Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  The high keel led the procession down a short stair and along a wide corridor. He pushed into a long room. Overhead, lanterns hanging from beams swayed with the roll of the boat. Tables and benches lined the floor. He faced the gathered crew. “You all have your orders and stations,” his voice boomed. “I don’t expect my ship to sink in this storm because my crew turned into a bunch of slack-jawed gawkers. Be off to your duties!” He waved to one other fellow, a handsome man who stood almost as tall as the high keel. “Hunt, accompany us.”

  “Yes, High Keel.” His eyes lit up with excitement.

  Suddenly Sy-wen recognized why the man seemed familiar. “Is he your son?” she asked.

  “And the Dragonsheart’s first mate,” the high keel said proudly. “Come. We will retire to my cabin and speak of these matters in private.”

  She nodded and soon found herself in a spacious room. The place was warm and inviting. Along one wall, shelves were crammed with weathered texts and crumpled scrolls. A desk stood nearby, a thick book spread atop its surface. Across the room, two goose-down chairs stood before an actual stone fireplace. A thick iron grate kept the burning logs within the small hearth during the storm’s tumult.

  The high keel waved Sy-wen to one of the thick chairs. She accepted the invitation, glad to get closer to the warm fire. The chill of their flight had set deep into her bones. The Dre’rendi clothes she wore dripped and clung damply to her skin. She wished she had kept her sharkskin breeches.

  Once seated, she pulled Sheeshon into her lap. The girl raised her legs to heat the bottoms of her bare feet.

  Bilatus was invited to the second chair, leaving the high keel and his son, Hunt, to stand. The two tall men flanked either side of the hearth. Side by side now, their distinct similarities were obvious: sharp eyes squinted at the corners, strong clefted chins, wide mouths made for easy smiling. Even their broad shoulders and stance were twins of each other.

  Sy-wen found herself trusting these two and leaned deeper into the goose-down pillows.

  “Tell us your story,” the high keel said simply.

  Sy-wen cleared her throat and did as he asked. She explained about the coming assault on A’loa Glen, about the Gul’gothal forces fortifying the islands, about the hope of the lands placed in the hands of a young wit’ch. She related all she had shared with Pinorr—except for the secret of Kast and the dragon. She suspected none would believe her, and right now, she needed all the trust she could muster from these three men. “So I have come to ask you to lend your ships and warriors to our battle.”

  The high keel had remained silent during the entire discourse. Finally, he spoke. “I believe you speak with a noble heart, Sy-wen of the mer’ai. I even believe your cause just and righteous. The Dre’rendi share no love for the Gul’gotha, but likewise we share no friendship with the mer’ai either. Why join old enemies to fight new enemies? What matter to us that the Gul’gotha torment the people of the lands?”

  Sy-wen sat up straighter. “The Gul’gothal lord will never be satisfied with just the land. Right now his eyes are turned toward the coast, but once that is fully subdued, his gaze will turn to you. Then who will be left to come to your aid?”

  “The Dre’rendi are a free people. We call no lands our own. If the Gul’gotha push, we will give way. As long as there are seas to sail, we will never fall to another man’s yoke.” He glanced significantly at Sy-wen. “We remember too well when once we bowed to another’s sword. We won our freedom with our blood then and mean to keep it now. Why should we join this battle and earn the enmity of the Dark Lord?”

  “You are already an enemy of the Gul’gotha. Any who don’t serve him are his foe.” Sy-wen swallowed hard. “Is it truly freedom if you are on the run from the Gul’gotha? Are you on any less of a leash if his forces herd you this way and that? That is not freedom. It’s blind cowardice!”

  The fat shaman gasped. Hunt’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. The only reaction from the high keel was a reddening of his cheeks. Then he burst out with a hearty laugh. “No one can say you are not blunt, lass!”

  Sy-wen blushed at his words. “I meant no true offense.”

  Again the high keel laughed.

  “Father,” Hunt said. His face was dark red, but not with amusement. “Will you allow such insult to the Dre’rendi?”

  “What insult? The young woman speaks her heart. I would wish more would speak so plainly.” He waved to Sy-wen. “Fine. I can see your point. The Dre’rendi should sail where the winds dictate, not the Gul’gotha. If we run from the Black Heart’s beasts, we are cowards.”

