Wit'ch Storm

by James Clemens

Nodding, Elena slipped off her jacket. Her eyes were fixed on the trio of slumbering friends. Why did they not awaken? Not even the rain seemed to stir them.

  Behind her, Mycelle gasped. Elena glanced back. Mycelle had frozen midway in removing her scabbards. Her eyes were on Elena, her expression shocked.

  “What is it?” Elena asked.

  “Your . . . your arm!” Mycelle pointed to the girl’s left side.

  Elena raised her bare arm. Her own mouth gaped in horror. The mossy strands had spread from her hand, coiling and sprouting up to her shoulder. Her entire arm now ran with vines and tiny leaves. A small purplish flower even adorned her elbow. “What is happening?” she asked, her throat tightening.

  Mycelle tossed aside her scabbards and crossed to Elena. She scrutinized her arm. “The boy who bewit’ched you on the street. He said he needed your magick.”

  Elena nodded.

  “This is disastrous,” Mycelle said, picking at a vine near her shoulder. Her face grew dark. “I had thought it only a minor nuisance.”

  “What?”

  “When you loosened your magick in the warehouse, it must have given fuel for this bewit’ched growth.” She looked at Elena gravely. “The swamp vines feed on your magick.”

  Elena pulled back from Mycelle.

  “The more you use it, the thicker it will grow. Until . . . until . . .” Mycelle’s lips tightened. She did not want to voice her thought.

  “What? Tell me!”

  Gripping Elena’s shoulders, she stared her square in the eyes. “You must not use your magick anymore. Swear it!”

  “But why?”

  Mycelle released Elena and turned away. Her firm voice dissolved into tears. “If you continue to use your magick, the vines will kill you.”

  17

  BURDENED WITH TWO crates, Er’ril pushed into the room to find Elena resting on a corner of a bed beside the limp form of the wolf. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes on Fardale. Nearby, Mycelle was bent over Kral, working with needle and thread on his injured hand. Her scabbards leaned against the walls.

  “I found no sign of the elv’in,” Er’ril said as introduction. “Were you able to revive any of the others?”

  His question was answered with a sullen shake of Elena’s head.

  Er’ril’s eyes narrowed. Something was amiss here. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he dropped the two crates he had recovered from the burned wagon. The horses, shaken and sweating, had all survived and were corralled behind the inn’s decrepit barn. A few more crates were stashed in the hall, carried here by a couple of helpful townspeople. All else was a ruin. “Where’s Mogweed?”

  “He’s gone to fetch hot water,” Mycelle answered from where she worked on Kral. “I’ve a few herbs in my supplies—raspberry leaf and dried rivenberries—stimulants that may perhaps draw them from this strange slumber.” Her words were halfhearted, with none of her usual heat. “I sent a man to fetch my gelding and bags.”

  Mycelle worked a bandage around Kral’s fist, then faced Er’ril. “But we’ve more to worry about. I’m afraid I poorly misjudged Elena’s bewit’ching. The spell was cast with more skill then I initially suspected.”

  Before her words were finished, Er’ril was already at Elena’s side. He knelt where she sat on her bed.

  Silently, Elena showed him her moss-encrusted fingers.

  “It looks the same—” he began to say. Then Elena drew the blanket up her bare arm. The vines and pea-size leaves ran a twisted course around her arm to her shoulder. He could not keep his eyes from widening in shock. “What does this mean?”

  Mycelle told him her suspicions.

  Er’ril sat back upon his heels. “But if she can’t use her magick, how do we hope to reach A’loa Glen?”

  Mycelle crossed to them. “We don’t. Not unless we can lift this bewit’ching.”

  Elena dropped the blanket back over her arm. Er’ril patted her on a knee. “How do we rid her of the spell?”

  “Only the one who cast it can undo it,” Mycelle said. “We’ll have to take her to the wit’ch.”

  Er’ril stood. He recognized the worry in her eyes. “You suspect who cast this spell.”

  “Yes, I do. The moss that grows on Elena’s arm is a type of vine named choker’s nest. It grows only in the In’nova Swamps.” Mycelle looked at Er’ril intently.

  “But that’s almost a moon’s journey from here,” Er’ril argued.

  Mycelle frowned at him, clearly tired of his stating the obvious.

