Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  Then it was over. The dragon pulled up under her and again she rode his back easily. She dared to open her eyes.

  They glided above waves now, and breezes whipped dry her green hair. She stared forward toward the distant curve of the world. The ocean was a featureless plain before her. The bright sun hid behind scudding white clouds, giving the water a sheen of beaten silver.

  The skies are angry, Ragnar’k sent to her.

  “What?” Sy-wen yelled into the wind.

  Suddenly a thundering crack exploded.

  Craning around, Sy-wen saw the reason for the dragon’s words. Behind her, a short distance away, the entire world was black clouds, sheeting rain, and lancing bolts of light. Again thunder rolled at them, the rumbling bellow of a savage beast.

  Flee, she urged Ragnar’k. We must not get caught in that storm.

  Ragnar’k swung to face the full fury of the tempest. The dragon opened its black maw and threatened the thunder with its own roar. Then it spun on a wing and swept away, sailing close over the waves.

  Hurry, she pushed.

  The crack of thunder and the scream of winds grew louder in her ears. She leaned close to Ragnar’k. The dragon sped onward, a fire building up under her seat as Ragnar’k fought to escape.

  As they raced, Sy-wen began to realize that she and Kast might have been rash to seek the Dre’rendi on their own. She should have heeded her mother’s counsel. Thoughts of returning to her people danced in her mind, but she pushed such ideas away and stared at the sea under her. Perhaps they could flee under the waves and let the storm pass over while they sheltered within the womb of the sea.

  No, she thought savagely, bending lower over the dragon, urging him to greater speed. They had delayed too long already and dared not risk losing another day by hiding from the storm. Flying was not only faster, but free of the sea, their gazes could search from horizon to horizon. If the Dre’rendi were to be discovered in time, she and the dragon must outride this storm.

  As if sensing her thoughts, a massive tangle of lightning burst behind them, casting the dragon’s shadow upon the still ocean. The seas below grew flat and glassy as the sun’s meager light was swallowed away by the savage squall.

  The dragon spoke. The fangs of the sky are upon us.

  With this thought, the black clouds rolled over the pair and blew forth with jagged spears of lightning. The boom of thunder pounded at Sy-wen’s ears, and screaming winds threatened to tear them both from the sky.

  They had lost their race.

  The squall had caught them in its jaws.

  PINORR STOOD IN the crowded commons of the Dragonspur. Half the crew had gathered to witness this battle between shaman and keelchief. The room served mostly as ship’s galley, but this day the ale-stained benches had been shoved back, and a space had been cleared before the longest table. Though the reek of fish-belly stew still clung to the rafters, for the moment the galley had been transformed into a ship’s court.

  Pinorr studied his judges. Seated behind the long table were Jabib and Gylt, the ship’s first and second mates. They were also Ulster’s cronies.

  Pinorr eyed the pair with distaste. Jabib, the first mate, was a giant of a man as gaunt as he was tall, with a misshapen nose sitting like a broken scow atop a pocked face. Gylt, his second, was short and stocky, his dark face frozen in a perpetual scowl.

  Sheeshon would find no mercy from those two. From Ulster’s smug expression as he stood alongside Pinorr, the matter of Sheeshon’s attack upon the keelchief had already been settled. Supposedly a keelchief was the equal of any crewmember when a cause was brought forward, but here Pinorr spotted the veiled smiles shared between the pair of judges and Ulster.

  Justice this day would be as blind as a mud crawler buried in silt.

  As Pinorr sourly pondered his odds, Ulster stepped forward to begin the proceedings. The keelchief bowed deeply to each of the two judges, as was custom.

  Pinorr followed but only bowed his head—once. The crowd behind him muttered at his slight.

  The faces of the two mates reddened angrily at Pinorr’s lack of deference. Jabib opened his mouth to reprimand Pinorr, but Ulster cut him off, further proving who truly ran these proceedings. “Shaman, your son’s daughter should be present before the tribunal.”

  Pinorr turned to his keelchief, keeping his voice respectful. “I serve as her counsel here, as is allowed. I speak for her.”

  “Counsel or not, she should still be present in this room.”

