Wit'ch Storm

by James Clemens

  “He has a sick spirit and could grow to be a threat to the island. After using a potion to cleanse his memory, we will dump him at the orphanage in Port Rawl. He’ll be no further threat to you.”

  Though Joach shared no love for the cruel boy, he was taken aback by the casual manner in which the brother planned to orphan the boy. “His parents . . . ?”

  Moris glanced over his shoulder at Joach. The brother had his cowl thrown back in the tunnel, and his bald head shone in the flickering lamplight. His low voice reverberated in the hallway. “Don’t worry, Son. The boy has no parents. All the servants here have been scavenged from orphanages across the lands or were folks rejected by the world at large.” The brother continued down the hall. “We only choose those without a past to join us here.”

  Joach followed the brother’s wide back to a tight staircase that wound down toward the bowels of the Edifice. “And what of me?”

  “That waits to be seen.” Moris spoke as he marched ahead. “Why did you return here this morning?”

  Joach swallowed hard. “I heard you yesterday on the stair—”

  “You were eavesdropping.”

  “Y-yes, but I had to. I don’t know who to trust here.”

  “So while acting a lie, you sought the truth?”

  Joach heard the doubt in the other’s voice. “I guess—”

  “Who sent you here?”

  “Sent?”

  “Yes, who sent you to spy upon our Brother Greshym?”

  Joach stumbled a step and stopped. Did these cloaked brothers not know about the darkmage, or worse yet, were they in league with him? If the last was true, he was doomed.

  Moris heard him stop and swung around, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Do you serve the Dark Lord?” he said harshly. “Did you come at the bidding of that nesting serpent in the tower—the Praetor?”

  Joach’s eyes grew wide. So these brothers knew of the evil that masqueraded as their leader! Joach found his tongue twisted as he tried to speak. Here truly were allies! “No . . . no, not at all. Just the opposite. I know he is evil. I was stolen from my home by the one you name Greshym. But like the Praetor, he is a creature of evil, a darkmage. They are in league together.” Joach stood on the steps in the secret staircase and spilled forth his story. Like a river bursting its dam, words tumbled from his lips. He told of his abduction, his enslavement by Greshym, the cruelties he had endured, and his eventual release in the Grand Courtyard. Tears now flowed down his cheeks.

  Moris listened to his tale in silence, seeming to know that any interruption of the story would lead to Joach collapsing in blubbering tears. It was a tale that needed telling, and Brother Moris simply let it flow from the boy.

  “. . . I didn’t know who else worked in league with the Gul’gotha, so I continued acting like the dumb servant while I explored for a way to escape. I didn’t know who to trust.” Joach’s words finally ran dry in his throat.

  Moris reached his free hand to Joach’s shoulder. “You can trust me.”

  Joach’s legs trembled with the brother’s touch. It had been so long since any kindness had been shown to him.

  Moris leaned closer to his face. “Can you make it down the stairs? I think this is a tale that needs sharing with my brothers.”

  He nodded.

  “You are one tough boy, Joach,” Moris said, clasping his shoulder tighter. “Braver men would have folded under the assault you endured. You should be proud.”

  Joach sniffed back his tears and straightened his shoulders. “I did it for my sister.”

  “Ah,” Brother Moris said with a slight smile on his lips. “And where is she now? Is she still back home in Wintertown?”

  “Winterfell,” Joach corrected. He had only glancingly mentioned Elena in his story. Feeling protective of her, he was hesitant at revealing the true role she had played, so he had skipped over parts of the story that dealt with wit’ches and blood magicks. But was his decision wise? Here was someone who could be trusted, and if Elena was headed to A’loa Glen she would need allies, too.

  “If able, we’ll get you back to your sister,” Moris said as he turned away and started down the stair.

  Joach did not follow. “Wait,” he called. “My sister is not in Winterfell anymore.”

  Moris stopped, swinging back around once again. A trace of impatience twitched his cheek. “Where is she then?”

