Wit'ch Storm

by James Clemens

  Fardale took a step back from the lake’s edge just as a sharp crack burst from the ice.

  Everyone jumped at the sudden noise. All were instantly on their feet. Er’ril at first thought the noise was the ice breaking up, but he quickly saw he was wrong.

  It was not ice shattering—but stone!

  The ebon’stone d’warf was cracking apart. Its thick skull fell from its shoulders and rattled across the ice, breaking into even smaller pieces. Its arms snapped from where it protruded from the lake to crash like an axed tree. As the limb struck the ice, it too shattered into hundreds of ebon’stone shards. Nothing lay within. It was as if the d’warf had been a hollow shell all along. Soon all that protruded from the frozen water was its upper torso, like a black egg imbedded in the ice.

  Fardale continued to growl.

  Er’ril was unsure if any danger still lay out in the lake, but he had had enough of Castle Drakk. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Let’s get away from here.”

  Cassa Dar had finished wrapping the Try’sil in a cloak and passed it to Mycelle’s care. “I think you should,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the remains of the blackguard. “Something smells wrong here.”

  As if hearing her words, a thunderous clap exploded, shaking the tower with its boom. One of the chandeliers above the lake broke with a screech of bolts and fell with a clatter to the ice. Chunks of painted plaster rained down.

  Er’ril shoved Elena behind him. The girl hopped to keep her weight off her injured ankle. “Out,” he yelled. “Now!”

  In the center of the frozen lake, the torso of the d’warf had split open. Like some dark chrysalis, the stone peeled back in curled sections. From the heart of this foul structure a bloody mist arose above the ice, followed by the squirming, writhing mass of something pale as a corpse. It squeezed forth, contorting and swelling as it escaped its ebon’stone womb. Its body, the size of a large draft horse, plopped to the ice. Steaming a red mist from its pores, it rolled sluggishly. Then, like a butterfly fresh from its cocoon, it shook free moist wings, and a long sinuous neck curled from where it lay coiled close to its body. It turned large white eyes in their direction, searching blindly. Then huge flaps opened to sniff at the air, drawing it toward the huddled group on the stair. It spread its wings and opened its wet maw and screamed at them, a keening wail.

  Er’ril did not wait for the creature to gain its bearings. “Back up the stairs,” he ordered. He waved the others onward.

  “Take the double doors at the next landing,” Cassa Dar yelled, struggling in Jaston’s arms up the steps. “A shortcut.”

  “No time!” Mycelle yelled.

  They had not even climbed a dozen steps when the creature screamed again, its wail more strident. Still too weak to fly, it rose on a tangle of snakelike appendages and used its wings to propel itself across the ice at them. Its large bulk moved slowly, but its tentacled appendages were faster, like striking asps. A flurry of albino limbs shot up the steps after them.

  Er’ril knocked Elena to the wall as probing appendages snatched at his legs. He swiped with his sword, severing the thick fingers. Where they touched, his pant legs smoked. He kicked the squirming sections away from his boots. The creature was sick with burning poisons.

  On the far side of the stair, Mycelle fought the tentacles with her twin swords. She guarded over Cassa Dar and Jaston as the pair slowly climbed. Her blades were a blur before her. Er’ril was impressed with the havoc she wreaked. Splashes of poison smoked on her skin, but she ignored them.

  Er’ril borrowed the plan of the others and slowly crept up the steps, herding Elena behind him. Progress was slow. Snaking limbs were everywhere.

  Suddenly Mycelle yelled, a piercing cry. Er’ril glanced across the sea of tentacles and saw that a thick limb had wrapped around the swordswoman’s waist. One of her blades had been knocked away; the other was wrapped in the grip of smaller tentacles. Mycelle was pinned.

  Er’ril spotted the woman’s fallen blade. It had landed near Jaston’s feet. “Grab the sword,” he yelled to the swamp man. “Help free Mycelle.”

  The man stood frozen, his eyes wide with horror. He did not move.

  Cursing the swamper’s cowardice, Er’ril tried to push Elena faster, but the girl slipped past him and stumbled down a few steps. Blue flames danced along the fingers of her left hand.

  “Elena!”