  “Mader Geel watches her in my cabin, and your guards have the old woman and the frail child well in hand. Unless of course you fear the two might overpower your men. I could bring her here if you fear for your safety while the child is out of sight.”

  Ulster began to bluster and redden.

  Pinorr continued. “We wouldn’t want you to have to face such a dangerous swordswoman a second time, especially seeing as how she bested you once already.” Pinorr nodded toward Ulster’s bandaged hand.

  Again the crowd snickered, their faces averted so Ulster could not see exactly who laughed at the shaman’s words.

  Pinorr kept his features serious.

  “Fine. Let her remain in your rooms. I would never want to be called unfair.”

  Pinorr swallowed back a snort. “Then let us settle this matter.”

  Clearing his throat, Ulster stepped forward. “I accuse Sheeshon di’Ra of an attack on a fellow crewman without properly declaring a challenge.”

  Jabib nodded somberly as if considering his chief’s words, then turned to Pinorr. “How do you answer?”

  Pinorr refused to step forward. “This is a farce. My son’s daughter could not declare a tekra, a blood challenge, because the word is meaningless to her. As all here know, Sheeshon is not hale of mind or body. She is but an infant in a young girl’s body. To bring her before the tribunal as a full crewmember is the act of a craven man.”

  The crowd erupted behind the shaman.

  Ulster spoke into the uproar. “You’re mistaken, Shaman. I never claimed the girl was a crewmember. That is for the tribunal to decide. I only follow the old code of the Dre’rendi. The girl has passed ten winters, and she has broken our law. The code is clear. She must face the tribunal and trust them to find where justice lies in her matter.”

  The crowd hushed to low murmurs.

  Pinorr found the amused eyes of his judges studying him. It would be hard to fight the letter of the Dre’rendi code. Ulster had found a weak spot to exploit and now reveled in his sure victory here. But Pinorr was not finished. He knew that often a fire could only be met with fire.

  “You speak much of code,” Pinorr said. “But you have not read far enough back to remember one of our older codes: ‘He who stands accused can claim jakra of his accuser.’ ”

  “A blood duel?” Ulster’s face paled, but soon laughter bubbled from his hard lips. “You grow foolish in your tottering years, old man. Has the madness of rajor maga finally touched you, as it eventually claims all shamans?”

  “I am not yet blinded by the sea gods’ touch. My mind is still my own. And as counsel of Sheeshon, I declare jakra for her.” He pointed to the keelchief, a man with twice his muscles and half his age. “I call you to a blood duel with Sheeshon.”

  The shock on Ulster’s face had wiped away all traces of smugness. Pinorr saw the man’s mind working on the puzzle set before him. He could not fathom where Pinorr was tacking in this storm. No one of sound judgment would choose the path of jakra. The archaic code had not been invoked in over a century. All knew that it was far better to face the harsh decision of a tribunal rather than face a blood duel. The odds were against the challenger. He who invoked a blood duel had to face his opponent unarmed, whereas the other, the accuser, was free to choose any single weapon at hand. In the long history of the Dre’rendi, no challenger had survived the jakra.

  “What is this game you play at?” Ulster hissed.

  “Do you accept the challenge yourself, Ulster? Or do yo
u wish to assign someone to take your place in the duel ring?”

  Now that Pinorr had called the keelchief craven, he knew Ulster dare not refuse lest he risk losing honor with the crew. “I accept the challenge,” the keelchief said warily. “And I suppose you have someone in mind to stand up for Sheeshon who would be foolish enough to face me in the ring unarmed?”

  Pinorr shrugged. “Me.”

  A gasp arose from the crowd. It was forbidden for a shaman to fight. Once the sea gods had called a man to the rajor maga, he was forced to untie his warrior’s braid and wear only the robes of the shamans. Even carrying a sword was forbidden. It was considered the worst insult to the sea gods if a shaman should ever fight as a common warrior. It sullied the gifts that the gods had bestowed, calling ill fortune down upon a boat.

  “You cannot enter the ring, Shaman,” Ulster declared. “It is forbidden. Choose another to stand for Sheeshon.”

  “The code is clear. He who invokes the jakra may choose any willing champion. None can refuse him—whether shaman or not.” Pinorr turned to face Ulster. “It is the code.”

  Ulster now stood red faced.

