Wit'ch Storm

by James Clemens

  Still, as night descended again, he pursued her. As long as there was a trace of scent, she would not escape him. Eventually she would slow or stop, and again he would catch up. But this time, he would be better prepared.

  With these thoughts clouding his attention, he failed to notice a huge predator that had swept closer than most dared. It was only when the beast was upon him that he finally grew conscious of the attack. Before he could move, its huge jaws clamped around his waist, dragging him from the muck. Teeth with serrated edges wore at his stone skin. Torwren’s flaming eyes stared into the large black eyes of the scaled creature, monster studying monster. The swamp lizard used the weight of its tail to thrash and twist at the stone d’warf.

  Torwren found himself tossed about like a child’s doll in a dog’s mouth. The creature weighed easily five times his own bulk. Any ordinary d’warf would have been long dead. But Torwren was no ordinary d’warf. He was at no risk of drowning, and his stone skin resisted the teeth of the creature. As its clawed front legs scrabbled at him, searching for a weak spot, he simply waited. Like most cold-blooded creatures, this beast was designed for a sudden attack and a quick kill. Prolonged fighting was not in its nature. It would soon tire.

  The d’warf’s assessment proved true. Soon the creature’s thrashings subsided. Yet it was not exhaustion that weakened the monstrous lizard but the touch of poison in the blood hunter’s skin. Now the creature’s waning struggles were aimed at dislodging the foul prey from its mouth, seeming to sense the corruption it held as its blood lust faded. But Torwren would not be denied his kill. He hung on to the beast’s snout, refusing to allow himself to be tossed off.

  In only a few heartbeats, the beast lay still and floated to the surface with Torwren caught in its dead jaws. He pried himself free and pushed the lizard away. Near the bank, he spotted the lair of the scaled creature in the muddy reeds. Eggs like big speckled rocks filled the hollow of a shallow nest.

  No wonder the beast had attacked when no other creature would dare. The mother’s instinct to protect her offspring had doomed her. Torwren shoved the she-lizard’s bulk out of his way.

  Dumb beast.

  He stalked back into the swamp. The wit’ch’s trail had grown even fainter while he had battled the monster. Silently he cursed the creature and its maternal instinct. How awful it must be to be guided by forces beyond your control, to be a puppet to primitive instincts.

  The blood hunter rose to the surface and sniffed at the air.

  NEAR DAWN, THE bull kroc’an nosed its dead mate, then searched its nest. The eggs were still intact, but without his mate, the clutch would not survive. His nest was as dead as if it had been trampled. He raised his nose to the sky and trumpeted his pain and rage. His thunderous call silenced the swamps for leagues around with its echoes.

  Once done, he returned to his mate, nuzzled her, and wrapped his tail one last time around her. Massing three times her size, he held her tenderly, pulling her close to him. He lay in her embrace until the rage in his heart would not let him hold still.

  He broke free with a thrash of his mighty tail, striking a tree near shore and snapping it in half.

  He sniffed at her snout, confirming the scent of the one who had killed his bonded.

  Then he sank beneath the waters.

  His death hunt began.

  THE SUN AWOKE Elena just after dawn. She uncurled from Fardale’s side and stretched to greet the morning. The wolf stirred at her motion but did not wake. Elena glanced at the rest of the party: Everyone slept. She was the only one awake. Even though it was obvious that Jaston had been left to guard the last watch of the night, he had not made it to morning. He sat near the stern of the boat, his chin resting on his chest. Gentle snores rose from his sleeping figure.

  Elena worked a kink from her neck and glanced at the morning mists around the boat. Nothing but walls of swirling fog encircled their vessel. Her first thought was that the mists still hid the surrounding trees and banks. But as her eyes cleared of sleep fog, she realized the mists were not that dense. She sat straighter and, in a slight panic, glanced all around her.

  Her sudden motion stirred Fardale enough that his head rose from his paws. He yawned so large that all his teeth shone bright in the dawn’s light. He pushed slowly to his own feet as his eyes surveyed the waters around the boat. Then he stiffened. His gaze swung to Elena. A picture formed in her mind’s eye: A wolf flies off a high cliff and falls through empty air.

