Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  “Here is my true master.”

  Behind this monster, the goblins had grown in number; claws dug at the deck, and spiked tails rattled like old bones. Still, the beasts held their wary ground, awed and fearful of the black magick.

  “Beware,” Moris growled to Joach. “The man’s a golem. A hollow seed. It is only black magick that sustains his flesh.”

  Joach, his breath frozen in horror, coughed on the words of his spell. The black flames died on his staff. He now clutched only mere wood, little protection against the evil that pulsed from the core of Rockingham.

  From up out of the depths of the open chest, howls of twisted spirits echoed forth, and from deeper still came the cold laughter of the torturer.

  “I was left moldering in the grave after the battle with the skal’tum in the highlands above Winterfell,” Rockingham said. “Left for dead. Until servants of the Black Heart clawed me from the cold dirt and gave me back my life.”

  “It is not your life that was returned,” Moris argued, his voice booming. “It is a foul spirit that possesses you, hides the truth from you, and smothers your true spirit. Remember who you once were!”

  Joach saw Rockingham’s left eye twitch slightly with Moris’ words. “Remember what? Who do you think I was?”

  By now, Flint had reached them. Bearing an ax, he stood as a third against their enemy. The old sea-hardened Brother added his own words. “We know your ilk. Long ago, before the Dark Lord claimed you, you were a suicide. Only from such sorry souls are golems forged. When you forsook your own life, you gave up the right to your body.”

  Moris lowered his blade slightly, his manner urgent and consoling. “And the Dark Lord claimed what you discarded and enslaved it. But remember that other life! Remember the pain that drove you to such black depths that you would end your own life. Even the most dire magicks can’t wipe away so sharp a memory. Look to your waking dreams. Remember!”

  Joach studied his adversary. He saw the man glancing inward, suspicious but searching for any truth in these two Brothers’ words. Joach scowled at him. What, besides black magicks, could be found inside this fiend? But something was found—Joach could see it in the man’s face, muscles twitching as a war waged to dredge up a forgotten past.

  Words tumbled from Rockingham’s lips. “I remember . . . a dream . . . a cliff with pounding surf . . . someone . . . hair the color of the sun at noon . . . and lilacs . . . no, the scent of honeysuckle, or something much like it . . .” His eyes grew suddenly wide, staring blind at the horizon. Fingers that held open his shirt lost their hold on the fabric. Even the wound began to close on the darkness. “And a name . . . Linora!”

  A harsh voice suddenly rose behind Joach, startling everyone. “Yes, I remember that name, too, Rockingham. You screamed it out the last time we killed you. The time you betrayed us all.”

  Rockingham’s eyes snapped back into focus. “Er’ril!” he hissed.

  The swelling legion of goblins roared, echoing their master’s anger. Behind Rockingham, the beasts hissed and thrashed, a mass of claws and poisoned tails, scrambling and piling atop one another in frustration.

  “Damn his timing,” Flint muttered, glancing fire at Er’ril.

  Er’ril ignored the others, his eyes only on Rockingham. He stepped forward, his sword of magickal silver held in his one arm, his face a mask of red fury. “We helped you escape the claws of the skal’tum, and you repaid us with treachery! Whatever life you once lived—foul or fair—it is now forfeit.”

  “Bold words for someone who is going to finally die after five hundred winters.” Rockingham ripped his shirt from his shoulders; his chest wound cracked wide open, a gaping maw from which darkness spilled forth.

  Joach stared transfixed into the flowing shadows. Deep in the core of the golem, crimson eyes stared back out at him, filled with balefire and dread magicks.

  Accompanied by the howl of goblins, the Black Heart had come to watch the slaughter.

  ELENA STOOD BATHED in light. Somewhere far off she heard shouting and the cries of strange beasts, but here was an island of peace and stillness. The faint tinkle of crystal chimes filled her ears and a scent not unlike spiced cloves swelled around her. Where was she? She had a hard time remembering how or why she stood here. She took a step cautiously forward. “Hello!” she called out into the brightness. “Is anyone there?”

