Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  “I don’t blame him,” Bass said with a snicker. “But what do we have to lose? Let’s shake him down before the branders come with their irons. Maybe he knows something we can use.”

  Jakor shrugged. “Grab a set of shackles.”

  Bass obeyed, still snickering as he grabbed a pair of rusted restraints from hooks on the wall. The shackles jangled as the guards approached the door.

  Jakor nodded to his partner. “Toss ’em to him.” Bass kept his distance from the bars as he flung the set of irons toward Kral. Jakor then stepped closer to the door, throwing his chest out to show his authority. “Put ’em on.”

  Kral leaned closer to the bars. He allowed a bit of his inner black beast to shine in his narrowed eyes. Jakor’s face blanched, and the guard retreated a step. Kral grinned savagely. He would love to tear this one’s throat out. But instead, he shoved away from the bars and collected the shackles from the soiled hay.

  “Lock ’em behind your b-back,” Jakor stuttered. He already had his short sword out. Kral suspected the guard was beginning to regret his decision to bother with this prisoner yet was unable to retreat now without losing face before his fellow sentry.

  Worried that Jakor’s craven heart might break, Kral complied with the guard’s direction. Once done, Kral turned to face the door, waiting.

  Jakor fumbled a set of keys from his belt, unlocked the door, and waved the mountain man out.

  Kral offered no resistance, stepping from the cell and into the hall. Jakor’s sword was pressed so firmly into Kral’s ribs that a trickle of blood ran down his side.

  After securing the door, Bass took the lead. “Follow me, prisoner.”

  Jakor kept his blade at Kral’s back as they proceeded down the line of cells. Two other snoring men occupied the neighboring cell, and in the next, a woman with two ragged children lay huddled together on the one cot. The thin woman looked at Kral with hopeless eyes as he passed.

  Then they were past the cells and entering the guardroom. It was empty, and the hearth was long cold. It seemed these two were the only guards stationed here this morning. With the sun’s rising, the garrison would most likely fill with other members of the watch. If he was to break free, it would have to be now.

  Bass glanced over his shoulder. “I just had an idea. Instead of disturbing Lord Parak, how about we chain this bastard in the inquisitor’s chamber? The room’s always empty this early. That old sot never arrives until the sun is fully up.”

  Jakor laughed but could not fully mask the nervous strain. “Fine idea, Bass. It’ll give us a chance to get this fellow’s tongue wagging.”

  Kral scowled. So the guards thought to torture the secret out of him. In Port Rawl, opportunity was carved by those with the quickest steel and the shrewdest cunning.

  Kral allowed himself to be goaded at swordpoint into a neighboring warren of halls. The metallic stink of dried blood and a fetid reek of decay filled the passages. Stone cells closed with iron-banded oaken doors marked the length of the passage. Kral could discern low moans and the faint clink of chains from inside the sealed cells. Here, terror and torture were the coin of the inquisitor, paid out handsomely to buy the secrets from the prisoners here.

  At the end of the hall, a windowless chamber opened. No doors closed off this room; the screams of the tortured served to weaken the will of the other prisoners. In the center of the room, a large brazier lay open and cold. Branding irons hung neatly overhead, ready for flame and flesh. Along the far wall were displayed knives and other sharp tools used to strip skin from a man and bore holes in bone. A rack with neatly coiled straps of leather stood nearby, the wood of the device stained a deep black from ages of shed blood.

  Kral hid a smile in his beard. He enjoyed the scent of horror and fear that permeated the stones of this room. It aroused him, made his mouth grow dry with lust.

  The pock-faced guard crossed to the wall on Kral’s right. Chains hung from bolts pounded deep into the blocks of stone. Bass yanked on a length of chain, clanking the links loudly. “These will hold even a bull like you,” Bass said to Kral.

  Kral fought his face back to a neutral disposition, hiding how the room excited the black magicks in his blood. “No knife will free my tongue.”

  Jakor dug the point of his sword into Kral’s side. “If you don’t talk, then my knife will free your tongue—permanently. I have a dog at home who likes it when I bring home scraps.”

