Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  Mycelle’s brow crinkled. “What are you saying?”

  “Elena flees toward Port Rawl,” Tol’chuk insisted.

  “How—?” Kral began to say.

  The og’re swung his arm behind him, pointing north, back toward Port Rawl. The chunk of heartstone flared to a brilliance that outshone the setting sun. Kral held up a hand against the aching glare.

  Tol’chuk gasped in pain, as if the jewel’s radiance burned his claws. “The stone demands we go.”

  ATOP HER TALL gelding, Mycelle led the “caravan” toward the gates of Port Rawl. She no longer wore her usual leather and steel but, like the others, had disguised herself in the sturdy and plain gear of the swamp traders: coarse shirt, worn trousers woven of boghemp, a hooded snakeskin slicker, and kroc’an boots that reached above her knees. It seemed this day was full of masquerades.

  As she rode, Mycelle reached to her arm and stroked the small snake wound around her wrist. The paka’golo’s tiny tongue flickered over her fingertip, almost thanking her for the attention; then it settled back to rest. Mycelle found herself smiling slightly at its affection. How odd that such a small gesture should warm her heart.

  Pulling her sleeve over the snake to keep it warm, she glanced to the rising moon, a sliver of brilliance among the cloud-swept stars. They had made good time, but were they fast enough? Based on the omens of a glowing stone, they were rushing headlong into unknown danger. But Mycelle trusted her son’s auguries. Having lived among the og’re tribes for a time, she had come to respect the stone called the Heart of the Clans. If Tol’chuk sensed danger for Elena, Mycelle would follow the stone’s guidance—even if it meant returning to this black-hearted city.

  A grumble drew her attention to the right. Beside her, Jaston rode atop Er’ril’s dappled stallion. The tall man fought the reins of the fiery-spirited horse. Watching his difficulty, Mycelle had a new respect for Er’ril’s horsemanship. The stallion, purchased in Shadowbrook, had given Er’ril little trouble on the journey to the swamps.

  “Curse this mount,” Jaston grumbled. His stallion rolled its sharp black eyes and tossed its head, huffing a white stream into the cooling night.

  “Then let him have his head. He’s a smart beast, and a lighter touch may suit you better.”

  “I’ve had less trouble with a rutting bull kroc’an,” he mumbled. But he tried her suggestion, and the stallion seemed to respond accordingly.

  Satisfied, Mycelle craned around in her seat and studied the long line of their swamp caravan. They were all mounted, except for Meric and Mama Freda, who guided the open wagon, and Tol’chuk and Fardale, who kept pace on their own legs. She sighed. With Jaston’s swampers, they numbered fifteen. Too small a number for a serious assault, but it would have to do.

  Swinging around, she faced the Swampwall as it came into view around a bend in the trail. Unlike the previous evening, the gates now blazed with torches. Mycelle slowed her horse to a walk and, with a wave, slowed the entire troupe. At least twenty men manned those gates. Clearly the city had been spooked by the deaths at the garrison and was roiled up like a hornet’s nest now.

  “Get Tol’chuk in the wagon and covered,” she hissed back at them. There was no way to disguise Tol’chuk with mere clothes. Too many townspeople would have heard of the escaped og’re by now, and his presence would raise suspicions.

  Once her son was loaded in the back of the wagon and covered with a thick tarp, Mycelle tightened her grip on her reins and continued toward the blazing gates. The air stung her eyes with oily smoke from all the torches. Off toward the coast, a thick fog rolled from the shrouded seas. Mycelle noted its approach approvingly. The masking mist could weave a fine cloak to hide their movements and numbers as the night wore on.

  Jaston kicked his stallion a step ahead of Mycelle. “Maybe I’d better do the talking,” he offered. “Swamp caravans are Port Rawl’s only means of trading with the neighboring landlocked towns, and the guards know better than to interfere with us.”

  Mycelle waved him on. She had no great wish to confront the rough men guarding the gates. Besides, without shape-shifting, there was even a good chance the gatekeeper might recognize her from last night. Though she could always change faces, Mycelle only wanted to touch her si’luran abilities if absolutely necessary. She was still tired from wearing the old crone’s form earlier. Changing too frequently taxed a shape-shifter. There were limits to which even a si’luran’s flesh could be stressed. Time was needed to rest the body.

