Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  Elena’s stomach churned at this story. Mother above, how did this boy survive this horror? She hugged him tight as he began crying again.

  “I couldn’t do nothin’ but hide,” he moaned into her chest. “I spied when they captured you, too, but still didn’t do nothing. I’m such a coward. I should’ve warned you away. Told you to leap into the sea and drown rather than come aboard this cursed ship.”

  She wrapped her arms tighter and rocked him as her own mother had rocked her after a nightmare. But it was little comfort. This was no night figment. “Get Er’ril,” she mouthed to Joach over the boy’s head.

  Her brother nodded and slipped away.

  Once he was gone, Elena spoke words to calm the boy. The lad had faced horrors that would break most men. “You could not stop such evil by yourself,” she whispered to him consolingly. “You would only have been killed. By living, you were able to warn us of the evil.”

  He finally raised his face again, sniffing back tears. “But what can you do? There are so many of them.”

  She placed a finger on his lips. “Hush. There are ways.” An idea suddenly occurred to her. If the boy had spied on their capture . . . “Tok, do you happen to know where they took our supplies?”

  He nodded. “It’s just down the ways from here. I could show you.”

  Suddenly he tensed in her arms—then she heard it, too: the approaching scuff of heel on wood. He tried to wriggle and bolt, but she calmed him. She had recognized the muttered voices accompanying the footsteps. “Fear not. It’s just my brother returning with a friend.”

  Er’ril stepped from the darkness into the tiny pool of lamplight. He eyed the young lad as if appraising a piece of horseflesh. “Joach told me his story,” he said gruffly.

  “He also knows where our packs are,” Elena added.

  “Good,” the plainsman said, “maybe he can show us a better way through the ship.”

  Elena turned to question the boy, but he was already nodding. “I know many ways.”

  Er’ril crossed to the boy. Elena thought he meant to comfort the lad in some way, but instead, he bent the boy’s head down and brusquely ran his fingers over the boy’s neck. “He does not seem contaminated.”

  Elena’s breath caught in her throat. After all the boy’d been through, how could Er’ril be so callous, so cold? But at the same time, another part of her quailed that she had never considered the boy a danger. She had even gone so far as to send Joach away, leaving herself alone with this stranger.

  The same assessment could be seen in Er’ril’s angry features as he stared at Elena. Even Joach seemed sheepish, eyes downcast. Her brother must have heard a few hard words from Er’ril about abandoning his sister.

  “We dare not delay any further,” Er’ril finally said.

  Suddenly a shrieking scream burst through the ship’s bulkheads, echoing across the cavernous hold.

  Tok moaned in her embrace, ducking his head away. “Not again.”

  Elena eyed Er’ril over the top of the boy’s head. There was recognition also in the plainsman’s stare.

  Flint.

  10

  “WHO GOES THERE?” a voice thundered from the darkness near the inn’s stoop.

  The fog hid the guard well in the shadowed alcove. Behind him, the beat of a drum and the twang of a poorly tuned lyre accompanied the raucous laughter from beyond the inn’s closed door. Above the lintel, a single lantern illuminated a faded sign that read The Wolfshide Inn.

  “We come to speak with Tyrus,” Jaston said. Mycelle stood at Jaston’s side. They had left the rest of the troupe near the docks, with Tol’chuk and Kral acting as guards. Her son’s heartstone had led them to the water’s edge, still urging them onward with its fiery glow, but to follow the stone any further would require hiring a boat. After a heated debate, it had been decided to contact the dock’s caste master and arrange for a crew and a small ship. But the title caste master was only a thin veneer of respectability that, in fact, masked the bloody leader of Port Rawl’s pirates. And no transaction was done at the docks without a proper “fee” paid to this brigand.

  “What business have you with Lord Tyrus at this late hour?”

  Mycelle snorted. In Port Rawl, the cloak of midnight was when all pirates struck their deals, usually in smoky taverns like this one over many tall flasks of ale. “Our business is our own,” she answered sullenly.

