“It is there, hidden,” Nee’lahn answered as the stallion clambered to the ridgeline and swept past the stopped rider. “Hurry!”
The pair of horses more stumbled than galloped down the steep hillside. Sodden branches kept trying to bat Mogweed from his perch. He found he could only keep from screaming by squeezing his eyes closed. Thunder again pounded from above, only barely drowning the hammering of his own heart. In brief gaps in the thunder, he realized a keening whine flowed from his own lips.
Just before panic threw him from the horse’s back, the crashing ride came to a sudden stop. Mogweed dared to open his eyes. Before them lay the small clearing. Afraid the horse would again begin its wild race, he tumbled off the mount and took several steps away.
Nee’lahn pointed to the cavern opening, guarded by the roots of the sentinel oak. “There’s the cave,” she said to Rockingham as he pulled his mare to a stop beside her.
“Hush!” he answered her, a hand raised in warning.
Mogweed’s quivering legs tensed to run.
“What?” Nee’lahn whispered. Her eyes searched the clearing.
“Listen.” Rockingham jumped from his horse and motioned her to do the same.
Mogweed forced his human ears to strain. He heard nothing but the spat of rain on leaves. Even the thunder had died away. Mogweed sensed, though, from the pressure in the air, that it was but a lull before the true storm that was about to break.
“I hear nothing,” Nee’lahn said, tethering their mounts. She looked confused, then her eyes flew wide. “The wings! I can’t hear them. Run!”
Rockingham was already running.
But it was too late. As they all darted toward the cavern opening, two huge figures dove on widespread wings to crash to the dirt before them. Claws sank deep in the mud, leaving raked furrows as they came to a stop.
Mogweed screamed at the sight of them. He sank to his knees in fright. Twin sets of red eyes studied him. Wings of black bone folded behind shoulders, and a foul stench of rotted carrion flowed from them. A sick malevolence could be tasted in the air. Never in his worst nightmares had he imagined beasts so foul.
“Little mice, where do you ssscurry to?” one of them hissed as the other laughed sibilantly. “Do you think you can escape the hungry cat?”
By now the horses were whinnying in terror behind them. The mare thrashed against its lead, but both rope and tree held firm. The stallion, though, snapped its lead and dashed across the clearing, its eyes rolled white in panic.
Quicker than an eye could follow, one of the two beasts pounced on the fleeing horse and sank its claws into its back. Fangs and claws ripped the stallion’s belly open, spilling red entrails across the cold mud. The monster then released the horse, allowing the stallion, not yet dead, to stumble away, dragging its bowels behind it. The attacker laughed at the sight, bloody foam on its lips. Before the horse took more than a few wobbly strides, its neck stretched taut with pain, the creature again lunged and swallowed the horse within its stretched wings. Thankfully, the wings blocked the sight as the monster savaged the horse. But the pitch of the horse’s scream passed through the wings to them all. Mogweed covered his ears. At that moment, he wished for his own death, just so he would never have to hear such a noise again.
Then, just as the scream reached its highest peak, it abruptly cut off, and the beast stepped away from its kill. What lay steaming on the frigid ground now bore no resemblance to a horse: just a mound of raw meat, broken bone, and ripped bowels.
Mogweed pressed his face to the ground, his gorge rising in his throat. Nausea overcame his horror. He emptied his belly on the ground.
As his stomach stopped convulsing, Mogweed felt the creatures’ red eyes on his back.
“Sssee, at least one of you knowsss how to bow before your masters,” one of them laughed.
The other spoke as Mogweed raised his face. It was the one who had attacked the horse. Blood stained its face black, while its fangs glowed white upon its lips. “Now where isss the child we ssseek?” It pointed to the cooling mass of shredded horse. “Or would sssomeone like to be my next ride?”
Nee’lahn answered. But her words did not comfort Mogweed. “We will tell you nothing, dogs of the Dark Lord.”
An angry hiss spat toward her from the nearest beast.
Rockingham, though, spoke quickly behind her. “You know me, O Lords of the Black Blood.”
Nee’lahn swung to the man, her eyes afire.