  “I can slow it,” she yelled back, already raising her hand. “Free Mycelle!” A wave of coldfire shot from her fingers to slam into the bulk of the beast as it reached the base of the stairs. The force stopped its charge toward the steps and slid its bulk back across the slick ice. The tentacles were dragged along with it, clearing a path for Er’ril to cross to Mycelle. He dashed over and hacked at the thick limb wrapped around her waist. Her face was contorted with agony. Her clothes smoked, and when Er’ril finally sliced away the limb, he saw it wasn’t just her shirt that smoked: Her very flesh lay burned around her waist.

  He glared at Jaston. “Help Mycelle up the stairs.”

  Jaston came out of his shock and took Mycelle under one of his arms as Cassa Dar led the way up the stairs.

  Fardale, who had no weapon and had been hanging back from the fray, suddenly barked and raced down the stairs past Er’ril.

  Er’ril swung around. Elena stood before a wall of lashing tentacles. She washed her coldfire over the snaking limbs, keeping them at bay—but the magick did little else. Where her blue flames struck the creature, its pale flesh grew red hot and resisted the ice with some inner fire of its own.

  Elena was losing her battle—and one of the appendages was creeping along the roof, over Elena’s head, out of her sight. The treacherous limb now reached toward her unprotected back. But Fardale raced to protect her. The wolf leapt off the steps and flew through the air. He snatched the creeping limb in his jaws, and his momentum tore the appendage away from Elena.

  The wolf landed on his paws and gagged the limb from his mouth. The fur around his muzzle lay singed, and his tongue, lolling from his jaws, had been burned black.

  Elena switched hands, obviously hoping fire would work where ice did not. She had already bloodied her right hand, and scarlet flames now danced in her palm. She sent a shaft of wit’chfire at the beast. Its flaming touch had once pierced even the formidable protection of a skal’tum, but the magick seemed to have little effect on the foul creature here. The beast mewled at the assault and was driven farther back onto the ice. But where the stream of magickal fire struck, its pale flesh grew black, like frostbit skin, and doused the scorch of the flames.

  The beast remained unharmed.

  Fardale loped up the steps while Er’ril hurried down. Burdened with his sword, he urged Elena back. “The Dark Lord has grown wise to your magicks,” he warned. “We must flee while we can.”

  Elena ignored him. Her skin ran with sweat, and her face was pale. She raised her right hand again. Flames roiled to a sun’s radiance in her fist as she built the magick to a fierce heat.

  Er’ril did not know what she thought to accomplish. “Elena?”

  The girl thrust her arm toward the beast and released her magicks in a mighty rush. The fire struck, not at the beast, but at the ice under its tangle of tentacles. Her fire ripped into the ice, and the lake exploded under the creature. Steam swelled through the chamber. In a single breath, what had been ice became water once again.

  Through the steam, Er’ril caught glimpses of the beast’s flailing appendages and beating wings. Caught off guard, it struggled at the sudden change of its footing and lost. The beast sank into the waters.

  “Wise girl,” Er’ril commended her.

  But Elena was not done yet. She raised her left hand and sent forth her coldfire. Steam became icy mist, and the lake froze over where the beast had sunk. Once again the room was solid ice.

  Elena lowered her arm and turned to Er’ril, her eyes still raging with her magick’s use. “We can go now,” she said. “I don’t know how long the
ice will hold it, but perhaps long enough for escape.” She tried to mount the stairs on her own but swooned with exhaustion.

  Er’ril had to drop his sword to catch her. Jaston appeared at her other side. The swamp man’s and the plainsman’s eyes met over the girl. Jaston’s face shone with shame, but also with determination.

  He held Elena until Er’ril could retrieve his sword and sheathe it. “I’ll take her from here,” Er’ril said coldly as he scooped the girl up in his one arm. He headed up the stairs. Jaston hung back a moment, then followed.

  Up at the next landing, Cassa Dar, Mycelle, and the wolf awaited them.

  “This way,” the swamp wit’ch urged, leading the way through a set of doors off the stairway. “This hall will take you directly to the exterior stair.”

  Er’ril followed Fardale into the passage. The wolf padded forward, ears cocked tall, listening for any new dangers ahead. The footsteps of the other members of the party echoed on the stones behind Er’ril. He hurried with Elena cradled in his arm. She had one of her arms hooked around his neck, and she leaned into his chest.

