Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  The other raver had not fared as well. It quaked and quivered on its claws. The moldy glow in its yellow eyes flared to silver. Then, from its shell of leathery flesh, its own spirit sprang forth, crackling with ghostfire. Behind it, the vacant body collapsed into a ruin of hollow bone and sagging flesh. Abandoning its old roost, the new ghost stalked across the deck to join its twin. Then the pair of demon spirits continued their attack on the other ravers, spreading her touch of ghostfire like flames in dry grass.

  Soon a ghost army grew around her as the wit’ch fed them more of her magick.

  Elena paid them no heed. She knew that this was only the opening volley in the battle to come; the main fight beckoned. The raver king waited across the deck for her, drooling black blood. Her assault upon the other demons had not fazed it. It just stared at her.

  Elena suspected the raver king would not be so easily swayed by her ghostfire. Here was a creature forged in the deepest pits of the netherworld. Fires of molten rock were its home, and the other ravers were mere pawns. To defeat this beast would require more than just the raw power of a wit’ch. The raver king was a cunning demon, and it would require both a wit’ch’s strength and Elena’s wisdom to carve a victory here.

  Suddenly one lone raver scrambled between her and its king. Its claws danced in terror as it was set upon by her ghost pack and brought down like a frightened rabbit under hungry hounds. Then, in a moment, its spirit, too, joined her army.

  Now no other ravers were left aboard the Seaswift—except for their king.

  Satisfied, Elena reined back her magick, gathering it from the decks like the fiery hems of a long robe. For the battle ahead, she would need all her remaining power. Already her right hand had lost much of its rosy hue. She could waste no more.

  Before her, one of her ghost soldiers approached its king. The others followed. It was as if the spirits sensed the last of their quarry. In a burst of silver ghostfire, the army lunged at their king, meaning to rip its spirit free.

  But the king stood its ground. It rose on its clawed limbs among the horde, a black stone in a maelstrom of silver spirits. Finally, the king opened his fanged maw and attacked the others, slashing and hacking with razored teeth. Just as its eyes had spotted Elena when she was invisible, now its fangs found purchase where none should be found. Its teeth ripped and tore her ghost army to flaming shreds. A black tongue snaked from its throat and consumed the scraps of spirit, lapping like a hungry cat.

  As it fed, the beast grew, using Elena’s own magick to swell its size. Legs, jointed and armored like a spider, spread under it. Fangs grew to the length of an outstretched arm. Its eyes sank deep under thickening brows, while horns of glistening spikes sprouted over its leathered skin.

  Elena did not wait. Thrusting out her arm, she lanced out with her magick. Silver flames arced across the deck to hit the demon. She pumped all her magick toward the beast.

  For the first time, the raver king howled as raw ghostfire enveloped it. It fought her hold, scrabbling across the deck toward her, meaning to snuff out the source of the searing flames.

  Elena danced back from it, her arm still outstretched. “Begone, demon,” she screamed as her blood sang with the release of her energies. “I send you back from whence you came!”

  Unfortunately, the raver king did not obey. Where the smaller ravers had succumbed quickly, the demon king fought on.

  From somewhere beyond the pyre of ghostfire, a cry reached her. “El, hang on! I’ll help you!”

  Her right eyebrow crinkled. It took her half a heartbeat to recognize Joach’s voice. Finally, she noticed Er’ril and the others gathered across the deck, swords raised toward Rockingham. She spotted Joach’s boyish form, armed only with his staff, dashing across the planks toward her—toward the flaming figure of the raver king.

  “Joach! No!” Elena fought against the hold of the wit’ch. That cold part of her spirit wished only for the battle between demons to continue. It cared nothing for a sister’s love for a brother: Such emotions had no role in the dance of magicks. Still, as the wit’ch cast her magicks at the struggling demon lord, draining the wild energies from her blood, Elena found the wit’ch’s call less seductive. She found herself able to think more clearly.

  Elena remembered her earlier awareness—that to defeat the raver king would require more than just raw power. A moment ago, she had lashed out without thinking, but little had been gained from such rash action. She had wounded the beast, nothing more.

