His heart beat faster than it had in ages. This one was strong! “Shackle him,” the d’warf lord ordered, pointing to the iron manacles bolted to one wall of the cellar.
The beast swung its whiskered snout toward Torwren and hissed, its blood lust bright in its eyes. But the Pack, even here in its strongest form, seemed weak and small compared to the power he had just scented.
“Do as I command!” Torwren raised the ebon’stone sphere, and bloodfire spat higher. Wicked flames reached for the creature.
It cowered away, subdued by his show of power. With its shoulders hunched against the brightness of the talisman, it stepped over the pale forms of Mycof and Ryman. Crossing to the far wall, it roughly yanked and twisted the thin man’s limp form until his two wrists were clamped in iron bands. The beast stepped back.
The prisoner now hung from his wrists, his toes unable to reach the mud floor.
Satisfied his captive was secure, Torwren faced the black beast. “The hunt is done this night,” he hissed at it. “Return to your slumber!”
Resistance was plain in its hungry eyes. It took a step toward him, claws rising.
Torwren shook his head at its display. Such a poor tool for his use! He lowered the ebon’stone talisman, touching first Mycof, then Ryman. With the caress of the stone, their limp bodies spasmed tight as drawn bowstrings. Their backs arched from the mud, necks stretched back, jaws opened in silent screams.
The beast froze in its approach. Rows of yellow fangs glinted as it hissed its frustration.
“Begone!” the d’warf lord ordered. He ran a wrinkled palm across the polished surface of the stone. As his hand quelled the fire, the beast simply collapsed into a mound of squirming black worms. “Return to your hosts!”
The worms twisted and roiled in a mass toward Mycof and Ryman. They rolled over the taut bodies of the twins then burrowed home, squirming into their mouths, up their noses, and into every opening in the pair’s bodies. The pale forms gagged and choked on the worms as the Pack returned to roost. Their bellies swelled with the worms until the two brothers appeared as bloated corpses.
Then their bellies subsided as the magick given substance returned to its original energies. The power ran again through the blood and bones of the twins. Mycof was the first to rise from the mud; again his features were those of a statue, all emotion drained away by the hunt. The young man’s colorless thin lips sighed. Ryman arose next, his red eyes glancing briefly at his brother, then at Torwren.
“Return to your rooms,” Torwren said.
“The hunt . . . ?” Mycof dared.
Torwren pointed to the wall where the prisoner hung. “You have done well. The master is pleased.”
His words raised a shadow of a smile from each. Torwren knew this was an ecstatic response from the brothers after the Pack had drained them. “Go to your beds and rest.” Torwren retrieved the bloody finger from the mud near his knees. “We will hunt again on the morrow’s twilight.”
These words raised even a greater smile, a hint of teeth showing. Their blood lust had been denied this night, but the thought of another hunt promised another chance to slake their hunger.
The two brothers slowly climbed from the mud, helping each other up. With a barest bow of heads, they turned and retreated to the door that led to the tower stair.
Once gone, the d’warf lord raised the torn finger to his nose and sniffed at it. He scented caves of stone and the muskiness of mined ore. Rock magick! Even this small token promised another elemental of savage fire. He brought the finger to his lips and tasted the blood and tore into its flesh. Its taste and trace of magick would help guide him this night. Tonight’s hunt must not fail.
Not if he was to allow himself a hope.
Two ill’guard to be bent to his will. Two of such strength! His eyes closed as he imagined the power at his command. Power enough to defy the Black Heart and seek the Try’sil.
He put aside these dreams and raised his gaze to the captive hung in iron on the wall. First, he had a spirit to break and cast upon the bloodfire of his ebon’stone pyre. Like his d’warf ancestors, skilled masters of the forge, he would hammer and fold this one into a blade of the keenest edge and fiercest steel.
He raised the ebon’stone sphere whose hollow heart had been filled with the blood of the last defender of Rash’amon. Torwren still remembered the screams of the soldier as he had cut his beating heart from his chest and used the hot blood to fuel the ebon’stone sphere.