  “Fine. Keep your tongue to yourself then. But if you bother Tyrus with matters that don’t concern him, he’ll cut out your tongue and hand it back to you for your troubles. He is not a man to be trifled with.”

  “Your warning is well appreciated,” Mycelle said and tossed a silver coin into the shadowed alcove. The coin vanished but never struck stone. Silver always caught the eye of pirates.

  A loud knocking erupted from the stoop, sword hilt on wood. The pattern rapped was clearly a code. A small peephole opened in the door. “Tyrus has visitors,” the guard said. “Strangers . . . with silver.”

  The tiny door snapped closed, and the larger door swung open. Laughter and music rolled out from the inn’s heart, leaving a trail of pipe smoke and the odor of unwashed bodies. “Go on in,” the guard said. In the flare of torches, the guard’s features were seen for the first time. He was a swarthy man whose face was not much less scarred than Jaston’s. He winked salaciously at Mycelle as she passed.

  She smiled at him—not in a friendly manner, but to reveal the steel behind her handsome features. His eyes darted away as he quickly closed the door.

  Glancing ahead, Mycelle studied the room. The commons was crammed with crude tables constructed from what looked like planks from shipwrecks. A few tables even had the old names of the original ships still painted on them: the Singing Swan, the Esymethra, the Shark’s Fin. Mycelle suspected it wasn’t all storms that sank these ships. They seemed more like trophies, and she was sure the stories that went with them were bloody.

  Seated at the tables were hard men from every land of Alasea and beyond. Mycelle spotted dark-skinned warriors from the Southern Wastes, tattooed Steppemen with rings through their noses, thick-browed giants who normally roamed the Crumbling Mounds, even a pair of pale, spindly-limbed Yunk tribesmen from as far away as the Isles of Kell. It seemed the filth from every land ended up washing ashore here in Port Rawl.

  Yet as varied as these men appeared, they all shared two things in common: a hard, calculating glance in their eyes, even when their lips were laughing, and scars. Not a single face was free of a disfiguring sword cut or torch burn, and some injuries looked fresh.

  As Mycelle followed Jaston, she realized that it wasn’t only men who sat at these tables. Mycelle was so startled that she tripped over her own toe. The small snake at her wrist hissed at her sudden movement.

  In a shadowed corner, she spotted a trio of women wearing matching black leathers and cloaks. Three sets of twin crossed swords rested on the table amidst their mugs of steaming kaffee. Each wore her blond hair long and braided in back. Mycelle could have been one of their sisters—and in a way, she was. The trio were mercenary Dro from Castle Mryl, where she herself had been trained in the art of the sword so long ago. At the time, Mycelle had shifted her shape to match the blond, tall women of the northern forests while undertaking her training. It was this form she had settled upon forever. It suited her well.

  But what was a Dro trio doing here, among these pirates? True, a Dro’s sword was always for hire, but it was only granted to serve a cause considered noble enough for their sacred training, not to lend their strength and skill to pirates.

  One of the trio noticed Mycelle. The woman’s blue eyes opened slightly wider, her only reaction—but for a Dro, it might as well have been a scream.

  Jaston stepped beside Mycelle and touched her elbow. “I learned that Tyrus is in the back room. We’re in luck. He’ll see us right away.”

  Mycelle nodded. She had been so shocked by her discovery that she had not even noticed that the swamp man had left. T
he man to whom Jaston had spoken still stood nearby, an officious-looking fellow who wore the coned hat of a scribe. Tapping a toe in impatience, the scribe waved a battered ledger to get them to hurry. Mycelle noticed the man’s fingertips were stained black with ink. It seemed even pirates needed to keep track of their accumulated plunders.

  Mycelle pushed aside the mysteries of the Dro. For now, she needed a ship to hire. If Elena was in danger, as Cassa Dar sensed and Tol’chuk’s heartstone supported, they did not have time to ponder the reasons for the trio of trained warriors appearing in a seedy Port Rawl inn.

  “Let’s find this pirate and get out of here,” Mycelle grumbled.