  With her magick waning, Elena wrested control from the wit’ch. Quickly she stanched the flow of ghostfire, drawing the last of her magick back to herself before it was foolishly spent.

  Before her, the raver king still burned with the touch of her flames, but her ghostfire would not last much longer. She had only a moment. She glanced to her pale hand. What could she do? This demon spirit seemed immune to what little of her magick there was left.

  “Stand back, El!” Joach called back from the far side of the writhing demon. He bore his staff over his head as if he meant to club the beast with the stout wood.

  Elena stared at her brother’s weapon. A seed of an idea bloomed in her mind. Where magick fails . . . She suddenly remembered Aunt Mycelle’s lesson from just the other day: Where magick fails, a sword prevails.

  Elena sprang straighter. “Joach! Don’t!” she yelled to him, but she knew that no word of hers would keep him away. He would die defending her. “Join me over here!” Holding her magick clenched in her right fist, she circled the writhing demon as it stamped out the last of her silvery flames.

  Brother and sister sped toward each other’s side.

  Noticing the motion, the raver king spun on its claws, gouging deep channels in the wood. It roared at them, confused, but failed to keep them apart. Joach skidded to a stop beside his sister, raising his staff like a shield between the beast and Elena.

  The raver king stretched up from its pained crouch, towering over the two of them. The stench of charred flesh curled from its blackened shell as two yellow eyes spat vengeance at them.

  “Finish her!” Rockingham yelled to his demon creation.

  Across the deck, Er’ril swiped his sword at Rockingham’s head, driving her tormentor back from the mast. “Elena!” he called to her. “Flee belowdecks! Use the last of your magick to hide yourself!”

  Elena considered the sense in his words. She did have enough magick in her blood to fade from sight.

  At her silence, Joach half turned to her. “Do it,” he urged quietly.

  Elena shook her head. Here was her place. Beside them all.

  As brother and sister silently communicated their determination and love, the beast attacked in a flurry of sharp edges. Fangs slashed at Joach while razored claws speared toward Elena.

  Without flinching, Elena reached up beside her brother and grabbed his staff with her bloody right fist. As in the ship’s hallway, white and black magick clashed. An explosion of energies burst out from them, knocking the beast back a step. Where before the concussion had also flung Elena away, this time she was ready. She locked an iron grip on the staff and held tight. Joach gasped beside her, feeling the surge of power as her blood and magick absorbed into the staff.

  As she clenched the rod, more and more of her energies fed into the hungry wood. She swooned as she was drawn into the staff. For a moment, she experienced the fibers and channels of the wood. Even a whisper of forest song echoed in her ears. Still, the staff fed on her—and not all the energies it absorbed were mere magicks.

  Some of her own life essence flowed, too.

  “No,” she moaned, suddenly understanding what was asked of her. Clutching the staff, she watched her fingernails lengthen, curling and yellowing with age. This price was too high!

  “Elena! Watch out!” Joach’s frantic words drew her back from losing herself completely in the wood. He knocked her away, breaking her contact with the staff. Her arms fell limp to her side. Not only was her magick spent, so was her strength.<
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  “El, what . . . what did you do to my staff?”

  Elena fought to focus her eyes. The black poi’wood of Joach’s staff now shone silver, like the polished wood of a snowy maple. But marring its pristine surface were flowing streaks of scarlet, as if blood pumped through the heart of the wood. “Use it,” she said aloud.

  “The magick?”

  She shook her head, sagging against the rail. She pushed him toward the monster as she fainted. “Use it the way Father taught you.”

  JOACH’S BROW CRINKLED in confusion, but he was given no chance to argue. The raver king sensed the weakening of its prey and attacked. It jabbed a claw at Joach, meaning to impale him. But Joach blocked the deadly blow with a crack of his staff. He had only hoped to parry its thrust, but the results shocked both beast and boy.

  The smote claw exploded under the staff into a shower of stinging shards. The demon yanked away its maimed limb and hissed as it retreated a step. It crouched lower on its armored limbs and studied Joach with sick yellow eyes. It had underestimated its prey.

