Wit'ch Storm

by James Clemens

  “Swamp gas,” Mycelle explained as she noticed Elena’s curled nose. “You’ll get used to it.”

  Elena scowled, doubting she ever would. She breathed through her mouth as she walked the last leg of the trail down the Landslip.

  Even Fardale seemed bothered by the stink. He sent her an image of a skunk spraying a trail. She had to concur.

  Soon they reached the bottom of the cliff, and the ground spread out before them. Finally being able to separate from one another was a relief. The mists had a certain suffocating feeling, and a bit of free space lessened the cloying sense.

  Elena glanced around her. The late-afternoon light, blocked by the vapors, seemed more like a strange yellow twilight, giving all she saw a sickly cast. Ahead of her, the cliff’s base was a tumble of rock and soil. A few scraggly bushes with huge thorns dotted the landscape. Farther ahead, hazed by the mists, was a shadowy wall of darkness, a huge slumbering beast hidden in the fog. Strange birds called from there, and unseen creatures croaked and splashed. Elena suddenly knew what lay ahead, recognizing the slumbering beast for what it was.

  It was the swamp.

  Over her shoulder, the towering cliffs of the Landslip disappeared into the mists. There was no retreat.

  Suddenly Fardale began a low, throaty growl. At the wolf’s warning, swords appeared in Mycelle’s and Er’ril’s fists.

  A figure appeared out of the mists, seeming to detach from the greater darkness ahead. As the swamp vapors shifted, it was clear that the shadowy form was simply a man. Dressed in knee-high boots of a scaly gray leather and outfitted in a tight-fitted jacket made of some strange oily material, he approached their party. Elena cringed back. He was a youngish man with his head shaved to a coarse black stubble. Above a broken nose, his eyes were oddly slanted in a continual squint. But what startled and honestly frightened her was that the side of his face was a boiled mass of scars. One ear was gone, and the left edge of his upper lip was caught in the scars and drawn up in a perpetual sneer.

  Mycelle’s reaction was the opposite of Elena’s. She sheathed her swords and dashed forward to scoop the man up in her arms. “Jaston! Sweet Mother, what are you doing here?” Before he could answer, she swung to face Elena and Er’ril, one arm still around the scarred man. “This is Jaston, the guide who led me into the swamp before.”

  Elena remembered the story. This was the man who had almost given his life during Mycelle’s first attempt to hunt the wit’ch. She stared at his ruined face. Such is the fate of those who venture too deep into the swamps, it seemed to warn.

  Mycelle swung back to face the man. “What are you doing here, Jaston?” she repeated.

  His attempt at a smile drew a shudder from Elena. His words did nothing to calm her misgivings. “The swamp wit’ch sent me.”

  BY MIDNIGHT, THE blood hunter reached the deserted campsite beside the stream. The d’warf bent to sniff at the scattered ashes of the dead hearth. It stank of the wit’ch, a lingering scent no older than a half a day. Torwren straightened and stepped toward the cliff’s edge ahead. He raised his nose to the breeze rising from the swamps. Poison, the winds cautioned, and decay. In the snatches of gusts, the swamp warned all away with threats of death.

  Torwren crouched at the lip of the towering cliff. His red eyes tried to pierce the blanket of mists below. With the sun’s setting, the swamp’s shroud began to rise, reclaiming the sun-baked cliffs.

  As he sat still, his stone skin began to harden. Over the past day, the stiffening grew worse with each idle moment. It was the curse of the Dark Lord: If he stopped for too long, the stone would stop flowing, and he would be trapped in an ebon’stone shell forever. To make matters worse, this sluggish effect was more pronounced if he did not feed. The stone was always hungry for human blood, and it had been two days since he had feasted on a fresh heart. But traveling through such isolated lands south of Shadowbrook had offered little chance to slake this ravenous thirst. As punishment, his skin grew sluggish whenever he paused, warning him against slowing his pursuit of the wit’ch and scolding him for not feeding.

  Torwren straightened with difficulty from his crouch. He moved his limbs, bending his knees and working his arms. Slowly the stone gave way, and he found movement less of a struggle.