  Joach lowered his face, ashamed at having to reveal the part of the story he had left out. “She is coming—”

  Suddenly a deep resonant intoning throbbed from far below. It reached up through the stones and rattled his bones. He found further speech impossible. Each tooth in his skull ached with every rumble. He covered his ears, but it did not help. It was not a noise heard with the ears as much as it was an assault on the whole body.

  From Moris’ narrowed eyebrows and cocked head, the brother heard the rumble, too.

  What was happening? Joach wondered. Fear finally freed his tongue. “What is that noise?” he muttered, his voice sounding meek and dull compared to the bottomless tones reaching up from below.

  His voice broke the spell that had swept over Moris. The brother shifted his burden higher under his arm and glanced with suspicious eyes in his direction. “You hear something?”

  A fleeting thought that the man was perhaps mad passed through Joach’s mind. How could he not hear it? His entire frame vibrated like some plucked bowstring with each note. “How could I not? It’s . . . it’s huge.” He knew it sounded stupid to use that word, but it best described how it affected him.

  Moris climbed a step closer to him. “You truly hear!” he said with wonder. Then, in a more contemplative tone, “What are the odds of that?”

  “What is it?”

  Moris did not seem to hear his question. “We must hurry. It is the summons.”

  “I don’t understand,” Joach said as Moris swung around.

  “Only a handful of people born can hear this music,” he explained as he led the way down the stairs again. He kept the pace brisk. “It is the single trait that separates a Hi’fai from the others of the Brotherhood.”

  “You mean no one else can hear this?” Joach asked, having a hard time keeping the doubt from his voice. “The whole Edifice must be shaking with this noise.”

  “No, only those born with a certain elemental ability in their blood, a magick born of the land.”

  Joach pictured his sister’s blazing red hand. “But I hear it . . . It almost tears at me.”

  “Yes, the magick must be strong in you. I would love to explore your genealogy sometime, but right now we must answer the call.” He increased his pace. “We must hurry.”

  “Still you haven’t answered my question,” Joach persisted as he followed, almost trotting to keep up. “What is that noise? Where does it come from?”

  Moris glanced one last time in his direction and silenced Joach with his answer. “It is the song of the stone dragon, the voice of Ragnar’k.”

  22

  THE SUMMONS!

  Greshym awoke with his heart thundering for the second time this morning. He sat straight up on his bed. Earlier he had thought he heard the name Ragnar’k whispered in his ear, pulling him from sleep. But only the spell-cast boy shared his cell. Dismissing it as just an echo of some deeply buried memory, he had settled back to his bed. But once reminded, the old memories could not be so easily hidden away.

  None but the Hi’fai knew the ancient name of the stone dragon, and that sect had been disbanded ages ago, drummed from the Brotherhood, its members long dead. Greshym would have been among them, too, had his cowardice not saved him. Deep under the Edifice, he had dabbled in divining the future, but his visions had frightened him. Ripping the star from his ear, he had fled, afraid to face his own auguries. It had proven to be a timely act of cowardice. A moon later, the elders ordered the exile of the Hi’fai from A’loa Glen. Greshym had then watched from the docks as his fellow brothers were led off in shackles.


  He never saw any of them again.

  No, none but he still lived who knew the name of Ragnar’k.

  Finally content that the whispered name was nothing but a fragmented dream, sleep had found him again. He had rested deeply until, rippling up from the bowels of the Edifice, the summons had torn into him.

  He had flung himself upright, expecting the ancient feeling to disappear like the ghostly name of Ragnar’k, but it had not! The raking call followed him from his nightmares into the waking world.

  It was the call of the stone dragon!

  The shuddering wail did not fade as he slid his feet to the threadbare rug covering the cold stones.

  Something was amiss. With the sinking of A’loa Glen, the lower regions of the Edifice had flooded. When he had first arrived with Shorkan ages ago, curiosity had driven him to seek out the passages that led to his old warren of cells below the castle. What he had found were just halls drowned in brackish waters and doorways bricked closed. There was no way to reach the chambers below the Edifice. Greshym had assumed that the mysteries of the nether regions were secrets lost in the past.