  Before further words could be spoken, Mogweed forced his way into their room, encumbered with a pail of steaming water and a set of riding packs over one shoulder. “I’ve your supplies and the water you wanted,” he said, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. “Where do you want them?”

  “We’ll talk more of this later,” Mycelle said to Er’ril. “Right now, let’s see about your companions.”

  Before Er’ril could object, she waved Mogweed to the space between the two beds where the og’re and the mountain man lay. The shape-shifter set the pail down roughly, sloshing water across the pine floor planks. Mycelle took the packs from him. “I need mugs,” she said.

  Mogweed stared blankly at her a moment. Then his brows lowered. “I’ll get them,” he said with an exasperated sigh.

  As he left, Mycelle fingered through her packs. Finally, she extracted two parchment-wrapped packages. She called Elena to her side. “Crush these leaves and berries,” she said, tossing her two tiny packages.

  Er’ril realized he would get no further information from Mycelle, not until some attempt was made to revive their companions. “How can I help?” he said.

  Mycelle tested the water in the pail with a finger. “See if you can raise Tol’chuk a bit. When I dose him, I don’t want the elixir to drown him.”

  Er’ril nodded and slid to the far side of Tol’chuk’s bed. He pulled the blanket lower so he could get to one of the og’re’s arms. He freed the thick limb from the blanket. As Er’ril gripped Tol’chuk’s wrist, he noticed two things: Tol’chuk’s flesh was as cold as a day-old corpse, and the claws of the og’re’s hand clutched a large object in their sharp grip.

  Er’ril immediately recognized the glinting object still stubbornly clasped in the sleeping giant’s fist. It was the Heart of his people. Though unconscious and half dragged here, the og’re had never let it drop.

  Curious, Er’ril attempted to pry open Tol’chuk’s massive fist; perhaps here lay some clue to what had occurred in the warehouse. It took the strength of all his fingers to drag open a single claw.

  “What are you doing?” Mycelle asked sharply.

  Er’ril continued to fight the og’re’s grip. “Trying to free Tol’chuk’s heartstone.”

  “Why?”

  Er’ril glared up at her, swiping away a fall of his black hair from his face. “The stone might give us some clue to the threat we face.” Er’ril went back to freeing the stone. Finally, with sweat on his brow, he pried open the last of the claws. Fully exposed in the og’re’s palm, the facets of the heartstone seemed oddly subdued in the lamplight. Er’ril reached for it.

  “Don’t!” Elena suddenly cried. She had stopped crumbling the dried herb and stared at Tol’chuk with a studied expression.

  Er’ril’s hand froze. His fingers hovered over the stone.

  “What is it, honey?” Mycelle asked, drawing nearer.

  “The Heart usually glows with at least a trace of og’re magicks,” she said, waving at the stone. “In the warehouse, as he lay sprawled, I saw his pouch ablaze with magicks. I guessed it was just the stone! But if he held the Heart in his fist, then it must . . . must be something else.” She pointed to his blanket-covered waist. “Something in his pouch.”

  Er’ril pulled his hand back from the stone and grabbed the blanket’s edge. He swept down the woolen covering. The goatskin pouch was still tied around the og’re’s broad thigh. The pouch bulged with something other than its usual sac
red object.

  Glancing briefly to the others, Er’ril reached for the leather draws. He tugged them open just as something in the pouch suddenly thrashed. Startled, Er’ril yanked away his fingers, accidentally striking the heartstone with the edge of his hand.

  As the stone knocked free of the og’re’s palm, the opening of the thigh pouch suddenly burst forth with a sharp brilliance. Blinded for a heartbeat, Er’ril backed a step. He blinked away the dazzle. The flare of radiance soon died down to a smoldering red glow. Yet the light was not quiet. The intensity of the glow rose and fell rhythmically like that of a beating heart.

  “Stand back,” Mycelle warned, her voice suspicious.

  Elena took a step closer. “Something’s coming.”

  The contents of the pouch wormed toward the opening. As they watched, the strange object in the pouch suddenly poked free of its glowing cave. Its whiskered snout tested the air. Then its body slid from the pouch’s interior.

  “It’s a rat,” Er’ril said.

