royal line of yours still breathing.”
Meric released her chin and turned hard eyes o
n Er’ril. “And what of her mark?” He pointed to Elena’s hand, where shades of ruby whorled in languid swirls. “How do you propose to hide her wit’ch’s blaze?”
“My son will earn his keep at the circus by hauling and sweeping. And for these chores, he’ll need a good pair of work gloves.” Er’ril tapped his belt, from which hung a set of plain leather gloves.
“You propose to have elv’in royalty sweep and handle filth?” Meric’s white skin darkened. “You’ve already made her a sorry enough figure with your ridiculous shearing.”
Elena’s face had by now flushed to match her ruby hand.
Meric knelt down by the girl. “Listen, Elena, you don’t have to do this. You are the last of the elv’in king’s royal line. In your veins flows the blood of lost dynasties. You must not ignore your birthright.” He took her hand. “Give up this foolish quest and return with me to the wind ships and seas of your true home.”
“The lands of Alasea are my home,” she answered, slipping her hand free of his. “I may be descended from some lost king of yours, but I’m also the daughter of these lands, and I won’t abandon them to the Gul’gothal lord. You are free to leave and return to your home, but I will stay.”
Meric stood back up. “You know I can’t return—not without you. And my mother, the queen, would not tolerate any harm coming to you. So if you persist in this foolish pursuit, I will be at your side to protect you.”
Er’ril tired of this man. “The child is my charge,” he finally said, guiding Elena away by the shoulder. “She has no need of your protections.”
The wasp-thin elv’in ran a disdainful eye up and down Er’ril, then waved an arm around the pass. “Yes, I see how you protect her. Just look at the wagon in which you propose to lead her. You would have her travel like a vagabond.”
Er’ril inwardly winced at the words, recognizing his own complaint from earlier. He hated to hear the same sentiment on the elv’in’s lips. “It’s not an unsound plan,” he mumbled, knowing he was contradicting his previous words. “For centuries, I have traveled the roads myself as a juggler and showman to earn my keep. Its gaudiness will hide one plain girl.”
“But just look at her hair,” Meric moaned. “Was that necessary?”
Before either could speak again, Tol’chuk interrupted, his voice a rattle of rocks in his throat. “Hair grows back,” the og’re said simply.
Kral grunted his amusement and turned to Nee’lahn, who stood at the mountain man’s side. “Well, it’s settled then, lass. With Elena disguised, I guess you’ll be the only woman traveling with this troupe . . . Of course, if you feel outnumbered, we could always pop a mummer’s wig on the og’re and call him Mogweed’s sweetheart.”
The petite nyphai woman swept back her long blond hair. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Now if you’re all done gawking at the poor girl, maybe we can finish hitching the horses and be under way.”
“Nee’lahn’s right,” Er’ril said, turning his back on the elv’in. “The wet passes will be ice by nightfall and—”
“Look!” Elena said, pointing past everyone’s shoulders.
A huge black treewolf could be seen at the head of the pass, loping across the meadow toward them, a dark shadow in the grass.
“It’s about time, Fardale,” Mogweed mumbled under his breath. Er’ril heard the distaste in the man’s voice and sensed there was much unspoken between these shape-shifting brothers.
The wolf swept up beside Mogweed, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. With his amber eyes aglow in the sunlight, Fardale fixed his brother with an intent stare. After several silent breaths, the wolf nodded his head slightly, breaking contact, then crossed to the nearby creek to slake his thirst.
“Well?” Kral asked Mogweed. “What did your dog say?”
Before Mogweed could answer, Elena scolded the mountain man in hushed tones. “He’s not a dog. You shouldn’t call him that.”
“He’s just teasing, child,” Er’ril said and joined Kral at Mogweed’s side. “Now what did your brother discover about the condition of the passes?”
Mogweed edged away from Er’ril, deeper into the og’re’s shadow. “He says many of the ways are blocked by fast and deep waters. Impassable. But the northernmost trail is clear of all but a few swollen streams.”
Er’ril nodded. “Good. Then we have an opening to the valley and plains.”
“Except . . .” Mogweed seemed to shrink in on himself.
“What is it, man?”
“He says that it . . . smells wrong.”
Elena moved closer to them, a seed of worry growing in her eyes. “What does that mean?”
Er’ril rubbed at a throb that had developed in his temple during the hard climb here. “Yes, what does that mean?” he repeated sourly.
Mogweed studied the flowers crushed under his boots. “It’s not clear. Something . . . something . . .” Mogweed shook his head.
