Wit'ch War (v5) Page 19

  Joach rubbed at his wrists and nervously straightened the dragon tooth that hung at the hollow of his neck. “What now?”

  Nodding toward the door, Er’ril said, “I don’t like our position here. It’s time we armed ourselves.”

  Joach retrieved his staff from where it had been tossed in the corner. His ruse as a lame boy had convinced the pirates to let him keep his wooden stave. While he was wearing his gloves, the wood remained dark as Joach gripped it. “I already have my weapon,” he said, raising the stout rod.

  Elena watched as Joach ignited a whisper of black flames along its length. They had learned that as long as Joach kept the skin of his right palm from contacting the wood, the staff remained a tool of black magick. Otherwise, without the glove, her brother’s blood would be called into the wood, and the staff would again become a weapon of white magick. Twin weapons in one length of wood.

  “Did they post a guard?” Er’ril asked.

  “No,” Elena answered. “In that regard, Flint was right. After locking us up, they’ve ignored us.” She crossed to the small door and leaned her ear against it. “I don’t hear anyone in the hall either.”

  Er’ril moved beside her, his breath warm on her cheek as he leaned to check, too. “Can you melt the lock without setting fire to the door?”

  Pushing back a stray curl of hair from her eyes, she glanced at Er’ril. It was so strange to stand almost eye to eye with him now. In his gaze, she saw him appraising her—in more ways than just magickal. She suddenly felt very conscious of the changes in her body. The fullness in hips and chest, the length and curl of her hair. Even her responses to him were no longer the same. His gray eyes, the touch of his hand, even the brush of his breath on her cheek a moment ago—all stirred something deep inside her, a spreading warmth that both strengthened and weakened her at the same time. She stared into his eyes and knew she must succeed. “I think I can,” she murmured softly.

  He stepped back, clearing the way for her.

  Licking her dry lips, Elena turned to the door and raised her hand. She wove several strands of magick out from her palm. Fiery filaments rose from her fingertips, wrapping and writhing into a thicker cord. With a thought, she guided the crimson strands into the door’s lock, suddenly sensing the old iron. She felt its cold touch wrap around her heart. For a strained moment, she thought she might drown in the ancient stillness of the ore. But she fought the iron’s cold touch, her blood becoming a forge, fierce and hot.

  Somewhere beyond her senses, she heard Joach gasp.

  “It’s working,” Er’ril mumbled as if from far away.

  Her magick pumped with each fiery beat of her heart against the old iron. Like a reluctant lover, the cold ore gave way slowly, warming to her touch, yielding to her.

  “You’ve done it, Elena.” Er’ril gripped her shoulder. “Now stop your magick before its wit’ch fire spreads.”

  Elena blinked back to clear focus, shivering under Er’ril’s touch. She closed her fist, severing the strands that linked her to the molten lock. She stared as red-hot iron ran in rivulets down the planks of the door, leaving scorched and smoking trails. Without her magick’s touch, the iron cooled rapidly.

  “Careful now,” Er’ril warned. “From here, we stick close together.” He nodded toward Joach.

  Her brother pushed the door slowly open with the end of his staff. The creak of salt-encrusted hinges seemed like the screams of the dying as they all held their breaths.

  Crouching and cautious of the pools of cooling molten iron, Er’ril peeked out the door, looking first one way, then the other. “Follow close,” he whispered and led them into a short, dark companionway. Only a single lantern lit the hall with its tiny flame.

  Somewhere a few men were singing bawdily, out of tune. Harsh laughter accompanied the singer’s efforts. It sounded like it came from directly overhead. Elena found herself crouching away from the noise.

  Er’ril slipped to the only other room exiting the hall and peered within. “Bilge pump and crates,” he whispered. “We must be in the lowest bowels of the ship.”

  “Where now?” Joach asked, his eyes shining with fear.

  “I need a weapon first. A sword, an ax, something.” Er’ril’s hand balled into a fist in frustration. “Then we free Flint.”

  With Joach at her side, Elena followed behind the plainsman as he crept down the short hall. A narrow ladder led up to a closed hatch.

  “We came down this way,” Elena whispered. “There’s a kitchen above us.”