  He sniffed at the air. The wit’ch’s scent traveled east along the cliff’s edge. He followed the trail, smelling the musky scent of horse, wolf, and the two others who traveled with the wit’ch. One reeked vaguely of poison, almost like the swamp. The other gave off a scent that seemed a mix of Standi loam and forged iron. His nose wrinkled at the scent: a most ancient iron.

  He shook his head and continued on his hunt. In less than a league, the scent trail led to a path that headed down. He stopped. He had been sure she intended to follow the Landslip all the way to the coast. Why were they heading into the Drowned Lands? Why risk the fanged, slithering beasts of the endless bogs and fens? For a moment, a worry ran through his heart. Did they know they were being followed? Were they thinking to lose him among the thousand scents of the swamplands?

  Impossible. They could not know he followed.

  The black d’warf continued toward the trail, having to force his stubborn legs to obey after even such a brief stop. He must feed soon. Even this thought sped his legs down the narrow trail as night fully descended upon the Drowned Lands below.

  The blood hunter did not need sunlight to guide his stone legs. The dire flames in his eyes lit his path. Nothing would stop his pursuit of the wit’ch.

  Yet, somewhere deep inside the ebon’stone shell, wrapped tight around the white elemental flame that fed the black magicks of the blood hunter, laughter echoed up. A tiny sliver of the old Torwren, powerless and trapped from interfering, eavesdropped on the thoughts and actions of this creature forged by the Black Heart. The d’warf lord had sought to craft a cadre of ill’guard soldiers bent to his own will, ill’guard who could do what Torwren could not: who could free the Try’sil from its prison. He had failed and become an ill’guard himself instead. He laughed, not at the irony of this situation but at where the blood hunter was heading. How could he have anticipated such a twist of fate?

  With this thought, he remembered his father’s sage words: Look no farther than your own nose for answers to your prayers.

  How blind he had been!

  Deep inside the blood hunter, wild laughter accompanied the creature down the cliffs of the Landslip.

  AMID GLOWPOTS THAT kept the night’s insects at bay, Elena sat cross-legged upon a woven reed mat and eyed the platter of odd fruit placed before her. Er’ril and Mycelle sat to either side of her, while Fardale hung a bit back. Elena did not know what to make of this offering. She had never seen such fruit and could not even fathom how to eat some of the weird-skinned fare. Did you peel that green bulbous gourd or just bite into it? And what of that fruit shaped like a star?

  Elena glanced to their host. Jaston was pouring an equally strange brew into mugs before his guests. By the light of the lanterns, the scarring of their host’s face appeared even worse. It was a storm on his skin, a roiling mix of wrinkled pink flesh streaked with white bands. Elena kept her eyes averted as Jaston left to retrieve the last of their meal. He must have sensed her discomfort and had raised a hood to shadow his face.

  Er’ril, his brows dark, scrutinized the man as he left. The trip from the cliffs to Jaston’s home had been a strained journey for Er’ril. Jaston had refused to explain further about his startling statement that the swamp wit’ch had sent him to meet them. “The story is long and best told over dinner,” he had said, then turned to lead them away. Only Mycelle’s insistence that Jaston could be trusted had finally convinced Er’ril to follow. Even so, the plainsman marched with one hand on the pommel of his silver sword.

  Luckily, it was not a long walk to the trading town of Drywater perched at the swamp’s edge, though town was an odd word to describe the ramshackle accumulation of rafts that supported the crude homes of Drywater. These raft home
s were interconnected in a maze of floating piers and rope bridges. A few larger homes of brick and stone were built on the firmer ground above the waters, but most of Drywater grew from the rafts themselves, lopsided dwellings of scavenged wood and woven drapes. Some were even built in the towering limbs of the monstrous cypress trees that overhung the town, the lamps in their windows appearing like will-o’-the-wisps in the branches.

  By the time the party had reached Drywater, true night had fallen. After leaving their horses in a stable at the edge of town, Jaston had led them over a network of floating piers that bobbed atop large, fibrous pods. “Bog weed,” Jaston had explained, catching Elena’s curious gaze at the pods. “Grows everywhere, but we plant it throughout Drywater to help keep us afloat. Won’t do to sink in these waters.”

