Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  The old woman kept urging them on with a wave of her hand as she hobbled onward. “If you mean to escape, quit gawking and get walking.”

  They continued after her. The old woman seemed to sense their growing urgency as their goal was in sight. Though Tol’chuk was stepping quickly to close the gap to the gate, with Kral and Mogweed marching briskly beside him, the crone kept well ahead of them.

  She was the first to reach the gate and nod to the gatekeeper atop the wall’s walk. The sandy-haired lad who manned the gate’s wheel barely paid her any attention, his eyes toward the center of town. “Have you heard any word?” he asked as Kral approached, his young eager eyes full of excitement. “What’s happened at the garrison?”

  Dressed in the black and the gold, Tol’chuk realized the gatekeeper must think them fellow watchmen. Kral answered the youth. “That’s none of your concern. Keep your eyes on your duty.”

  A deep-throated horn suddenly echoed up from town, its mournful tones resounding eerily off the nearby bay. Three long notes stretched over the city’s shingled roofs. “Them’s the signal to lock down the city,” the young man said with amazement. He turned excited eyes to the trio. “Do you think it’s another of those cursed boats come to plague the docks?”

  Kral spat a curse at the boy. “Just mind your own post. We’re to check the lay of the land south of here. You just lock those gates after us and let no one—and I mean no one—past your post.”

  “Yes, sir!” The lad saluted smartly and went to his gate’s wheel.

  Tol’chuk kept his cloak drawn fully over his form as he passed under the walk and through the tunnel in the wall. The others were at his heels. Beyond the gate, the old woman still waited for them, leaning on her cane. Tol’chuk scrunched up his features and came closer. “Should you not be getting back into the city before you’re locked out?”

  Behind him, Tol’chuk already heard the winches and pulleys lowering the iron gate to the city.

  The old woman shrugged and hobbled away from him, aiming toward the line of coastal woods in the near distance. Tol’chuk found himself following her as he had done all morning.

  Kral joined him. “Just where in the Sweet Mother does that old crone think she’s going?”

  As they chased after her, the woman’s pace increased. Near the edge of the wood, she tossed aside her cane; her back seemed to straighten with each step. She seemed to grow taller, broader in shoulder, as if the years had melted off her crooked figure and returned her lost youth.

  “I don’t like this,” Mogweed muttered, fear bright in his eyes.

  Once under the eaves of the trees, the old woman turned toward them, now standing tall and straight. She tossed back her drab shawl and shook out lengths of hair that shone the color of spun gold in the patches of sunlight. Other figures moved in the shadows of the wood behind her. Near her heels, a large dog—no, a wolf—climbed around the bole of a thick cypress and sat on his haunches by the woman’s heels.

  Tol’chuk stepped closer.

  “It can’t be,” Mogweed said, stunned.

  Kral echoed his words. “Impossible.”

  Tol’chuk took another shaky step forward. Surely this was some cruel trick, a phantom come to torment him.

  Standing under the green branches of the cypress was no longer the bent-backed crone but Mycelle, beaming broadly toward her son. She raised her arms toward him. Her eyes shone amber in the shadows.

  Words formed in Tol’chuk’s head. Come, my son. See your true heritage.

  “Mother?” he said aloud and stumbled toward her.

  Mycelle sighed, the glow in her eyes dimming. She switched back to normal speech, a smile still playing about her lips. “Oh, just come over here, Tol’chuk, and give me a hug.”

  WITH THE SOUNDS of battle echoing down through the ship, Elena stared at her right hand, her eyes wide with horror. Instead of the usual deep ruby stain, her fingers and palms swirled and glowed with a soft rosy azure, but the pale hue was not what disturbed her. What clutched her heart with an icy grip was how insubstantial her hand now appeared. Instead of stained flesh, her hand was translucent. She could see through her palm to the antique sextant hanging on the far wall. It was as if her hand were that of a ghost.

  “Wit’ch of spirit and stone,” she mumbled, remembering Aunt Fila’s words. As ethereal as her flesh appeared, Elena sensed the magick pent up in her glassy skin. It sang and thrummed as strong as any magick born of sun or moon. But what aspect did this new magick bear?

