“Honey,” she said with a voice scratchy with age, “don’t you fret. I been a midwife for going on forty winters and know a thing or two about bringin’ young ‘uns into the world. Everything’ll be fine.”
Vira’ni, though, could see the lines of worry on the old woman’s face and sensed the midwife had recognized the smell of death. But Vira’ni simply nodded.
The woman set her pots of water beside the pillows, then fished a few dry mint leaves from a pocket and crumbled them into the water. “My name’s Greddie, but everyone calls me Auntie Dee,” she said as she worked. “So just you relax and let Auntie Dee take care of you and your young ’un.”
Suddenly a burst of pain tore into Vira’ni like the huge knobby roots of a tree. Her scream drew Auntie Dee to her side in a heartbeat. Lost in red pain, Vira’ni barely noticed the old woman lay a cold cloth across her hot forehead then slide around to crouch between her twitching legs. Thankfully, the agony retreated as quickly as it had come—at least for now. Gasping, Vira’ni lay limp among her pillows.
Humming softly to herself, Auntie Dee grabbed Vira’ni behind the knees and pulled her legs up and open. “Now listen, child, I want you to push when I tell ya.” The old woman raised her face from between her legs. “And not before I tell ya, you hear?”
Vira’ni’s hair clung to her wet face, and her skin ran hot and cold all over. “I’ll try.”
Auntie Dee frowned up at her. “No. You will not try, you will do! Are we all clear on this here?”
Vira’ni swallowed a lump in her throat. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good girl.” Auntie Dee’s face disappeared as the old woman leaned down to examine Vira’ni closer. “What are all these marks down here?” she asked as she probed and prodded.
Vira’ni knew they were the tattooed symbols of power the Dark Lord had marked upon the entrance to her womb. “I . . . I’m not sure . . .” Then the pain struck again, so suddenly, without warning, like lightning from a clear sky. Vira’ni’s back arched off the pillows as her womb ripped open.
“Push!” she heard Auntie Dee yell, but it sounded so far away. “Push! I can just see the head! Push or you’ll lose the child!”
The words sank through the agony. She must not lose her child! Not again! Never again! With a cry frozen on her stretched lips, Vira’ni curled her shoulders up off the pillows, bearing down on the fire in her belly. She clenched her teeth and forced every muscle into one purpose—to push this child into the world.
“Almost . . . almost . . .” Auntie Dee chanted before her. “I thought the child dead for sure. But look at that little imp squirming to get out!”
Vira’ni ignored the mutterings of the old woman. With a final sharp intake of breath, she clutched handfuls of pillows in her fists, tearing through the fabric with her nails and gouging the flesh of her palms, then with a scream that split the night, she shoved her child from her womb.
Afterward, she fell back to her pillows, like a puppet with its strings slashed. She lay there shuddering and trembling from the exertion for several breaths before concern for her child drew her up on an elbow. Auntie Dee had not said a word yet.
Vira’ni struggled up, panicked that something was wrong, then with relief saw Auntie Dee with her baby. Her child had its eight jointed legs wrapped around the old woman’s face, clinging to her skull. Auntie Dee lay sprawled across the floor of the tent, her heels drumming and spasming in death throes. Vira’ni sighed as her baby’s four wings beat the air, drying its wet membranes before it could fly. It mewled softly and sucked greedily at the wrinkled neck of the woman, its two sets of jaws digging and working deeper into the soft tissue. As she watched, blood ran in thick pools from the wounds. Children were always so messy with their eating.
Still Vira’ni could not help smiling warmly at her child. It was so good to see a baby suckle for the first time.
7
ELENA FLED FROM the setting sun. Shadows chased her and the horse across the meadows as she clung to Rorshaf with both fists wrapped in his black mane. Her mount thundered over green knolls and splashed through soggy fields. She had long given up trying to control the horse’s flight; the reins lay just beyond her reach, and her screamed commands had been ignored by the stallion. Fleeting thoughts of leaping from the saddle had passed through her mind, but a fall from such a height at this speed would surely break a bone if not her neck. So she clung with her cheek pressed to the wet mane of the horse, praying Rorshaf had some destination in mind.