  Warily watching the beast, Joach glanced to the staff in his fist. The snowy white of the wood now glowed, and streaks of red flowed through the wood like thin rivers. As he stared, his eyes flew wide. The red rivers did not end with the wood but continued on into his own flesh. Through his pale skin, Joach watched the flowing channels creep over his knuckles and up his wrist. From there, the rivulets spread in curls and twists up the length of his arm, disappearing under the cuff of his shirt.

  What was happening?

  Before he could ponder it further, a hissing growl woke him to the more immediate danger.

  Joach raised the magick-wrought staff. The thick wood was now as light as a willow branch in his fingers. It took only the slightest dance of his fingers and twist of wrist to manipulate the whirling length of wood. Joach swung the staff before him in a wicked arc, a blur of polished wood. His father had once told him that a wooden stave in skilled hands could be deadlier than the sharpest sword. He had doubted him then, but not now. He spun the staff over his wrist, catching it cleanly. He had never felt such control, such an understanding of wood and force. It was almost as if the staff were an extension of his own arm, a deadly statement of his own will.

  Boy and staff were now one.

  The raver king leaped, intending to rip them apart. Joach responded. With only a thought, the staff spun, and Joach drove its butt end into the face of the hurdling demon, stopping it in its tracks. The shivering impact shot up the wood and into his shoulder. Such a blow should have knocked the stave from numb fingers. But Joach hardly felt it. With a deft twist of his wrist, he twirled the staff and slammed its other end square atop the demon lord’s skull.

  Bone cracked, and the raver king crashed to the planks, splintering a section of decking. The blow had been fierce enough to kill a bull—but this beast still lived. Clawed limbs dug for purchase, first weakly, dazedly, then with renewed determination.

  Joach did not wait for it to regain its footing. He dashed forward, planting his staff on the deck, and vaulted up over the flaying storm of razored claws. He landed atop the back of the demon. Without pausing, he positioned the butt end of his staff against the center of the monster’s back, both fists clamped on its upper end. Joach dragged the staff straight up, then using all his weight and will, drove its end through the core of the demon. Wood cleaved cleanly through leather and bone, stabbing at last into the wood of the deck under the raver king.

  The beast writhed like a pinned spider on corkboard.

  Joach danced to keep his footing, but the threat of claws and fangs was too near. Using his planted staff as a purchase, Joach again vaulted over the flailing limbs and tumbled across the deck. He caught up against the rail, only an arm’s length from his sister.

  Rolling over, Joach watched the end result of his attack. The raver king’s struggles weakened with each shudder. The silver spike of wood held it trapped. Claws rattled to the deck, then lay still. In a wail that split the clouds and tore away a section of sail, the black spirit fled, steaming from around the impaling wood, and was gone.

  All that was left were the hollow remains of the goblin queen, twisted and burned. The staff, still imbedded in the deck, had returned to its dark hue, the white magick spent.

  Joach sat up and reached for his sister’s limp form. His hand froze as his eyes finally recognized her condition. “Sweet Mother . . . El . . .”

  Elena lay sprawled, unconscious, in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the ship’s rail. Though she still breathed, her skin was as pale as the first snow. Yet her weak pallor was not what trapped Joach’s breath. His sister’s hair, once cropped short, now lay like a thick pillow of fiery curls under her head. Only the very tips still showed the black dye that had once disguised her.

  Joach scrambled toward her, too stunned to call to the others. As he neared, he saw that even the nails of her fingers and toes showed the same miraculous growth. Her fingernails had spread into twisted corkscrews across her palms.

  Yet her hair and nails were not all that had grown out. Joach tried not to stare at her naked form, but the changes were too shocking to look away. Elena no longer bore the physique of a young girl whose womanhood beckoned. Her figure had blossomed and stretched into the full curves of a beautiful maiden. It was as if four winters of age had swept over her in mere heartbeats.

  Joach quickly shrugged out of his shirt and wrapped her nakedness in the thick wool. It barely covered her. She must now be a good head taller than him.