  As her heart’s beating slowed slightly, the echoing screams and bloody cries reached her ears. She heard Er’ril’s commanding voice shout orders, but his words were too muffled by the ship’s wood to be discernible. Were they still fighting the drak’il? She reached and fingered the wrap around her belly, suddenly remembering the thrust of the goblin’s spike and the burn of poison. She somehow sensed that its venoms had finally been vanquished from her body.

  Elena pushed up.

  Through a porthole to the side, the sun now shined brightly. Had the fight raged all night? She slipped to her feet and stood shakily, still weak from the residual effects of the venom.

  She leaned on a wall and crossed to the porthole. Beyond the glass lay only the empty seas. In the far distance, she spotted a few islands dotting the horizons. They were no longer docked but were sailing through the Archipelago!

  The din of battle rattled down to her.

  Weak or not, she had to help. Elena stared at her ghostly hand. Not understanding this new magick, she feared touching it. But with the sun this bright, she could always renew the power of wit’ch fire in her other hand and chase the foul creatures from the ship’s decks with flames.

  She raised her left hand and placed it upon the coarse glass of the porthole. Sunlight streamed past her white fingers. She willed the gift of fire, praying to the Mother above for power. Her eyelids sank slightly as she opened herself to the rite of renewal.

  Standing still as stone, she waited—but nothing happened.

  Elena’s eyes widened. Her left hand still lay on the porthole in the glare of the sun, as pale as ever. Frowning, she concentrated. In the past, her mere desire was all that had been necessary to ignite the transformation, to fill her with power. Tears began to well. Desperation began to creep into her chest. She had never wanted to renew more than she did right now, so why wasn’t it happening?

  She continued to wait. Still nothing. The battle raged on overhead; the hissing grew louder in her ears. She could delay no longer.

  Turning away, she lowered her arm and again studied the eddying swirls of rosy light that outlined her ghost hand. She balled her fingers into a fist. It felt like normal flesh. But if she cut herself what magick would be unleashed?

  With a shake of her head, she thrust her arm away. There was only one way to find out. She crossed to the door. With a hard swallow, she swung the latch free and creaked open the old hinges. The cries of battle swelled around her like a visible presence. The reek of blood and fear struck her senses like a cold wind. She heard the mad laughter of someone from just up ahead. What was happening?

  Darting into the passage, she quickly ducked through a door to the left and entered her own cabin. She crossed to her pack of personal items and snatched out her wit’ch’s dagger. The silver blade shone in the splinter of sunlight lancing from this cabin’s porthole. Whatever magick she bore, she would practice it upon the goblins.

  Swinging around, she caught a glimpse of herself in a small looking glass hanging from a nail in the wall. She gasped and stopped. It was as if her clothes, even the dagger, floated across the room on their own. She raised the knife higher. It just floated before the mirror. No hand bore it aloft. She leaned closer to the looking glass and traced her cheek with the tip of her blade. In the mirror, the dagger just floated before empty air.

  She stood straighter, touching her face and staring at her hands. To her, she seemed ordinary flesh, but her form did not reflect in the glass. It was
as if she had become a true spirit. “Wit’ch of spirit and stone,” she repeated in a whisper. Was this an aspect of her new magick? Did it grant her the ability to move unseen?

  She remembered her inability to renew a moment before. It took sunlight upon her skin to ignite the power. Had the renewal failed because her flesh had become invisible to the sun?

  The implications of such a gift were clear. She shed her clothes and used the dagger to free the bandages from around her waist. She stood naked now, but her bare skin no longer reflected in the looking glass. Only the dagger floated in the mirror, gripped in the ghostly fingers of her right hand.

  She tightened her hold on the hilt of the blade and touched this new magick in her heart, letting it roll through her being, testing it, tasting it like a fine wine on her tongue. She let it build in her clenched fingers. Not too fast. She would not let it rule her. As the magicks swelled, the rosy light burst out from her fist, swallowing the dagger in its cold light. As Elena stared, the image of the blade slowly faded away in the mirror, consumed by her magick.