  The singing of the men had died down, but murmurs and occasional loud guffaws could be heard beyond the hatch. Er’ril paused at the foot of the ladder. From his dour expression, Elena could almost read Er’ril’s thoughts. Escape this way would lead them directly into the midst of the pirates.

  “There must be another way,” Joach whispered.

  Er’ril’s brows bunched together as he plotted.

  Suddenly, something tickled Elena’s ankle. She started slightly, jumping back a bit. A huge rat squeaked in protest and scurried down the hall. Its oily fur stank of rotted fish.

  “Follow it,” Er’ril urged. “This is a fishing boat. Its hold must somehow connect with these lower decks.”

  Joach hurried after the rat as it ducked into the bilge cabin. “We need light!” he whispered urgently.

  Elena raised her hand, beginning to call forth a flame.

  Er’ril knocked her arm down and snatched the lantern from the wall hook. He raised the lamp before her eyes, glancing at her meaningfully, then ducked after Joach.

  Blushing, Elena followed. Er’ril’s earlier warning rang in her ears. Maybe there was a threat in the indiscriminate use of her magicks. Already her first instinct when called to action was to reach for her power, ignoring her own ingenuity and resources. In this way, she narrowed herself, defining her worth only with magick. She shook her head. She was more than a red fist and was determined to stay that way.

  In the cabin, she found Joach kneeling by a large crate. Er’ril hovered over him with the lantern. “It dashed behind here,” Joach said.

  Er’ril lowered his lantern closer to light the cramped space between crate and wall. “Move aside, boy.” Joach rolled to the side to let Er’ril lean nearer. “I don’t see the bugger back there,” the plainsman said.

  “I’m sure that’s where it went.” Joach made to poke at the space with his staff, as if to flush the beast out.

  Er’ril waved him back and stood up. Passing the lamp to Elena, Er’ril waved Joach to the corner of the box. “Help me move it.”

  Joach used his staff as a lever to pry the heavy crate from the wall while Er’ril pushed with his shoulder. The crate shifted with a scraping protest across the rough planks. “What’s in this thing anyway?” Joach complained as he strained.

  One of the crate’s pine slats cracked under Joach’s staff. Elena’s brother stumbled at the sudden release of his hold. He caught himself up against the wall, cringing at the noise. The sharp crack of the board had sounded like a thunderclap in the tight space.

  Everyone froze. No one moved until a new bawdy chorus echoed down from above. They had not been heard. Elena moved closer to the others, reminding herself to keep breathing.

  Near the crate now, Elena raised the lantern to the broken section of the box, not so much curious of its contents as seeking something to distract her from their peril. Like her brother, she had heard tales of the gold coins and jeweled treasures plundered from the seas and hoarded by pirates.

  She lifted the lantern higher and peered closer.

  No treasure lay inside. From the black heart of the crate, a pair of bloodred eyes stared out at her.

  A SPLASH OF cold seawater shocked Flint back to full awareness.He gasped and choked, throwing his head back with a crack against the high-backed chair to which he was bound. The salt in the water burned the cut below his eye and stung the abrasion on his cheek, both injuries courtesy of his hard-knuckled captors.

 
; Captain Jarplin leaned closer to Flint’s bloody face. He was a large-shouldered man with silver hair and green eyes. Winters at sea had weathered him hard as stone. Flint had once respected the man’s firm resolve. He had been a tough but fair captain. Yet something in him had changed. Though outwardly the same, if not a bit paler of skin, something about the captain struck Flint as wrong, like a whiff of rot.

  Flint had noticed it as soon as he was dragged into the captain’s cabin. The usual orderliness to his chamber was no longer evident. Maps and charts were strewn about the room. Unwashed clothes lay piled where they had been dropped. Clearly, Jarplin seldom left his cabin now, where before it was impossible to keep him off his ship’s decks.

  Flint licked the blood from his split lower lip. Had his theft of the seadragon so shaken up his former captain? No, something else was wrong here. He should never have convinced the others to step aboard this ship.

  Jarplin used a finger to raise Flint’s chin. “Have Master Vael’s fists freed your tongue yet?” he asked in mocking tones, so unlike the man Flint once knew.