  Yet, exhausted or not, Mycelle could not deny the true reason for her reluctance. She stared as Jaston trotted ahead and rode toward the gates. She had failed to mention to him about her ability to shape-shift. She had told herself there was no need to tell him and had convinced herself that the fewer folks who knew the better—especially when a shape-shifter’s nature was so repugnant to most men. It was purely a logical decision. Still, deep in her heart, Mycelle felt shame—not at her heritage, but at the secret she kept from a man she had once loved. She remembered the looks of fear and loathing that her shifting had once evoked in men. She could not bear to see it in Jaston’s eyes, too.

  Irritated, she kicked her horse to close the gap with Jaston’s stallion.

  Already the swamp man was pulling to a stop before the thick iron portcullis. He threw back the hood of his slicker, exposing his scarred face to the torches’ glow. No longer shying from the eyes of others, he did not flinch from the unforgiving light. The trials of the swamp and the love of a wit’ch had gone a long way toward healing his shame. His boldness only made Mycelle’s own shame seem that much larger.

  “Ho! Gatekeep!” Jaston called.

  From the walkway above, a shadowy figure leaned over. “Who goes there?” a guard called stridently.

  Jaston waved at the band of swampers and wagon. “Who does it look like? We’ve come a long way to do some trading. Open the gates. We’ve had a hard day of travel and wish to wash the road dust from our throats with the swill you call ale here.”

  The guard chuckled harshly. “Swill? Just ’cause your mama burned your mouth with swampbeer, don’t insult the ales of our fine inns.”

  “Then open your gates and prove us wrong!” Jaston patted a small cask lashed behind his saddle. “I’ve a sample of swampbeer so you and the other boys can taste the drink of real men.”

  Mycelle watched the familiar ceremony: the ritual exchange of insults and carefully proffered bribes.

  Jaston knew what he was doing. There was nothing like the offer of free spirits to oil many a tight doorway. The gates were already creaking open. Jaston waved his thanks to the gatekeep and led the others toward the opening.

  Once through, Jaston took up a position by the lead guard. He stayed saddled but stood in his stirrups, barking harsh orders at the caravan, haranguing them with his tongue, acting the part of the tough troupe leader.

  A young guard, no more than a boy, tried to peek under the tarp as the wagon passed. But Jaston lashed at him. “Leave our wares be. If you want to trade, see us in the morning at Four Corners.” Mycelle saw the sweat pebbling Jaston’s forehead. Their plans would be ruined if Tol’chuk was discovered. Mycelle’s fingers wandered to the hilt of a dagger at her waist.

  “I thought I saw something move,” the boy squeaked.

  Suddenly the head of a large snake slid from under the wagon’s covering and hissed at the boy, only a handspan from his nose, exposing long fangs. The youth danced back, white faced.

  The other guards laughed and ridiculed the boy as he backed farther away. “Like the man said, Brunt,” the lead guard scolded the boy, “don’t poke your nose where it don’t belong.”

  The wagon was allowed to pass without further investigation.

  Once the entire caravan was through and winding toward the darkened streets, Jaston cut free the cask and let it roll off his horse’s rump into the hands of the thirsty guard. “With the compliments of the traders of Drywater.”

  The guard nodded. “We’l
l raise our first mug to your good trading.”

  Jaston snorted. “I hope it’s the first mug. Remember, this is swampbeer. By the last mug, you won’t even remember your own names.” Amid the appreciative guffaws, he kicked his horse toward where Mycelle waited at the head of the caravan.

  “That wasn’t too hard,” he said, wiping the nervous sweat from his brow.

  Mycelle nodded him forward with her. “It’s always easy putting your head in a noose. It’s getting out that’s hard.”

  The two led the others through the outskirts of the town’s narrowing streets. Tension kept the company quiet. Only the tromp of hoof and creak of wagon wheel marked their progress through the dark avenues. Once well away from the gates, Tol’chuk rolled from the wagon, shoving the innocuous swamp python back into its cage under the tarp.

