Wit'ch War (v5) Page 17

  The man leaned closer. “The way they’re slitted, they could almost be snake eyes.”

  Before the situation grew more awkward, Fardale danced forward, tail wagging furiously. The man greeted the wolf with a scratch behind an ear and a friendly thump on the side. “I see your burns are healing well, Fardale,” the man said.

  Fardale barked his agreement.

  Kral interrupted the reunion. “Could someone explain who this is?”

  Mycelle turned. “His name is Jaston. He helped guide Elena through the swamp.” Mycelle gave them a quick version of the tale of their journey through the Drowned Lands.

  “So this swamp wit’ch is a d’warf,” Kral mumbled, his eyes filled with a red fury Mogweed had never seen before.

  “Yes,” Mycelle answered. “But I know what you think . . .”

  “You know nothing about what I think.” Kral’s voice had frosted to ice. “You know not how her foul brethren drove my clans from our ancestral homelands near Tor Amon. It was d’warf armies that destroyed our homes, slaughtered our women and babes on their pikes, and made nomads of my people.”

  “Cassa Dar is not like that,” Mycelle insisted. “She saved our lives in the swamps.”

  “Your lives would not have needed saving if the wit’ch hadn’t cursed Elena and forced you all into the foul bogs.”

  “Sir,” Jaston said coldly. His face had grown flushed during the exchange. “You know not what you speak. Cassa Dar does not deserve your wrath.”

  Tol’chuk grumbled his agreement, seeking to end the tension. “If Er’ril and Elena trusted her, so should we.”

  Kral was not swayed. “A d’warf is a d’warf,” he said angrily and turned, marching a few steps away.

  Mycelle watched Kral’s back with tight lips, then let out a long sigh. “Men,” she grumbled and turned back to Jaston. “So you got my message?”

  “Just at dawn,” Jaston said. His angry flush faded. “I just managed to escape the city before it was locked down.”

  “And Mist? Does the child’s mare fare well?”

  He frowned. “Yes, but perhaps I should’ve done you all a favor and fed that piece of stubborn horseflesh to a hungry kroc’an. That is the laziest, most ornery mare I’ve ever led.” He started ticking off items on his fingers. “On the trek here, she almost colicked on swampweed, then bit Sammers on the elbow when he doused her with herbs to settle her belly. She kicked the lead stallion who pulled our wagon, laming the beast for a fortnight. Because of that, we had to abandon one of the wagons with a quarter of our wares. And just last night, she chewed through her lead, and we had to hunt her down through the streets of Port Rawl. We found her at an apple vendor. She had cracked his stall and eaten half his wares. It cost me a steep fee to compensate him.”

  Mycelle grinned at his story, and by the end, Jaston’s scarred features also shone with the ghost of a smile, the tension from a moment ago fading. “So I guess,” Mycelle said, “you’ll be glad to be rid of her.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You don’t know how pleased I was to find your note this morning at the Watershed Trading Post.” Jaston waved his companions forward.

  The rustle of hooves and whispered words announced their approach through the wood. Mogweed counted six men and one hard-looking woman among the swampers. They led three horses. The largest was a striking dappled stallion with lines that clearly led to the horse clans of the Northern Steppes. The next was a golden-skinned gelding with a stately gait and quick, intelligent eyes.

  Mycelle reached a hand to this horse’s nose. “Grisson,” she said in greeting. This horse was obviously hers. The gelding snuffed at her offered palm and nudged her.

  The last to be led forward was Elena’s small gray mare. Her big brown eyes studied the gathered troupe with indifference, and she dug one hoof in the dirt in irritation. Mogweed thought this horse’s belly seemed a bit fuller than the rest.

  Mycelle must have noticed this, too. “I see you’ve been feeding Mist well.”

  “As if we had any choice.”

  Mycelle crossed and ran a hand along Mist’s flanks. “She looks in good shape otherwise.”

  “Well . . .” Jaston’s voice sounded hesitant. “She’s in even better shape than you might imagine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jaston ran a hand over his cropped hair, a strained look in his eye. “You know that stallion she kicked? Well, she kicked him when he tried to breed her a second time; she wouldn’t stand for him again.”

  Mycelle’s hand still rested on Mist’s flank. She ran her hand over the mare’s full belly. “You’re not telling me . . . ?”