He ignored her. “I will tell you where the girl hides.”
28
ER’RIL TRIED NOT to push the old man to a faster pace. If Bol collapsed again, more time would be lost than a slower pace wasted. So he kept the march to a sedate walk, even as his heart pleaded for speed.
Yet, as Er’ril watched the gray-bearded elder, he realized his concerns for the man’s frailty might be a false worry. After the girl’s ministrations, Bol seemed remarkably revitalized. His heels no longer dragged through the shale, and his breathing and humor had greatly improved. Er’ril might even have braved a quicker gait had Elena not kept darting sharp looks toward her uncle. In her eyes Er’ril saw wary concern, mistrust in her uncle’s sudden vitality. It was this suspicious look, not his own appraisal, that slowed Er’ril’s march toward the far wall of the chasm.
Even Bol protested the crawling pace. “The cave crabs are making better time than we are. Listen to that hissing. The rock’goblins grow impatient.”
“No, Uncle. They keep their distance. And besides, the wolf guards our backs.”
Er’ril noted Elena placed much confidence in this dog of the wood. She had even insisted they wait when the wolf seemed to smell something in the dank cavern breeze and paused in his lurking pursuit, nose raised. He had stood gazing with those strange amber eyes into the darkness, then continued to follow. Only then did Elena allow them to press forward.
“A wolf at our backs!” her uncle huffed. “That does not offer much comfort.”
“We are not going any faster,” Elena said in a tone that did not brook argument. The moon’falcon on her shoulder flapped its wings in a single snap, punctuating her statement as if irate that anyone should question the human it had chosen.
Even though he and Bol wished for a quicker march, Er’ril kept the pace steady. He suddenly realized he trusted Elena’s instinct in this matter more than her uncle’s or his own, and this thought stumbled his feet. He trusted a wit’ch.
Er’ril thought back to hundreds of other young mages fresh to their apprenticeships. Many had grown haughty and willful after the first taste of their magick, full of their new power. Time had eventually tempered most of those proud souls as they realized there were limits, dangers, and responsibilities that went along with donning the white robes.
Er’ril watched Elena. She kept one hand on her uncle’s sleeve, restraining his pace, as her eyes swept across the cavern, noting where the wolf padded in shadows, studying the trail ahead. Her keen eyes settled on his own as he studied her. She did not look away. She had learned much of magick in a stunningly short time, learned its capability for destruction and salvation, its wildness and its control. But most of all she had already had a taste of its responsibility.
He judged the stubborn and weary set to her eyes. There lay a willfulness not born of pride and conceit, but of lessons taught in fire. In just two days she had learned more of what it meant to be a mage than had many an apprentice after years of schooling. Maybe not in the knowledge of spells and cords of magicks, but in something more essential—the consequences of power.
Yes, wit’ch or not, he did trust her.
He broke from her stare to continue toward the fissure in the far wall. Ahead lay mysteries and other dangers, and without his sword, he would face them with an empty hand. Yet, oddly, he found a small comfort in the wit’ch behind him.
He led the way across the uneven track, warning the others of patches of slippery mud or treacherously loose rock. The hissing of the rock’goblins harried their trail, bu
t not one approached close enough to their island of light to reveal itself. Only shadows and the creep of the dark wolf moved about them.
“Almost there,” Bol commented as they neared the fissure.
Did the old man’s voice have an edge of fatigue? Er’ril eyed him. He seemed to be breathing fine, and his color still remained ruddy.
“And to think I always liked exploring these old ruins.” He made a rude noise with his lips. “After this night, I am well rid of these dank and dripping halls.”
“We’ll be out of here soon,” Elena said aloud, then added a softer, “I hope.”
Er’ril reached the entrance to the dark fissure. “Pass your lamp up here, Bol.” Unencumbered by his sword, he could light the way forward; he sensed that more danger lay ahead than behind.
Bol handed the lantern to him, and Er’ril checked its oil with a frown. “Whatever game these goblins play, they had better be quick,” he said. The lamp was almost dry. Er’ril twisted the flame lower to slow the consumption of fuel. With the addition of the falcon’s moon glow, the lamplight could be spared.