  Flint spat blood. “I ain’t tellin’ ya nothin’ about the dragon until we reach Rawl,” he said, employing the old slang he had once used when he was first mate on this rig.

  Jarplin’s green eyes pierced through his disguise. “Don’t play the poor fisherman with me, Flint. There’s more to you than I once suspected, but my eyes have since been opened.” He laughed harshly. “Oh, yes, they’re wide open now.”

  Flint found himself staring at the trace of spittle hanging from the man’s lips. What had happened to the man he knew, a man he had once considered a friend?

  Jarplin pushed away and turned to his new first mate. Flint did not recognize Master Vael as any member of the Skipjack. It was clear Master Vael hailed from lands far from here. The man’s head was shaven smooth, his skin like yellowed parchment. His eyes were the oddest hue—a deep purple, like a bad bruise. Even the whites of his eyes were tinted, as if the color had bled outward.

  Jarplin nodded toward an ornate chest. “Maybe there is another way to free Flint’s tongue.”

  The only acknowledgment from Master Vael was a barely perceptible bow of his head, almost as if the first mate were giving his approval to the captain. Flint’s brow crinkled. Who was the true leader here?

  The captain slipped a silver key from a chain around his neck and crossed to the gold filigreed box. “This is my last one,” he said as he unlocked the chest. “You should feel honored that I want to share it with you.”

  Jarplin’s wide back blocked Flint’s view of the chest. Still, Flint sensed when the box’s lid opened. The cabin suddenly swelled with the reek of entrails bloating in the summer’s sun. But the smell was not the worst of it. It was as if someone had raised the tiny hairs all over Flint’s body. The very air seemed charged with lightning.

  Whatever lay inside that box, Flint had no desire to lay eyes on it. But he was not given any choice. Jarplin swung back around. In his hand, he held a mass of gelatinous slime. At first, Flint thought it looked like some fetid scum scooped out of the bilge pipes, but when Jarplin approached closer, Flint saw it was actually alive. Thin tentacles writhed out from its main bulk. Each tip ended in a tiny mouth, sucking blindly at the air.

  Flint could not help himself. The pain, the tension, the smell—and now this new horror. It all overwhelmed him. His stomach churned, and he spewed bile across his lap. In his heart, he knew what Jarplin carried. He remembered the tales he had heard of the raiding ship that had assaulted the docks of Port Rawl, of the tentacled creatures found curled inside the cleaved skulls of the berserkers. Oh Sweet Mother, not here, too.

  It seemed forever until the spasms in his belly stopped. Afterward, his head hung heavy as he gulped air.

  Jarplin laughed. “Ah, Flint, it’s nothing to fear. This little darlin’ will make you look at life in a whole new light.”

  Raising his head, Flint discovered he could think more clearly now. It was as if his body had needed to cast out all the poisons built up since stepping aboard the ship. “Jarplin,” he said, throwing aside any pretenses, “I don’t know what has happened to you. But listen to me. This is wrong. Somewhere inside you must know this.”

  “Somewhere inside?” Jarplin knelt down and brushed back the silver hair that draped his neck. Twisting around, he exposed the base of his skull to Flint. “Why don’t you check what’s inside me?”

  A small neat hole lay at the top of his neck. Bloodless, it looked like an old, healed wound. Then, from the hole, a pale tentacle slid out, its small mouth swelling and puckering as it drew fresh air to the creature hidden deep inside Jarplin’s skull.

  “What was done to you?” Flint mumbled in horror.

  Jarplin let his hair drape back over the wound. “Let me show you.” He turned to Master Vael. “Fetch the bone drill.”

  Flint finally noticed Master Vael again. The stranger no longer remained expressionless. His lips were stretched in a hungry grin, exposing large teeth, each filed to a sharp point.

  There was nothing human in that smile.

  ELENA GASPED AND danced back from the crate. She almost dropped the lantern.

  Er’ril was immediately at her side. “What is it?” he asked.

  Joach backed nervously toward them, staff raised against the unknown menace.

  “I . . . I’m not sure,” Elena mumbled. “I thought I saw something.” She had expected some monstrosity, something with fiery eyes, to crash out of the crate and pursue her. When it had failed to happen, she was less sure of exactly what she had seen. Her hand fluttered toward her face. “I saw a pair of eyes.”