  Kral allowed himself to be herded toward the length of chain. He did not fear the tortures that these two might inflict. Deep in his mind, he remembered writhing under the searing flames of darkfire as his master granted him the gift of Legion in the cellars below the Keep of Shadowbrook. Neither the sharpest blade nor the hottest flame could compare to the agony of his spirit being forged into a tool of the Black Heart.

  Kral leaned against the cool rock as the pair of guards locked his ankles and wrists to the new chains, then removed the old shackles. Jakor stepped away from the mountain man, the guard’s shoulders visibly relaxing, clearly relieved to have the prisoner secured in links of forged iron.

  Bass crossed to a winch and worked its handle round and round. The chains at Kral’s feet and hands pulled and stretched his form across the stone, his wrists pulled so high that the toes of his scuffed boots only brushed the grate on the floor. Kral glanced down the black throat of the well at his feet. How many tortured spirits had bled down this very hole? A thrill passed over his skin, prickling his hairs. But now was not the time to dwell on such pleasant thoughts.

  He raised his eyes toward the two guards. The sun must be fully up by now, and he was done playing with these two fools.

  Jakor made the mistake of looking into Kral’s eyes at this moment and must have sensed his own death, like a deer being run down by a wolf. Jakor’s mouth opened as if to warn his partner. But what could he say?

  Kral let his eyes drift closed as he bit his lower lip to draw blood. Its sweet tang burst on his tongue like the finest Arturan wine. He reached out to the ebon’stone that bound him. Attuned to his rock magick, Kral could smell the iron ore of his ax. He knew where it lay hidden, stashed in a nearby storeroom, in among the bounty collected by the watch this past night. He sensed the wolf hide that covered its stained blade. No one had bothered to unsheathe so common a weapon.

  Now, well away from the eyes of his companions, Kral had no need to fear unmasking his secret. He spoke the words needed to call forth his magick. With a bloody tongue, he spoke the spell.

  Bass must have heard him. “What’s that he’s saying?”

  Jakor’s boot heels scraped, backing away. “I don’t like this.”

  Kral smiled. No, the man would not like it at all. Kral’s blood burned with the spell, his flesh melting in the flames, his bones bowing and stretching like heated iron.

  “Mother above!” Bass screamed.

  Kral fell from his shackles onto all fours, hands clubbing into paws, nails sharpening into claws. Fur sprouted thickly from his pores as his beard drew back into his cheeks and his jaw stretched open in a silent howl.

  The guards were already fleeing.

  Kral loped after them, his sense of smell guiding him more than his eyes now. Tangles of clothes slowed his pursuit until he used his teeth to rip loose the leathers and wools. As he ran, the transformation still continued. The muscles of his legs bunched and found new attachments on bone. His throat contracted, his larynx warped. He opened his muzzle and spoke with his new voice, announcing the hunt.

  The demon wolf’s howl chased the guards down the hall.

  Once again he was Legion.

  The beast eyed its prey as the pair sped down the passage. It could smell the blood, hear the panicked beat of the two men’s hearts. A thick tongue tested its fangs, sharp and aching to rip into flesh.

  Then the wolf was upon the first of its prey, the pock-faced guard. The beast ran at the man’s heels, and with a slash and a growl, it tore out the man’s hamstrings. The guard howled in pain
and shock, tumbling to the hard stone. Bone cracked as he fell. Still Legion did not stop. It let the man writhe and moan, leaping over the fallen prey and pursuing the other. The beast knew its master’s will. No word of warning must leave these halls, for Legion still had a greater quarry to flush from this place: a creature who shared his black magick, another ill’guard, but one who stood between Legion and the trail of his final prey, the wit’ch child Elena.

  The guard turned at the last moment, threatening with steel. But Legion in his wolf form feared nothing made of folds of metal. It leaped and impaled itself on the short blade. The man stumbled to the side, lunging away with his bloodied blade, a look of triumph and satisfaction on his face.

  Legion ignored the savage wound as the magick repaired the rent tissues. Twisting, Legion burst toward the man’s throat. Terror swelled in the prey’s eyes. Legion’s lips rose up in a wolfish smile, exposing a length of fangs. Then it was upon the man. Hot blood spurted and filled the demon’s hungry throat. A low cry escaped the guard as he died, thrashing weakly under the wolf’s bulk. The lust to rip open the man’s belly and feast on the tender organs inside had to be fought aside. Legion spun on a paw and returned to the other wounded prey.