  Bilatus stared at this confession with wide eyes. “The sea gods will protect us. We have no need to fear the Gul’gotha.”

  The high keel shook his head, the humor fading from his lips. “Spoken like a shaman. But I’ve learned that the sea gods protect those who protect themselves.” He patted his sword. “This is the only true defense.”

  Sy-wen could not believe her luck. The high keel warmed to her cause. “So you will consider lending your forces?”

  He stared at her silently for three long breaths, then answered. “No.”

  Sy-wen sat stunned. Her voice was meek when next she spoke. “But why? This is the best chance to strike a blow against the Dark Lord.”

  “Perhaps. But the Dre’rendi will never fight alongside the mer’ai. When last we battled the Gul’gotha, your people fled, leaving us to the teeth and axes of the enemy.”

  Sy-wen bristled. “But it was not as if we betrayed you. You offered your aid freely, allowing us to escape.”

  “Still, it bespeaks your people’s craven hearts.”

  Now it was Sy-wen’s turn to react to being called cowardly. “What of your old oaths?” She pointed to his tattoo. “Do you break your own vows? You promised to come to our aid one last time when we requested it.”

  The high keel remained silent.

  Bilatus answered. “That was long ago. Since then we have come to worship the seven gods of the sea. Our hearts and spirits are bound to them, not to the mer’ai. We are slaves to you no more.”

  The high keel slowly nodded his head. “Whatever debts we owed your people are long faded to dust.”

  Sy-wen wished she could show him how strong the tattoo’s magickal bonds still remained, but she had already bonded to Kast and could not bring forth the magick of the tattoo in another. She sighed, knowing that only one chance lay open to them, the path Pinorr had suggested.

  She glanced to Sheeshon, who had begun to doze in the warmth of her lap. Her heart went out to the small child. She had hoped to avoid Pinorr’s full plan. Perhaps if Kast had been here . . .

  She shook her head and raised her eyes toward the high keel. “You place much on the differences between our two people—mer’ai and Dre’rendi.”

  He shrugged.

  Sy-wen’s voice grew firmer. “I will share with you a mer’ai secret, something to which even most of my own people are blind. I revealed this to Shaman Pinorr, and he sent his only granddaughter not only as proof of his support, but as proof of my next words.”

  Bilatus sat up straighter at the mention of a fellow shaman.

  The high keel narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  “We are not different people.” She stared intently at the high keel. “Mer’ai and Dre’rendi are in truth one tribe.”

  Their shock halted further discussion. Finally, Bilatus made a rude noise with his blubbery lips. “Impossible.”

  Sy-wen placed her palm atop the head of the napping Sheeshon. “Here is the proof.”

  The high keel glanced at the child, then back to Sy-wen. “I see no clue here, only an addled child with a face that half droops.”

  “You will.” Sy-wen clenched her fist. She hoped her words proved true. Glancing up at Hunt, she indicated Sheeshon. “Can you carry her?”

  After getting a nod from his father, the young Bloodrider lifted Sheeshon from Sy-wen’s lap. The sleeping child only moaned a bit, then latched her tiny arms
around Hunt’s neck.

  Sy-wen stood. “To show you, I will need blood from the dragon.”

  Bilatus had to push twice to extract himself from the chair. “How do you propose to get—?”

  Sy-wen slipped the long dagger from her wrist sheath. “With this.”

  The sudden appearance of twin swords at her throat quickly taught her the foolishness of such rash action. Sy-wen had not even seen the high keel or his son move. The tips of their weapons held steady in the hollow of her throat.

  Sy-wen finally found her tongue again. “I mean no one harm. I only need the knife to draw blood from my mount.” Sy-wen flipped the dagger in her hand and caught the blade, proffering the handle toward the high keel. “If you’d feel better, please keep it. I will even allow you to stab the dragon to gain its blood.”

  The high keel squinted at her, clearly trying to weigh the truth of her words and intent. Sy-wen did not waver from his hard gaze, though the dagger trembled a bit in her scared fingers.

