Rise of the Darkwitch (The Dance of Dark and Light Book 1)

by Ziv Gray

  ‘I’ve never seen ships so huge,’ said Charo.

  ‘The Masvams want the title, but the true masters of the sea are the Althemerians,’ Emmy said. She shifted, casting her eyes away. ‘Now they’re our masters, too.’

  When they reached the city, they were swallowed whole. Enormous walls soared upwards, their tops patrolled by marching soldiers. There were towers at intervals along its length, a cannon in each belly.

  The princess disembarked first, attendants trailing on her heels. Pesmam’s head dangled from her belt. When she reached the gangplank, she thrust it aloft and let out a fearful battle cry. Every face on the dock snapped towards her.

  ‘Long live the queen!’ she cried.

  A chorus of elation followed, all those on the shore crying their allegiance. The princess threw the head at a guard she passed.

  ‘Mount that somewhere,’ she said.

  Then she was gone, swept off on a wave of royal attendants and cheers.

  There was no time to gape at the spectacle. Emmy and the others were herded ashore by new guards.

  ‘Alright,’ one yelled. ‘Follow me! And be quick about it!’

  Emmy and Charo jolted as the crowd surged, urged by a whip crack. Mounted Althemerians on vaemar—huge feline creatures—formed columns beside them, and soon they marched through a thick archway, into the unknown city.

  They snaked between tall stone buildings and along cobbled pathways. Filthy younglings pulled faces and screeched at them. The more well-to-do shied away. The scents of foreign food, foreign air, foreign skin, were pervasive.

  ‘Where’s Zecha?’ Charo asked, pressing into Emmy’s side. ‘I can’t see him.’

  Emmy scanned the jostling crowd, her height giving her clear sight above others’ heads. She could see no trace of Zecha. Let him be safe, she thought. I don’t know what I—what we would do without him… She shook her head, winding her talons around Charo’s.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘We can only hope he’s getting help.’

  As their journey continued, the stark reality of their capture bit like a knife. There was no welcome for them. City folk began screaming curses at the snake of slaves.

  ‘Go back to your own land!’

  ‘We don’t want you here!’

  ‘Filth!’

  Emmy jerked as a rain of debris fell upon her. Every screecher’s face was etched with fear. Even the arms that threw nutshells trembled. As they wound on, the taunts grew louder, the missiles heavier—and it wasn’t until the mounted guards stepped in that it ceased.

  ‘Get out of the way of the queen’s possessions!’ one of them bellowed. ‘If you don’t step back, Sharptooth here will sort you out.’

  As if on command, the huge creature bared its fangs and growled, the sound coming from deep within its cavernous chest. No one dared defy it. For Emmy, the vaemar wasn’t the frightening part. It was the soldier’s words. Possessions, she thought. That’s all we are to them. They don’t care about our lives. Just our use to them.

  Charo grabbed Emmy’s filthy arm and twisted her by the shoulder.

  ‘Emmy, look!’ she cried.

  She pointed to something a little way off. A cart bumped along, carrying bodies on stretchers. It was pulled by a stout and shaggy vaemar, much less impressive than Sharptooth.

  ‘It’s Zecha! Zecha!’

  Their friend didn’t stir. Charo’s elation faltered.

  ‘Is he…?’

  The question hung unfinished. Emmy shook her head.

  ‘No, he’s alive,’ she said, her heart quickening. ‘Look at who’s leading the vaemar. That’s one of the Althemerians from the boat—and look at her belt!’

  Bags and satchels hung like ripened fruit, heavy with medicine. The figure wore an undyed tunic, and her chest bore a red sigil, a heart overlaid on an eye.

  ‘I know that symbol,’ Emmy said. ‘She’s medicinefolk, a healer. She wouldn’t be there if they were dead.’

  ‘Move along!’

  The mounted guard atop Sharptooth glowered at them, digging her heels into the beast’s sides. Those teeth were bared at Emmy and Charo. The guard’s talons hovered over a whip, as if the vaemar wasn’t convincing enough. They fell into step with the others again, their hearts racing.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Charo said. ‘Why are they tending the wounded?’

  Emmy shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps they don’t want to be like the Masvams, or the Valtat,’ she said. ‘They make a habit of looking after their slaves, even if they don’t need to. They look more compassionate.’