  She knew what he meant. She shook Mycelle’s shoulder and woke her aunt with a start. Mycelle sat up, instantly alert. “What is it, hon?”

  Elena waved her arm to encompass their surroundings. “The swamp is gone.” Around the boat, the growing sunlight revealed the proof of her words. The mists were thin enough that their view stretched for at least a league in all directions—and nothing lay around them. Even the hue of the waters had lightened from a deep black to a clearer blue.

  By now, the rest of their party had awakened.

  “The channel must have emptied into some lake,” Jaston said as he stared around him. His voice was low and embarrassed. He would not meet Er’ril’s intense stare; he knew he had failed his watch.

  Er’ril sighed loudly at the featureless surroundings. The swamp noises still carried to them across the waters, but the croaking and screeching were clearly some distance away. The boat had traveled deep into the lake.

  Mycelle settled back down. “The wit’ch still draws the boat. Swamp or not, we are heading toward her.”

  “Or she might be chasing us off,” Er’ril said harshly, “getting us lost when we weren’t looking.” He glanced meaningfully to the stern where Jaston sat.

  The swamper did not acknowledge Er’ril’s words. He just stared out at the waters, but Elena saw his cheeks redden.

  Suddenly Fardale growled from the prow of the boat. All eyes swung in that direction. Through the mists ahead, a large dark mass appeared. The boat sped toward it. As the fogs parted, it soon became clearer. Sheer steep cliffs rose straight from the waters to reach for the skies.

  “It’s an island,” Elena said. Her eyes strained to pierce the mists.

  “No,” Er’ril said, “it’s not.”

  The mists lifted with the sun’s warmth to reveal more of their destination. What had initially appeared to be cliffs were now revealed to be walls. Stone and mortar climbed from the lake’s waves, their ancient surfaces draped in curtains of moss and lichen. Black holes of old windows stared down at them as the boat curved around the huge structure. From these windows, huge leather-winged creatures burst forth, disturbed by the boat’s passage. Their cries raised the tiniest hairs on Elena’s arms.

  She craned her neck back. The structure rose high into the morning skies. Far above, Elena spotted battlements topping its crown. As the boat glided around its base, the walls curved so gently that it became clear the structure was a tower of immense girth.

  “I know this place,” Er’ril hissed.

  “You do?” Mycelle said, her neck bent back.

  “It’s Castle Drakk,” Er’ril said coldly. “Or what’s left of it. This is the tip of its highest tower. The rest of the foul place must be drowned below us.” He studied its mossy walls with his lips curled as if ready to snarl. “As much as I hated losing these Standi lands when the plains sank, it was a consolation to know Castle Drakk had been destroyed.”

  “Why?” Elena asked.

  Er’ril shook his head. “It was the keep of the Assassins’ Guild: a caste of poisoners and men who moved in shadows. Unwanted children of many lands—bastard children, babes born into hardship, deformed births—were sold like cattle to the lords of the castle.”

  “What became of them?”

  “They were apprenticed as assassins, though some tales said a portion of the children sold were used for the training of the others, living targets for the black skills.”

  Elena’s eyes grew round while Er’ril’s brows darkened further. “But that was just
one of the rumors surrounding Castle Drakk,” he continued. “Some stories spoke of treasures buried deep in the castle’s roots, stored blood money from the centuries of exorbitant fees collected by the caste’s assassins. And other tales warned of weapons so sinister of nature that only the skilled hands of an assassin could wield them without harm to their bearer.”

  As Er’ril finished, the boat glided around to the far side of the tower, where a stone stair curved out of the water to wind up toward the distant battlements. The vessel glided to the narrow staircase and finally stopped its voyage.

  The boat was silent as everyone stared up the mossy stairs. The day’s heat had already begun to build, and a sheen of sweat glistened on their upturned faces.

  “It seems that something survived in Castle Drakk,” Mycelle said.

  “The wit’ch,” Jaston added needlessly.

  No one made a move toward the stairs until Elena noticed water seeping into the bottom of the boat. “We’re sinking!”

  Er’ril and Jaston quickly hopped from the vessel and helped Elena and Mycelle out onto the narrow stairs. Just as the boat sank into the depths, Fardale leapt free. On the stairs, the wolf shook his legs to dry his paws.