Still, as much as her fears dwelt on the mad ride, her heart lay far behind her. What had befallen the others? When last she had seen Kral, the mountain man was collapsed in the meadow, an arrow shaft protruding from his body. There had been so much blood. She squeezed her eyes closed as if she could pinch the image from her memory. And what of her other companions?
Er’ril’s face floated like a ghost in her mind’s eye. He was her guardian, her knight, her teacher. Even as she escaped this ambush, she knew all was lost if Er’ril did not avoid this noose, too. How was she supposed to travel the lands of Alasea by herself? How was she to avoid the Dark Lord’s minions and find the lost city of A’loa Glen? No, she needed Er’ril and the others.
Pushing upright in the saddle, Elena grabbed a firmer handhold in Rorshaf’s black mane and hauled savagely on it. “Stop, curse you! Stop!” Tears blew off of her cheeks as the horse raced on. Like a flea battling a dog, Elena fought the horse with her thin arms. She had to stop Rorshaf before she was carried too far away. But her will meant little to the war charger’s drive. With twilight swallowing the hills in shadows, the stallion continued to thunder across the meadows.
“Please,” Elena cried into the fading light. “Please stop.” Despairing, she slumped and buried her face in Rorshaf’s mane. “I don’t want to be alone.” Her last words were a moan.
Then, as if her sobs finally melted the iron heart of the horse, the cadence of the hoofbeats slowed from full gallop to canter to walk. Elena raised her face to watch the horse pull up to a wide stream blocking the way forward, its waters polished a silvery rose in the last of the evening’s light. A scattering of dragonflies darted on pearlescent wings through the reeds and thrushpoles at its edge.
Near a solitary willow whose branches brushed the shallow waters, Rorshaf danced to a stop, his muscles trembling from exertion. Elena slid off the horse’s back, almost falling as her own tired muscles betrayed her. She caught herself and reached for the fallen lead that dangled in front of the stallion. She had to keep the horse walking, or he would stove up. She tugged on the lead, expecting the stubborn war charger to resist, but Rorshaf followed her as she walked along the stream’s edge.
A battalion of frogs plopped from the mud into the river as Elena moved ahead, angry croaks spreading a warning through the ranks. With the scent of water lilies perfuming the twilight air, meadowlarks wheeled and glided over the waters, catching flitting insects. Elena slapped at her arm as a rivermidge bit at her hot skin. Rorshaf huffed and swiped his tail at a similar plague of biting flies drawn by his sweating coat.
Elena kept the stallion walking, and after a time, Rorshaf’s trembling flanks began to calm. Still, she kept him moving until a small eddy from the stream blocked the way forward, a tiny harbor of silver waters. She let him drink from the still waters, but only a little. She also knew she should rub the horse down before night truly fell, but right now exhaustion weakened her own legs. Elena knelt by the water’s edge on a flat stone.
Staring into the quiet stream, she could clearly see her own reflection in the water. She removed her gloves and raised a hand to her shorn hair. Who was this woman? Her face seemed so foreign, smudged with ash and char. She leaned down, reached a hand to the stream, and splashed cool water over her brow and cheeks, trying to find the face of the girl who used to run wild through her family’s orchards. With water dripping from the tip of her nose, she watched the stream’s disturbed surface quickly settle back to still. She stared into her own e
yes in the wavering reflection. That young girl in the orchards was long gone.
As she leaned over the waters, movement caught her eye. A small pendant had fallen from her shirt and now dangled and swung from her neck over the water. She reached a hand to cup the tiny carved vial that hung from the twisted cord. The cord was braided from the hair of her dead aunt Fila. A rush of memories assaulted her: fond memories scented with cinnamon and flour from time spent in her aunt’s bakery, and foul memories full of blood and terror. Aunt Fila had died on the streets of Winterfell to buy Elena a chance to escape the claws of a skal’tum.
Tears rose to her eyes. She clutched the vial tight in her right fist, jabbing a sharp corner in her palm and drawing blood. “I need you, Aunt Fila,” she called to her own reflection.