  “He mounted her the first time at the last moon. I think she may already be with foal, but it’s too early to say for sure.”

  Mycelle sighed and stepped back, appraising the horse, then shrugged. “That’s why I always ride a gelding. Come, Grisson,” she said, taking the lead of the golden-maned horse. “We’ve another half league to cover before reaching camp.”

  Jaston stood his ground and eyed Kral. “We’ve still wares to sell in Port Rawl. So maybe it’s best to part ways here.”

  Mogweed noticed a hurt glint in Mycelle’s eyes. “Nonsense,” she argued. “The gates to the city are already locked down.”

  “They’ll let us through. The watch never refuses entry to swamp traders.”

  “Then at least enjoy a hot meal with us.”

  Jaston, still hesitant, slowly nodded. “I guess we could use a moment among friends before tackling the traders of Port Rawl.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Before anyone else could argue, Mycelle led her gelding to the front of the group.

  In a short time, the troupe marched through the last of the twisting wood and came upon a clearing atop a craggy bluff. Sheltered back under the eaves of the trees, a small campfire burned cheerily in the approaching gloam of sunset. A few horses stood nestled and roped to one side, while two frail figures stood limned in the firelight staring back at the group warily.

  Mogweed recognized the wizened figure of the old healer, Mama Freda. Beside her stood Meric. Apparently, the elv’in lord had finally healed enough from the attack in Shadowbrook to be out of bed. But as they crossed the clearing, Mogweed noticed how heavily Meric leaned on a thick cane as he strode forward to meet them.

  “Who are these others?” Meric said with a scowl, clearly not happy with the additional members of the party.

  Tol’chuk took the elv’in aside and explained while Mycelle directed the others to settle the horses. Mogweed ended up standing beside Fardale as the flurry of activity rolled around them.

  Mogweed turned to his brother. “What do you make of this Jaston fellow?”

  Fardale’s eyes glowed toward Mogweed. An image formed in his mind, a picture of a past event. Mogweed saw Fardale being snatched aloft by the white tentacles of a winged beast, his fur burning with the creature’s grip. Jaston leaped from a small boat, a knife clenched in his teeth, and rescued the wolf.

  Mogweed nodded with these images. Jaston had saved Fardale’s life, and among the si’luran, there was now a blood debt between the wolf and the man. As kin to Fardale, Mogweed shared the debt, whether he liked it or not.

  Fardale nudged his brother’s hand, then wandered over toward the hearth. Mogweed hung back, still uncomfortable around all these humans—especially the strangers.

  From behind him, Kral suddenly stepped next to Mogweed, startling the erstwhile shape-shifter. Glancing up to his huge companion, Mogweed saw the sour expression on Kral’s face as he contemplated the others, as if sharing the shape-shifter’s sentiments about the strangers. Mogweed also noticed how the mountain man’s fist rested hard on the hilt of his ax. But at least his weapon was still sheathed in leather.

  Mogweed started to turn away when a flare of firelight revealed the purplish, bruised hue of the leather that sheathed Kral’s ax. Disgust curled the corner of Mogweed’s lip. As a si’luran, he recognized the source of that leather. It was t
he skin of a sniffer, the slavering beasts who hunted the deep forests of the Western Reaches. Mogweed recalled the sniffer who had attacked him and his brother among the lands of the og’re.

  Before Mogweed could comment on Kral’s choice of leathers, the mountain man’s brows lowered, and he spoke, his voice as deep and vicious as the hunting growl of a sniffer. “I don’t trust these others, especially that scarred man, Jaston.”

  Kral eyed Mogweed, who could only nod under his intense gaze. Mogweed fought to keep from trembling. Maybe it was just the sudden memory of the sniffer’s attack in the mountains, but for a moment, Mogweed felt a hungry menace in Kral’s gaze, like that of a predator from the blackest forest. He was relieved when Kral finally glanced away and stalked across the clearing toward the campfire.

  After several shuddering breaths, Mogweed followed on numb legs. He had never seen this side of Kral. He joined the others, making sure the campfire was between him and the mountain man. In the firelight, Kral’s eyes glowed a deep crimson, his face an unreadable mask.