  The party stood clustered near the base of the staircase and watched their only means of escape drift down into the depths of the lake. Huge fins soon cut through the waters, curiosity drawing predators to the sinking craft. Er’ril herded the party farther up the steps as one of the beasts briefly surfaced. A large black eye rolled into view, its huge maw lined by hundreds of shredding teeth.

  “It seems we’ve arrived where the wit’ch wants us,” Mycelle said.

  “And means to keep us,” Elena mumbled, eying the circling fins.

  Er’ril waved Mycelle forward. “Let’s see what this wit’ch wants.”

  Her aunt led the way, with Fardale at her heels. The stairway was only wide enough to allow two persons to walk abreast, so Er’ril kept close beside Elena as they climbed the stairs. Jaston followed last, guarding their rear with his long skinning knife.

  They climbed in silence until the waters of the lake were far below, and yet the tower staircase still continued into the mists. The steps had to be trod with care since moss slickened the heel and vines threatened to betray a toe. Due to their cautious pace, it was well past midday when they finally reached the top of the stairs. There, they found a large iron door blocking their way into the tower.

  Elena glanced up. The battlements crowning the tower lay only a few stories farther up the structure. Above these fortifications, a large brass cauldron hung over their heads, stanchioned between two stout posts. The brass was green with age, and ropes of moss hung from its supports.

  Mycelle noticed Elena’s stare. “The cauldrons were used to pour flaming oil upon the tower’s attackers. Any army that attempted to take the tower would find these stairs to be a trap. Did you notice the small holes along the walls as we climbed?”

  Elena nodded. She had thought them just old mouse burrows.

  Mycelle explained their real use. “Defenders would thrust sharp pikes through those holes at the enemy as they climbed the stairs, stabbing at them and shoving them from the staircase to topple to their deaths.”

  With her nose crinkled, Elena shied away from both the cauldron and the mouse holes as Er’ril tried the iron door. He found it latched tight.

  “What now?” he asked, facing the others.

  “Maybe we should knock,” Elena offered.

  Er’ril glanced at her as if she were daft, but Mycelle merely shrugged. “Why not?”

  Shaking his head, Er’ril unsheathed his sword and used its silver pommel to strike the door solidly three times. This close, the clang of silver on iron stung the ear. Its call echoed over the still lake waters. Once the ringing sounds died down, Er’ril faced them. “Any other ideas that you’d—”

  The sharp click of a latch’s release from behind him halted any further comment. All eyes turned to the door. With the tortured screech of rusted hinges, it slowly pulled open.

  They needed no orders to retreat down a few steps. Er’ril moved in front of Elena, his sword still raised, its tip pointing at the door. At his side, a tight growl flowed from Fardale’s throat, while Mycelle stood beside Elena, both swords in hand.

  From the doorway, a tall vision of slender legs and supple curves stepped forth. She wore a white silk gown finely embroidered with green leaves, yellow buds, and twisting curls of tender vines. Her hair, framing a heart-shaped face adorned with full red lips and large blue eyes, hung in a fall of auburn curls to her waist. Her smile was warm and inviting. Not a flicker of guile marred her features. “Welcome,” she said, her voice soft and even. She did not even seem to see the swords or knife pointing in her direction, but simply stepped back and waved a sculpted china hand toward the tower’s entrance. “Please feel welcome. My boys have prepared a warm meal for you weary travelers.”

  Even now the odors of baked bread and honey flowed out from the open doorway, and somewhere a roast was smoking above a hot fire.

  As tempting as the smells were, no one moved. “Who are you?”

  Her smiled faded to a bemused grin. “Why, the wit’ch, of course. Now please do not fear. I mean no harm.”

  Mycelle moved first, but suspicion ran thick in her words. “For someone who means us no harm, to bewit’ch an innocent child with a choker’s nest makes us doubt the sincerity of your heart.”

  Her aunt’s words seemed to wound the woman. Her smile faded to a serious expression. “I must apologize for the crudeness of my invitation. But to reach all the way to Shadowbrook tapped my resources to an extreme, and it was vital that the wit’ch come here before proceeding to A’loa Glen.”