  Before her, a figure appeared; a woman draped in swirls of light coalesced into existence. “Mycelle should have taught you better to watch your back,” the figure scolded. The features of the woman solidified into a familiar stern expression.

  “Aunt Fila?” Elena rushed forward, meaning to sweep her dead aunt up in her arms. But when she reached the apparition, her arms passed through her. Dismayed, Elena stepped back.

  Aunt Fila raised a shimmering hand and brushed it along Elena’s cheek. Only a soft warmth marked the passage of the ghostly fingers. “You should not be here, child.”

  Elena glanced around her. In the past, through the use of a magickal amulet, Elena had occasionally been able to speak to the shade of her dead aunt. But what was happening now? Around her, the featureless world of blinding light eddied, revealing vague glimpses into other lands and swirling images of other people. Snatches of conversation from far off whispered in her ears. “Where am I?” she finally asked.

  “You’ve crossed the Bridge of Spirits, child. The goblin’s poisons drain your life. With death so near, your spirit can flow between the worlds of the living and the dead.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  Aunt Fila was never one to pamper with falsehoods. “Perhaps.”

  Tears rose in Elena’s eyes, blurring her vision. “But I have to save Alasea.” She raised her palms to show Aunt Fila the twin ruby stains of power. But her hands were pale and white. Her power had vanished!

  “You’ve spent all your magick sustaining your life,” Aunt Fila explained. “But fear not, child. Even here you can renew. Any light, even ghostly, can ignite the magick in you. Remember your ancestor Sisa’kofa—there was a true reason she was named the wit’ch of spirit and stone. But you must hurry.” Aunt Fila again brushed Elena’s cheek with her fingers, but this time, Elena actually felt her aunt’s hand. “With your magick spent, death grows closer, and we grow closer together.”

  Elena stepped away, horrified.

  “You must renew, Elena. Hurry.”

  As Elena raised her right arm high, she prayed for the gift, wishing with all her spirit. Before her, Aunt Fila’s face began to grow clearer; small details Elena had forgotten—the small dimple on her aunt’s chin, the fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes—began to appear. Time was running out.

  Elena stretched her arm fully up. Her hand vanished in a cool rush.

  “Hurry, child! From this light, a new magick will be born into the world. Sunlight brought you fire; moonlight brought you ice. Ghostlight will bring you—”

  Elena lowered her arm; the spirit world vanished around her. She crashed back into a world filled with bloody screams and the cries of the dying. Raising her arm from where it rested on a blanket, she stared at her hand.

  Her eyes grew wide with horror. Her own scream drowned out all the others: “No!”

  MERIC HOBBLED ON his crutch across the empty storeroom. The others had all left to prepare their packs and mounts for the journey out of Port Rawl. His injuries, though healing, had left him of little use to the others as they hauled and packed various supplies from Mama Freda’s apothecary. Alone in the storeroom, he crossed to the bank of cages that housed the assortment of creatures the old healer used in her arts.

  Quickly, he opened the cage that housed a trillhawk. The bird’s bright green plumage marked it as a jungle bird, from lands far away, but Meric intended to send it even farther. The bird spread its wings threateningly and hissed at him as he reached toward it. But Meric sent a wisp of his elemental magick to twine around the wild creature. Reined by his magicks, the hawk calmed and mounted his offe
red wrist.

  With the bird in hand, Meric limped toward the small open window of the storeroom. He held the hawk up toward the window. As the bird perched, Meric worked his elemental magick on it. The elv’in were masters of the air and all creatures of the wing. None could refuse the call of an elv’in lord. The trillhawk cocked its head, listening as Meric instructed it.

  Mycelle had related to Meric all that had befallen Elena and the others: the swamp journey, the battle with the blackguard d’warf, the downfall of A’loa Glen. It was clear the Dark Lord had dug his forces deeply into the sunken city, and any attempt to reach the Blood Diary would surely fail. How could the others even think of taking Elena into such danger?

