Wit'ch Storm

by James Clemens

  A neighbor agreed. “But who’s more daft? The boy or his father? Imagine throwing knives at your own son!”

  Then it was over.

  Thunk . . . thunk . . .

  The two daggers imbedded into the oaken door at Elena’s back, one to each side of her head, missing her ears by only a breath. She let out a sigh of relief and stepped forward. As she bowed deeply to the audience, a drop of sweat that had nothing to do with the day’s heat rolled off her nose to strike the stage’s plank. She straightened with a wave, matching Er’ril’s own wave from across the town square.

  For the past three moons, the company had been traveling the countryside, performing as a small circus from village to village. This stop, though, was a large town, at least twice as big as her hometown of Winterfell. It was the first such city they had ventured into. The town of Shadowbrook, named after the river that ran through its center, was one of three shipping towns that marked the plains, one for each major river that crossed the region. River barges loaded in Shadowbrook with the wares of the plains—baled tobacco leaf, bushels of the rye grain grown only there, aromatic oils drawn from herbs unique to the region—and transported them to the coastal cities to barter for trade goods. Due to its commerce center, the riches of the plains flowed into Shadowbrook, and Er’ril hoped to earn enough here to book passage on a ship to the coast.

  His decision had proven wise. Over the past four days, the performances had gone well.

  A scatter of applause met the end of Elena and Er’ril’s performance. Waiting by the side of the stage stood Mogweed, dressed in a red-and-green hunter’s costume, with Fardale at his side. A few children were pointing at the huge treewolf, their eyes wide. Fear and awe could be heard in their whispered voices. Mogweed and his trained wolf were a popular show and earned more coppers from the crowd than the supposed “father and son” knife show.

  As she hopped from the planked stage, Elena fingered her cropped hair, stained black to match her “father.” A few of the young girls who had been watching Fardale cast sneaking glances at her. The shy gazes and quick smiled whispers suggested a few were enamored by this exciting new circus “boy.” Elena sighed, tiring of her charade.

  Still, the deception had kept them safe.

  Thousands of circus troupes plied the wide plains of Standi, earning their profits while the crops were rich. Come winter, the flow of coppers would dwindle with the sun’s warmth, but for now, the plains were dotted with gaily colored wagons and performers of many an ilk. It was easy to get lost and disappear among them.

  Occasionally their troupe encountered small groups of armed Gul’gothal dog soldiers patrolling the plains, and all of Elena’s party knew for whom they were searching. One evening, the company had even performed for a battalion of the rough men, but none of the soldiers had raised an eye at their troupe. As a matter of fact, the captain of the battalion had paid them a silver coin as a bonus. The disguise had worked well.

  Over time, the horrors of the foothills faded, though the mourning and tears for Nee’lahn did not. Her lute still traveled with the company as a reminder of their fallen friend, almost like an accusation for failing to protect her. Oddly enough, it was Meric who had finally insisted on taking responsibility for the fragile instrument. “We were once enemies,” he had explained. “But long ago our two peoples worked together. I would like to return this to the elv’in as a symbol of the beauty and nobility of the nyphai. Perhaps in its music, the nyphai can still in some small way live.” One night, Meric had played the instrument, and for a moment it seemed his words were true. In the music, Nee’lahn’s spirit had seemed to sing out to them. Tears and sad smiles had reflected the campfire that night, and for the first time, it seemed they could at last put her memory to rest.

  So the days had passed. At first everyone had felt relieved that no further assault descended upon the party and that no chase dogged their trail. But as time wore on and hundreds of leagues disappeared under their wagon’s wheels, the companions began to glance over their shoulders again and jump a bit at sudden noises, and the nightly campfires were stoked with a few more logs to drive the darkness farther back. It was as if the entire troupe was holding its breath, awaiting the next attack.

  The quiet and peace had begun to wear on them.