  The silent Gylt raised his voice for the first time. “But if you fight, you’ll bring the sea gods’ blight upon our prow,” he blurted out. Jabib just glowered beside his fellow tribune.

  But the crowd echoed Gylt’s sentiment.

  Ulster noticed the panic rising in his crew. “If you die,” he said with clear menace, “the code of the jakra is clear. Sheeshon, as the one who is represented, must die also—by whip and ax.”

  “I would rather have her dead than living on a boat cursed by the gods.” Pinorr turned his back on Ulster. He let the keelchief dwell on the predicament at hand. Ulster’s craven attack on Sheeshon now threatened to bring the wrath of the sea gods down upon his boat, and even if Ulster was willing to accept such a doom, his crew clearly was not. If Ulster proceeded with the duel, forcing the shaman to fight, he would find himself with an empty boat. No Bloodrider would step foot aboard the decks of a cursed ship.

  Pinorr waited until the moment was ripe and turned to face Ulster again. “The only other option you have, Ulster, is to dismiss your accusation and end this tribunal now.”

  Ulster’s fists were clenched with anger. He knew he had been bested, tangled in the very code in which he had hoped to ensnare Pinorr. The keelchief’s features squalled with frustration, brows dark with thunderheads, eyes flashing with lightning. “You win, Pinorr,” he spat. “I submit—”

  “Wait,” Jabib interrupted. “Before the matter is settled, we should bring Sheeshon before the tribunal.”

  Ulster tried to wave away his first mate’s objections.

  But Jabib stood up. The first mate had always been Ulster’s schemer. Pinorr knew the man now had the seed of some new plot in mind. But what?

  The first mate held up a hand. “The tribunal has the right to question Sheeshon on her choice of champions. Let us see if she truly wishes to watch her grandfather die for her.”

  For a moment, Pinorr’s vision darkened. He began to understand the wiles here. He had left Mader Geel to drill Sheeshon, just in case the child had to name Pinorr as champion, but clearly Jabib meant to scare her into withdrawing his name. Even if they failed to wear Sheeshon down, they could always withdraw the charges and be none the worse. Yet if they should succeed, Sheeshon was doomed. The blood duel had already been called forth and could not be withdrawn by Pinorr—only Ulster could call it off by retracting his accusation. Sheeshon would have to call a champion who was willing to face the keelchief unarmed—which no one would do.

  Pinorr’s face drained of blood, and a coldness settled in his chest. With his own words, he might have doomed his granddaughter. He had let his pride and overconfidence blind him. Pinorr noted Ulster’s growing smile.

  A pair of guards left to fetch Sheeshon.

  Pinorr cleared his throat. “This is not necessary,” he tried futilely. “She has already named me, and I accepted.”

  Jabib scowled at him. “That is a matter for the tribunal to judge, not you. We have the right to hear her choice from her own lips. It is the code.”

  Pinorr knew it was futile to argue. As he waited, he prayed to the gods to protect his granddaughter. She did not deserve this punishment. He closed his eyes and willed strength to Sheeshon for the storm ahead.

  After what seemed an eternity, the crowd, which had been mumbling and wagering the outcome among themselves, erupted with renewed vigor as Sheeshon was shuffled through the press of the crew. By now, even more of the ship’s men and women had pushed into the cramped commons.

  Sheeshon was led to stand before the long table. Mader Geel was with her. Jabib nodded toward the old woman. “You are no longer needed.”

  But Mader Geel eyed Pinorr and kept her place.

  “Are you deaf to the tribunal’s order?” Ulster asked. He waved to the guards, who reluctantly approached the old swordswoman.

  “The child is frightened,” she said in defense, holding Sheeshon’s hand.

  Sheeshon stared around at the number of people, her eyes wide, her lower lip trembling. In her fear, the numb side of her face seemed to droop worse. Mader Geel was stripped from her side forcibly, leaving the girl alone before the table. Sheeshon tried to wander back toward Pinorr, but a guard held her by the shoulder.

  Jabib, by now, had crossed around the long table. He knelt before Sheeshon with a smile and whispered soft words for her. Sheeshon listened but was clearly nervous, glancing frequently back at Pinorr.