  Charo shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line.

  ‘A slave is a slave, no matter how you say it,’ she said. She lifted her arms, baring her scars. ‘It doesn’t matter if they say they’re kind. They’re not.’

  Emmy’s head was filled with memories of Krodge.

  Now dead.

  Finished her off, I did.

  Emmy shook off the thought as the healer slapped the vaemar’s rump. It growled, but picked up its pace. Soon, the cart was out of sight. The procession of Metakalans were left behind, weaving through unwelcome streets.

  The walls of stone were less oppressive than the walls of jeers. As the procession passed under another city gate, Emmy felt some of her tension uncoil. Freed from the taunts, the quiet of the flatlands outside was sweet. Emmy gulped in the scenery, curiosity overwhelming fear for a blissful moment. Emmy’s trained eyes roamed over the flora and fauna. Arraplant, valkern, twistwart, skella, she thought.

  A sharp sob erupted in her throat. Suppressing it, Emmy put a hand on Charo’s shoulder, afraid to let her stray too far from her side.

  They walked for half the day, many of the captives wilting in the heat, yet forced to march on. It was not until darkness encircled them that they arrived at their destination.

  Tendrils of smoke curled against the starlight, rising from somewhere in a dip. Hidden by the swell of a yellow hill, a strange settlement appeared, its boundaries marked by bright torches. As the Metakalans slipped through the wooden gates, there was silence.

  They were shepherded to the centre of the encampment. The light of many torches lit the new faces. They weren’t all Althemerians, but they all wore the blue. Three females stood on a large podium, the outer two standing at military attention. The foremost had her arms crossed, her face painted with unveiled contempt. The evening breeze wasn’t strong enough to pluck the red braids that licked her back like flames.

  ‘Pathetic,’ she said. ‘You are all pathetic.’

  There was no sound from the captives. Emmy’s mouth was dry. The female was dressed in the same blue tunic, but wore a padded leather surcoat over it. She showed her rank by the silver bars at her neck, and the thick buckle at her waist. Many bracelets shimmered on her arms, more on the right than the left. Her braids swung as she spoke.

  ‘You have been liberated by the Hand of the Queen.’ Her voice carried across the flatness of the camp. ‘Consider yourselves lucky that you were not killed alongside our other enemies. The Queen has decreed that we are at war with the Masvam Empire. You have been saved from certain death under the boots of the Masvams, who would no doubt have subjected you to torture, maiming, and even death.’ Her words fell on Emmy like lead. ‘This favour comes with a price,’ the female continued with a smirk. ‘Each of you now owes Queen Valentia a debt. You will stay in her service until we decree this is repaid. Once it has been paid, you will be free to stay here or return to your own country—or what remains of it—for your service makes you non-blood citizens of Althemer.’

  ‘We won’t stand for this!’ someone shouted.

  Emmy couldn’t place the voice without the face. She turned, squinting through the crowd.

  The female on the podium clicked her claws. Two guards rushed in and seized the speaker, dragging her from the crowd. It was one of the butcher’s apprentices, a female renowned for having a loose tongue and an empty head. Shoved to her knees in the dust, the glint
of a knife appeared at her throat.

  ‘Your words mean nothing here,’ the braided Althemerian said. ‘What is decreed by the Queen is law, and you must obey that law, or die.’ She laughed and leaned forward. ‘Tell me, what is your name?’

  ‘Drenna Haldra,’ the female said, ‘of Bellim.’

  ‘And what is your profession?’

  Drenna’s throat pulsed under the threat of the knife. Even so, she tried to answer with confidence.

  ‘I am a butcher.’

  ‘A butcher, providing food, and doing dirty work that most seek to avoid,’ the female said. ‘Well, Drenna Haldra of Bellim, you will now butcher only Masvam meat.’

  She straightened and signalled for Drenna to be released. The female clutched at her grazed throat and stumbled back into the crowd. Lips curling, the braided female continued.

  ‘I am Commander Pama Straightarrow, and this is my camp,’ she said. ‘You belong to me. Each of you will be asked your name and your profession, just like your companion, Drenna. Each of you will be assessed and given new roles within our society. Be warned,’ Pama said, her voice dropping, ‘you should be honest, for liars will be sent to the front lines of our armies. If you have a purpose that we deem useful, you may well retain it and live a comfortable life. If you serve us faithfully outside combat for a decate, your debt will be repaid.