He raised the lantern to the yawning gap in the chasm wall.
Before entering, he studied the way forward. From across the chasm, he had thought the fissure to be a natural crack in the rock face. But with his light now illuminating the interior, he discovered his mistake. Arches stood between walls of rough-hewn rock, marking the way forward. Neither nature nor the gods had created this passage, and from the handiwork, this was not the work of humans either. The pocked and scraped surface of the raw rock bore the distinct scratch marks of ancient claws, and on the first of the arches, crude images of goblins tangled together.
Er’ril fingered one of the gouged tracks on the wall. As his finger touched the wall, the hissing from the trailing goblins suddenly stopped. By now their noise had become so constant that when it ceased, the silence was like a clap of thunder on the ears.
“I suspect we are nearing the end of their game,” Bol whispered, though his voice still rang loud in the now quiet chasm. “I think we need not worry about the lantern’s oil.”
“Come,” Er’ril said and led the way into the tunnel. “I tire of this chase.”
After only a handful of steps into the tunnel, they passed under the first arch. On closer inspection, Er’ril noticed the tangle of goblins carved on the arch were in various acts of sexual union. The entire span was one continuous orgy of profane intimacies in every possible contortion, including some that Er’ril had never imagined or wished to imagine.
Er’ril noticed the girl’s eyes grow wide as she realized the content of the artwork. She blushed and looked away.
The only comment from Bol as he leaned closer to inspect a pair of male goblins sharing one of their females was a simple, “Interesting, very interesting.”
With both men’s eyes on the arch, Elena was the first to notice a change in the tunnel. “There’s light coming from up ahead,” she said.
Er’ril turned and finally noticed a weak shimmer flowing around a curve in the tunnel ahead. He shaded his own lamp to better judge the light. In the deeper darkness, the meager glow took on a sharper brightness. Though the light was diffuse, its color and quality seemed to awaken a memory in Er’ril. Where had he seen such a silvery, pure glow?
“I thought the goblins shunned light,” Er’ril said.
“Yes, bright light,” Bol answered. “Some say their eyes are attuned to a different type of illumination, allowing them to move through the dark paths of the mountains’ hearts. Some say it’s the emanations of elemental rock magick that attract and light their ways. For this reason they plague many crystal mines and infest many sacred cavern systems. Rock magick draws them as a lodestone draws iron.
“My iron ward,” Er’ril said, suddenly realizing. “It is carved from elemental magick. I hid it very well. But if they can sniff magick—”
“Not sniff, see. Some say—”
Er’ril shook his head. “‘Some say, some say’—enough of this prattle! The source of that light should be bright enough to blind even a desert warrior of the southlands. The answer to what the goblins are doing with such a light lies ahead.” Er’ril moved down the tunnel. “And elemental magick or not, I mean to get my ward back.”
He followed the silvery trail. As the light grew around him, its sheen kept nagging at him. Where had he seen such a light? Its purity seemed to suck the drab color from the surrounding walls, revealing the spirit of the rock underneath. The glow even drew a certain beauty from the rudely carved arches. Where—?
A sudden memory intruded and stopped his feet. He now remembered where he had seen a similar sight! A shiver passed through him. He shook his head. It was impossible. Not here. Maybe it was just a trick on his eyes after the hours spent in this black hole with only the yellow flame of the lamp and the cold blue light of the falcon to guide them. The purity of this light could not be what he suspected.
He found his legs hurrying.
“No,” Elena said from farther back in the tunnel. Concern for her uncle rang in her voice. “We do not race. What lies ahead can wait.”
No, Er’ril thought, it cannot. Yet he heeded her and slowed his pace. He would trust this wit’ch.
“WHAT’S GOT YOU so riled?” Bol asked as they caught up with Er’ril.
Elena watched her uncle for any sign of deterioration. She did not trust her magick’s balm, and she prayed he would last long enough to reach a true healer. Like the lamp’s dwindling oil, she knew her magick would eventually leak away and leave her uncle hollow again, susceptible to his weakened heart. But right now he still seemed hale and strong.