The d’warf lord reached for the power of the stone, sensing the soldier’s living spirit trapped in the stone along with his blood. Over the ages, the man’s bright spirit had been twisted and demented by the horrors in which Torwren had employed the fire of the soldier’s dying heart. Unable to resist, the stone blew ablaze with the fire and despair of this long-dead soldier. His screams sounded in Torwren’s ears as the d’warf lord climbed from the mud and approached his new prisoner.
What he had done to this soldier would be a kindness compared to his plans for the captive hung on the wall. Yet Torwren did not falter. He knew the lessons of his ancestors.
The hardest steel had to be forged in the hottest flame.
PULLED FROM A fiery nightmare, Kral opened his eyes to a red flame. Panicked, his heart thundering, he beat frantically at the threat, but his arms tangled in some clinging netting.
“Lie still, Kral!”
The mountain man recognized Er’ril’s voice, and the world snapped to focus. He lay on a cot in one of their rooms, snared in a woolen blanket. His side ached, and his hip throbbed. He groaned as he remembered his wild ride through the burning warehouse.
Tol’chuk lowered his glowing heartstone from Kral’s face. “He awakens.”
Kral stared up into the og’re’s worried face. The last time he had seen Tol’chuk, the og’re had been sprawled out on the warehouse floor. He glanced to the neighboring bed. Fardale sat atop the next cot, leaning into Elena’s fingers as she scratched the wolf behind one ear. With relief, Kral realized they had escaped, too.
The mountain man found his tongue still thick in his throat. “What happened?”
“You were attacked by the ill’guard,” Er’ril said. “They drained your strength with a spell of despair, but the magick in Tol’chuk’s heartstone broke its hold on you.” The plainsman’s words were spoken without joy.
Recalling Meric’s collapse in the warehouse, Kral glanced around the room, expecting to see the elv’in. “Meric?”
“He’s vanished,” Er’ril said with heat. “We were hoping you had some clue as to what might have happened.”
His thoughts still confused, Kral freed an arm from his blankets and discovered his right hand wrapped in a bloody bandage. It throbbed and ached. He remembered the rat gnawing away his finger. A shudder traveled through his limbs. He had never felt so cold, not even among the snows of his mountain home.
Mycelle stepped forward with a steaming mug. She frowned at Er’ril as she passed Kral the cup. She scolded the plainsman. “He’s still weak. Give Kral a moment to clear the dregs of the ill’guard’s spell before you interrogate him.”
Shivering, Kral accepted the hot mug with his good hand, his fingers wrapping tightly around the cup to absorb its heat.
“Drink it all,” Mycelle ordered, straightening. “The tea will give you strength.”
Kral did not argue. At first, he just sipped the sweet tea, but as its warmth traveled from his belly out to his fingers and toes, he found himself gulping it greedily. He drained the cup and leaned back in his bed, closing his eyes. He held out the mug. “More?”
Mycelle took the mug from him with a grin. “There was enough rivenberry in that cup for a brace of stallions. Just give it a few moments to work through you.”
Her words soon proved true. After a few breaths, a soothing warmth spread through Kral, and the blanket began to stifle him. He tossed it back. Even his aching side protested less sharply. He pulled himself up higher in the bed.
&nb
sp; Er’ril weighed Kral with his eyes before speaking. “Now what do you recall about the warehouse?”
Kral cleared his throat and started his story. As he related his tale, the expressions of the others grew grimmer. “. . . Then the demons surrounded us. Already tired from using his magick, Meric dropped quickly. Then the rats were upon me. It was only Rorshaf’s strong legs that saved me from further damage at the beasts’ teeth.” He held up his bandaged hand.
Mycelle pushed down Kral’s arm. “I’ve knit your torn skin with needled sheep’s gut and applied a balm of bittersroot to help it heal clean, but you must rest it.”
“Wounds heal,” he said, dismissing her warning. He knew from past injuries that his magicks would speed his healing. He was rock.
Er’ril spoke next. “So after you fell, the rats attacked you.”
Kral nodded. “I sensed a bloody hunger in their eyes,” he said, his brows growing dark. “If Meric is gone, I fear the worst.”