  Meric knew his duty. He would protect the girl, even if it meant the death of Alasea. Of what concern was it to his people if this land should fall? His people had long been banished. All that mattered was the mission his queen had sent him on—to return the king’s lost bloodline to his people.

  In this, he would not fail.

  “Go,” he whispered to the hawk. “Go to Stormhaven. Seek my queen. Let her know that time runs short. She must free her Thunderclouds and let loose her ships of war.”

  He tossed the hawk up through the window. With a screeching cry, it sailed on wide wings out into the sea breezes. Turning on a wing tip, it arced over the slate rooftops of Port Rawl and disappeared into the sun.

  Meric followed its flight with his sky-blue eyes, his final words no more than an expelled breath. “We must stop Elena.”

  WITH A ROCK-HEAVY heart, Tol’chuk followed the others through the streets of Port Rawl as the morning sun climbed toward midday.

  He had spent the entire night grieving for his mother. Like a candle, she had come so briefly to enlighten his empty life, only to be snuffed away before he could appreciate the warmth and true glow of family. But now was not the time for regret and melancholy. He hardened himself against the hollowness in his spirit and continued on the course set upon him by the ancients of his people. And the next step in his sworn duty was to escape this foul city. He’d had enough of its stink and the wretched souls that slinked through its oily shadows.

  Cloaked in the black-and-gold colors of the city’s watch, the og’re hunkered down to disguise his size and keep his face hidden as he traversed the streets. But in such a corrupt city, Tol’chuk doubted that even the monstrous presence of a highland og’re would warrant more of a reaction than a cautious appraisal of the price for his skinned hide.

  Kral led the party, keeping his ax well displayed. Mogweed clung to Tol’chuk’s shadow like a mouse beside a bull. After a bit, Kral stopped at an intersection of two narrow streets and glared in all directions. The roads here were wagon-rutted mud tracks, thick with horse dung and refuse from the houses to either side. Overhead, a few sullen women leaned on elbows out of second-story windows.

  One of the women spat at Kral. Her aim was good. He wiped his cheek with the edge of his cloak. “Get your arses away from here,” she said boldly. “We don’t need no watch breathing down our backs. We paid our tithes this past moon. So be gone from our stoop.”

  Tol’chuk pulled his cloak farther over his head. The watch, it seemed, was poorly thought of by its people.

  Kral ignored the commotion, glancing back to Tol’chuk. “I don’t think we’re far from the southern gate.” But doubt weakened his voice.

  Mogweed crept warily forward, his eyes constantly darting toward the openings to dark alleys and the women above. “What about my brother?” he asked. “Fardale must be still with the horses.”

  “I know,” Kral said. “My own mount, Rorshaf, is stabled at the same inn. But the garrison is already in a fierce uproar. We were lucky to escape in the chaos. It won’t take long for someone to order the city’s gates locked down and a search for the escaped slaves to begin. We must be gone before that happens.”

  “But Fardale . . . ?”

  “He’s a wolf. At night, it’ll be a simple thing for him to escape on his own. He knows where Elena hides and can easily return to her side. For all we know, he may already have run off after we were captured.”

  Tol’chuk placed a clawed hand on Mogweed’s shoulders. “I know you fear for your brother, but Kral be right. A wolf alone will attract less attention.”

  Mogweed slipped from under Tol’chuk’s grip with a sour grumble and simply waved Kral onward, but the mountain man had already turned back to the road. He stood, scratching his head, clearly unsure which crossroad to take.

  Just then, a bent-backed old crone using a crooked cane angled around the corner, almost running flat into Kral’s wide chest. She backed a step, wiping a few stray gray hairs to glance surreptitiously at what blocked her way forward.

  Scowling, she waved her cane in Kral’s general direction. “Get outta my way, you big oaf.”

  Kral stood his ground against the meager threat. “Grandmother,” he said politely, “I would gladly step aside if you’d be so kind as to point us toward the southern gate.”

  “Leaving the city, are you?” She cocked her head like a warybird, eying Tol’chuk, then Mogweed. She swung toward the left and shambled in that direction. “I know a shortcut. I’ll show you, but on the condition that you large gentlemen keep me company. I’ve a daughter and son-in-law who live out that way and was meaning to visit them anyways.”