  “Kral had mentioned rats,” Mycelle said, placing a hand on Elena’s shoulder. “Spawn of the ill’guard.”

  Elena shook her head. “This is not one of them. It’s injured.” She pointed to the twist in the rat’s spine as it struggled free. The rat seemed unhampered by its injury. Its slow crawl from the pouch was more caution than disability. Its eyes seemed to watch everything at once.

  “The glow . . .” Elena began to say.

  Er’ril noted it, too. The radiance followed the rat from the pouch. No, that was not exactly right. As its tiny clawed legs drew the last of its body free, the source of the rich light became clear.

  “The rat’s glowing,” Mycelle said, wonder etching her hard voice.

  The rat was the usual mud brown of the common river rats. But from its lice-ridden fur, a rosy glow ebbed and flowed, a nimbus of light that gave the drab creature a certain beauty, as if the radiance highlighted all that was good and noble in the beast.

  “What does it mean?” Elena asked.

  Both Er’ril and Mycelle just stared.

  Suddenly the door banged open behind them. All of them jumped, even the rat.

  “That stingy innkeep would only give me one mug!” Mogweed said sourly as he entered the room.

  “Quiet!” All three of them scolded him, freezing him in place.

  The rat, startled by the sudden intrusion, fled up from Tol’chuk’s waist and scrabbled across the og’re’s barreled chest to hide under his craggy chin. It cowered there, its light flaring brighter with its fright.

  The glow bathed Tol’chuk’s face, casting each rough plane and deep wrinkle of the og’re in sharp relief. As the radiance had improved the aspect of the common river rat, the glow seemed to highlight the character and strength hidden within Tol’chuk’s coarse features.

  “He is so much like his father,” Mycelle murmured, her voice so soft, so unlike her, that Er’ril did not know for a moment who had spoken. He glanced up to see a single tear shine in the swordswoman’s eye.

  As they watched, Tol’chuk’s wide-splayed nose twitched. The glow, like pipe smoke, was drawn inside the slumbering og’re as he breathed in deeply. His lips began to move silently, as if he were speaking in some deep dream. His open eyes, which had been staring blindly at the thin rafters above, slid closed.

  “What’s happening?” Mogweed asked.

  Mycelle shushed him. She reached a hand to Tol’chuk’s shoulder. “I think he now slips into normal sleep. The spell is lifting.” She leaned closer to the og’re. “Tol’chuk, can you hear me?”

  Tol’chuk snored thinly for a few heartbeats, then spoke in a throaty whisper. “Mother? Mother, where be you?”

  Mycelle patted his shoulder. “I’m here, Son. It’s time to wake.”

  “But . . . but Father wanted me to tell you something.”

  Glancing at the others, Mycelle’s expression was clearly worried.

  Tol’chuk continued to mumble. “Father says to tell you that he be sorry he made you go away. His heart still hears your voice, and his bones still remember your heat. He misses you.”

  Mycelle’s voice cracked. She did not hide her tears. “I miss him, too.” She gripped Tol’chuk’s shoulder tighter. “But, Tol’chuk, it is time to come back here. There is still much to do.”

  “I remember . . . I remember,” he said with rising heat. “The Bane!” Tol’chuk’s eyes jerked open, a stifled cry escaped his lips, and his body spasmed as he came fully awake. He glanced around him. “What happened? Where be I?”

  He tried to rise, but Mycelle placed a hand on his chest, over his heart. “You’re safe.”

  The rat, though, seemed to realize that it was not safe and hobbled down one of the og’re’s arms. Tol’chuk glanced at it, his fanged lips curling in disgust. He tried to fling it away, but Elena grabbed the rat with both hands and snatched it up.

  “Tol’chuk, this little one just saved your life,” she said, cradling it to her chest. Its scaled tail wrapped around her wrist. It no longer glowed and seemed a normal rat again. It chewed absently at the tiny vinelets wrapping her fingers, then spat them out.

  The og’re’s eyes grew clearer. “I know that rat,” he said. “That crooked tail. I put it in my pouch.”

  “Why?” Mycelle asked intensely, as if her question were of utmost impact. “Why did you do that?”

  Tol’chuk pushed to a seated position. He shivered, finally feeling his chilled skin. “I don’t know. He was injured.” Tol’chuk shrugged.