  Mycelle smiled at him as he lumbered up to the front. “Quick wits, Son. Now I know you’ve got more than just your father’s good looks.”

  He wiped his clawed hands on his thighs. “I hate snakes,” he said with a shiver.

  Mycelle exposed the “bracelet” wound around her wrist. “Even this tiny one who saved your mother from poison?”

  “That be not a snake anymore. It be a part of you. That I can never hate.”

  She reached and touched his cheek, sharing a moment of familial warmth.

  “So where do we go from here?” Jaston asked.

  Tol’chuk fished his chunk of heartstone from his pocket and slowly swung it in a circle. It bloomed to a sharp brilliance when pointed in only one direction.

  Mycelle sighed in exasperation.

  “What?” Jaston asked.

  “It points toward the docks.”

  Jaston’s face grew grim. Like her, he knew the town well. The port section of the city was its roughest and meanest quarter, thick with pirates and their crews. Even the most wily denizens of Port Rawl knew better than to wander into that lair without an invitation, and no sane person ever went there at night.

  “What are we to do?” Jaston asked.

  Mycelle nodded toward the glowing stone. “Follow the light, keep a hand on your sword, and pray.”

  9

  ELENA TESTED THE ropes that bound her. Tied by experienced sailors, the knots were secure. Her struggling only succeeded in tightening them further. She stared at the other two prisoners who shared the tiny cabin. Across the narrow room, Er’ril lay on his belly, his one arm tied to his ankles. He had yet to awaken from the club to the back of his head. Even from here, Elena could see the blood welling through his black hair and down his cheek.

  “He shouldn’t have tried so hard to resist when they took Flint away,” Joach said, noticing where Elena stared. Her brother was also trussed tight: ankles bound to a chair, and wrists tied behind him.

  “He was just trying to make it look authentic.”

  “That cudgel they used on him looked authentic enough.”

  Elena chewed at her lower lip. It had taken all of Elena’s restraint not to lash out at the one-eyed sailor who had struck Er’ril. It would have been only a minor magick to burn through the ropes and flame his cudgel to ash, but Flint’s stern eyes and furtive shake of his head had stayed her hand. They all had to play their parts if they hoped the ruse to succeed.

  Flint’s plan was for Er’ril and Elena to pose as husband and wife, an upland couple accompanying their lame nephew, Joach, on their way to Port Rawl’s healer. After renewing her power, Elena had trimmed her overgrown hair and nails and donned a set of Er’ril’s clothes. With the change in her body, she could no longer pose as a boy. Elena glanced down at the ample swellings upon her chest—that was definitely a ploy that could never work again. Still, Flint’s ruse had proven sound, especially since the captain seemed more interested in the older Brother than in his passengers. Their ultimate goal was for the captain to deliver them to Port Rawl, and once on land, they’d use Elena’s magick to make their escape.

  Before her, Er’ril groaned and began to push himself from the floor. Elena found herself able to breathe again. Though she was somewhat sure the blow was far from fatal, she was glad to hear him grumble and move.

  “Sweet Mother, that man had more of an arm than I suspected,” Er’ril said, rolling to his side. The move was difficult with his trussed limbs. “I didn’t think he’d strike so hard.”

  “You fell like an axed tree,” Joach quipped. “You should’ve seen Flint’s face.”

  “Elena, are you all right? Did they harm you?” The concern on Er’ril’s face seemed misplaced as blood dripped from his own cheek.

  “I only wish they had tried to touch me,” she said blackly, murder clear in her words. “But they were only interested in Flint.”

  Er’ril smiled at her expression. “Now I know why I married you.”

  She appreciated his attempt at levity. He clearly sought to ease her tension, but it did no good. She hated this waiting, especially when the fate of their friend was still unknown.

  “Where did they take Flint?” Er’ril said, voicing their common concern.

  Elena looked to her toes.

  Joach answered. “They dragged him off to the captain’s cabin for a ‘private’ talk. We heard Flint cry out once, but nothing since.”