  “No, please Mother, no!” The pock-faced guard raised an arm across his face and screamed. Legion tore away the arm with one huge bite. Nothing would stand between it and the throat of its prey. The man’s scream of pain and terror echoed up and down the passage. Legion did not worry as it ripped into the man’s face. Here in the chambers of skinning knives and burning flesh, wailing was a common song.

  As life fled the warm body, Legion pounced away. It bounded down the last of the passage and pawed open the latch to the door. Cautiously, it stalked into the empty guardroom, nose raised to the air. From somewhere distant, it caught the spoor of crow and black magicks.

  It followed the scent.

  The demon wolf was a flowing black shadow as it raced down the dim halls. Occasional lamps, set to a low flame, marked the passages, but otherwise the darkness was a cloak that Legion wore as it ran down the scent. Stairs flashed under its paws; it slinked past an open chamber where the clanking of pots and shouted orders revealed that the morning’s meal was well under way. It ignored the tantalizing scents. If it was to escape with the og’re and the shape-shifter, it could not have this craven ill’guard at its back. Besides, Legion remembered the paralyzing touch of the ravens’ beaks, and revenge honed the edges of its lusts.

  In only a short time, the demon wolf wound its way through the garrison to the northeast corner. It sniffed at the bottom of the door. Spoor of bird. It had reached its prey. Ears pricked up at the faint sounds of snoring.

  Legion tested the latch with a paw. Locked. In Port Rawl, no one slept behind an unbarred door, not even in the heart of the town’s garrison.

  Raising up on its paws, Legion unleashed a howl that shook the very stones of the structure and dug at the hardwood door. From beyond the door, Legion heard its prey awaken with a startled snort. Further in the garrison, men awoke in cold sweats. The blackness of the deep forest had crept into their rooms.

  The ill’guard beyond the door would recognize his master’s voice in this howl—and could not refuse to answer it. Legion heard the approach of bare feet on stone. The door peeked open. One eye, then another, peered out.

  Legion did not wait for an invitation. It burst through the door, throwing Lord Parak back on his scrawny bottom. Ravens and crows, perched all along the room, burst up in a black cloud of feathers and screeches.

  Before the ill’guard lord could react, Legion’s teeth were at his throat. Finally, Lord Parak seemed to recognize his kindred spirit. “No,” the man moaned, “we serve the same master.”

  As answer, a hungry growl escaped the demon wolf’s throat. Then, with a howl that ripped through the halls of the garrison, Legion ripped out the throat of Lord Parak. For the first time, it feasted on the black blood of another ill’guard. As the blood flowed down its throat, so did the magick of its prey. Legion had thought its blood lust could know no greater depth than during a hunt—but it was mistaken! The magick it consumed as teeth rended flesh and tendon made even a virgin’s blood seem but a pale drink. The arcane power flowed into Legion. It raised its muzzle from the ruined throat and wailed its lust from strong lungs.

  Fire and pleasure ravaged Legion.

  The wolf’s limbs quaked under the onslaught as its blood absorbed the other’s magick. Mirroring this inner transformation, the cloud of ravens and crows descended upon the demon wolf. But instead of landing on Legion’s back, the flock dove into the flesh of the wolf, disappearing like hunting seabirds into the watery depths. And Legion knew this to be right. Just as its blood had absorbed the ill’guard’s magick, its flesh now consumed the other’s demons.

  Legion howled a cry of power and hunger as its magick grew.

  It now had an inkling of what it would be like to feast on the wit’ch, to absorb her magick, too. With this thought, it bounded away and out into the halls. Nothing would stop it from tasting such an experience.

  As it sped, all who heard its howl fell numb to the floor. The paralyzing magick of the other ill’guard was now Legion’s to employ. With such power, it was a simple thing to reach the storeroom and retrieve its master’s talisman. Bloody teeth ripped the wolfhide from the ax’s blade and ended the spell. Its body flowed and twisted back into the naked form of a man.

  Standing on bare feet on the cold stone, Kral grabbed one of the guard’s gold-and-black uniforms hanging in the storeroom. It fit poorly on his huge frame, but a cloak over his shoulders hid the worst of it. Among the pile of collected items were his companions’ bags, waiting to be searched with the morning light. Barefoot, Kral tossed the bags over one shoulder, then secured the ax to his belt. Satisfied, he fled the room.