  Sighing, still edgy from her performance, Elena pushed aside the thin curtain behind the stage and almost ran into Meric. He stood in the wings, awaiting his turn. He slipped a small sparrow into one of his billowing sleeves with an embarrassed look. His crude magick act was seldom well received. His haughty nature seemed to shine through to the audience and rub against their grain. Only during his finale, when he used his elv’in magicks to levitate, did the crowd respond enthusiastically.

  Meric stepped aside with a slight bow. “Milady,” he said with simple grace.

  Elena frowned at him. “Careful,” she warned, suddenly irritated. “Remember, I’m supposed to be Er’ril’s son, not your long-lost bloodline.”

  He waved off her concern with a flip of his thin wrist. A few bird feathers blew out of his cuff with this motion. His pale face reddened slightly. “I should go out there,” he mumbled. “Mogweed will soon be finishing.”

  She nodded and continued toward the wagon. The shielding curtain ran from the wagon’s edge to the back of the stage, so Elena did not have to confront any more doe-eyed audience members. To her right was an empty warehouse that awaited the fall’s harvest. It was the perfect site in the square to set up their circus, as there were no prying eyes to peek backstage.

  After Meric disappeared behind the curtain, Elena had a moment to herself; all the others were occupied with the show. Onstage, she heard Fardale howl, his cry raising a tinkling of nervous laughter from the audience. Elena knew that on the far side of the stage stood their troupe’s only other attraction—a sideshow with a single exhibit. In a curtained cage guarded by Kral crouched Tol’chuk. People were charged a copper to view the imprisoned og’re. Most viewers laughed at the poor quality of the constructed “monster,” who was wearing fake goat horns on his head and painted-on whiskers. None suspected that what stood before them truly was an og’re—and that was the way Er’ril wanted it. For a troupe to have a “real” og’re would wag too many tongues and perhaps attract undue attention, so they added fake embellishments to mask Tol’chuk’s true nature. Still, with Kral standing rock faced before the cage with his huge ax, and with a sign near his feet that warned FOR THE AUDIENCE’S OWN PROTECTION, the novelty attracted hordes of gawkers.

  So with everyone else occupied, Elena had a solitary moment to herself, a rare event in such close company. As the only female among this company of men, she enjoyed these moments to herself. She smiled and walked toward the back of the wagon, scratching at the band of cloth that flattened her chest and bound her breasts.

  It was then that Elena was attacked—though it would take some time to recognize the chance meeting as an assault. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement and jumped back from the shadowed doorway of the warehouse.

  A small, naked boy stepped out from the shelter. He could have been no older than three and stood staring at her, sucking his thumb. He was dirty as the bricks of the warehouse, with mud-colored hair and a soot-smeared face. His face, like those of all children his age, was round and full of open honesty. Oblivious of his nakedness, he smiled around his thumb and pointed at her.

  Elena knelt down closer to him. “Are you lost?” she said as if coaxing a puppy to her.

  He pulled his thumb from his lips with a loud slurp. “You shouldn’t be here, lady.”

  Elena smiled. How did the little boy know she was a girl? Maybe her voice had given her away. “It’s all right,” she answered him. “I’m with the circus.”

  “Circuth?” he lisped.

  She slid off the glove from her left hand and offered her bare palm to him. She knew better than to reach for him with her ruby-stained hand; the odd sight might frighten the child. “Now where’s y
our mommy and daddy? Were they watching the show?”

  He took her offered hand with a shy smile. His palm was cold, and slimy from filth. A shudder ran through her legs at his touch. It was like gripping a dead fish.

  But his eyes, shining brightly up at her, disarmed her. “I don’t have a mommy or daddy,” he said, a slight giggle in his voice as if he were amused at such a thought.

  Her heart went out to the little fellow. To be orphaned so young, he probably didn’t even remember his parents. A bit of anger grew in her chest. An orphan or not, how could his caretakers leave him so poorly kept and looked after? “Then where do you live?” she asked.

  “Live?” He scratched his oily hair with his dirty fingers.

  “Where do you come from?” she repeated.

  He brightened with her words. “Oh, I don’t come from here.”

  She sighed. Of course the child must live in Shadowbrook. A naked three-year-old child didn’t just wander into this large city on his own.