  Kral studied her slow-moving form. “Really, we just need the directions. If you could—”

  Tol’chuk nudged the mountain man’s elbow. “Traveling with the old woman will give us some camouflage,” he whispered. “They won’t be looking for an old woman and her guards.”

  Kral sighed, puffing out his beard, but followed after the woman’s bent back. She doddered slowly down the street. “Maybe you could carry her,” the mountain man mumbled through his beard at Tol’chuk.

  “I heard that!” the old woman cackled without looking back. “Just ’cause my eyes are thick with the cataract, don’t think my ears aren’t keen. And my two old legs have lasted near on to a century. They’ll get me to the gates.”

  The group drudged onward, keeping company with the thin-boned old crone, who whistled as she marched through the backstreets, grinning back at them occasionally with a mouth barren of all but a few teeth.

  Tol’chuk eyed the woman. He suspected she little needed their strength of arms; as old and worn as she was, even the most cunning pirate in the city would have a hard time finding any value in her frail figure. He supposed she just enjoyed their company, someone to chatter with and nod at as if they were all old friends.

  “If you like candied swampweed and kaffee,” she commented to Mogweed as he shambled next to her, “there’s a shop not far from here. We could stop for a rest.”

  “No, thank you,” Mogweed said.

  “We really must reach the gates,” Kral added, his impatience beginning to show on his stony features.

  “Oh, it’s not far, not far at all,” she mumbled. She turned another corner into a further maze of narrow streets, still whistling.

  Here the shabby homes were stacked high and close together. To add to the sense of confinement, the foundations of the surrounding buildings were so rotted by age and salt that some of the homes leaned forward as if studying them as they passed, while others rested against neighboring structures like drunken men wandering home. Kral grumbled.

  By now, the old woman had so entangled them among these ramshackle homes that Tol’chuk guessed the mountain man was as thoroughly lost as himself. “Do you know the way to the gate from here?” he whispered hoarsely to Kral.

  “I could find my way out of here . . . eventually.” The mountain man kept a wary watch on doorways and side streets, expecting an ambush at any moment.

  Soon the sun glared down from directly overhead, and the morning’s cool breezes died away. Yet the group’s path still lay entangled in the labyrinth of backstreets. Kral kept clutching at his ax, first with one hand, then the other. The heat of the afternoon reminded
them all that summer still reigned here in the filth and stench of Port Rawl’s alleys. The reek of spoiled fish competed with the stench of human waste, as if countless winters had passed since a breath of clean air had freshened these streets.

  “Enough!” Kral finally barked, stopping them all.

  The old woman leaned heavily on her cane as she swung around. “What?” she said irritably.

  “I thought you said you knew a shortcut to the gate?”

  The crone sighed loudly. “If you want to avoid the eyes of the watchmen, this is the shortest route.”

  Tol’chuk’s scraggled brows rose higher up his forehead. This woman knew more than she let on.

  She continued before anyone could say a word. “You come prancing in ill-fitting garb of the watch, yet don’t know the route to the city’s gate? Do you think me a fool? I heard about the commotion at the garrison, and I suspect you’re all involved in that mess.”

  “Old woman,” Kral said, the kindliness gone from his voice, “if you seek to betray us—”

  “Betray you? If it wasn’t for me, you all would’ve been recaptured by the watch by now. The town is riddled with those who would’ve sold you back to them cutpurses for a single dull copper. And what do I get as payment for my troubles?” She scowled at them all. “A rude tongue and threats.”

  Tol’chuk stepped forward. “Excuse us. We be indebted to you and mean you no disrespect. But it be urgent we leave this city.”

  She snorted at his words and swung around. “Then come,” she said and sidled around the next corner.

  They all followed her. As Tol’chuk rounded the dilapidated building that housed a cobbler’s shop, he stumbled in shock. The towering Swampwall lay only a stone’s throw away, and its gate lay open.

  “We’re here,” Kral said, amazed.