  Jaston followed the back of the tiny scribe as he led them through a curtain into a private hall, then down to a small door at the end. The skinny man kept tucking stray strands of brown hair back under his scribe’s hat. He knocked on the door.

  “Enter!” was hollered back at him.

  The scribe turned, smiled sickly at them, and opened the door. “Lord Tyrus will see you now.”

  Jaston entered first. With the slightest hand signal, a common gesture used among the hunters of the deadly swamps, he indicated that it looked safe to continue, but to watch their backs.

  Mycelle could feel the weight of steel riding on her back. She was slightly surprised that the guards had not asked them to leave their weapons behind—not that she wouldn’t have managed to slip a dagger or two past any search of her person. Still, this lack of simple precaution made her more uneasy than if the guards had removed every weapon she had. Just how formidable an adversary were they about to encounter?

  Mycelle entered the room and was stunned by what she discovered. Lord Tyrus sat at a table by himself, a half-finished meal before him, with an open book at his elbow. No guards. Yet Mycelle knew the man was well protected. She sensed the danger emanating from him like heat off a hearth. Even with the loss of her seeking ability, she sensed that his power was not born of black magick, but of simple skill and training. He was his own protection and feared nothing from them.

  Licking her dry lips, she found his eyes weighing her every move, judging her for weaknesses and strengths. He smiled at her, a simple nod. She returned the nod, two warriors acknowledging one another.

  Dangerous or not, she was unprepared for how truly handsome Lord Tyrus was. He was younger than she would have imagined, no older than thirty winters, with broad shoulders and an even broader smile. Under thick sandy hair, brushed and oiled back behind his ears, with a neatly trimmed mustache and small clipped beard, he could have been a handsome prince from one of the many kingships of Alasea.

  “Please, come and be seated,” he said with plain civility. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a mug of swampbeer for the gentleman, and I believe the Dro have a preference for kaffee. You have no reason to fear for the others in your party by the dock. They are under my protection while we chat.”

  Jaston glanced at Mycelle. The man already knew so much about them.

  Clearing her throat, Mycelle thanked him for his graciousness, and the two took the offered seats. “If you know so much already, then you must also know we seek to hire a ship.”

  “Indeed, to rescue some girl . . .” He paused, inviting them to fill in any additional details. With their silence, his smile grew wider.

  As he smiled, Mycelle noticed one other detail about this handsome king of the pirates. He bore no scars—and this worried her most of all. How did he fight his way to the top of these hard men and show no sign of the battle? Just how skilled a fighter was he?

  She found the question asked aloud before she could stop it. “Where did you learn to fight so well?”

  His smile dimmed slightly. He had not expected a question from such an unusual direction. But he brightened quickly. “Ah, you are perceptive . . . Though long gone from Castle Mryl, you keep your skills well honed. ‘A keen eye for detail is often more important than the keenest-edged sword.’ ”

  Mycelle started at his words. This last was an old adage taught to her by the mistress of the sword during her training long ago.

  Lord Tyrus reached for his glass of red wine, and faster than Mycelle could follow, a long sword appeared in his other hand. She jumped back, knocking her chair away and sweeping out her two swords. But she was too late. The sword tip already lay in the hollow of Jaston’s throat. The swamper had not even had time to raise a hand.

  The king of the pirates laughed, hearty and gay, and pulled his sword away. “Just judging your speed. I’m sorry, but I could not resist testing your Dro training.”

  Mycelle still shook from the sudden threat. The man moved with the grace and speed of a striking serpent. She kept her swords at ready, figuring she could negotiate just as well armed. She would not be caught unprepared again.

  Tyrus eyed her swords, his eyes still laughing. There was no hard, calculating glint to his gaze, just plain amusement. He had not resheathed his sword either, she noted. Instead, he rested the blade on the table. Judging from the luster of the steel, the weapon was ancient. If she was not mistaken, it looked as if the steel had been folded at least a hundred times during its forging. Such a skill had been lost to bladesmiths for countless centuries. All in all, the sword was as handsome as its current wielder. She wondered from what rich owner this pirate had plundered such an exquisite weapon.