  In the looking glass, the cabin now appeared empty. At her feet, her clothes lay crumpled on the floor, like the discarded shell of a newly hatched chick. Elena stepped free of the clutter.

  A cold smile of the wit’ch formed on her lips. She did not fight it. She would not deny that part of her spirit. Like everyone, she had a dark side that lusted for power; hers sought to unleash the wild magick without restraints. She named this dark side wit’ch, and it was as much a part of her as the woman who tempered and controlled these lusts. Elena had learned that to deny the two sides of her heart—wit’ch and woman—only gave the darkness in her more power. So she let the energies in her blood sing while holding a tight rein.

  As she reached toward the door to her cabin, the chorus of raw magick cried to be unleashed, screamed for her to use her ghost blade to puncture her skin and let it rip into the world.

  “Not yet,” she answered their cries. It was easy to ignore their call—for a quieter voice had caught Elena’s attention.

  In her ears, the whisper of the wit’ch held her enthralled.

  Elena listened, but only one word was heard: ghostfire.

  7

  AS ER’RIL CROUCHED, his clothes and skin torn from countless claws, he studied the wall of goblins before him. His silver blade ran red with blood as he raised its tip for the hundredth time, awaiting the next assault. He and the others guarded the square of deck in front of the demolished hatch to the lower cabins. None must pass to the girl below.

  “How many of these friggin’ beasts are there?” Flint complained, breathing hard between clenched teeth. “For every one we cut down, two more pile over the rail to swell their ranks.”

  “Keep alert,” Er’ril grumbled back, but he was tiring, too. He now regretted not retrieving the iron ward from his bags when he had rushed to the deck from Elena’s bedside. He could have used the extra strength of his phantom arm. He eyed the others, judging their exhaustion.

  Flint and Moris guarded his right flank while the boy Joach proved that even black magick had its uses. His staff had spouted jets of dire energies, holding back the horde from Er’ril’s other flank. Occasional wails and the reek of charred flesh had marked the boy’s post.

  “My staff is losing power,” Joach said, his face pale, his voice frightened. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep the magick flowing.”

  Er’ril nodded. “Do your best. Once the magick is spent, get down below and guard over your sister.” With narrowed eyes, Er’ril kept watch on the legion before him. For the brief moment, the battle had ebbed away as the goblins regrouped, some dragging their dead and wounded brethren from underfoot and tossing them overboard. Around the boat circled hundreds of shark fins, drawn by the meat and blood.

  Er’ril’s chest ached, and sweat drenched his frame, slicking his grip on the sword’s hilt. A glance at the others revealed they fared no better. The sun had risen close to midday, and the cool morning had warmed to a moist heat, further sapping their strength. It would not be long before the endless drak’il horde overwhelmed them. Er’ril used the back of his wrist to wipe blood from his cheek—mostly drak’il blood. But for how long? Even if they withstood the drak’il army, beyond the press of cold goblin flesh stood their true adversary.

  Rockingham leaned on the mast of the mainsail. Bare chested, his gaping wound seeped black shadows, and a pair of feral crimson eyes stared back at their group from the hollow golem. Er’ril shied from that gaze; it seemed to sap his will and darken his own vision. By now, Er’ril suspected the demon’s true strategy here. He wasted the lives of these drak’il. The demon did not truly expect this horde to succeed but simply used the beasts to wear the defenders down, to weaken their strength and resolve.

  Er’ril stared at their true enemy. The fiery eyes seemed to be laughing at him. The demon knew Er’ril understood the situation. But what could the plainsman do? Even if the drak’il were mere fodder to erode the group’s defenses, Er’ril could not stay his sword. He would slay the entire drak’il tribe to protect Elena.

  The hissing among the goblins rose to a fevered pitch—a signal for their next attack. Upon the deck massed a force larger than any so far. Er’ril suspected this would be the final volley. They would stand or fall on this moment.

  “Ready yourselves, men,” Er’ril commanded.

  A massive goblin wielding a poisoned spike on its tail stalked out from the writhing pile. The creature bore bands of polished coral around its upper arms and a circlet of woven pearls around its crown. It also held a long spear tipped with a filed shark’s tooth. Clearly, here stood one of the beasts’ leaders. Its tail slashed and writhed; garbled sounds choked from its throat.