  With only these words, he had continued leading them through the maze of piers and bridges. As they traveled, Jaston would wave a hand to occasional fellow townsmen, a wary-eyed bunch with features worn hard by the swamp. But these rough men were not the only denizens of Drywater. A few children peered from behind drapes as the strangers passed. Somewhere a dog barked a warning, seeming to scent the wolf among their party.

  Around them, as they had slipped through the outskirts of Drywater, the swamp awakened with nightfall, a cacophony of croaking, hissing, and the nesting calls of birds.

  Even now, as they settled to a late meal on Jaston’s home raft, the chorus of the swamps continued unabated. Occasionally something larger would grumble from deeper in the swamps, hushing the chorus for a short time. Elena knew from the quality of the sound that it echoed from far over the waters. Elena shivered. For the beast to make such a far-reaching cry, it must be huge. She noticed even their host’s face would darken whenever this creature howled through the darkness.

  As full night swallowed them up, the lights of Drywater began to dwindle around them, lamp by lamp, until only a scattering of lanterns dotted the maze of the town. Somewhere nearby a woman was singing softly to the night. She sang in a language Elena did not recognize. Some lullaby, Elena supposed from the mellow sweetness of the singer’s voice, though the melody had a melancholy strain to it. The song touched upon the worries Elena had for her companions abandoned in Shadowbrook.

  She spoke her concerns to Er’ril, keeping her voice low. “Do you think the others found Meric?”

  “If the elv’in’s still alive, they’ll discover his whereabouts. Kral’s an excellent tracker, and Tol’chuk has a keen nose.”

  Mycelle patted the girl’s knee. She nibbled on a thick-skinned fruit with a purplish flesh. “In a moon, we will know. Once we’re through the swamps, I’ll go to Port Rawl and seek them out.”

  Elena lowered her face. She wished she knew now what had befallen their companions.

  The wooden planks swayed slightly as Jaston returned to them, his arms laden with another platter. The smell of roasting meat momentarily drove away her worries. Jaston knelt upon his own mat and placed the tray next to the others.

  Even Er’ril, who had remained sullen and cautious around Jaston, sat up a bit straighter. “What’s that?” he asked with his usual manners.

  Jaston smiled, his scars twisting the effect into a gruesome sight. “Filet of swamp python.”

  Fingers that had been reaching for the meat paused.

  Jaston stared, baffled at their hesitation. “It’s fresh,” he assured them.

  Mycelle reached for a slice of the steaming python first. “And if I remember, you know just the right way to prepare it. Not too spicy, but with just a touch of tarragon.” From Jaston’s blushing and sudden concentration on dishing out some boiled root, there was some hidden meaning behind this memory. Mycelle turned to them, the ghost of a smile on her own lips. “Try it. It’s quite good. Tastes much like spring quail.”

  Er’ril used his knife to stab a slice of meat and flop it on his own plate. Hunger drove Elena to do the same. She watched Er’ril cautiously sample a bite first, and only after seeing his satisfied nod did she nibble at the tender offering. The seasonings and sweetness of the meat were quite a surprise. Elena needed no further encouragement to devour the remainder of her slice.

  Mycelle passed a slice to Fardale, who swallowed the sample in one bite. In silence, they consumed their meal, hands reaching for more. Fardale nudged Elena’s elbow with his nose, and she tossed him another slab.

  Jaston, his eyes wary, stared as the wolf devoured the meat. Mycelle had already explained about Fardale, but the revelation of his shape-shifting nature had not lessened the man’s concern.

  Er’ril was on his fourth slice before he finally brought up the question that had been nagging him. “Jaston, your hospitality has been most generous.” He wiped at his chin with the back of his hand. “But we need to know about this swamp wit’ch, and why you claimed that she told you to meet us by the cliffs.”

  Jaston lowered his mug. “It is no claim. Just this day, one of her swamp children, naked and filthy, appeared on one of the outlying rafts of Drywater. The child asked to speak to me.” This last statement was said with baffled confusion. “When I came, the boy told me that visitors would be arriving at the Landslip and that I was to meet them. Then when my back was turned, the child vanished. Not knowing what his message heralded, I decided to obey. I had no idea why I was chosen for this duty until I saw Mycelle standing by the cliffs. The two of us had searched for the wit’ch several winters back.” His fingers wandered to his scarred face. “The wit’ch obviously knew of our connection.”

