Witchbreaker (Dragon Apocalypse)

by James Maxey

  “Come here,” Walker said, motioning for Sorrow. “I’ll help you see past the veil.”

  Sorrow leaned toward the pygmy. Without warning, he grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her forward. A shard of obsidian appeared in his hand, seemingly from nowhere. She cried in pain as he sliced the sharp stone across her eyebrows.

  She punched him in the chest and jerked away. She grabbed her face with both hands. The wound across her brow didn’t feel deep, but it hurt like hell. She wiped at the blood dripping into her eyes.

  “Why did you do that?” she grumbled.

  “Look to the trees,” he said.

  She did so. She grew still. Looming above the forest was a huge shadow, oval in shape, like a turtle shell large enough to encompass a village. Unlike a turtle, it was held aloft by four spindly insect legs, at least a hundred yards tall. At the front of the oval was a second, smaller oval, almost like a head. On that head were two narrow slits, glowing pale red, like eyes formed of embers.

  She swallowed hard as she realized the eyes were looking directly at her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DARK MIRROR

  “WHAT IS IT you see?” Slate asked, hopping down from the wagon.

  Sorrow said softly, “It’s here. Her walking palace. I see it.”

  “Cut me,” Slate said to Walker.

  The pygmy stood on the seat of the wagon to comply.

  Slate sucked in air through his teeth as he pressed his hands against the wound. He shook off his pain and looked up. His jaw went slack.

  “Is it... a structure? Or a living thing?” he asked.

  “Whatever it is, it’s staring at me,” Sorrow whispered. “I feel... I feel the way a mouse must feel when there’s an owl on the branch above.”

  “I guess someone needs to kill me,” said Brand. He looked at Walker. “Should they stab me?”

  “Strangling would be best,” said Walker. “Your body remains mostly undamaged, making it easier to return.”

  “Slate, you’ve got good strangling hands,” said Brand.

  “I’ll not kill an innocent man, even if asked,” said Slate.

  “Me neither,” said Jetsam.

  Brand looked surprised. “You kill people all the time, Jetsam! I’ve heard you sing while you’re doing it!”

  “Yeah, but only to defend my family. Killing for any other reason means that when you make that final trip to the Sea of Wine, the Joyful Isles will forever retreat on the horizon.”

  “How about you, Bigsby?” asked Brand. “Do you have an appetite for fratricide?”

  “No,” said the dwarf. “How can you be so flippant about this? I know this is important to Sorrow, but why would you do something so stupid?”

  Brand raised an eyebrow. “Stupid? I’m being offered a chance to experience death with the promise it won’t be permanent. How can anyone with a healthy level of curiosity not be intrigued at the thought?” He turned to Sorrow and said, “Since you’re the one wanting to see Avaris, I guess it’s up to you to do the deed.”

  Sorrow heard a crashing, splashing noise as Brand spoke. She looked to the shadows and saw that the walking castle had turned tail and was running away.

  “There’s no point in anyone dying now,” said Walker, shaking his head. “The castle has been spooked. It will not return, even if we offered it a dozen souls.”

  “No!” Sorrow screamed, slithering forward into the murky water of the swamp.

  Slate splashed into the water beside her.

  “There’s no point in chasing it,” said Walker. “It retreats further into the Black Bog.”

  “You can cross between worlds,” said Sorrow. “You’ve taught Zetetic! Lead us!”

  Walker laughed. “Zetetic practices seven disciplines of insanity each morning before breakfast. His mind is hardened against the blending of the real and the unreal. Untrained minds fall prey to nightmares and never escape.”

  Sorrow whipped back to the shore with the speed of a rattlesnake striking. She grabbed Walker by his shoulders and shook him. “Don’t talk to me about falling prey to nightmares! I’ve seen things that would frighten your damned demon friends and come out stronger for it! Take me over!”

  “If she goes, I go,” said Slate.

  Sorrow’s hands suddenly lost their grip on Walker as his body turned to fog.