  “May I introduce you to the goblin queen?” Rockingham called over the hissing of the others. “She is explaining how you all will be meat to feed her children, and how she’ll use the skull and leg bones of the wit’ch as a drum to sound her victory to all the other goblin clans.”

  “At least our corpses won’t be wasted,” Flint mumbled.

  In a final signal to her army, the she-goblin shook her spear above her head and screamed in bloody rage.

  Er’ril tensed his legs, sword poised for the assault to come.

  Then the she-goblin’s wail suddenly cut off, as if sliced from the air itself—which as Er’ril stared, he realized was true. The queen’s neck, which had been stretched taut as she howled, now opened in a wicked gash. It appeared like a bloody smile, spilling forth her life blood.

  The huge beast stood quivering, all eyes upon her, then toppled to the deck.

  A hush descended over both sides. Only the cries of hungry gulls fighting for scraps disturbed the stillness. What had happened? Er’ril glanced at Joach, who shook his head. It had been no magick from his staff.

  Beyond the spreading pool of black blood, the drak’il force stood frozen, stunned by the sudden death of their queen. Even Rockingham stood straighter, his eyes crinkled with suspicion. Deep in the chest of the golem, the crimson eyes flared brighter, as if the being there disbelieved what it saw. Shadows poured thickly from the ragged wound, spilling in a growing lake around the golem’s feet.

  ELENA STOOD OVER the corpse of the goblin queen. In her shaking hand, she clutched her dagger; its rose hilt dripped blood onto the deck as her whole body tremored.

  The goblin queen had been the first creature she had ever slain by her own hand. In the past, she had destroyed foul beasts of the Dark Lord with her magick, but this battle had been different. There had been no thrust of wit’ch fire, coldfire, or stormfire—it had been simple butchery.

  A moment ago, Elena had slipped past Er’ril and the others and simply walked up to the goblin queen. She had stood with her silver dagger raised, staring into the furious eyes of the beast. It took no skill, no dance of blades nor art of magick. As the goblin wailed, Elena had merely reached forward and slashed the beast’s throat. Only the hot blood spraying her ar
m and face had marked the murder.

  Elena stared now at the crumpled form of the slain creature.

  As the beast garbled its last breath, one of its clawed hands clutched at its belly. Only now did Elena see a characteristic swelling there.

  The goblin queen was with child!

  Oh, Sweet Mother, what had she done? In one fell stroke, she had murdered both mother and innocent child. What was she becoming? Elena swung away, facing her guardians. She held out the dagger toward Er’ril, silently begging him to take it from her. But no one saw her. All their gazes were still fixed on the crumpled form of the goblin queen.

  Her legs began to tremble. Her magick sang louder in her ears, drowning all else out. Shock at what she had done quickly weakened the tenuous hold she had on her magick. Taking advantage of her weakness, the wit’ch in her broke free of its shackles and swept through her blood. Elena could not resist the darkness in her spirit, her will too shaken by the murder. And deep inside, a part of her did not even want to fight it.

  Elena fell to her knees in the pool of goblin’s blood and opened herself to the wit’ch, letting that icy part of her spirit soothe her hot shame and guilt.

  Free at last, the wit’ch rejoiced, and uncontrolled laughter burst from Elena’s lips—a mixture of lust, horror, and madness. The thin line between woman and wit’ch blurred. Elena found herself rising to her feet. The wicked glee poured forth from her throat, as the life’s blood had flowed from the slashed throat of the she-goblin.

  Elena struggled to add as much of her own voice to this outburst as she could. She cried her horror and regret, her loss and her pain; she screamed for someone to take this all from her. But her voice was but a whisper before a gale. The delight of the wit’ch bubbled forth from her heart, singing of release and the glory of power.

  Elena could not stop it.

  She watched her left hand take the dagger and prepare to slice the palm that glowed a deep rosy azure. The wit’ch meant to let loose the magick pent up in her hand, to free the ghostfire in her blood and let it run wild over the ship.