Elena remembered how his face had darkened with the grumbling of the large swamp beast, the spark of fear in his eyes. “Why doesn’t he just leave?”
She shrugged. “I wager his scarring had something to do with that decision. He was once a handsome man.” Mycelle must have seen the doubt in her eyes. “He truly was. I think his wounds reached deeper than just the skin. He hides here now, fearing to leave, fearing to stay.”
Elena wondered at her words. “Will he be able to lead us to the wit’ch? Perhaps a less nervous guide would be better.”
“No. He was chosen by the wit’ch just as surely as you were. He needs to take this journey.” Still, Elena’s question seemed to bother Mycelle. She turned away. “Let’s rest,” Mycelle said. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk in the morning.”
Elena did not argue. She slipped off her boots and got into her bedroll. She lay on her back beside Mycelle and pondered all she had learned that day. Overhead, the mists had lifted and thinned with nightfall. The moon and stars could be seen as vague ghosts in the skies above. To the north, the stars were cut off by the towering wall of the Landslip. In the distance, lit by moonlight, the cascade of a waterfall was a flow of silver across the black cliff face. Elena wondered if it was the same stream they had followed to the Landslip. As she watched, the foggy veil shifted. Suddenly a soft glowing arc of moonlight crested the mists of the falls.
Mycelle must have heard Elena’s hushed gasp of wonder. “It’s a moonbow,” Mycelle explained somberly. “As I said earlier, there is much beauty hidden here, an inner magnificence that even the poisons of the swamp can’t hide forever.”
Elena remained silent. She knew her aunt’s words did not refer just to the shining moonbow.
26
ER’RIL WAS UP before the sun’s rays had even pinked the eastern skies. In truth, he had hardly slept. After returning from Jaston’s boat, he had crawled into his bedroll, satisfied that their guide had outfitted them well. Still, slumber had escaped him. Instead, he had stared at the mists as the moon set, listening to the swamp’s constant song.
Nagging worries kept him from rest. The journey ahead was a treacherous one, and Er’ril feared he had made the wrong choice. Why had he so readily accepted Mycelle’s claim that only this swamp hag could cure Elena? He could have taken the child to A’loa Glen and let those brothers who practiced the art of healing attempt to free the bewit’ching from her. And now here was this scarred man sent to take them to the wit’ch. Er’ril had been around thousands of warriors about to go to battle. The eve of war soured many a soldier’s will and heart, and Er’ril sensed that just such a weakness resided in Jaston. Er’ril had insisted on seeing the man’s boat not just to recheck his supplies, but also to study the man further, away from Mycelle. He knew better than to voice such a concern to the swordswoman, since she and Jaston shared a history that seemed more than just seeker and guide, so he had pulled the man aside.
As Er’ril inspected the flat-bottomed boat, his concerns about Jaston were proven valid. Besides stocking the boat with more weapons than seemed necessary, the man was a sack full of jitters. Any sudden noise jolted him, and when Er’ril accidentally brushed against his side, the man jumped back as if stung. There was no doubt that Jaston bore a timid heart and would fare poorly as a guide on such a risky journey.
So, after returning from the boat, Er’ril lay awake in his bedroll and pondered his choices. He could either follow this frightened man into the swamps or leave with Elena in the morning and travel by horse along the Landslip to the coast. As he weighed his options, the moon set, and the stars to the east winked out. Finally, he fled his useless bedroll and faced the approaching morning, no closer to answering his nighttime questions.
He stepped carefully around his sleeping companions. Fardale, ever vigilant, raised his head, his eyes bright in the night, but Er’ril waved him back down and crossed to the darkened rear of the raft. As he relieved his bladder over the side, someone cleared his throat behind him—not in warning, but simply announcing his presence. Er’ril glanced over his shoulder to see a smoldering pipe glowing in the deeper shadows behind Jaston’s dwelling.
“It’s only me,” the man said. Er’ril recognized the scarred man’s voice. “Dawn’s still a bit away, plainsman. You could have slept longer. I would’ve woken you with the sun’s rising.”