  As he faded away, his laughter lingered in the air, along with his final words, “How can you go when you’re already there?”

  Sorrow drew back. To her horror, Brand, Jetsam, and Bigsby were dead, reduced to skeletons fallen across the ox-wagon. The ox, too, had become a pile of jumbled bones.

  “We’ve crossed the veil,” Slate said softly as he turned slowly to study the landscape. The swamp, once abundant with life, was reduced to dead trees and rotting marsh grass. Not a single frog chirp disturbed the still air.

  Sorrow glanced back toward the walking palace. It was a mile away by now, only a gray silhouette against a starless night sky black as ink. Slate started to jump into the water once more, but Sorrow caught him.

  “Careful,” she said. “If the legends are correct, once you swim in these dark channels, you lose all memories of your mortal life.”

  “That would mean I would forget that I don’t remember who I am,” said Slate. “It sounds almost like a fate I’d welcome. If we don’t enter the water, how are we to give chase?”

  Sorrow sighed. “I wish I’d grown some damned dragon wings instead of this dumb tail.”

  As the words left her lips, she cried out in agony. It felt as if someone had just driven a sword into her back. She fell to the dusty ground, her body trembling.

  “Sorrow!” Slate cried, kneeling beside her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Can’t... breathe,” she said through clenched teeth. It felt as if her armor was shrinking, crushing her torso. In desperation, she willed her glass armor to fall away, returning it to the sand from which it came.

  Sorrow sucked in air as she sat up. She covered her bare breasts as she looked at Slate, who was staring at her with wide eyes. She nearly fell backwards. A terrible weight had settled on her shoulders. Throwing modesty to the wind, she reached both hands over her shoulders and discovered a giant bulge on her back, like a watermelon between her shoulder blades. The skin was so taut it felt as if it would tear open any second.

  And then it did, with a sickening wet rip. She screamed, but the pain was followed instantly by relief. She looked over her shoulders and found black, bat-like wings spreading from her spine, large as sails. They were wet and slimy, like a newborn baby, and as they moved the cool air felt soothing.

  She stood up, stretching her wings, wondering if they would be as simple to master as her tail had been. Then she realized she’d just stood up. She stared down at her bare legs, now restored to full humanity.

  “You wished it,” said Slate, “and it came true.”

  “So it would seem,” said Sorrow, once again having the presence of mind to drape an arm across her breasts.

  “I wish I could remember who I was,” said Slate.

  He stood silently for a moment, his face devoid of emotion.

  “Did it... did it work?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Maybe you have no memories to restore,” she said. “I don’t think my wings came out of nowhere. Instead, it’s like I have a certain amount of dragon in me, and I was able to move it around, thanks to the dream-like nature of this place.”

  “Can you fly?” Slate asked.

  “That’s kind of the obvious question, isn’t it?” Sorrow said, managing to muster a feeble grin.

  She turned her head toward the skies, spread her wings, and, in a sensation that filled her with indescribable pleasure, she bent her knees and ankles to crouch. It felt good to have legs again. The muscles in her thighs and calves felt warm and powerful. She tested their strength as she jumped with all her might.

  Her wings beat down, striking the earth, lifting her highe
r. She flapped again and shot up a dozen yards, leveling off, feeling the wind beneath her wings as she glided in a wide circle around Slate, who was gawking. It was an unwelcome sensation to have a man stare so openly at her nude body. On the other hand, if Slate had suddenly shed his clothes and grown dragon wings, would she have been able to turn her eyes away?

  She scanned the skies. The palace could no longer be seen, but she knew which direction it had been heading. It would be simple to give chase.

  “Will you be able to carry me?” Slate shouted.

  Did she want to carry him? She’d always imagined she would be making the journey to see Avaris alone. She didn’t even know why Slate was here. Yes, she understood his primary motive. Avaris might be able to explain who he was and why he had no memories. But then what? Would Slate swear allegiance to Avaris, grateful that her magic had given him life? Or would he attempt to kill her, reverting to the witch-breaking cruelty that she’d seen in the painting?