  That was, until now.

  But what did it mean?

  He stood up. His legs trembled slightly. Grabbing his poi’wood staff, he sensed the black energies that wormed within the wood of his crutch. It stoked his confidence. He knew not what trick was being played here, but he must let Shorkan know.

  As he swept into his white robe, a passing concern that his boy had not yet returned skated across his mind, but he let it glide away. It was still early, and the kitchens were probably just completing their morning cooking. The kitchens had been running slow for the past few weeks. He pictured Joach standing dull eyed by the hearths, awaiting the preparation of his master’s meal. If Joach returned before him, the boy would simply wait in the cell for his master’s next order.

  Greshym crossed to the door and left his room. Following the twisting corridors and dusty halls, he reached the Praetor’s Spear and climbed to the roost of his fellow darkmage. The guards as usual ignored him as he worked his way up the tower stairs. Even as his heart pounded with each rumble from Ragnar’k, he had to rest frequently on his climb; his old body tired so easily. Finally, he reached the huge ironbound oak doors and rapped his knuckles hard.

  Shorkan was not expecting him, and it took two more series of knocks before the door finally swung open before him. Greshym bustled into the room, appreciating its warmth and thick carpets after the drafty chill of the halls.

  But his reception by Shorkan was anything but inviting. “Why do you disturb my slumber?” he asked coldly. The Praetor stood in a heavy red robe, sashed at the waist. He had obviously been asleep. His black hair was in unusual disarray, and his gray eyes still gleamed red with exhaustion. Through the windows of the tower room, Greshym could see the sun was well up.

  He bowed his head slightly, already irked at the youthfulness that mocked him from the other’s face. “Something is wrong,” Greshym said. “Can’t you hear the wailing?”

  “What are you blathering about?” Shorkan said with irritation. “I heard nothing except for someone knocking too early upon my door.”

  With the summons still quaking the marrow of his bones, Greshym was slightly shocked that this other, so much stronger in the black arts, felt not even a twinge of the stone dragon’s call. But then again, Shorkan was not Hi’fai and had never sensed the voice of Ragnar’k. He did not have the elemental magick and was ignorant of the sect’s many secrets.

  For a breath, he thought of keeping what he knew from Shorkan, but if something were truly amiss, he might need the other’s strength. “Shorkan,” he began, “though you are the Praetor, there is still much you don’t know of this castle.”

  Black fire flared in the other’s eyes. The stubborn pride of youth still ran hot in Shorkan’s blood. The pet of the Dark Lord did not like someone questioning his knowledge. His words were laced with threat. “I know more than you suppose, Brother Greshym.”

  “Then perhaps you can tell me all about why this island, of all the others of the Archipelago, was chosen as the site of A’loa Glen.”

  A wisp of confusion crinkled the edges of Shorkan’s eyes.

  “You don’t know, do you?” Greshym did not wait for an answer. “There is also much you don’t know about me. You know I was once a Hi’fai. It was my prophetic writings that gave you the recipe for binding the Blood Diary.”

  “I don’t need a history lesson, Greshym.”

  “Ah, but you do. For though you used my visions, you never bothered to wonder about the Hi’fai themselves. By that time, they had been banished, and being the good little mage that you were, you half accepted the elders’ edict that they were heretics, practitioners of sorceries that were not pure gifts from Chi. Had you not wondered exactly what my old sect was doing?”

  “I knew enough. Your kind sought divinations of the future.”

  “Yes, but how, Shorkan? How?”

  The other shrugged. “What difference does it make? The Hi’fai are long gone.”

  “Not completely,” Greshym added, enjoying the other’s consternation. “Though I turned my back on my brothers, I am still Hi’fai. It is in one’s blood.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying that at least one member of the ancient order still walks the halls of the Edifice.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, me! One did not simply join the Hi’fai—you had to be born to it. To become a Hi’fai, you had to be gifted with a form of elemental magick, a magick that linked you to the dreaming.”