  ‘If you do not have a profession, or we deem you more useful as a soldier, or you are belligerent like Drenna Haldra here,’ she said, tipping her chin up, ‘you will be kept and trained for battle. You may choose that, for it may be the quicker path to freedom.’ She chuckled. The sound was cold. ‘It is also the quicker path to death, for many. You will be treated like any other recruit in the Queen’s Army, and if we require you for battle, you will go. If you die, then you will go to your goddess as heroes. If you live, your debt will be repaid by blood, and you will be free,’ Pama said. She drew herself upwards, her last words spoken with an air of finality. ‘Remember: you do not have a choice.’

  With that, she strode from the platform, disappearing in a whirl of blue and red.

  In her wake, she left a bustle of activity. Althemerians brought tables and chairs onto the podium. The air trembled.

  ‘I’m going to be sent to the front,’ Charo said, not looking at Emmy. ‘What profession do I have?’

  ‘Say you’re my apprentice,’ Emmy said. ‘We might go somewhere together.’

  ‘And what happens when they find out I lied?’ Charo asked, still monotone. ‘I only know how to sweep the floors.’

  ‘So you’re not a very good apprentice,’ Emmy said. ‘I’ll teach you…’

  Charo wasn’t listening. She stared through the crowd.

  ‘Perhaps if I volunteer, they won’t send me to the front…’

  Emmy’s eyes bulged. She ducked into Charo’s eye line.

  ‘Charo, if you do that, you could be killed,’ she said, her temper sharpened by weariness. ‘What good will that do?’

  Charo said nothing and kept her gaze firmly averted. Emmy shook her head.

  ‘What about Zecha?’ she asked. ‘How would he feel if you were killed?’

  ‘He’ll go to the army too,’ Charo said, then added softy, ‘if he lives.’

  There was little Emmy could say to that, so she said nothing. Snapping her mouth closed, she turned away.

  They were herded again, this time to the platform. Althemerians peered down, armed with scrolls, quills, and ink, poised to rewrite the course of the Metakalans’ lives.

  Emmy grunted as she was shoved up the stairway, stumbling onto the plinth. For a moment, everything stilled. There was no wind. The flames did not flicker. Faces didn’t move. Bodies were frozen. Emmy watched, taking it all in. How has it come to this? she thought. In the noiseless camp, there was no response.

  One of the scribes glanced up from his parchment and regarded her with indifferent eyes. As realisation unfolded and he saw that Emmy was not a usual Metakalan, he leaned forwards, his quill poised.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Emena.’

  ‘Emena what,’ the scribe sighed.

  ‘Just Emena,’ Emmy replied.

  The scribe flicked his eyes up, looking at her as if he was scouring a rock for some sign of life.

  ‘Profession?’ he asked.

  ‘Apothecary.’

  The scribe raised an eyeridge.

  ‘Really,’ he said dryly. It was not a question. ‘You’re very young to be an apothecary. Are you sure you’re not just an assistant?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Emmy snapped. ‘Write whatever you like,’

  Tiredness, fear, anger… It all swirled together in a turgid soup. Emmy regretted her tone from the moment she spoke, but there was nothing to be done. She looked to the next table. Charo was already being led away. Please, she thought. Be safe…

  The scribe’s lips curled and he laced his claws together.

  ‘You need to learn some civility,’ he said with a smirk. He plucked up his quill again. ‘The army will take care of that.’

  A cough drew his attention. A healer was at his side. Dressed in a fresh tunic, emblazoned with the heart-and-eye, her authority spoke through the cloak pinned at her shoulders and the ring that sparkled on her finger. Its gem was cracked. Her green armour and pinkish skin painted her as Belfoni, not Althemerian.

  ‘This one comes with me,’ she said.

  ‘Medicine-rel, you do not get to choose where these unfortunates go. This prisoner,’ the scribe said, gesturing with his quill, ‘is going to the army.’

  ‘Prisoner?’ the healer asked. ‘She is not a prisoner. What is her profession?’