Elena expected no answer. She had tried many times while among Kral’s people to contact her aunt with the magicks in the amulet. She had failed each time. Either the elemental magicks in the vial’s water had seeped away, or her aunt was now beyond her reach. Still it brought her some small comfort to keep this token of her family by her heart. She squeezed the vial tighter, remembering not just her aunt but also her Uncle Bol, who had given her the amulet and instructed Elena on its use. “Seek my sister in reflections,” he had urged Elena among the ruins of the old school. “If able, she will come.”
Elena let her hand drift open as a pang for all she had lost reached her heart. The vial, now free of her fist, swung over the waters. A drop of blood from her pierced palm rolled from its jade surface to strike the water with a small ripple. As the ripple spread, a milky light bloomed upon the surface of the water.
Eyes wide, Elena watched the light swirl like spilt cream. “Aunt Fila?” she whispered.
The pool of light continued to spin and spread.
“Please, Aunt Fila, I need you.” Elena reached to clutch the amulet again, her tears joining the waters.
Then, like a whispered memory, the glow settled into the faint image of her lost aunt, the familiar face draped in swirls of light.
Elena’s throat tightened with tears and emotion. She had lost so much of her family. The sight of her aunt awakened old wounds that had only recently healed.
The image grew clearer. The stern lines of her aunt’s face became distinct, her eyes sharp with fire. Words arose from the water, quick and urgent. “Child, time runs short, and the distance is too great to maintain this contact for long. But you’re in great danger. You must flee!”
These were not the words of comfort Elena had expected to hear. “Flee? But . . . but where?” Elena stuttered, the dam of tears bursting.
“Hush, child. Enough of this nonsense. Wipe your face. Tears are just wasted salt.”
Obeying her aunt’s words without thinking, Elena wiped at her eyes. Aunt Fila, a rock-hard and industrious woman, was not accustomed to argument. Even death had not softened her iron resolve.
“Now look over your shoulder.”
Elena craned her neck around. In the far distance, evening had consumed the higher meadow. But buried among the hills, a spattering of red flames glowed near the horizon.
Aunt Fila spoke behind her. “The camp of your enemies. There lie your friends. But between you and your companions stands a creature of the foulest ilk, of the blackest magicks. To free them, you must defeat it.”
Elena turned back to the ghost in the water. “But how? My magick is almost spent.”
Her aunt frowned at her. “I can sense that. Your magick is like a beacon to me. But it shines only feebly now, and what comes for you this night is blacker than the deepest pit. You can’t defeat it. Not yet. You must run.”
Elena sniffed back her tears. “But what of the others?”
“They are lost.”
“But I can’t just leave them.”
“You are all that matters. You must survive to reach the Blood Diary. The prophecy must be fulfilled!”
Elena remained silent.
Aunt Fila’s voice softened. “I know that what is asked of you is difficult. But hard choices were made by all to bring us to this point in history, to give us one chance for a new dawn in this black time. You are the land’s only hope.”
Elena pushed to her feet.
“Good girl.” Her aunt’s voice grew faint, and the light faded from the water. “I can’t maintain the contact any longer. Use this night to escape from here. The plains beyond the hills are wide with hundreds of small towns and villages. There you will find refuge.” The light in the stream was now only a feeble glow. No image could be seen, but faint words still rose from the water. “I love you, sweetheart.”
Elena watched the glow completely vanish. “I love you, too,” she whispered to the dark water.
With the light gone, true night descended around her. Elena turned to face the mountains and meadows behind her. The campfires seemed brighter in the deepening darkness. Sorrow tightened her shoulders. With her heart heavy as a stone, she twisted away from the distant flames. Her aunt’s words echoed in her head: You are the land’s only hope.
Elena placed a boot into Rorshaf’s stirrup and pulled up into the war charger’s saddle. This time she kept the reins firmly in hand, determined not to be dragged once again by a panicked horse. Elena sat straight in the saddle, her hands clenched into hard fists as she searched her heart. She was tired of being hauled blindly against her will, whether by a wild horse or wild forces. It was time she chose her own path.