  “And this child told you nothing else?” Er’ril asked.

  “He had one message from the wit’ch.” Jaston glanced to the darkness beyond the lanterns and glowpots. “By dawn’s light, you must enter the swamp. And I . . . I’m to guide you.”

  Mycelle spoke up. “We’d thought to rest a day before facing the swamp. We’ve journeyed hard and fast to reach here.”

  Jaston shrugged. “That was the message: by dawn’s light.”

  The pleasant taste of python had soured in Elena’s mouth. “How . . . how did she know we were coming?” she asked.

  “I suspect,” Mycelle answered, “that it has something to do with the vines on your arm. Its magick must be like a beacon to the wit’ch, marking our progress.”

  “Then there is no way to surprise the wit’ch in her lair,” Er’ril said sullenly.

  Jaston answered his concern. “If the wit’ch does not want to be found, you’ll never find her among the swamps, let alone get a chance to surprise her.”

  Er’ril frowned at the truth in his words.

  “It does not matter anyway,” Mycelle declared forcefully. “I suspect the wit’ch will not hide from us nor harm us on the journey. She wants Elena for some reason, marking her with the vines to ensure she comes.”

  “And what about after we find her?” Er’ril asked. “What then?”

  No one answered. Around them, the swamp croaked and growled. After a hushed few moments, Er’ril cleared his throat. “If we are to leave at sunrise, perhaps the women should get some sleep. Jaston and I will make preparations for our departure.”

  “No need,” Jaston said. “After the message from the swamp child, I prepared for a trek, just in case. I have my pole boat already outfitted for the trip.”

  “Good,” Er’ril said, standing, “then let’s check out your supplies.”

  Mycelle still sat on her mat. “There is no need for that, Er’ril. Jaston is an experienced swamprat. He knows better than you what we’ll need on this journey.”

  Er’ril’s cheeks darkened with her words. “I’d still like to see for myself.” He glanced at Jaston’s scars. “Even an experienced swamprat can make mistakes.”

  Now it was Jaston’s back that stiffened, but he kept himself civil. “If the plainsman wishes to see how I’ve stocked my boat,” he said in a clipped tone, “he is more than welcome.” Jaston led the way.

  Mycelle persisted. “Jaston, there is no need to bow and scrape to this . . . this buff
oon.”

  Jaston pulled his hood farther over his head. “It is only a short walk to the boat.”

  The two men left with Fardale trailing behind them while Mycelle scowled at their backs. “Men,” she grumbled under her breath. Then, with a loud sigh, she turned to Elena. “We should get as much sleep as we can. Tomorrow will be a hard day.”

  Elena nodded. She wondered silently when a day wouldn’t be hard.

  Mycelle helped her spread their bedrolls on the deck near Jaston’s one-room shack. The woman frowned at Jaston’s home. Its walls leaned as if about to topple, and the drapes in the single window were tattered and threadbare. “Once he had a much finer house,” she muttered sadly. “He’s not done well for himself since I last saw him.”

  “Why’s that?” Elena asked, rolling out her bedding.

  Her response seemed to startle Mycelle, as if her aunt had not known she had been speaking aloud. She shook her head and joined Elena. “I’m afraid it’s my fault. I should not have tried to reach the wit’ch before. But he was such a brave swamp tracker, full of pride and quick smiles that disarmed my trepidations. His scarring—” One hand waved to her own face. “—should have been mine. He saved me by sacrificing himself to the poison spit forth from the jaws of the king adder.” She lowered her face. “I dragged him back to Drywater and helped heal him, but a part of him died out there.”

  Elena paused in opening her roll. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen him looking at the swamp. He used to love the swamp like a man loves a woman. He knew all her secret paths and faces. He showed me sights that took my breath away: ponds of glowing algae in a rainbow of colors, areas where the waters steamed and bubbled to soothe sore muscles, regions where moss grew so thick on water that one could walk on it. One time, on one of those beds, we even made . . .” Mycelle’s soft smile dissolved as she realized to whom she was speaking. “But now it scares him, unmans him. I suspect the reason for his poor dwelling has something to do with this fear. A swamper will not fare well if his livelihood frightens him.”