  Once he had her attention, Jabib raised his voice so the others could hear him. “Now, Sheeshon, my little dear, do you know why you are here?”

  Sheeshon shook her head slowly. A hand raised to suck a thumb, but Jabib guided her hand down.

  “You must pick your champion. Do you know what that means?”

  Sheeshon’s voice was a wisp before a gale. “Mader says I’m ’posed to point to Papa.”

  “Oh, so you want your papa to die then.”

  Sheeshon’s eyes grew round; tears welled up. “Die?”

  Jabib nodded. He turned Sheeshon’s face toward Ulster. “That big man is going to slice your papa’s belly open with a big sword if you pick your papa. Do you want to pick your papa?”

  Tears welled up and ran down her cheeks. “No,” she said in a strangled voice. “I don’t want Papa’s belly opened up.”

  Pinorr could stand no more of it. “Leave the child be,” he said, his heart aching for his granddaughter. “Please.”

  Jabib patted Sheeshon on the head as he stood. His voice rang above the murmuring crowd. “You have all heard her words. She declines Pinorr.”

  Ulster stepped forward. “She must choose a champion or face me in the duel. Jakra has been issued.”

  Pinorr spoke up. “End this, Ulster,” he said. “Take me if you wish, but leave poor Sheeshon out of our squabble.”

  “And kill a shaman? Bring a curse down upon my boat? I don’t think the crew would stand for it.”

  Pinorr just stared at Ulster. “So you would slay an innocent child? Before your entire crew?”

  “It was not my choice,” Ulster claimed. “I had only meant to have her punished. Two lashes of my whip was what I planned—to teach both of you a small lesson. But you have set this new course, not I.”

  Grimacing, Pinorr could not argue against the keelchief. The shaman had thought himself so clever, so wise in passing winters. “If you take Sheeshon from me, I will find a way to destroy you. That I promise.”

  Ulster shrugged.

  Mader Geel was allowed back to console Sheeshon. The old woman hugged the girl and whispered consolation in her tiny ears.

  Pinorr knew he had lost. He tried to join his granddaughter, but guards held him back.

  Instead, Jabib knelt again by little Sheeshon. “You must pick someone, my dear. You must find someone to fight for you.”

  Pinorr had stopped listening. It was over. No one would agree. />
  Sheeshon pulled out of Mader Geel’s embrace. Her eyes were glazed and far away. Fear had driven her to retreat inside. Sheeshon tilted her head toward the rafters of the galley. “They’re here,” she mumbled.

  Suddenly a crack of thunder reverberated through the planks of the boat, as if the keel of the boat had snapped. Everyone jumped.

  Jabib touched Sheeshon’s shoulder. “Choose,” he said impatiently.

  In the throes of her madness, Sheeshon had the strength of a grown man. She shook free of Jabib and stumbled toward the crowd. The crew parted before her. No one would meet her eye. None wished to be forced to deny the child if pressed.

  Jabib followed as Sheeshon began to run. The crowd stepped back, allowing Pinorr and Ulster to pursue at Jabib’s heels. Sheeshon broke from the room and ran up the steps toward the outer deck. The crowd followed, surging behind Jabib, Pinorr, and Ulster.

  As Pinorr stepped from the hot and cramped spaces below, the coldness of the air shocked him. Thunder again boomed. The skies to the south were a solid wall of black clouds stacked to the heavens. The sun, setting to the west, was already threatened by the storm’s edge. Though the seas lay calm around them, they were unnaturally so. The waves were flat and colored like hammered iron by the dying sun.

  In the distance, flashes of signal lights marked the other ships of the fleet. Sails were being reefed, and snatches of bellowed orders echoed over the still waters.

  Pinorr turned to Ulster. “You never sounded the alarm,” he said.

  At least Ulster had the dignity to look momentarily guilty. His eyes, though, remained on the wall of storm.

  But Pinorr knew he could not lay the entire blame at Ulster’s feet. When confronted with Sheeshon’s danger, Pinorr had forgotten the warning from the sea gods, too. They had both been fools—and now the entire fleet was in danger.

  Sheeshon stood near the starboard rail and studied the building squall, searching the skies. Jabib was at her side. Ulster and Pinorr crossed to join them.