  “You did well,” he whispered under his breath.

  She raised her head. “Did . . . did you say something?”

  “No, just hang on. We’re almost out of this cursed castle.”

  Suddenly a massive quake shook the tower. The stone floor danced under his feet. Er’ril almost stumbled atop Elena. He caught himself just as the explosive crash reached his ears.

  “It broke loose,” Elena said as he regained his balance. “Let me down.”

  Er’ril ignored her. He wasn’t about to let her out of his grip again—not until she was safely away.

  AT THE END of the passage, Cassa Dar worked at the secret door. “Just beyond here,” the d’warf woman said, “is the stair that runs along the outside of the tower, the steps that you all climbed up earlier.”

  Elena pulled her arm free of Er’ril’s neck. “I’ll be safe here,” she told the worried plainsman. “Go help Aunt My watch the hall.”

  Er’ril nodded, lowering her carefully to the floor. Then he leaned close to Elena, exacting a promise from her with his eyes. “Don’t go outside until I return.”

  She nodded her agreement.

  Satisfied, he slipped down the hall to where Mycelle and the wolf guarded their rear. Nearby, Jaston stood in the swamp wit’ch’s shadow, his face lowered, his eyes somewhere far away.

  Cassa Dar talked as she worked, clearly anxious. “This was an old camouflaged door used by the assassins to sneak up on the rear flank of any marauding force that attempted to climb the stair. In the past, there were nomadic robber bands that—” The catch finally released with a snap, and the door sprang open a bit. The swamp wit’ch wiped her hands and stood. “There we go!”

  Jaston called to the others, his voice cracking slightly. “The door’s unlatched!”

  While the others hurried forward, Cassa Dar hauled the heavy door wide open. Beyond the threshold, the night breezes greeted them. It was still dark, and the moon had long since set. “Daybreak must be near,” Cassa said. “The swamp mists are always thickest upon the lake just before morning.”

  Elena had to trust her judgment. To her it was the darkest night outside, and sunrise seemed no more than a fanciful dream.

  Mycelle hurried them forward. “We’d best hurry. I heard something in the hall just as Jaston called.”

  As if to emphasize her point, a wail erupted from behind them. No one had to say what monster made such a noise. “It’s close,” Er’ril hissed. “Everybody outside so I can get this door shut.”

  They rushed out onto the stairs, boots flying down the steps. Er’ril stood by the door, attempting to drag it closed. Even in the dark, Elena saw the veins bulging at his temples, the muscles of his arm bunching thick. The door was stuck.

  “Er’ril?”

  “Stay back, Elena!”

  Mycelle placed a firm grip on her shoulder, silently telling her to obey.

  “I need time to build a boat,” the wit’ch said from the water’s edge. “He must get that door closed.”

  A second bellow of rage erupted from down the hall; then the monster’s shrieking changed in pitch. It had spotted Er’ril.

  The plainsman’s attack on the door increased. A reddish mist flowed out into the night from the open threshold. Elena’s fist was at her throat. It must be almost atop him.

  Suddenly, a questing tentacle shot out and snatched at Er’ril’s neck. The plainsman gasped as his neck burned. Unarmed, his hand scrabbled at the choking limb. Before anyone else could react, Jaston raced up the steps, his skinning dagger clutched in his hand.

  Reaching Er’ril in a heartbeat, he slashed savagely at the appendage. Its acid blood etched his dagger and burned his hand and arm. He screamed, not in pain from the poison’s burn, but in a rage pent up over many winters. He ravaged the limb with his knife until Er’ril fell free of its grip.

  “Hurry,” Er’ril choked, and threw off the limb. Together, both men forced the door and slammed it shut. Leaning against the door, Er’ril patted Jaston on the shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Just then something huge crashed into the door, the shock so intense that Er’ril was knocked outward by the concussion. The plainsman cartwheeled his arm at the edge of the stair, but one arm was not enough. Jaston reached for him and missed. Er’ril tumbled off the stair and crashed into the lake below.