  “Don’t worry. These pirates wouldn’t kill him,” Er’ril argued. “He’s the only one who supposedly knows the fate of the seadragon.”

  “Unless they believe he lost it,” Elena said, raising her eyes. “I overheard a sailor talking. He was sure Flint’s dragon had somehow escaped. According to the sailor, the price of dragon’s blood should’ve bought Flint a whole fleet.” Elena stared Er’ril in the eyes. “If this question arose in a simple sailor, it’ll also be on Captain Jarplin’s mind.” She let the rest remain unspoken. Flint’s last scream still echoed in her ears.

  After a worried moment of silence, Er’ril spoke up. “Elena, can you free yourself?”

  “Not without magick. The knots are snug.”

  “Then use your power.”

  Joach sat straighter. “What about Flint’s plan?”

  “I don’t have as much trust as Flint does in the logic of pirates.” Er’ril rolled to face Elena more fully. “Free yourself; then untie us. Conserve your magick as much as possible.”

  Elena nodded. She needed no further encouragement. Touching her magick, she directed it to her right fist. With her hands gloved and tied behind her, Elena could not see if her fist glowed with magicks, but in her heart, she knew it. She sensed the power concentrating, waiting for release. She was ready, too.

  The head of a copper nail protruded from the seatback of her chair. Using her fingers, she slipped her glove down a bit, then gouged the soft flesh of her wrist on the nail’s sharp edge. Pain lanced up, quick and sharp, but before she could even wince, the fire in the wound was washed away by a flow of magick and blood. The chorus of power sang in her ears.

  “Easy, Elena.”

  She scowled. Did no one have confidence in her? For countless nights, she had practiced controlling her wit’ch fire, and if she concentrated, she had learned how to flame the wick of a candle without even melting its wax tip.

  Using that skill now, Elena loosened a thread of her magick and wove it into the ropes that bound her. Once it was wound through the entire length of cord, she ignited the filament. There was a bright flash, and the ropes fell to ash.

  With an aching protest from her shoulders, Elena brought her arms around and dusted ash from her wrists.

  “Are you hurt?” Er’ril asked. “Did you burn yourself?”

  Frowning, she shook her head. She raised her gloved fist before him and loosened another thread of magick. The glove that hid her hand vanished in a brief flicker of flame. Ash rained down, exposing her glowing fist beneath. Her hidden Rose bloomed bright in the room, driving back the gloom.

  Er’ril and Joach’s eyes grew huge at her display.

  It was so simple. Elena glanced to the ropes that bound her legs. Cocking her head, she
cast out a strand; the ropes vanished from her ankles. With smoke curling around her, Elena stood up.

  She began to point toward Joach.

  Er’ril interrupted her. “No!” he spat out.

  She turned to him. “Why?” This fine weaving of magick was more exhilarating in some ways than her blasts of wild fury. Here was not just raw power, but a fierce strength that was hers to control. It was like riding a muscled stallion attuned to her every movement.

  “Just untie us,” Er’ril ordered.

  “But magick is quicker,” she mumbled, still a bit breathless.

  “Do it!”

  Reluctantly, she crossed to Er’ril and fingered his knots loose. In a few tugs, he was free. Er’ril rocked onto his knees and shook feeling into his fingers. Before she could move to free Joach, Er’ril stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

  “Listen, child,” he said. “One of the first lessons a mage was taught during my times was to learn restraint. It is also one of the hardest lessons for most mages. As my brother’s liegeman, it was my sworn duty to warn Shorkan against using his powers when ordinary means were at hand. To waste magick to light a cold hearth when tinder and flint are available is wrong. Magick is a gift not to be squandered, but to be used thoughtfully and only when necessary.”

  She nodded, drawing back her power, and crossed to Joach. She freed her brother as she pondered the plainsman’s words. Once done, she turned to face Er’ril. “But if a mage can renew his strength, why should it matter how he uses it?”

  Er’ril stood and helped Joach from his chair. “We can talk more of this later. For now, just know that to use your powers indiscriminately only makes you more and more dependent on them. You become a tool of your magick, rather than the other way around.”