  “Hmm . . .” was Mycelle’s only comment.

  “What?” Er’ril asked.

  Mycelle nodded toward the floor. “Give him back his heartstone.”

  Er’ril bent and retrieved the priceless gem from where it had been knocked to the floor. It was heavy. Er’ril could barely fit his fingers around it to grip it one-handed. He lifted it.

  “The Heart . . .” Tol’chuk said. His expression was worried. He held out his palm.

  Er’ril placed the stone in the og’re’s hand. As soon as it touched Tol’chuk’s flesh, the facets of the stone blew to fire. The light sparked and shone throughout the room.

  “It’s come back to life!” Tol’chuk exclaimed. “I thought it dead. I felt it abandon me.”

  Mycelle nodded. “It did.”

  All but Tol’chuk turned to stare at her.

  “What do you recall of the attack of the ill’guard?” she asked.

  Tol’chuk’s eyes rose to meet hers. “The who?”

  Mycelle explained about what had happened to him and the others. Tol’chuk’s eyes seemed finally to focus on his two companions, slumbering and pale, on the neighboring cots. “Meric is gone?” he asked, his voice wounded.

  “What do you remember about the attack?” Mycelle repeated.

  Tol’chuk swallowed some hard lump in his throat. “They came in the form of demon rats. Their eyes shone with some sick inner fire.”

  “Bloodfire,” Elena said and ignored the others’ stares. She nodded for Tol’chuk to continue as her fingers soothed the small rat.

  “Their eyes drew me into them . . . into a world of pain and despair. I could not resist. I became lost and could not find my way back. I weakened with their song of screams and hopelessness. I tried to resist with the Heart, but it was dead, just a lump of stone in my fist.”

  “No,” Mycelle said. “The magick was protecting itself. What you describe I have heard before. There is a form of ill’guard black magick that feeds on one’s life force. In this case, the demon rats sapped your spirit with their despairs—a most potent magick. And with the Heart storing the spirits of your dead, the ill’guard could have drawn off even these last stray bits of life force . . . stealing your ancestors away forever.”

  Tol’chuk’s eyes widened with her words.

  “So to protect itself, the spirits and their power fled into another vessel, something blocked from the spell-cast eyes of the ill’guard.” Mycelle nodded toward the rat in Elena’s arms. “It st
ayed there until it could return to you and share its energies to revive you.”

  No one said anything for several heartbeats.

  Finally, Er’ril broke the silence. “But what of Kral and Fardale?” he asked. “Could the stone cure them, too?”

  Mycelle stepped back and waved Tol’chuk toward the other two beds. “Let’s find out.”

  LORD TORWREN CROUCHED lower in the mud, listening. He heard the scrape of stone from one of the many tunnels that burrowed out from the cellar region of the tower. The Pack had returned. He reached and grasped the ebon’stone sphere. Pushing a fragment of his spirit into the stone, he ignited the well of bloodfire within. Tiny flames began to skate over its surface, and the room brightened with its sick fire.

  Near his feet, the pale forms of Mycof and Ryman lay sprawled in the mud. Their naked skin ran bloody with the light of the flames. They were twin shells, empty now, that awaited the return of their creations.

  A scrape again sounded from a nearby tunnel.

  The d’warf lord raised his eyes.

  Through the dark eye of a tunnel opening, the beast shambled into the cellar. Red eyes shone with baleful flames, while oiled black fur reflected the bloodfire of the talisman. A scattering of heavy bats flew in behind the creature to settle into the mud. Wings retracted, and the bats became rats again. One scurried over to offer its prize to its master. Torwren ignored the severed finger dropped at his lap. His eyes were fixed on the burden carried under a thick arm of the monstrous beast.

  The captive was a wraith of a man, all limb and neck. Silver hair, tied in a braid, dragged in the mud as the demon beast lumbered into the room. The magick in the prisoner struck his senses like a wash of icy water. Over the many centuries he had served as a seeker for the Dark Lord, he had never come upon one so rich in elemental fire.

  Torwren sniffed at the dank air. He smelled ocean breezes and the scent of winter storms. An elemental of wind and air! He had never chanced upon one skilled in this element. He wondered how the black magick of the ebon’stone would twist this unique power. What manner of ill’guard would arise from this man?