  Mogweed studied him a moment longer, one eyebrow crinkling. He watched Kral’s right hand reach and rub at the leathered skin that hid his ax blade. He was sure the mountain man was unaware of how his fingers caressed the leathers with such fervid intensity, the movement slow and almost hungry, like a man caressing a lover’s breast . . .

  Mogweed looked away and swallowed hard. An icicle of fear slid through his innards. How had the mountain man managed their escape from Port Rawl’s garrison? He had never explained.

  Interrupting his reverie, Mama Freda hobbled up to Mogweed, a platter of venison and wild onions in her hands. Tikal, her pet tamrink, sat perched on her shoulder and stared at him with huge eyes. The tiny beast held a small onion in one fist and nibbled at it. Mama Freda offered a fork to Mogweed. “Help yourself, little man,” she offered.

  He waved her off, his stomach suddenly sick at the thought of food.

  “You should eat,” she insisted. “We’ve a long way to travel.”

  “Thank you,” he said softly. “Maybe later.”

  Shrugging, she wandered off as Tol’chuk settled next to Mogweed. “It must be good to see your brother safe,” he said, waving a hunk of meat toward where Fardale sniffed around the horses. The og’re’s fingers were greasy from the meat.

  Mogweed answered by nodding toward where Mycelle stood talking with Jaston. “Nothing like family to hearten the spirits, eh?”

  Tol’chuk clapped Mogweed on the shoulder. “Besides my mother, you be my family, too,” he said. “Among my clans, I was a half-bred outcast. Since leaving my lands, I’ve found my two half brothers—maybe not in blood, but at least in spirit.”

  Mogweed studied the og’re to see if he was jesting with him.

  But Tol’chuk’s features were warm and relaxed as he stared around the camp. He was sincere. “You both be now my clan,” he finished.

  Mogweed stared into the flames. For the oddest reason, he found himself wiping at an eye. Surely it was just the burn of the campfire’s smoke.

  Tol’chuk suddenly clutched at his chest, a groan flowing from his lips.

  “Tol’chuk?” Mogweed stood abruptly, leaning over the og’re.

  Straightening back up, Tol’chuk sighed deeply, a sheen of perspiration on his brow. “It be all right. I just never felt it this strong.”

  “What happened?”

  Tol’chuk just shook his head. “Trouble, I think.”

  FROM WHERE HE stood guard near the wood’s edge, Kral watched the others eat.

  By the time everyone was finally seated near the campfire and digging into their meals, the sun had touched the western horizon, striping the clearing with the long shadows of tree trunks. Kral enjoyed the approach of evening. His senses, already keen, had been heightened by dark magicks. The night’s black cloak hid nothing from his sight, and his sharp ears could pick out the pounding heart of prey from a hundred paces.

  Still, the rumbled conversation and occasional spate of laughter from around the camp kept him distracted. He hated these newcomers, with their strange smells and alert eyes. They were hunters like himself, and he distrusted them—not that he expected any foul betrayal on their part, but simply because they were an unknown element in his careful plans. Kral watched them warily.

  For this reason, he didn’t sense the presence of the spy until the crack of a twig alerted him to the intruder.

  He spun around to the shadowed wood. “Who goes there?” he barked loudly. Behind him, the camp instantly went silent with his call. His ax lay already bared in his four-fingered fist, the iron shining in the last rays of the sun.

  Nothing lay out there. He saw no movement among the black shadows. He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head, listening. Deeper in the wood, off to the left, he heard the fluttering beat of a buck’s heart, but nothing else. He relaxed his grip on the hickory handle of his ax. Nothing was out there.

  Suddenly a small voice intruded, just a few paces away. “I’m hungry.” Kral’s eyes grew wide as the speaker, a small naked child, stepped from around the bole of a cypress. The boy scratched behind a filthy ear and shyly moved closer. “Do you have any sweetcakes?”

  Kral was taken aback by the child’s sudden appearance. “Who are you?” he asked harshly, feeling slightly foolish brandishing his ax before a child barely tall enough to reach his knee. Still, Kral sensed that this was no ordinary urchin. He heard no rush of blood or beat of heart from the boy.

  “You’re a big man,” the child said, craning his neck back, his eyes wide with awe. He seemed little threatened by the ax. The boy crossed to Kral and held up his hand for the mountain man to take it.

  Instead Kral backed a step away.