Mycelle sniffed dismissively. “Put aside those fears,” she said as she hauled a pail from beside the bed. “Meric lives.”
“How can you be so sure?” Er’ril asked.
“They left Tol’chuk and the wolf. If they were simply after meat, they wouldn’t have left behind such a rich supply.”
Elena shifted on the neighboring cot. “So why take Meric and leave the others?” the girl mumbled.
Mycelle answered, “Because he’s rich in elemental magicks—excellent fodder for the Dark Lord’s ill’guard army.” Her voice grew grave. “But his abduction raises a larger fear.”
“What is that?” Er’ril asked.
“With their purposeful choice of targets, I now suspect that I’m not the only seeker here in Shadowbrook. Someone else hunts the city.” She glanced at Kral and nodded at his hand. “They’ve had a taste of you and will come after you again. Once the Dark Lord’s seeker has caught your scent, he will not give up the chase. You’re too strong an elemental, a prize trophy for any seeker.”
Her words silenced the others.
Mogweed was the first to speak. “What of Elena? Can this seeker sniff her out, too?”
Mycelle placed a hand on the shape-shifter’s shoulder. “Mogweed, you’re the only one who’s thinking straight. It’s tragic that Meric is lost, but Elena should be our priority. I don’t believe this seeker is aware of her. Elena’s magick is not elemental. It’s blood magick. She is invisible to my seeking, and I suspect to all others, too. But Kral will draw the hounds of the Black Heart like the blood of a wounded fox. That we must consider.”
“What are you suggesting?” Er’ril asked.
Kral found the woman’s hard eyes settle on him. “Kral must not come with us.”
Stunned expressions spread through the room. Kral’s face, though, stayed rock. “She is right. I will only draw attention to Elena.”
Elena stood up from her bed, her face red, near tears. “No, we all must stand together. We can’t leave Kral behind.” The blanket fell from her shoulders.
Kral stared wide eyed at the spread of vines and leaves up her arm. He interrupted the girl’s declaration. “What happened to Elena?”
The girl glanced to her enshrouded limb, and the fire seemed to leave her body. She sank back to the bed as Er’ril explained about the bewit’ched link between the vines and her magick. “She must not touch her magick,” he finished, “or the growth could overwhelm and kill her.”
“Then that’s even more of a reason for me to leave,” Kral said firmly. “She can’t afford a confrontation with the minions of the Dark Lord. The best way I could help is to lead them astray, distract the hunt from her.”
“No!” Elena said, but her voice was now less sure.
Kral sat up straighter and threw his legs to the floor. He stared at the young lass. “Elena, I would die before I let my blood draw attention to your trail. You have no say in this matter. I will travel no farther with you.”
“But—?”
He placed his good hand on her knee. “No.”
Elena stared around at the others for help. None would meet her eye. Her shoulders slumped. “Then what is our plan?”
Mycelle answered, speaking a breath before Er’ril. “Daybreak nears. We must leave soon thereafter. To leave before dawn would draw too many suspicious eyes. We will leave while the town awakens and the river barges set sail.”
Elena turned teary eyes toward Kral. “And what will you do after we leave?”
“I will stay. Meric is somewhere here in Shadowbrook. I mean to find him and free him.”
“But we could help you.”
“No. Without your magick, you are useless.” Kral saw how his words pained her, but as a mountain man, he had learned that true words were often hard to hear. “You’d just be in my way, someone I would have to guard.”
Tol’chuk spoke into the pained tension. “You would not have to guard me, man of the mountains. I will stay with you.”
“What?” Kral swung on the og’re.
Tol’chuk held his chunk of heartstone. “The Heart can fight the spell-cast sleep of the ill’guard. If you find Meric, you may need my help.”
“No, Tol’chuk,” Er’ril said, mirroring Kral’s own thoughts. “Your words are noble, but your strong arms and your magick are best used to guard Elena.”
Kral nodded.
Mycelle stepped into the argument. “Elena is the important—”
“Enough!” Tol’chuk’s shout shook the thin, planked walls. He shoved the heartstone before him. He pointed it first at Elena, and the stone grew dark, its bright facets dimming. Then he swung his fist toward Kral—and the stone blew to a blinding radiance!