  On the other hand, she’d been keeping journals for almost fifteen years and the one constant theme was her complaint that no one ever chose to stand by her side in her battles. She was in a nightmare landscape full of unknown dangers, and Slate wanted to be here with her.

  In the end, it wasn’t a difficult choice.

  “Spread your arms,” she yelled. “I’m going to swoop down and try to grab you from behind.”

  He did so. She wheeled through the air, then adjusted her flight with frequent small movements to keep herself on target. The horror she’d felt waking up with her legs replaced by a serpent’s tail was replaced by a casual, matter-of-fact acceptance that she now had wings. Perhaps it was the dream-like nature of the abstract realms that explained how natural her new limbs felt. Here the impossible became the mundane.

  But if flight had been second nature when is was her own body being carried through the sky, the second she slammed into Slate the absurdity of what she was doing was knocked back into her. She lost most of her speed on impact, with the wind knocked both from her wings and her lungs. Worse, while she’d managed to wrap her arms tightly around his chest, momentum was carrying them both toward the swamp. She had only seconds before she discovered if the mind-numbing properties of the water were true.

  Of their own accord, her wings beat a mighty down stroke that altered her trajectory. Slate’s boots left ripples as he danced across the water, dangling from her grasp. Her wings beat again and they rose, barely clearing the trees. He brought his hands to her wrists and grasped them with a death grip. She couldn’t drop him now if she wanted to.

  They continued to climb. The dead forest lay in shadows beneath them, a jumble of jagged trunks and limbs, twisted so that they looked like men frozen as they writhed in agony.

  “I see it!” Slate shouted, pointing in the darkness.

  His eyes proved superior to hers. She flew in the direction indicated for a full thirty seconds before she could distinguish the moving shadow.

  The castle’s back was to them. As they drew closer, she could see that her initial hunch that the structure resembled a turtle was accurate, assuming turtles grew to be a quarter mile across. Now that they were closer, she could see that the shell was bleached white. There were no obvious windows or doors.

  “We’ll have to go around to the front,” she said. “Maybe we can enter through the mouth.”

  As she spoke, the castle shuddered. With startling speed, the beast whirled on its spindly legs until its glowing eyes faced her. It opened toothy jaws that would have been more at home on a shark than a turtle. Without warning, a jet of puss-colored fluid arced toward them. She banked hard, wincing as droplets of the yellow liquid spattered her wings, burning holes. Fortunately, her human skin was shielded by Slate. His glass armor proved well suited to defend against an attack of acid. Still, as she climbed higher, she said, “Okay, maybe not the mouth.”

  “Drop us on the center of the shell,” said Slate. “The creature’s head can’t possibly turn to cover its own back.”

  Sorrow wasn’t certain that was true in a place like this, but had no better strategy. She tilted her wings and they slowly dropped onto the apex of the beast’s shell. She wasn’t surprised to discover that this area was defended as well. As soon as Slate’s boots hit the bone, the roof splintered for a dozen yards in every direction. Human skeletons rose from their bony matrix, their eye sockets turning to face the two interlopers, their jaws open wide in silent, outraged battle-cries.

  “Let’s try closer to the—”

  Before she could compete her thought, Slate broke free from her grasp. Following the battle with the pirates, he’d expressed satisfaction with the results he’d gotten from Bigsby’s mace, so she’d crafted one for him with a longer shaft and larger head that took advantage of his unusual size and strength. He tore into the nearest skeletons with a fury, reducing them to splinters with each blow.

  Sorrow realized she would only get in Slate’s way, so she leapt into the air before the remaining horde could reach her and patiently flew in circles for the handful of minutes it took Slate to pound his way through the last of the undead. She landed amid a cloud of chalky dust and said, “Sorry I wasn’t more help. You looked like you were having fun.”

  Slate shook his head as he picked up a fallen skull. “These were men once. It’s tyranny to enslave the living. How much greater is the crime of enslaving the dead?”