Uncle Bol reached a hand to the swordsman. “Slow down, Er’ril. The girl’s tired. She can’t keep up this pace.”
A whisper of a smile slipped to Elena’s lips. Here she was so worried about him that she had never thought he might be harboring the same fears for her. “I’m fine, Uncle. But we should still proceed with caution.”
“Elena is right,” Er’ril said. “Something odd lies ahead. Whether it means us harm or not, I’m not sure. But we should conserve our wind and strength for the worst.” Er’ril continued down the tunnel toward the light, his lantern raised.
Uncle Bol waved Elena forward, and since the tunnel was wide enough, he walked beside her. “I saw that look on your face,” he called to Er’ril’s back. “You have a suspicion of what lies ahead.”
“There you are wrong, old man.”
“Old? You’re five or six times my age. Now out with it. What do you suspect? What is bothering you?”
“Just bad memories.”
“Of what?”
“Don’t you find the … the quality of the light strange?”
Her uncle narrowed his eyes to stare ahead.
“I think it’s pretty,” Elena answered.
Er’ril shook his head in such a way that Elena felt foolish for her words. But it was beautiful! The light seemed to wash everything clean, and as they continued deeper into its glow, the very air seemed less heavy and damp, as if they were walking into a spring morning after a long winter’s night.
“It’s not natural,” her uncle said. “It isn’t elemental magick, either: It’s much too strong. Maybe some type of conjured light? Though I have never heard of sorcery performed by goblins, little is known about the species.” He pointed to the grotesqueries carved into an arch they passed. “For instance, I would never have guessed at their … their imaginative appetites.”
“It is magick,” Er’ril declared. “I can practically smell its stink.”
“Surely not. As I said, elemental magick is a subtle working. Nothing elemental could generate such a power.”
“It’s not elemental,” Er’ril said. He spoke between clenched teeth. “It’s Chyric!”
Uncle Bol tripped to a stop. “Nonsense! Down here? Once Chi abandoned our land, no such pool of power survived in these parts. Maybe at A’loa Glen, but not here.”
Er�
��ril turned to Elena’s uncle, his face tight. “I have seen a light of this character once before.”
Elena spoke up. “Where?”
The swordsman remained quiet. His eyes did not even brush toward her.
“Where?” her uncle echoed.
After a further pause, he answered, his voice low. “When the Book was forged.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“I would not forget.” His eyes took on a faraway look as he remembered another time and place. “It was my assignment during its cursed binding. Look for the sign, Shorkan told me: a flash of blinding white light. Then I must close the Book and end the spell.” His eyes focused back on Uncle Bol.
“The light … you can’t mean …?”
“I can never forget it. Not even after five hundred winters. It burned through my eyes to sear my mind. The light is the same, rich with Chyric energy.”
Her uncle scratched at his beard and murmured, “Odd. Perhaps there is another explanation.”
“The cursed goblins can keep their explanations and secrets. I just want my ward.”
“Maybe that’s it,” Elena said. “Maybe your ward-thing plays some role.”
Her uncle’s eyes sparkled with her words. “The girl’s right! It’s so obvious.”
Er’ril’s face just frowned deeper. “It is of no matter.”
“No, Er’ril, it is. Why did the goblin show you the ward and run? Why have the goblins not attacked us and only driven us forward? That is unlike them. What do they want?”
Er’ril’s eyes glanced at Elena, then quickly away.
Uncle Bol must have caught his look. “That’s what I thought. It had something to do with Elena.”
She cringed. She had suspected as much herself, but to hear it voiced aloud stung. Please, she prayed, don’t lay this at my feet. She had so much to be blamed for already—her parents, her home, Aunt Fila, Joach.
Uncle Bol continued. “But I was wrong.”
Er’ril’s brows rose with a doubt Elena felt, too. “Then what do the goblins want?” he asked.
“It’s so obvious!” He reached a hand and tousled Elena’s hair. “Yet if she hadn’t added her insight, I would’ve never seen it.”
Wit'ch Fire: Book One of The Banned and the Banished Page 30