The mountain man leaned away from its brilliance.
Tol’chuk’s arm trembled with his fervor. “As it has always done, the Heart commands me where I must go. I must stay with Kral.” His eyes defied anyone to question him further.
The display silenced everyone.
“Then it’s decided,” Mycelle said, staring at her son with cold eyes. “Kral and Tol’chuk stay and draw off our enemies. Perhaps they may succeed in freeing Meric, but if not, their deaths won’t be in vain.” Mycelle turned to face the others. “But before we firm plans, is there anyone else who would like to stay?”
Kral saw one arm rise, and his mouth dropped in surprise.
Mogweed stood behind Elena with his hand in the air.
ELENA SHUT HER ears from the raised voices around her. The small crook-tailed rat nuzzled deeper into the warmth of her embrace. She, too, wished to burrow somewhere away from all this commotion. She stared at the wrap of foliage on her left arm. Tugging at a coil of vine, she followed to where it burrowed into her flesh. Because of this mossy growth, the team was falling apart. As Kral had said, without access to her magicks, she was just useless baggage, a burden to those around her.
She wiped back a tear.
In just a night, all she had practiced, learned, and accomplished was now nothing. The wit’ch was gone. She was again only a child to be watched over and protected. She had thought the long journey here had forged her spirit into something more, honed her sharper than the scared girl who had fled through the burning orchards of Winterfell, but now that her powers had been stripped from her, what she discovered was that all her maturing had been only as a wit’ch. The woman was still the same scared girl.
Kral’s gruff voice drew her eyes. “Mogweed, there is no need for you to stay. Of what use are you?”
The shape-shifter stood straight before the others’ stares. “Exactly! Of what use am I? Am I of any more use in accompanying Elena? I am not a warrior who can protect her. But I do have eyes and ears. And here in Shadowbrook I can be of use. I can search for signs of Meric just as well as either of you— Even better than Tol’chuk! Are you going to let this monstrous og’re wander through town making inquiries and searching for clues to Meric’s whereabouts by himself? I don’t think that’s a wise course. If Meric is to be found quickly, which he must if
the elv’in is to have any chance of avoiding the corruption of the seeker’s touch, then as many eyes and ears as possible will be needed on these streets. You will need me. Elena will not.”
Mogweed trembled slightly, whether from the intensity of his conviction or simple nervousness, Elena was not sure. Elena sniffed back her tears. Though she may not have grown on this journey, the shape-shifter had. The cowering, mousy man had developed a certain pride and willfulness, even a nobility.
“Why?” Tol’chuk asked him. “Why risk yourself?”
Mogweed’s tight shoulders sagged slightly. His voice lost some of its firm resolve. “I claim no great brazenness of spirit. In fact if fighting is needed, I will most likely run. I am no warrior. It was my weakness and fears that drove me from my guard of the warehouse when the demon rats came. In some small way, it was my cowardice that allowed Meric to be captured. I would at least like a chance to correct my mistake. Meric is more than just a companion to me. Since saving his life, he and Elena are the only two who have shown me true friendship.” He smiled thinly at Elena. “And right now, I am of no use to the wit’ch. I never was.”
Elena opened her mouth to protest. The shape-shifter had offered her many a kind word, boosting her spirit when it was low.
Mogweed held a hand toward her and continued speaking. “But here in Shadowbrook, I can perhaps offer what is needed to save Meric—an extra pair of eyes and ears.”
Er’ril stared at Mogweed with a measure of respect. “You argue your point well,” he said. “Maybe it is best for you to stay, Mogweed.”
The shape-shifter bowed his head slightly in Er’ril’s direction.
Elena saw Fardale’s amber eyes flash at Mogweed. She caught a part of the wolf’s sending: The runt of a litter faces the snake without trembling. Fardale was proud of his brother.
Mogweed’s cheeks flushed. He turned away from the wolf, apparently embarrassed by the praise.
Mycelle finally spoke, ending the long discussion. “It is late. Dawn nears, and we could all use some rest before the day’s trials tomorrow.”
For once this night, no one argued.
Wit'ch Storm Page 29