  As she glanced at the parchment, the scribe blocked her gaze with squat arms. He hunched over his work like a jealous youngling.

  ‘It is none of your concern,’ he snapped.

  Persistent, the female brushed his arms from her view. She grunted and planted her hands on her hips.

  ‘If this one is an apothecary, she is coming with me,’ she said.

  ‘And why is that?’ the scribe said, his tone petulant.

  ‘We need more yata,’ the female said, ‘and an apothecary is a good place to start,’

  Rounding the table, she planted a hand on Emmy’s shoulder. There was a flash of coldness at her touch. Emmy suppressed a shudder as she was guided from the frowning scribe, who now scribbled furiously on the parchment.

  Emmy glanced up. The medicine-rel’s grip was firm. Emmy stared across the thin crowd. She paused, her feet heavy with fear. There was no sign of Charo.

  ‘Come,’ the medicine-rel said. ‘Stay close.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Medicine-Rel

  As she escorted Emmy across the parched ground, the medicine-rel said nothing. Dust whirled with every step they took, lingering on light winds. Darkness fell on Emmy’s shoulders. She tugged her fronds, the familiar sting a comfort.

  They entered a large tent in the shade of a stocky tree. The medicine-rel undid her cloakpins and hung the rough-spun covering on a wooden stand.

  A jumble of stretchers filled the floor, laid out with no design. Emmy’s fingers twitched. On each lay a casualty, and more and more were carted in by soldiers. The newcomers were Metakalans. Zecha might be here, Emmy thought. She glanced at the bodies, trying to pick out his face, but it was impossible to make sense of the undone jigsaw before her. There were scant few Althemerians in white tunics to tend them. None seemed pleased to see her.

  Beckoning her forward, the medicine-rel picked a careful path through the fallen. Emmy stared at them. Some sported vicious wounds. Others had the veil of sickness upon them. They were from all parts. There were Althemerians, Selamans, Linvarrans, Belfoni, and now Metakalans. Death is colourblind, Emmy thought. It takes us all the same.

  She gagged at the stink of unwashed body and illness. The medicine-rel looked at her, her face closed.

  ‘We do not have enough skilled healers to tend the sick,’ she said. ‘I hope you can he
lp me.’

  Emmy ventured a nod, but her attention was on the stretchers. She recognised each Metakalan’s face, but couldn’t see the one she wanted.

  ‘My friend,’ she said, her words growing harried. ‘I need to find him.’

  Raising a hand, the medicine-rel smiled.

  ‘If he was ill or injured, he is here,’ she said. ‘All of the shipbait comes here.’

  ‘Shipbait?’ Emmy asked.

  Instead of offering a response, the medicine-rel bit her lip and turned away.

  More stretchers trickled in. Finally, Emmy she saw the face she wanted.

  ‘Zecha!’

  She bolted and dropped at his side, snatching his talons. Even in the clammy heat of the tent, his skin burned. He had been stripped to bare skin and armour, his wound caked with detritus from the ship. The stretcher bearers gave him no second glance as they disappeared.

  ‘Help him!’ Emmy cried.

  The medicine-rel gave a shallow bow. Then she set to work.

  For Emmy, watching her was like watching herself. Her hands moved the way Emmy’s would. The pouches at her belt were full of the same ingredients Emmy used—bindlewart, juice of the arra fruit, a cornucopia of herbs. Soon, Zecha’s wound was cleaned and stitched, and a semblance of comfort bloomed on his face. A sour-faced attendant brought a ewer of water. The medicine-rel plucked up a damp cloth and wiped her hands.

  ‘He will have a thick scar,’ she said, ‘but I believe he will live, so long as the poison of filth has not dug its talons in.’ She dampened the cloth again. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think he’ll be alright,’ Emmy replied. ‘He’s strong.’ A sudden tightness gripped her throat. Her next words stumbled out like a confession. ‘I tried to help him, but I couldn’t get free.’

  ‘He will be well,’ the medicine-rel said. ‘For now, there is little you can do for him. The others,’ she said, gesturing at the field of sorrow around them, ‘that is a different story. I will give you a uniform. If you wear it, you might stave off death.’

  The medicine-rel’s compassion was a strange thing in the harshness of the camp. Emmy rubbed her eyes, trying to wash away their sting.