Tol’chuk shifted his large bulk and cleared his throat. “The wolf speaks in pictures,” he attempted to explain further. “The si’luran half of my blood caught some of Fardale’s images, too: A wolf with raised hackles. An empty path that smells of rotten carrion.”
“What do you think that means?” Elena asked in a tiny voice.
“He warns that the way may be open, but something struck his wolf senses as false. So he warns caution.”
In the resulting silence, Fardale trotted over from the creek to sit at Elena’s side, nudging her hand with his wet nose. She absently scratched him behind his ear as he squatted on his haunches.
So much for not treating Fardale like a dog, Er’ril thought, but he kept his silence. The intimacy shared between the wolf and the girl seemed to calm the growing unease in her expression, and the youngster needed as much resolve as she could muster for the long journey ahead.
“So we go,” Er’ril said. “But we keep our eyes and ears alert.”
AS THE OTHERS busied themselves with final preparations, Mogweed hung around the far side of the wagon. He had his own preparations. He spotted the bent-backed crone among the small crowd of Kral’s people that had gathered to wave them all off. Nodding his head at the old woman, he slipped into the shade of the wagon. He shuffled three coppers in his palm, then returned one to his pocket. Two should be enough.
He listened as the others of his party called orders to one another. All busy. Good. Soon, he heard the wheezing breath of the ancient mountain woman as she hobbled toward the lee of the wagon. He bit at his lower lip, hating his dependence on anyone else. But the task he had requested of the old crone was one he could not accomplish alone. He juggled the coins, clinking them together. Luckily, shiny coppers bought other hands to do the work his own could not.
The old gray-haired woman, leaning on a crooked branch of polished hickory, lurched into the shade beside Mogweed. She must have once stood taller than Mogweed, but time had bent her back so cruelly that now she had to roll her eyes up to stare Mogweed full in the face. With eyes the color of black granite, she studied Mogweed silently. As sorely as the passage of countless winters had ravaged her body, he sensed a core of ice in her as hard as the eternal snow atop the windswept peaks.
Suddenly he regretted his choice of accomplices in this task.
Glancing away from her flinty eyes, he cleared his dry throat. “Were you . . . able to get what I asked of you?”
She stared, still silent for several heartbeats, then slowly nodded and reached into the folds of her battered fox-fur cloak. “We mountain folk are traders, ain’t we?” she replied with a throaty cackle. She pulled out a small satchel made from cured goatskin and began to hold it out to him. But when he reached for it, the old woman pulled it back. “Whatcha want with this stuff anyways?” she asked.
He was prepared for this question. “A keepsake,” he said as guilelessly as he could manage.
The crone’s eyes narrowed with his words. “You’re a sly one,” she hissed. “Perhaps too sly for your own good.”
She spat at his boots. “You stink of lies.”
Mogweed backed a step. Would the woman expose him? He found his left palm slipping toward the hilt of the dagger at his waist.
“But your fate is not mine to judge, and a deal is a deal,” she said and tossed him the stuffed satchel. “The Rock will weigh your worth and carve your path.”
Caught off guard, Mogweed struggled to catch the little bag, fumbling it in his fingers until he pinned it to his chest. Unable to find his tongue, he slipped his other hand, which still palmed two coppers, back into his pocket and retrieved the third coin. He sensed he had better be more generous with his payment to this old crone. Offering all the coppers in his open palm, he finally muttered, “For your troubles.”
The old crone suddenly lashed out with her hickory staff and struck his hand, scattering the trio of coins into the mud. “Only silver will cleanse your lies from my ears.”
Mogweed rubbed his injured hand, then quickly fished the rare silver from among his small cache of coins. He cautiously passed her the payment, eyeing her staff warily.
The coin disappeared among the folds of her cloak. With a grunt of effort, she turned from him, but not before sharing a final warning. “Beware what you buy with lies, sly fox. You might discover the prize is not worth the price.” With that, she slipped from shadows into sunlight and vanished beyond the corner of the wagon.
Not worth the price? Mogweed fingered open the goatskin satchel and stared at its contents. A smile without humor etched his face. This prize could very well prove to be worth any price.
Tucked within the shadowed interior lay several of the sheared locks of Elena’s auburn hair.
Proof of a wit’ch.
UNDER THE SHADOWED tangle of oak branches, a hush had fallen over the copse. Not a bird sang; not an insect whirred. Vira’ni listened for any sound. Naked, her skin the color of the softest moonlight, clothed only in the folds of her long black hair, she knelt by the rotted stump of a pine, its sides charred by old fires. She held her breath. Even a single noise could disrupt the spell.
Wit'ch Storm Page 2