Er’ril finished and crossed to where Jaston sat in the shadows with his pipe. He leaned one hand against the wall; the wood groaned and tilted under his weight. “I couldn’t sleep anyway,” Er’ril said gruffly. From the other man’s clothes and tired voice, he doubted Jaston had slept either.
“The swamp does that to you. It’s a constant presence. Even when you shut your eyes, it still paints itself in your mind’s eye with its noises.” A small shudder passed through the man.
Er’ril slid down the wall to sit beside Jaston. The man offered a puff from his pipe. Er’ril accepted and drew a long, slow drag from its stem. The smoke settled like an old friend in his chest. It was good Standi tobacco, an expensive leaf—the best he had sampled in a long time. Considering the state of Jaston’s living quarters, Er’ril suspected that tobacco of this quality was a rare treat for the swamp man. He passed the pipe back and reluctantly let the smoke loose from his lungs in a long, low sigh. “Mighty fine leaf,” he said.
An awkward silence arose between them until Jaston finally spoke. “I know what you’re thinking, plainsman. I saw your face earlier. Don’t think I can’t tell when a man has judged me worthless.”
Er’ril stayed quiet. He would not lie or pretend otherwise. Elena’s safety was too important for any false sentiment.
“Since I was scarred,” the man continued, “I’ve had five winters of such looks. The other swampers smell my fear and treat me as if I lost both my legs. They wave and nod, but none will go swamping with me. These lands are not a place where you want a man whose hands tremble guarding your back.”
Er’ril knew these words had festered in Jaston’s chest for a long time and needed to be released before any healing could begin.
“When I was ten, my daddy was killed by an angry mother kroc’an. Tore his arm clean off the shoulder. He died before his punt could be poled back to Drywater.” Jaston took a puff on his pipe, as if dredging up old memories. “Yet, even his death did not make me curse the swamp. I grew up among its sinking sands, quagmires, and bogs. They were my playground, my school, and eventually my livelihood. The swamplands became a part of me as surely as my hand or my foot. Don’t get me wrong. I loved the swamp, but I never lost my respect for her poisonous side. Only a dead man ever does so. We have a saying among us swampers: ‘You don’t hunt the swamp, the swamp hunts you.’ ”
Jaston let his words sink in. The embers in his pipe glowed redder as he drew smoke deep into his chest.
“So what happened?” Er’ril finally asked.
“I’ve always known that life and death were a part of the swamp,” he explained. “And I fully expected someday to die in its embrace. Every swamper knows she will eventually claim you.” Jaston paused, pondering his pipe, then pointed to the scars on his face. “But death is easy to face. This was not.”
His voice cracked as he continued speaking. “After the attack by the king adder, children shunned me, women would shudder as I passed, even men would only speak to me with their eyes cast down. I had known the swamp was a harsh mistress, but I had never suspected the true depth of her cruelty. To let me live . . . but only as this half man.”
Er’ril nodded toward his own missing arm. “Not all men are whole.” He began to push up from the planks. The eastern sky was beginning to blush with the approaching sun.
“Perhaps,” he mumbled, “but you still have the face of a man.”
Er’ril frowned and turned to leave.
Jaston grabbed at his leg. “I must go with you,” he said, seeming to sense Er’ril’s indecision about him. “I don’t go to die . . . or to prove something to myself. I
go to answer the wit’ch’s call. She is said to be the heart of the swamp. Five winters ago, my life was stolen from me in a spray of poison. I will face this wit’ch and make her answer for this . . . even if it means my death.”
Er’ril saw the determination in the man’s eyes and heard the steel in his voice. Here was probably a glimpse of the man Jaston once had been. Still, brave words did not stoke a weak heart for long. If they were to risk the swamps, they would need some sign that this man would not become a hazard to their mission, some proof other than his mere word.
A small voice spoke from behind Er’ril, startling the plainsman. “Whatcha all doing?”