She swung her mount around to face the distant campfires. With a silent apology to Aunt Fila, Elena kicked Rorshaf’s flanks. The stallion reared, huffing loudly, then dug his steel-shod hooves into the mud and cantered off toward the clustered flames.
Prophecy be damned! Those were her friends.
ER’RIL TESTED THE bonds that held him fast to the wooden stake. The leather straps were solid, the knots tight. He tried pulling at the stake, but the pole was thick and had been pounded deep into the dirt. It failed to budge.
“It’s no use,” Kral whispered from where he stood tied at a neighboring pole. His right shoulder was wrapped in a bloodstained bandage, his face haggard.
“And use caution,” Meric added in a hiss. “They’ll beat you if they catch you trying to wriggle free.” The elv’in, who had been captured earlier, stood staked beyond the mountain man, sporting a new bruise on his cheek as proof of his words. He nodded toward two guards who leaned on spears a few paces away. Dressed in green hunting cloaks and caps, both men were broad shouldered and hardened by years of winter camps. Songs of victory from the nearby campfires kept the guards distracted and masked the team’s exchange of words.
Er’ril searched the immediate area. Mogweed was the only other of the companions staked here. The shape-shifter hung sullenly in his bonds, head down. Er’ril turned a worried face back to Kral. “Where’s Elena and Nee’lahn?” he asked.
“They took Nee’lahn to question her just before you arrived.” Kral lowered his voice, and a hard grin shone through his black beard. “But Elena escaped. I sent her off on my war charger. She’s safe.”
Er’ril allowed himself a sigh of relief. “Where did she go?”
“I gave Rorshaf orders to carry her until he reached water, then stop. If trouble arose, he was ordered to mind the girl from there.”
“Your horse understood all this?” Er’ril asked doubtfully.
Kral’s grin grew broader. “I raised him from a foal. He’ll mind my commands and watch over the girl.”
Er’ril let the mountain man’s words sink into his heart, but they offered little comfort. Horse or not, the child would not last long on her own.
“Where’s the og’re?” Meric interrupted, his blue eyes searching the surrounding meadows. “And the wolf?”
Er’ril nodded toward the wagon. “They have Tol’chuk trussed up tighter than a pig, with ropes and iron chains. I thought him dead, but he began to moan and thrash as they dragged him through the mud behind three horses. He’s groggy from the spiders’ poisons, bu
t I think he’ll live . . . as long as they don’t take a sword to him.”
“And Fardale?” Kral asked, his grin now faded.
Mogweed answered, his head still hung in defeat. “My brother ran off, proving his coward’s blood.”
“He had no choice,” Er’ril argued. “Hunters have no love for wolves. They would have surely peppered his body with arrows if given the chance.”
“Still, he abandoned me,” Mogweed added sourly.
Suddenly a scream—a woman’s scream—split the night. The four men staked to poles froze. Er’ril’s first thought was that they were torturing Nee’lahn. But before rage could set him to struggling with his bonds, Er’ril saw the tiny nyphai woman being shuffled around a tent, escorted by two large women. Nee’lahn’s jacket was ripped, her violet eyes wide with fear. At spearpoint, she was driven back to an empty pole and lashed to it.
The stationed guards tried to get some answers from the women, but their questions were waved away. “It’s women’s business,” one of the escorts scolded as she knotted Nee’lahn’s bonds. “Some commotion over at the birthing tent. Sounds like the lass is having a difficult birth.” Once the nyphai was secure, the escorts gathered their spears and left.
The guards scowled at the five prisoners, then swung away. They resumed their post, but this time took up positions a few paces farther from the stakes and closer to the circle of fires, their necks craning to get a better view of the stirred-up camp.
Er’ril bent his head to meet Nee’lahn’s eyes and kept his voice quiet. “Did you learn anything? Like who these people are and why we were attacked?”
Nee’lahn, shivering slightly in her bonds, swallowed a few times before speaking. “They . . . they think we sport with demons. Someone told them we killed their children and corrupted the forest.”
Wit'ch Storm Page 10