  The motion stirred her. “J-Joach?” she mumbled. Her eyelids fluttered with fatigue.

  “Hush, El. Sleep,” he whispered, unsure what to say. “You’re safe.”

  Across the deck, a voice argued otherwise. “You’d best deliver her to me, boy,” Rockingham called. “Perhaps I’ll even let you live.”

  With eyes narrowed in hate, Joach turned and stalked across the planks until he stood beside the impaled staff, his only weapon.

  On the far side of the deck, Er’ril and the others still held Rockingham in a temporary standoff. Swords circled the monster, but the golem lay nestled in his protective shadows. Flint warned against stepping into that oily darkness.

  Joach raised his own voice, fierce with vengeance. “Send the entire demon horde of the netherworld against us, you monster. But you will never touch Elena.”

  “Strong words for someone now bereft of his sister’s magick.”

  “I will fight you with any weapon,” he spat back. He reached for his staff. As his fingers wrapped around the wood, a shock arced through his body. His knees gave way.

  Using the staff as a crutch, he barely kept his footing.

  Where his fist gripped the wood, red channels flowed out from his flesh into the staff. Black wood became white again as rivulets of scarlet spread through the staff. Each thudding beat of his heart pushed the darkness farther away. Joach’s eyes grew wide, but he could not deny what he sensed. It was his own blood now that flowed through the wood, feeding the hungry staff. He had thought Elena’s magick spent, but now he understood that it had only gone dormant, awaiting his blood to rekindle it. As the magick reignited, he heard a distant chorus deep in his ears: a hum of magick, gleeful and wicked. Strength returned to his limbs.

  “El, what have you done?” he muttered.

  “I had no choice,” a weak voice answered from near the rail.

  Startled, Joach glanced and noticed that his sister’s eyes were open. She stared transfixed as his blood filled the staff. It now shone white from tip to tip.

  “I needed a weapon,” she continued, tired and forlorn.

  “So you forged this.” Joach yanked the staff from the deck. It was as easy as if he were removing a fork from warm butter.

  “No,” she said. Her eyes met his for the first time. “I forged you.”

  ER’RIL KEPT HIS sword raised between Rockingham and the wit’ch. He did not glance back as Joach and Elena whispered. He feared giving
the golem any chance to better its position on the deck.

  So far, he and the two Brothers had played a cautious game of cat and mouse with the demon across the deck of the vessel. After the creation of the raver horde, the magick in the golem had seemed to weaken. It had retreated to a defensive position, casting a protective ring of shadows around its ankles. While their swords had kept it from nearing Elena, its shadows still held them at bay.

  Er’ril tightened his grip on his sword’s hilt. Shadows or not, they must act soon. They could not give the monster a chance to gather its strength for another assault.

  It was at this moment that fate took hold of destiny.

  A grinding roar ripped through the bowels of the Seaswift. The decks tremored underfoot; the crunch and crack of timber echoed over the waters. Er’ril guessed it to be another black trick of the golem. But from the pinched, surprised expression on Rockingham’s face, Er’ril suspected he might be mistaken.

  Flint answered the mystery. “Reef!” he yelled. The seaman’s face was a mixture of indecision. From the worried glance to the stern, he obviously feared abandoning the demon’s flank, but he knew a hand was needed on the lashed wheel if they were to survive.

  Before either Brother could act, the ship lurched and a deep growl shook through the vessel. The masts tilted drunkenly; the canvas sails snapped in protest.

  “We’re stoved!” Flint yelled.

  The ship ground to a battered stop. Surprised, Er’ril fell backward, even as the deadly shadows swept over the very spot where he had been standing. Rockingham, no more experienced at keeping his footing atop the bucking planks than Er’ril, had stumbled nearer, falling to his knees.

  Er’ril started to roll farther away across the deck when he stopped in horror.

  Moris, well seasoned by the rough seas of the Archipelago, had ridden out the sudden halt with one hand on the mast, only to be consumed by the passing wave of shadows as Rockingham stumbled. The dark-skinned Brother stared in disbelief as the shadows swept up his legs.

  Flint took a step nearer.