  “Er’ril!” Elena ran to the stair’s edge. Even in the mist-shrouded starlight, Elena saw huge fins arise and cut toward the ripples in the lake. Er’ril’s head bobbed up, and he swam with vigorous kicks toward the lowest stair. But again, one arm made a poor swimmer. The fins closed quickly upon him.

  “Don’t fret,” the wit’ch said, appearing beside her. Cassa Dar waved a thick arm across the water, and the fins turned away in unison and sank from view. “I don’t have time to build a boat,” she muttered as Er’ril neared. “I’ll have to improvise.”

  With these words, Cassa Dar threw herself off the stair to land flat on her belly atop the lake. Instead of sinking, her flesh blew out in a nest of vines and moss, some glowing brightly in the night. “I told you I was more than just d’warf.” Then her form was swallowed away as a raft of vines and moss formed around her. Her voice, though, still rose from the tangle of vines. “Hurry. Climb on board.”

  Everyone hesitated a moment, uncomfortable with climbing atop the vessel that was built from an old woman’s body. Then another concussion shook the tower steps as the beast slammed into the door again.

  Er’ril swam up to the edge of the boat and clambered up. “What are you all waiting for?”

  No one needed further prodding. The party scrambled onto the living raft. As soon as all were on board, the raft took off across the waters, quickly gaining speed. Cassa Dar’s voice arose from the floor. “I’ll not be able to talk with you much longer.”

  Fardale sniffed at the raft, his ears cocked and his head tilted.

  “Powering the raft,” Cassa Dar continued, “taxes my elemental abilities, and the farther from the castle I travel, the weaker my skill will become.”

  Er’ril ripped off his soaking shirt, freeing his arm of its clinging grip. He checked his sheath. His silver sword was still in place. “Will you be able to get us across the lake?”

  “Yes, but after that, I must return to Castle Drakk, to my nexus of power. From there, I can guide you all the way to the coast.”

  “But what about the beast in the castle?” Elena asked.

  “I don’t think it will remain there long. Hopefully just long enough for you all to get lost in the deep swamps. Then I can return to my castle.”

  But Cassa Dar’s hopes were not to be realized. A thunderclap suddenly roared over the waters. All eyes turned to the castle. The dark tower still stood like a shadowed island behind them. Against its black stone, a white form could be seen, aglow in the starlight.

  “It’s burst through the door!” Mycelle said in horror.


  From the prow, Elena stared back and watched the beast take to the air, its wings huge white sails to either side. They cut through the mists like a predator’s fins slicing through the lake. But Elena knew that no wave of Cassa Dar’s hand would save them now. She glanced to her own hands. Both her palms were still red—no longer with the dark ruby of before, but with a weak scarlet. Her powers were low.

  She stared skyward as the beast turned on a wing and dove toward them. Tendrils of its snaking appendages hung all the way to the lake now, leaving small ripples in the still waters with their foul passage. Earlier, when Elena had been at full strength, the beast had resisted her magicks; what could she hope to accomplish now?

  Still, she slipped free her wit’ch’s dagger.

  Er’ril stood near the stern of the boat, barechested with his sword in hand. Mycelle stood armed beside him, marking the progress of the beast against the speed of Cassa Dar. She could see that they would not escape the lake. Seeming to sense her gaze, Er’ril glanced over his shoulder at her, an apologetic look in his eyes. He knew they would not survive this. Still, he raised his sword. At least he would die fighting.

  And so would she, Elena decided. She drew the tip of her silver blade across each palm, then sheathed her dagger. Cupping her hands on her knees, she stared as the blood welled into her palms and released the dam of her magicks. As she allowed the power to sing through her blood, each hand began to glow. The Rose of her right hand grew into a fierce crimson, while the Rose of her left hand burst forth with an icy azure luminescence.

  Here were the two sides of her power, and both were now useless.

  Elena stared at her glowing hands. Suddenly her eyes grew wide. What if—?

  Elena shot to her feet, moving so suddenly the boat rocked. Ahead of her, Er’ril grunted, shaken off balance. He glared over his shoulder at her.

  It was too late to explain. The beast had reached them.

  As it swept over the fleeing boat, its appendages writhed and tangled under it, grabbing at the raft and its occupants. As the others fought the beast with their swords, Elena saw Fardale yanked into the air by a coiled limb of the monster.