  Shorkan’s brows knit together. “Weavers! Are you telling me that the Hi’fai were both mages and dreamweavers?”

  “Yes. We used our elemental gifts to enter the dreaming and see glimpses of the future.”

  Shorkan turned and began to pace as he spoke. A bit of excitement had entered his voice as he thought he understood. “Of course, the elemental energies alone would not let you pierce time’s veil. So you used your Chyric powers to bolster your inherent elemental ability. This is amazing.”

  “No.” Greshym let the word sink in and smiled inwardly as the other stopped his pacing. He loved the confusion on Shorkan’s face. The damned fool always thought he knew everything. “No, we never used our Chyric powers. It had nothing to do with Chi. Some members of the Hi’fai were not even mages, just weavers.”

  “Impossible.”

  Greshym shrugged and just allowed the other to stew.

  “But how?” Shorkan finally asked.

  “We had help.”

  “Whose?”

  “The one who calls to me as we speak.”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Only weavers can hear the summons. Ragnar’k calls out for a gathering.”

  “Who . . . who is this Ragnar’k? I never heard of such a one.”

  “He is the reason this island became the birthplace of A’loa Glen. Of all the islands, this is his home. He was here before the first tower was built.”

  “Who is this person?”

  “Not a person. He is a creature of pure elemental power, a nexus of weaving energy buried in the heart of the island. Like a lodestone, his power attracted the mages who went on to build on this island. None knew of his existence until he called out to the mages gifted with elemental magicks and gathered them to him. Deep under the rock of the island, the sect of the Hi’fai was forged by his summons.”

  “And what matter of creature is this Ragnar’k?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. Half buried in the volcanic rock of the island’s core is a crudely carved statue of a dragon. Posed as if curled in slumber, it is more just a rough outline than a true rendering. Some say Ragnar’k is a spirit trapped in this statue; others say he truly is a sleeping dragon, lost in slumber for so many ages that he has forgotten his own shape, letting it fade into this crude form. Continually asleep, his spirit lives in the dreaming, outside time itself, no longer fixed in t
he present but flowing throughout time. When we communed with him, we could see glimpses of the future and the ancient past.”

  Shorkan’s eyes had grown huge. “And you told me none of this before?”

  “We were sworn to secrecy. After the fall of A’loa Glen, I thought Ragnar’k long dead, drowned in his subterranean lair. What do ancient histories matter today?”

  “So why tell me this now?”

  “Ragnar’k is not dead. He has begun to call again. His voice speaks to the magick in my blood.”

  Shorkan began to turn away. “Then let us seek out this Ragnar’k. He could prove a useful tool in the hands of the Gul’gotha.”

  Greshym snatched at the cuff of the Praetor’s robe, surprised at how sick such a thought made him. His emotions confused him. What did he care if Ragnar’k was consumed by the Dark Lord? Still he did not let go of Shorkan’s sleeve. “We . . . we can’t do that. The paths below are all flooded or blocked off. There is no way to reach him.”

  “I will find a way. With you guiding me, I’m sure we can forge a new path.” Black energies began to crackle along the edges of the Praetor’s red robe. “The master has granted me gifts to keep nothing from my reach.”

  Greshym let go of the robe and wiped his hand on his white cloak, as if removing a sticky foulness. As the call of the stone dragon echoed in his head, he regretted his decision in coming here. For some reason, he did not want Shorkan near Ragnar’k. His hesitation kept his tongue silent on one last matter concerning the dreaming dragon, one other prophecy concerning Ragnar’k.

  Actually it was more a promise than a vision: When he was most needed, it was said that Ragnar’k would wake from his eternal slumber, shake off the rock of the island, and move again. His awakening would mark the beginning of the Great War, heralding its first conflict: the battle for A’loa Glen.

  Greshym shuddered. No, he did not want Shorkan near Ragnar’k, fearing he might disturb the giant’s sleep. But was the dragon truly slumbering? Why, after so long a time, had Ragnar’k begun to call again?

  And why, behind the song of the stone dragon, could Greshym hear the horns of battle and the clash of steel?