Er’ril turned around to find a small bare-assed boy standing at the raft’s edge. He had a finger dug deep into one nostril. “We have to go,” he said as he extracted his probing finger. “The sun’s up, and a monster’s coming to eat you all.”
THE BLOOD HUNTER had reached the base of the Landslip just as the dawn’s light brightened the eastern sky. Torwren paused to get a bearing on his prey’s scent. The swamp filled his nostrils, trying to overwhelm his keen nose. Still, the wit’ch’s magick was like a thread of silver in stone, bright and clear among the myriad odors of the Drowned Lands. Crouching, he sped along the scarp of broken rock and thorny growths at the cliff’s base, his nose tracing the path.
She was close.
Though fearless, the black d’warf still moved cautiously; he did not want to spook his prey. With the sun’s rising, the shadows would be few. Through the mists ahead, he saw the buildings of a ramshackle town. He followed the scent trail cautiously. It led first to a stone stable at the edge of town. Torwren smelled the horses he had been following for days. He smiled, his yellow teeth bright against his black lips. His prey were on foot now. Only the fleetness of their mounts’ legs had kept the wit’ch from his grasp. Now that advantage was over.
Still, to be sure, he slipped around the edge of the building and crept toward the door. If he slew their mounts, there would be no chance of escape. He worked the door open and wormed into the stables. Instantly the horses erupted around him with whinnying cries and stamping feet. The first horse kicked savagely at its door, the crash like a thunderbolt in the narrow confines. He had to work quickly before an alarm was raised.
Torwren followed the scents to the second stall. Inside he spotted a small gray mare. A trace of the wit’ch’s magick clung to it like the moss on a tree. The beast’s eyes were rolled white with fear. It backed from him as he pulled open the stall’s door.
He meant to step inside when a small voice rose from near his feet. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Torwren glanced down to see a small human child standing in the crisp hay of the stall. He wore not a stitch of clothing. And worse yet, as filthy as the child was, he gave off no odor. The d’warf backed a step to study the boy. “Who are you?” he asked, curiosity staying his hand from snapping the child’s neck. The boy’s heart would make an excellent fuel for his chase.
The child removed a stem of hay from his mouth. He waved it at the hulking d’warf. “Go away. You don’t belong here.”
Torwren scowled. Already he had paused too long. His skin grew stiffer and his limbs sluggish from lack of blood. Curious or not, he needed to feed. He reached for the boy. But his hands ended up gripping only piles of damp moss. The boy was gone.
Shaking the slimy strands from his stone palms, he caught a whiff of magick hanging in the air. He sniffed at it, trying to capture its scent. But it faded too fast. He rubbed at his thick nose. Why did that brief whisper of magick seem familiar to him? It was like stepping into a room and suddenly getting an inkling that you had been there before.
Cursing, he backed from the stall, forcing his sluggish limbs to obey. By now, the horses were wild around him. Both the escalating noise and the strangeness of the boy drove him from the stables. The wit’ch was close. What did it matter if her horse lived? The wit’ch would never again see these stables.
Skirting the edge of town, Torwren crept toward the shadowy fringe of the swamps. Ahead, a thousand creatures woke to the morning. He meant to circle the town’s border by traversing the swamp, staying cloaked by the night until he discovered where his prey hid among this maze of shacks and rafts.
But first . . .
An older woman stood near a section of trampled-down reeds at the bank of the swamp. She was busy pulling crab cages from the shallows. Her back was to him as he crept up on her. Only at the last instant did she suspect something and spin around. Her eyes widened with terror at the sight of his monstrous black form, but before her horror reached her lips, one of Torwren’s fists clamped her throat. She dug at his flesh, tearing her nails on his hard skin. He did not have time to play with her. A sharp snap and the battle was over. He dragged her carcass over to the shade of a low-slung cypress.
Ripping open her chest, he fed quickly upon her. For a heart so old, it was especially tender, but perhaps his appreciation was exaggerated from supreme hunger. He feasted, then licked his fingers. Old or not, it warmed his core and loosened his limbs. The fire in him was stoked for the last leg of his long chase. He rolled the body into the water with a small splash. Let the denizens of the swamp share in his bounty.