  Finally, the leader of the Dre’rendi lowered his sword and waved his son to follow his example. “No, Sy-wen of the mer’ai. If anyone is to poke that slumbering beast atop my decks, I think it best be you.” Again the whisper of a smile flashed on his lips.

  Sy-wen slowly slipped the dagger back into its sheath with a long sigh. “I apologize for startling you all. I was not thinking when I bared my knife. I had only thought to clarify my purpose.”

  The high keel sheathed his sword. “And what purpose might that be?”

  Sy-wen cowered a bit. After their reaction to her knife, maybe it would be best to leave Shaman Pinorr’s theory unspoken. But all their eyes were upon her.

  A sudden knocking at the door saved her from answering.

  Bilatus opened the door to an excited crewmate. The man pulled off his soaking hat as he entered, his eyes excited. “High Keel, sir. It’s the Dragonspur. Word’s come across the storm. Her mast’s been lightning struck. You kin even see her sails aflame!”

  Hunt glanced to his father. “That’s Shaman Pinorr’s ship.”

  Again Sy-wen found all their eyes upon her—and for the hundredth time, she wished Kast were here.

  BEHIND PINORR, CRIES of alarm echoed down the passageway. Shrill frightened voices mixed with barked orders. Pinorr ignored them and continued through the narrow corridors toward the ship’s bow. The bodies of Jabib and Gylt must have been discovered. He quickened his pace, sensing that if he slowed, the fire in his blood would fade—and this was not a night for cool heads or wise counsel. What festered aboard this boat could only be cleansed with flames.

  Suddenly, as if the gods had heard his thoughts, thick smoke billowed down from an open hatch somewhere behind him. Pinorr coughed. He smelled burned wood and again heard snatches of bellowing voices. His pace slowed. He turned back the way he had come. Past the smoke, a hatch slammed shut amid frantic calls for help. Overhead, the tread of running feet clattered as men fled the galley just above him.

  The entire ship was being roused.

  Pinorr could almost smell the desperation behind the smoke. Something was wrong, something more urgent than even murdered crewmen.

  Pinorr glanced at his bloody sword and the limp length of braid in his left hand. Was this commotion a new trick of Ulster’s? Something staged to distract the crew while the keelchief’s minions disposed of the shaman?

  He gripped his sword tighter; its hilt felt right in his fist.

  Whatever alarm had been raised, for whatever reason, it was no longer his business. He was no longer the Dragonspur’s shaman, nor even her warrior. This night Pinorr was the gods’ vengeance given form and steel.

  Continuing toward the lone cabin in the forward section of the bow, he marched toward where, if Pinorr judged the keelchief correctly, the craven cur would be ensconced in his own cabin. Pinorr tightened his grip on his sword. He would enjoy seeing the keelchief’s expression when the man learned his assassins had failed—though in all likelihood, the sight would be Pinorr’s last. For whether justified or not, Pinorr had no misconceptions that he himself would be spared for his attacks. It was forbidden for a ship’s shaman to touch steel, and it was death to draw blood.

  Still, Pinorr knew his duty. Ultimately, the spiritual fate of the ship rested in his hands. He could no longer allow Ulster to befoul its decks.

  Finally, Pinorr reached his destination. Stopping before a wide door banded and studded in iron, he waited a single breath. Then he raised his sword and pounded its hilt on the frame.

  A voice snapped at him. “I know of the fire! I’m coming!”

  Pinorr blinked at this response. What fire? Before he could ponder the mystery any further, the door flew open. Ulster stood before him, pulling into a jerkin. Half dressed, the keelchief froze when he saw who stood in his doorway.

  Neither man moved for several strained heartbeats.

  Finally, Pinorr tossed Jabib’s braid across Ulster’s boots. It was the gesture of a warrior for a leader, a token of a kill done to protect the ship. The bloody tail slapped the planks like a length of soaked kelp. “I believe this belongs to you,” Pinorr said coldly.

  Ulster’s eyes flickered toward the braid, but his gaze remained mostly on the sword. It was clear that the keelchief was more shocked to see Pinorr with a sword than he was concerned for his first mate’s fate.

  “What have you done, Shaman?” he asked with a note of horror.

  “What I should have done long ago—cut away a festering canker before the disease spreads to the rest of the fleet.”