  “Who are you with?” she tried again. Someone must be responsible for him.

  “I’m hungry,” he said, obviously tiring of the subject.

  Smiling sadly, she guided him toward the back of the wagon. “I think I just might still have some sweetcakes left from this morning.”

  He crinkled up his nose at her suggestion.

  She was surprised by his response. What child didn’t like sweetcakes? “Then what are you hungry for? We have some dried beef and bread.”

  He suddenly stopped and, with surprising strength, drew her to a halt. His voice became suddenly lustful, nothing like a child’s. “I need your magick,” he said hungrily.

  She gasped at his words but could not free her hand from his grip. The boy looked up at her with that same clear face of a child, but in his eyes lurked something much older.

  A second, gruffer, voice arose behind her, startling a gasp from her as she swung to face this new threat.

  “Good performance today.” It was Er’ril. The plainsman was pushing through the curtain toward her, the fake blindfold in hand.

  “Er’ril!” she cried out to him.

  The terror in her voice had him immediately at her side.

  “What is it?” His gray eyes were sparking with deadly intent, one of his throwing knives already in his hand. He scanned the empty space between the curtain and the warehouse.

  Elena remained mute. She stared down at where the boy had stood just a moment ago. He was gone, but cold fingers still held her. They were not a child’s hand. In her grip was a clinging handful of wet moss. Oily strands and coarse vines were wrapped tightly around her palm.

  “What is it?” Er’ril repeated, lowering his blade slightly as his gaze settled on her.

  She held out the fistful of mossy growth toward him. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  TOL’CHUK CROUCHED WITHIN the cage, his legs cramping from the confinement. The curtain draped around his cage blocked his view beyond, but he could hear Meric’s voice onstage. The elv’in was close to the finish of his act, and soon the show would be over for the day.

  Straightening the pair of goat horns on his head, he awaited the next curious townsperson to spend a copper to view the “monster.” Over the past three moons, he had played along with this farce, growling and hissing at the patrons for their amusement, but his most ferocious attempts at instilling terror usually only resulted in laughter, especially when the goat horns fell off. None believed him a real og’re. But then again, he actually wasn’t a real og’re, since half his blood came from a si’luran heritage. Sighing, he worked his calf muscle with the claws of one of his hands.

  Kral, his supposed jailer and guard, hissed at him through the curtain. “Someone comes. Be ready.” The mountain man’s voice grew louder as the possible patron approached. “Come see the beast of the mountains! Dragged from his foul lair after killing forty men and feasting on their bones!”

  Tol’chuk shook his head at the man’s theatrics. Kral’s words bordered on lies, except that Tol’chuk’s people had actually killed over forty men and had feasted on their bones. It just hadn’t been this particular og’re who had committed these atrocities. Kral, with his mountain honor, had at first balked at hawking such an obvious exaggeration, but over time, the road had worn away his misgivings, and the mountain man had grown quite fond of his role as the troupe’s barker. His deep thundering voice suited his assignment well. As Kral continued his litany of horrors, Tol’chuk groaned loudly.

  “Did you hear that!” Kral said in conspiratorial tones to someone beyond the curtain. “He stirs! Beware his rage and blood lust!”

  A child spoke. “Mommy, I don’t want to see the scary monster.”

  “Oh, honey, it’s just a trick.” This was a woman’s voice, sounding tired and exasperated. “Someone in a fancy costume. Don’t you want to peek at it?”

  “I don’t wanna!” The child’s voice edged toward a tantrum.

  “Fine, then I guess we should be heading home.”

  “I wanna pet the big doggie!”

  The voices began to fade as the pair drifted away. “That was a wolf, honey, and his master has put him to bed.” The child began a whining complaint.

  Kral poked his head through the curtain. He wore a huge grin. He seemed to enjoy his current occupation. “Sorry, we lost them.”

  “I heard,” Tol’chuk grumbled sourly.

  Suddenly another woman’s voice rose from behind Kral, startling him. Few snuck up on a mountain man’s back without his awareness.