  The mention of the sunken city, their secret destination, loosened Er’ril’s tongue. “How do you know so much about us?”

  “Come inside. I will explain all during dinner.”

  Still no one moved. “Free the child of your bewit’ching first,” Mycelle said. “Then we can talk.”

  The wit’ch bowed her head and beckoned Elena forward. “Come to me, child. Let me see your hands.”

  Elena glanced to Mycelle, who nodded. Cautiously, Elena climbed the stairs to the door’s landing, slipping off her gloves. Mycelle and Er’ril followed her. Her aunt sheathed one of her blades and gripped Elena’s shoulder in one hand.

  As Elena reached the landing, two swords guarded her: Er’ril’s gleaming silver to her left, Mycelle’s steel blade on her right. Still she had to force herself not to flinch as the wit’ch reached for her bare hands. But the woman’s touch proved gentle and undemanding as she knelt before Elena and examined her fingers, palms, and wrists.

  She first studied Elena’s ruby hand. “Wit’chfire,” she muttered, and glanced briefly at the sun. It was sinking toward the western horizon. Sighing, she picked at Elena’s vine-encrusted fingers for a few moments. Finally, she clasped both of Elena’s hands between her own and gazed into Elena’s eyes. “You don’t know half your true strength, child,” she whispered so quietly that Elena doubted the others even heard the words. As the wit’ch pulled back, Elena caught a whiff of her perfume; the scent was oddly familiar.

  Before Elena could recall where she had smelled the scent before, the wit’ch released her hands and straightened up to face the others. She took a step back. “I’m sorry. I will not be able to lift the spell until nightfall.”

  To either side of her, the two swords raised higher.

  “I tell you the truth,” she said with sincerity. “I have not expended such energy and brought you all this way just to kill you. I have a need of this child’s magick. But to aid me, she must have access to her powers. The weed,” she said with a nod toward Elena’s left hand, “is not a means of stealing her magick. It was the only way I could ensure she would come and hear me out. Once free of the spell, the choice of whether or not to assist me will be hers and hers alone. Either way, you all will be free to go afterward. All I ask
is that she first hear my plea.”

  The swords pulled back slightly.

  Mycelle spoke first, her words directed at Er’ril. “She is the only one who can lift Elena’s spell,” she argued. “We can at least listen to her story until the sun sets.”

  Er’ril scowled, but even Elena knew the problem could not be solved on the point of a sword. He lowered his blade.

  The gracious smile returned to the wit’ch’s face. “Come then. Come inside and let us exchange stories over dinner.” She led the way into the tower, moving with such grace that Elena felt like a plodding cow behind her.

  Again Elena was struck by her tall lithe figure and cascade of curled tresses. Jaston’s prior warning repeated in her head: Among the bogs and fens, beauty is often used to lull the unwary to their death.

  As Elena followed Mycelle past the iron door and into the shadowed entry of Castle Drakk, it was more than just the stony coolness of the hall that shivered her flesh. In the enclosed space, Elena again caught a whiff of the woman’s scent and finally recognized its pleasant fragrance. She recalled the deadly flower that had smelled so sweet and again pictured its vines embracing its prey in a thorny grip.

  Silently, she named the source of this scent: moonblossom.

  ER’RIL STUDIED THE woman across the oaken table from him. As the others sampled the delicacies offered to them, he found no stomach for the assortment of dark breads and jams, or the slender pods of a swamp bean swimming in butter and lemon, or even the roasted steaks of a wild boar. Instead, he sipped at his mug of bitter ale and studied their hostess.

  The wit’ch had tied back her auburn curls with a green braided ribbon as she oversaw the serving of their dinner. As they made their introductions, she had given her name as Cassa Dar but offered nothing more as she went about checking on the spitted boar or stirring a kettle. Once the meal was under way, she settled in a seat opposite the table from Er’ril, but her eyes were only on Elena. The girl sat next to him, nibbling at a slice of bread slathered in berry jam. From the girl’s tense shoulders, Er’ril suspected the weight of the wit’ch’s gaze unnerved the girl, but she need not have been so worried. Mycelle was seated to Elena’s far side. The girl was safe between their two swords.