  Er’ril squeezed her elbow. “Stay here.” He took the lantern from her shaking fingers and approached the box.

  “Be careful,” she whispered.

  Joach kept guard at his sister’s side.

  The two watched Er’ril raise the lantern toward the split section of the crate’s planking. He, too, seemed to jump slightly at what he found. But instead of fleeing, he stood his ground and slipped the lantern deeper toward the hole, peering after it.

  “Well?” Joach asked.

  “I’m not sure. A sculpture of some sort,” he said. “I think the eyes are two rubies.”

  Joach approached, followed by Elena. Her brother raised on his toes to stare into the dark crate. “There’s something—”

  Er’ril waved him away. “We don’t have time to waste on this.”

  “No,” Joach said, glancing over his shoulder at Er’ril. “There’s a power coming off it. My staff grows warm as I near it. We should at least see what lies here.”

  Er’ril hesitated, then nodded. “But let’s be quick about it. We can’t risk the crewmen discovering our escape.”

  They used Joach’s staff and pried at the side, but it refused to budge. The planks were nailed tight.

  Elena stepped forward. “Let me help.” Before either could argue, she sent forth flaming tendrils of wit’ch fire toward the crate. Joach and Er’ril ducked, fearing the strands’ touch. They need not have worried. The strands were like extensions of her own thought. Threads of energy drew to the nails, like iron to lodestone. With the merest push, she melted the fasteners. Unhinged, the side of the crate fell open. Er’ril and her brother caught the wall of planks and settled it gently to the floor.

  Once done, the three gathered before the open crate. Elena had retrieved the lantern from the floor. They all stared in silence at the revealed sculpture.

  “It looks like some big blackbird,” Joach commented.

  The statue was finely crafted, standing taller than Er’ril. Only an artisan of considerable skill could have sculpted the huge stone in such detail. Each feather was in clear relief; the sharp beak looked ready to tear. Its eyes, twin crystalline rubies, sparked hungrily in the lamplight. Its claws seemed to dig into the floor of the crate as if the winged beast had just come to roost.

  “Not a bird,” Er’ril said mournfully.

  Elena
did not argue with his assessment. Though feathered and winged, there was something distinctly reptilian about the beast. The neck was a bit too long and the joints of its legs seemed to bend the wrong way. “What is it?”

  Er’ril turned to Joach, a dark expression on his face. “It’s a wyvern.”

  Joach gripped his staff and backed a step. “Like from my dream.”

  “What are you talking about?” Elena asked.

  Er’ril just shook his head. Her brother and Er’ril stared at each other, wearing strangely guarded expressions, as if each were hiding something from the other.

  Joach finally broke the awkward silence. “But I dreamed nothing about a statue. In my nightmare, the beast flew.”

  The plainsman just continued to stare at the stone beast, little comforted by Joach’s words. His rugged features had paled. “I don’t like this.”

  Neither did Elena. She had seen too many statues come to life during the long journey here. She could not keep the worry from her voice. “You mentioned power, Joach. Maybe it’s like the crystal statue of the boy Denal. Maybe it’ll come to life.”

  Joach drifted nearer, stepping atop the fallen planks. He reached a hand toward the statue.

  “Get back!” Er’ril scolded.

  Wearing a frown, Joach slid his hand away. “This stone is strange. Even polished, it doesn’t seem to cast any reflection.”

  Er’ril and Elena stepped nearer, but they maintained a safe distance.

  “What do you think?” Joach asked Er’ril.

  Elena was the one to answer. “We need to destroy this. Now.”

  “Why?” Joach asked. “My dream was false. Moris and Flint said so. This bird is not coming to life.” He tapped at it with his staff.

  Both Elena and Er’ril yelled a frantic “No!” But nothing seemed to happen. Only a hollow thunk marked where wood met stone. The statue remained the same.

  Er’ril shoved Joach away. “Are you daft, boy? You don’t fool with black magick like that.”

  “What black magick? It’s only ordinary stone.”

  “No,” Elena argued, “it’s ebon’stone.” She pointed to the veins of silver running through the black rock. She had recognized the sculptor’s medium. “This stone drinks blood.”