  “I’d like to see your monster,” she said. Her speech was sure and swift as a mountain stream in spring.

  Kral quickly recovered from his surprise and swung to face her, his staged words already on his lips as the curtain flap dropped closed. “Why, yes, come see the beast who has slew forty men and . . .” Then the mountain man’s voice suddenly cracked. “And . . . he . . . umm, I mean . . . it—”

  “Feasted on their bones,” the woman finished for him. “Yes, I’ve heard it all before.” The clink of a coin in the pan marked the woman’s payment. “Now if you’d be so kind as to step aside, I’d like to see this og’re of yours.”

  Kral’s tongue stumbled on words he had repeated a thousand times. “Be . . . beware his . . . blood lust.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, I will.” The woman bent her way through the curtained canopy to step before Tol’chuk’s cage. Kral, his cheeks bright red, stood behind her, holding the flap up.

  Tol’chuk studied the woman and understood the mountain man’s sudden consternation. She was a formidable sight. The woman stood as tall as Kral and only slightly less broad of shoulder. She wore her long blond hair braided back into a tail that reached past her waist. Dressed in leathers with iron bindings, she seemed more a warrior than Kral, and the twin blades in crossed scabbards on her back added to the impression.

  Yet, as gruff as her physique and dress were, her face was that of a handsome woman. She had full lips, a slender face, and eyes bluer than the skies at twilight. These finer features were obviously not all wasted on Kral. The mountain man could not seem to look away from her, his lips still parted in midspeech.

  “Why did you put such ridiculous ornaments on him?” She glanced back at Kral. “What’s the purpose of the great horns?”

  The mountain man’s features darkened further, and intelligent speech was clearly beyond him. She seemingly saw through their sham and for anyone to argue otherwise would only heighten the awkwardness of the situation.

  “Well?” she said tersely, as if well accustomed to her questions being answered without delay.

  Tol’chuk answered her. “It be a disguise,” he said. “True monsters be often killed in villages.”

  The woman did not even raise an eyebrow at his words. “Have you no dignity?” she asked. “To crouch in filth and play the buffoon?”

  Taken aback by her brutal summary of his condition, it was Tol’chuk’s turn to be at a loss for words.

  She spun
to face Kral, her motion fluid and graceful, like some fierce cat. “Free him of this cage,” she ordered. “I won’t stand for this.”

  “But—?”

  Her eyes were fire. “I would have words with the both of you,” she said. “But I will not speak while—” She suddenly twisted back to the cage. “What is your name, og’re?”

  “Tol’chuk.”

  “Hmm . . . he-who-walks-like-a-man,” she translated. “A cruel name.” She returned to stare at Kral, ignoring Tol’chuk’s shocked expression. How had she known the meaning of his og’re name? “As I was saying, I will not speak while Tol’chuk is locked up like some mad dog. Now free him.”

  Kral nodded, too abashed to speak a further word, and fumbled with his keys. He unhinged the lock and removed the chains that barred the cage door.

  The woman stood with her hands on her hips until her orders were obeyed. As Tol’chuk half tumbled from his cramped cage, the tall woman studied him with an odd set to her lips, as if she was about to say something but held back.

  Soon Tol’chuk was stretching his crooked legs on the cobbles of the street. Working a kink from his back, Tol’chuk raised a pained face to her. “What be your name?”

  She inclined her head ever so slightly. “Mycelle Yarnosh.”

  “How be it that you know the og’re’s tongue?”

  She waved his question away. “We have more important matters to discuss, like what an og’re is doing so far from his mountain home in the first place.”

  Kral finally found his ability to speak. “I . . . I see no reason why this is any concern of yours.”

  She rounded on him, bringing her face close to his. “Because I went through a lot of trouble to track you all down.”

  Her words pushed Kral’s hand to the haft of his ax.

  She did not even glance at his threat. “You play at games when all your lives are in jeopardy. Why do you tarry here in Shadowbrook? You know better than this, man of the mountains. When you are hunted, to stop is to die.”

  “What do you speak of, woman?” Kral’s gruffness had returned.