  Chaos ruled the halls of the garrison. Like an overturned anthill, men charged this way and that. One guard ran up to him. “Grab a sword! There’s a pack of wolves loose here!” Then the armsman was gone.

  Kral marched through the roiling confusion.

  He reached the hall of cells holding his imprisoned companions. Luckily, no guards had come to replace the two he had slain. He grabbed a key ring from a hook and crossed to the barred door.

  Both Mogweed and Tol’chuk were at the entrance, roused by the commotion. Mogweed’s eyes grew wide when he recognized the huge guard crossing toward them. “Kral!”

  The mountain man keyed the rusted lock and pulled open the door, freeing Tol’chuk of his shackles.

  The og’re lumbered out of the cell. “How did you—?”

  “Now’s not the time for tales,” Kral said simply. “Come, while the way still lies open.” Kral passed Tol’chuk his thigh pouch and Mogweed his cumbersome pack.

  The og’re clawed open his satchel and, after delving deep inside, retrieved the chunk of heartstone hidden in an inner pocket. Tol’chuk pulled it free. “It’s still here.”

  “Luck is with us,” Kral said. He nodded toward the ruby crystal. “Are you sure that can lead us back to Elena?”

  Tol’chuk raised the stone. Its faceted surface bloomed a deep inner rose. Tol’chuk swung it slightly eastward; the stone flashed like a small ruby sun. “Yes,” the og’re said, pointing the way. “The Heart will guide us to her.”

  Kral smiled, still tasting blood and magick in his throat. “Good. Then let the hunt begin.”

  6

  JOACH FLEW BACK from the ship’s rail, scrambling to raise his staff. He screamed for aid, his voice a howl on the morning breeze. “Moris! Flint! We’re under attack!”

  From beyond the boat’s edge, laughter answered his call. “Protecting your sister again, I see.” The smiling apparition rose from the sea, gliding smoothly atop a tower of solid water. Once high enough, the figure of Rockingham, the butcher and foul traitor, stepped over the rail and onto the deck. He wore a pair of brown leggings and a billowing linen shirt, open across the front. Down his p
ale chest, a jagged black scar could be seen in snatches as the wind tugged at his unbuttoned shirt.

  Already, Moris was rushing to the boy’s side from the rear deck. He bore a long sword in one hand and a cudgel in the other. Behind the black-skinned Brother, near the stern, Flint was tying off the wheel, readying the ship for the battle to come. The scrabbling of claws could be heard climbing the sides of the boat, accompanied by hundreds of hissing goblin throats. The beasts were about to swarm the ship.

  Joach stared into Rockingham’s eyes. He sensed that this was the hand that led the legions of drak’il, the fist that sought to destroy his sister. He raised the staff higher before him.

  Rockingham eyed the length of poi’wood, his brows momentarily crinkling in confusion. “Isn’t that Dismarum’s cane?”

  “You mean your old master’s staff? Yes, I defeated him, wresting the weapon from his dead fingers,” Joach said boldly, hoping his lie would worry the fiend, buy extra moments for the others to arm themselves. “And now I’ll defeat you.” Joach whispered words of power to his staff, the spell dredged from the lands of dream. The staff’s polished surface ignited with black flames.

  Moris skidded to a halt beside Joach, adding his sword to the flaming defense of the Seaswift.

  Rockingham ignored their threatening stances and greeted Moris with a calm nod. Beyond the demon, goblins clambered over the ship’s rail, hissing and thrashing, clearly waiting for a signal from their leader. Rockingham turned his attention back to Joach. “That old darkmage—Dismarum, Greshym, or whatever you want to call him—was never my master. Let me show you my true lord.”

  Rockingham reached to his shirtfront just as Flint ran forward from the stern. “Don’t look!” the old seaman hollered across the deck.

  But the warning came too late. Rockingham pulled back the drapes of his shirt to expose the ragged scar that split the center of his pale chest. As Joach stared, the wound opened like the mouth of a shark, lined by shards of broken ribs. From inside, an oily darkness flowed out of the man’s chest, living tendrils of shadow. The stench of an open crypt followed.