  Ulster backed from Pinorr’s sword. In his hurry, the keelchief had forgotten to don his own weapon belt. It hung from the back of a chair in the room.

  Pinorr followed Ulster, step for step, words pouring out that had been bottled in his heart. “I loved your father. It was only his memory that kept my hand in check for so long. But when your brother Kast arrived, I finally recognized how little of your father’s blood runs in your own veins, Ulster.”

  The keelchief spat bile to match Pinorr’s fury. “Not like my father?” Ulster laughed harshly. “And you think these words insult me! The old man was more like me than you could imagine, Shaman. Were you at my side when my father lashed me bloody after my defeat in a sword spar with Zinbathi’s son? Were you there when my broken ribs were wrapped after one of his savage beatings? Or how about when the burns on my arms peeled and cracked for an entire moon?” Ulster pointed to the doorway. “Behind closed doors, men whose faces you think you know can change, Pinorr. Only I saw my father’s true countenance, the one he hid from the rest of the crew.”

  Pinorr stumbled a step at such lies. “How dare you blaspheme your father’s memory!”

  “You were always blind, Shaman. Though you may have been gifted with keen sea senses, my father’s heart was kept hidden from you.” Ulster’s gaze narrowed. “Or were you just too scared to look deeply? Did you suspect what lurked there, but feared losing such a skilled leader?”

  Pinorr stopped his pursuit of Ulster across the cabin. As much as he would wish to deny it, Pinorr could not disavow how hard the old high keel had ridden his son. But he had never suspected such depths of wrath. “But your brother—?”

  “Kast?” Ulster snorted. “The bastard escaped before the worst, leaving me to face our father’s anger alone.” The fire seemed to die in Ulster, like a spent candle. “I can never forgive him for that.”

  Pinorr had to struggle to keep his own anger lit. “Whether your story is true or not, what right do you have to wreak your father’s old savageries upon my family?”

  Ulster’s eyes never left Pinorr’s. “Because you had the power to stop my father. He would have listened to you, Pinorr.” Ulster’s voice cracked, then hardened back again. “But instead, you only looked out toward the glories on the horizons, rather than at the evil that stood beside you. So do not seek sympathy in me.” Ulster turned and reached for his sword belt.

  Stunned by his words, Pinorr could only watch numbly as th
e keelchief drew his weapon.

  “No longer will I let you ignore the evil of my father.” Ulster faced Pinorr again. “What it forged stands before you now.” With those words, Ulster lunged.

  Pinorr barely had time to raise his own sword. Steel clashed steel. Luckily, Ulster’s attack was guided by anger more than skill. Still, Pinorr fell back under the assault. The keelchief was younger and stronger of limb. It was only Pinorr’s instinct from his warrior days that kept Ulster’s sword from his belly.

  Pinorr fought desperately. The furious fire that had ignited his blood earlier had waned to mere embers. How could he righteously despise that which his own hand had helped forge? Pinorr retreated. His left foot slipped on the discarded braid of the first mate. He toppled to the deck, his sword clanging out of his grip as he hit the floor.

  Ulster towered over him now, sword raised. His eyes glowed red with rage, his breath ragged and panting.

  Pinorr knelt up to face his death.

  The keelchief looked him in the eye. “You should have heard my cries, Shaman.”

  Pinorr nodded once, briefly. “You’re right, Ulster. I’m sorry.”

  The anger in the young man’s face twitched with confusion. His sword arm trembled as he held the weapon poised.

  Raising his face higher, Pinorr spoke quietly. “But I’m also not your father, Ulster.”

  The keelchief shook his head and stepped away, his brows tight, his gaze shaky. “I know you’re not my father . . .”

  “It’s not too late to try to heal what he wrought.” Pinorr saw the pain in Ulster’s stance. “I can help.”

  Swinging toward Pinorr again with wild eyes, Ulster laughed and pointed his sword. “You think you can help me? If you knew all, you’d curse me as resolutely as my father did during one of his rages.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Pinorr insisted, sincere in his words. He persisted in an attempt to reach the young man—not to save his own life, but to salvage what was left of Ulster’s. “Will you let me try?”