He straightened from his crouch and wiped his hands on his belly. It felt good to feed.
Suddenly, from a branch overhead, a snake struck at his face, but its poisonous fangs broke upon the d’warf’s stone skin. The bright-colored viper dropped dead onto the muddy bank of the swamp, having finally met something more lethal than its own fangs.
The d’warf ground the snake under his heel as he stepped into the swamp. Even among these treacherous lands, nothing was more poisonous than the blood hunter.
ON THE DOCK, Elena shied away from the swamp child. The boy stood shorter than Elena’s waist and wore a blanket around his nakedness at Er’ril’s insistence. Though he was not the same urchin who had accosted her in Shadowbrook, the boy bore a strange likeness to him. His hair was a different color, more blond than dark, and his nose was smaller, but something about his eyes marked this youngster as a sibling of the other. Like any other boy, his gaze was bright with curiosity, but behind his eyes, Elena sensed something much older staring out at her.
The boy caught her appraising study of him and stuck out his tongue.
She blinked at his insult. Before she could react further, Er’ril called to her. “Elena, join Mycelle in the boat. We need to shove off.”
Backing with a final glance at the boy, she stepped toward the flat-bottomed boat. A punt, Jaston called it. To Elena, it seemed more like a small raft with short raised sides. The scarred man stood near the stern with a long pole in his hand. Bundles of supplies lay stacked at his feet.
A few onlookers hung around on neighboring docks, watching their departure and pointing to the odd boy. They all seemed to know this child was a minion of the swamp wit’ch, and they had come to see what was happening. One blunt voice echoed across the misty waters as Elena climbed aboard the punt.
“The swamp wit’ch has come to fetch Jaston,” a bearded man said. “Finally she’ll put the sorry bloke out of his misery.”
Elena saw how these words tightened Jaston’s grip on his pole. She stepped over a few swollen water flasks and crossed to join Mycelle on a seat near the bow of the boat. Her aunt, too, had stiffened with the man’s words. She glared over at the bystanders as Elena sat beside her.
Fardale seemed to sense her aunt’s tension and glanced back from where he stood at the prow of the punt, his front paws on the short raised rail. Mycelle patted his rump reassuringly, and he returned to monitoring the scents of the swamp ahead.
Er’ril untied the rope from a stanchion on the dock and hopped into the punt. He raised a hand to help the boy into the boat, but the child simply threw his blanket at Er’ril and stood naked on the dock.
“I don’t like boats.” With these words, the boy jumped into the swamp and disappeared under the green
waters. Jaston began to pole away from the dock.
“Wait!” Er’ril said, his arm reaching over the side to fish for the boy. “He’ll drown!”
A few chuckles arose from the neighboring raft at the plainsman’s words and actions. Jaston’s voice, though, was sober. “The boy is of the swamp. He cannot die.”
Still Er’ril searched, his eyes determined to discover the boy’s whereabouts.
“I wouldn’t do that if you want to keep your last arm,” Mycelle said to him. “One of the first rules Jaston taught me was to keep my limbs out of any water that wasn’t clear.”
Er’ril pulled away just as the back of something large and scaled humped out of the water where his arm had been. Missing its meal, the creature sank out of sight.
“Kroc’an,” Jaston said. “A young one.”
Eying the water with more respect, Er’ril slumped to the bench seat behind Elena. He slid out of his shirt and wrung the foul water from his soaked sleeve.
Elena watched his muscles work as he struggled one-handed with his shirt. Again, she was amazed at the smoothness of the scar that marked his shoulder. It must have been a sharp blade that cut his arm from his body. Never once during their long journey had he said how he’d lost that limb. As curious as she was about this, she found her eyes lingering on the thin layer of dark, curled hair that marked his chest and ran in a trail down his belly. Her cheeks blushed hotly when she found Er’ril’s eyes on her own.
Wit'ch Storm Page 45