  Sorrow didn’t feel like debating the matter. Instead, she studied the roof they stood on. Her Rott-informed sense of the decay in all things kicked in as she studied the joints of the bone plates.

  “It’s weakest here,” she said, running her fingers along a seam. “One good whack will split this wide open.”

  “Stand back,” Slate said, bringing the mace overhead with both hands.

  Sorrow shielded her eyes as he swung, sending a shower of needle-sharp bone splinters shooting toward her. There was a loud cracking sound, followed by a WHUMP. She lowered her arms to find Slate missing. Her toes were at the edge of an octagonal hole large enough for an elephant to fall through. She peered over into the room below.

  Slate was on his butt in the middle of the collapsed roof. He’d fallen into what looked to be a library, with long rows of shelves lit by orbs of glass filled with what looked like fireflies. From her training in soul-catching, she suspected the lights were actually the souls of unborn children. They gave off a particularly gentle light when restrained.

  She dropped into the library and looked around at the rows of leather-bound books.

  “It would take a lifetime to read all of these,” she said.

  A single book near her feet said, “Read me before you read the others. My unread words burn within me, like a breath held burns the lungs. Release my words! Free them!”

  Sorrow’s eyebrows rose as she took a second look at the book, which plainly had a face. The leather binding, it seemed, had come from a man. His eyes were sewn shut, and his lips had once suffered a similar treatment, but the thread that closed the mouth had frayed, perhaps torn loose when the ceiling fell.

  She turned away, pointing toward a door at the far end of the room. Slate nodded as he headed toward it.

  “You can’t leave me,” the book cried, loudly enough that other books on the shelf awakened. Most of their lips were stitched together, reducing their pleading to incoherent whimpers. A fresh voice broke free of its binding, shouting, “There’s no hell so dark as an unopened page! Read me! Restore my purpose!”

  Slate paused, looking worried as he asked Sorrow, “Should we—”

  “Ignore them. You could be trapped here for all eternity trying to satisfy them. The unread books of the world will always demand more of the living than can be given.”

  “But these aren’t ordinary books.”

  “More ordinary than you think,” said Sorrow, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him toward the door.

  She pushed it open. She wished she’d looked for another door.

  Beyo
nd was a chamber of horrors. There were double the shelves of the previous space, but rather than being filled with books, the space was filled with jars. And if the dancing fireflies in the lights were the souls of unborn children, the jars most certainly held their bodies. Pickled babies in various stages of development floated in pale gray alcohol. She’d seen such things before, curiously enough, in the collection of her father, who had a room of his mansion devoted to such oddities as calves with two heads and human babies with flippers instead of limbs. But this room contained thousands of the unborn. At least, she assumed they were unborn; some looked suspiciously large and well developed.

  “Who would possess something like this?” Slate whispered.

  “Try not to judge. It’s disturbing to look upon, true. But physicians learn the skills they need to help the living by dissecting the bodies of the dead. I’m certain these bodies have some educational purpose.”

  Slate looked around. “Which way should we go?”

  Sorrow shrugged. “It’s not like I have a map. Just keep moving until we see a door. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  She regretted the question the instant it left her lips.

  The next room was the kitchen. Sitting on the butcher’s block was a child’s head. It looked fresh. Slate looked as if he was going to be sick.

  “You’ve seen decapitated heads before,” Sorrow said, trying not to stare at the cutting board. Poppy’s book had said that Avaris ate babies. This was definitely not a baby. It looked like a girl six or seven years of age. Why that mattered, Sorrow couldn’t say. But could she even trust her eyes in a place like this? Or was she seeing a butchered child only because she’d been told she’d see them?

  Slate covered the head with a towel, looking pale.

  “We really can’t know what happened here,” said Sorrow.

  “A young girl was killed, butchered, and eaten?”

  “Maybe she died of natural causes. Or some accident that severed her head. Maybe she’s been brought here to be cleaned up before burial.”

  “To a kitchen.”