  Mycelle, by now, had crossed to him. She was putting away her twin swords. “It’s all right, Kral.”

  Kral kept his ax in hand. “That is no ordinary boy.”

  “Fear not. It’s just one of Cassa Dar’s swamp children, a magickal construct of moss, mud, and swampweed.” Mycelle knelt down beside the child. “Well, little one, why have you come all the way here?”

  Behind Kral, the scarred swamper joined them, trailed by the rest of the camp.

  The boy eyed the others, one hand rising to suck a thumb. When he spotted the towering og’re, his face grew scared. He slid closer to Mycelle and pointed toward Tol’chuk. “A m-monster!”

  Mycelle smiled and gathered him up in her arms. “There are no monsters here.”

  The boy kept his eyes glued on Tol’chuk, clearly unconvinced. Kral followed the others back to the campfire.

  A few more dry branches were added to the fire as the sun finished setting. The camp gathered around the fresh flames.

  Meric leaned both hands on his cane as he stood. “What does this mean?” the elv’in asked. “Why did he come?”

  Jaston held up a hand and leaned close to the boy as Mycelle cradled him in her lap. “Cassa?”

  The boy stuck out his tongue at the scarred man. “You’re an ugly, stinky man.”

  Jaston ignored his insult. “Cassa, are you there?” he persisted.

  Kral watched the boy squirm and stiffen in Mycelle’s embrace, then grow still. The child’s eyes glazed and no longer seemed to reflect the fire’s light.

  “The distance is great,” the boy said, his words a whisper as if from another world. “I had a hard time tracking you this far from the swamp’s edge.”

  Kral’s nose curled at the demonstration. He had to restrain himself from sneaking closer and sniffing at the boy. It was as if someone else spoke through the child’s lips.

  “Why have you come?” Jaston asked.

  “I sense a great evil moving toward Port Rawl and came to warn you. It has something to do with the girl.”

  Mycelle approached closer. “Why do you say that?”

  “She still carries the Try’sil. The magick in the warhammer is like a beacon to me, calling to my d’warf heritage. It has rested along the coast for the past many days, b
ut this prior night, it vanished beyond my ability to sense, swallowed up in a magick as foul as the heart of a blackguard demon. I fear the worst. Not just for the Try’sil, but for the child.”

  Kral’s blood raged. He suspected some d’warfish trick here, a ruse to guide him astray from his prey. Though forged by the Black Heart and unable to deny his master’s true will, Kral was still a mountain man whose clan had a long memory. Like the ill’guard lord of Port Rawl whose thievish nature could not be completely wiped away, Kral could not deny the cry of revenge for the atrocities committed by the d’warf armies. He would one day have that revenge.

  The beast in his blood lusted to tear this rag of a child into bloody ribbons. When finished with Elena, he knew whom next he would hunt. Not even the monsters of the swamp could keep him from this d’warf’s throat.

  “Cassa,” Jaston continued, “can you tell us anything else?”

  “No, only that you must all hurry. The evil sweeps toward Port Rawl.” The boy began to shiver in Mycelle’s lap. “I can’t hold on much longer. Too weak still. Hurry!”

  With this last word, the figure of the boy swirled with a moldy luminescence and vanished. In the child’s place was a dank pile of moist weed and mud. Mycelle stood, wiping the debris from her lap in disgust.

  Once clean, she faced the others. “We leave now. It is still a hard day’s journey to reach Flint’s cottage. If Elena is in danger, we dare not spare the horses. We’ll ride the entire night and day.”

  “No.” Tol’chuk straightened up. “We be deceived.”

  His words drew Kral’s attention. “So this d’warf lied to us,” he said with clear indignation.

  “No,” the og’re said. “I think she speaks true. Only we interpret her words falsely.”

  Mycelle’s features were taut with worry and impatience. “Speak, Tol’chuk. What are you saying?”

  The og’re fumbled to his thigh pouch and removed the chunk of ruby heartstone. A murmur of awe at the sight of the precious jewel arose among the swampers. Tol’chuk held the stone toward the southern edge of the wood. Though a handsome stone, it only glittered in the final rays of the sun. “A moment ago, I felt the call of the stone shift, like my heart be suddenly torn from my chest. The call be sure and strong. We should heed the swamp wit’ch. We must hurry. But not south. Elena no longer be there.”