  His hand finally slipped free of the hilt, exposing its design. Plain in form, it held no jewels, no gilt or filigree, just an arc of steel in the shape of a striking snow leopard.

  Mycelle’s mouth dropped open. Sweet Mother! She remembered the trio of Dro in the common room. Sudden understanding lit her face. She fell to her knees and crossed her swords before her, bowing her head between the blades.

  “Mycelle?” Jaston’s voice was full of confusion.

  “Your Grace,” she said, ignoring the swamp man’s inquiry.

  “Oh, on your feet, woman!” Tyrus ordered. “I’ll not have you bowing and scraping before me. You owe me no allegiance. You swore fealty to my father, not me.”

  Mycelle raised her face and sheathed her swords. Blindly, she fumbled behind to retrieve her chair and pulled it upright.

  Sitting, she stared again into his face and amused eyes. She now saw the father in the son’s face. When last she had laid eyes upon Tyrus, he had been only a young boy. Old memories roiled in her mind. “Prince Tylamon Royson,” she named him truly.

  “Please, here I simply go by Tyrus.”

  Mycelle’s mind spun off in a hundred different directions. “What . . . what happened? Why are you here?”

  “The Northwall has been sundered,” he said. “Castle Mryl has fallen.”

  “What!” Mycelle could not have been more shocked than if the man had said the sun would never rise again. Castle Mryl overlooked the great Northwall, an ancient barricade of solid granite, built not by man or any hands, but simply thrust up by the land itself. A league in height and a thousand leagues in length, it marked the northernmost border of the Western Reaches. Its impregnable bulk separated the black forest, the Dire Fell, from the green of the Reaches. If the Northwall had fallen . . .

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  Tyrus’ features grew grim for the first time. “Almost a decade.”

  Her face paled. “And the Dire Fell?”

  “My Dro spies report to me regularly. The Grim of Dire Fell have spread as far as the Stone of Tor.”

  “So fast? That’s already a quarter of the way into the great forest.”

  He just stared at her, letting her absorb it all.

  Her mind turned toward her own people, the si’lura. The Western Reaches was their home, their green bower. If the Grim of the Fell should continue their foul reach into the forest, soon the tribes of her people would be doomed to flee the forest’s safety, likely to die in the mountains of the Teeth.

  “H-how did Castle Mryl fall?”

  “For many winters, our scouts had been sent into the Fell and had returned
with reports of strange lights and blighted creatures seen roaming the heights near the ancient homelands of the Mountain People, near Tor Amon and the Citadel. Then one winter, our scouts stopped returning.”

  “The d’warves?” Mycelle could not help glancing at Jaston, who only wore a stoic expression.

  Tyrus nodded. “The entrenched d’warf armies had been so quiet for so long that we didn’t know what to expect. But my father called back all his Dro-trained warriors, calling for them to honor their oaths.”

  “I heard nothing of this,” Mycelle said, shame burning her face.

  Tyrus ignored her words. His eyes seemed lost in the past. “That winter, something came out of the deep mountains—something from the black core of Tor Amon. The Grim of the Fell grew stronger, fed and goaded by black magicks. My father’s Dro armies could not resist such strength, and my father died defending the last tower.” His eyes filled with tears and anger.

  “I’m sorry,” Mycelle said, but even in her own ears, the words sounded hollow. “Your father was a great man.”

  Still, Tyrus did not acknowledge her. His story seemed to spill from him like a torrent down a dry gully. “The night before he died, he sent me out with the last of the Dro. He knew he would die the next day and did not want our bloodline to end. If there was ever to be a chance to regain our lands and repair the Northwall, one of the Blood must survive.”

  Mycelle understood the necessary caution. The Northwall was not a cold slab of granite. She herself had placed both palms on the great wall as she swore fealty to the Snow Leopard, Tyrus’ father, the king of Castle Mryl. The stone had warmed with her words until the granite almost burned her palms. The Northwall was a living creature—she had even sensed its heart with her seeking ability. The granite heart was not in the stone, but in the man to whom she swore fealty—in the king of Mryl. The two were forever linked. Blood and Stone.