Wit'ch War (v5) Page 25

  Before anyone could comment, Er’ril vanished back into the thickening haze.

  At the rail, nobody spoke, worry and fear clear in all their eyes. Elena studied the choppy waves. Could she manage such a swim? She searched the waters for signs of shark fins or other hidden menaces.

  From somewhere far away, a horn began to wail—at first softly, then stridently, echoing over the waters. It sounded like the mournful cry of a dying seabeast.

  “Port Rawl has spotted us,” Flint explained, his voice a mixture of relief and worry. “They sound the alarm. If we can—”

  Suddenly the deck jolted under their feet. Tok was knocked to his knees. A shuddering roar burst from deep within the boat, as if the ship bellowed its death rattle. The yardarm of the mast, half charred, crashed midship, taking out the far rail. The ship listed and rolled, seawater hissing as flames were consumed.

  Flint was at Elena’s shoulder. “We dare not wait any longer. We must abandon ship. Now! She’s breaking apart.” The old seaman pushed her toward the scrap of door. “Stay with your brother. I’ll keep with the young lad. Strike out as best you can. Watch for any ships.”

  Elena stepped away from the starboard rail. “But Er’ril . . . ?”

  Flint gripped her shoulder with fingers of iron and pulled her back. “He’ll manage on his own. He’s been in worse scrapes and survived.”

  Joach stepped in front of her. “Brother Flint is right, El. Help me toss the door overboard.”

  Elena frowned but obeyed. The two heaved the chunk of wood over the rail. It struck the water, bobbed up, then quickly began to glide away. The current was strong.

  Flint had managed to scrounge a section of broken rail from somewhere, and he and the boy were prepared to leap with it in their arms. “Hurry,” he urged.

  Joach helped his sister atop the rail. “Go, old man,” he yelled to Flint. “We’ll manage.”

  Tok’s face was frozen in fear, but Flint gave the young lad’s arm a final squeeze and over they went.

  Joach turned to Elena. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” she answered and shoved Joach overboard.

  He hit the water hard but floundered up, sputtering seawater. Elena leaned over the rail and pointed to the floating door. “Fetch the door! Wait for me! I’m not leaving without searching for Er’ril!”

  “Elena! No!”

  She was already gone. She would not abandon Er’ril. With the ship crashing around their ears, the plainsman might be trapped under debris, and with her magick, she could quickly free him.

  Racing through the smoke, she aimed for the hatch in the stern deck. Er’ril had mentioned something about the galley. Holding her arm over her nose and mouth, she sped through the hatch. Her eyes burned with ash and smoke. Tears washed down her cheeks.

  She clattered down the steep stair, almost knocking her head when a step gave way under her. Without waiting, she fought her way to the kitchens. Through the smoke, she spotted a body, covered in ash. With her heart in her throat, she rushed over only to discover it was just the cook.

  Elena straightened. The galley was small, but the smoke still made it difficult to see all its corners clearly. The sting of tears compounded the problem. For this reason, Elena did not spot the open trapdoor until she almost fell headlong down it.

  Crouching, she stared into the darkness. Lit by a vague reddish glow, a ladder descended. She knew to where these steps led. Elena, Er’ril, and Joach had once stood at the foot of these same steps and listened to the bawdy singing of pirates. Down there was where they had been imprisoned—and where the wyvern statue was stored.

  “Er’ril!” she yelled down the trapdoor. “Can you hear me?”

  She waited, holding her breath. Nothing.

  Before she could convince herself otherwise, Elena swung around onto the ladder. She scrambled down the steps into the hot bowels of the ship. The glow, she discovered, was not from a lantern, but from a smoldering fire near the back of the short passage. The heat singed her lungs as she breathed. She would have to hurry.

  Cautious but moving quickly, she darted down the hall toward the fire, its heat more searing with every step. But in five paces, she was at the door that led to the bilge cabin. She ducked into the room, fist raised before her and already afire with blood magicks.

  What she found there so startled her that she froze in place. In the center of the room were the remains of the crate—broken boards and charred remnants—and nothing else. The statue was gone.

  From the scatter of wooden pieces, it was almost like something had exploded out from it. Elena glanced around as if expecting to see the wyvern statue lurking in a corner or hanging from the ceiling. But there was no sign of it.

  Elena took a step closer. Her toe nudged a piece of debris that rolled across the floorboards. It drew her eye. A gasp escaped her throat as she recognized it. She hurried over and retrieved the small iron fist from the debris. It was the ward of A’loa Glen. So Er’ril had been down here!

  Wiping the tears and sweat from her eyes, she searched closer, on hands and knees. She found Er’ril’s weapon, the silver sword he had obtained from Denal. In horror, she realized the scatter of cloth scraps strewn about were actually the remains of Er’ril’s breeches and shirt. They had been shredded to ribbons. She lifted her hand. It held the leather tie that bound the plainsman’s hair. It was singed black.

  Shock pushed Elena to her feet.

  Her limbs shook. The grief and horror were too large for her to grip. “No,” she finally moaned and backed away, stopping only to collect the iron ward and the silver sword from the floor. Elena ran from the room. Her mind was too shaken to manage the ladder, especially encumbered by Er’ril’s items. But even if it meant her life, she could not discard them.

  Elena struggled upward, her clothes and skin beginning to burn from the growing heat. She rolled out of the trapdoor and into the kitchen, sprawling across the deck. After the cramped oven of the lower hall, the kitchen felt almost icy. She closed her eyes, meaning to rest only a moment, but instead slipped into a numb daze. When next she was aware, the galley was thick with smoke, choking her. Coughing, she leaned up.

  Fires surrounded her.

  Overhead, planks suddenly crashed down. Craning her neck, Elena saw a monstrous, dark shape reach toward her. “No,” she moaned, too grief-stricken to resist. Sharp claws grabbed Elena as her vision blackened.

  Beyond caring, beyond hope, darkness claimed her.

  12

  ELENA AWOKE SLOWLY. She struggled against the bonds that held her trapped until she realized it was just heavy blankets, snugged securely around her.

  “Hush, dear. You’re safe.”

  Turning her head, Elena watched an old woman move about the small room. Elena gasped as the elder swung back toward the bed. Above the woman’s small nose was only a plane of dark skin. No eyes. Elena shuddered at the sight. “Who . . . ? Where . . . ?” Elena fought to sit up. From the roll in her belly, she sensed she was in some ship’s cabin. She glanced around the small chamber. A sea chest, a stout table, and the bed. There was not even a porthole.

  Elena tried to speak, but a sudden fit of coughing choked her. She hacked and gasped for several breaths, spitting up a black phlegm from her throat. Afterward, with tears in her eyes, she slumped deeper into the thick goose down of the bed, too weak limbed for any real resistance.

  The old woman, her gray hair bound in a coil atop her head, turned toward Elena, stirring a steaming mug with a twig of willow. It smelled of cinnamon and a tang of medicinals. “Drink this.” The old woman held out the cup. “I know your magick will help you heal eventually, but never turn down additional aid.”

  Elena leaned away warily. As she did so, she felt something burrowing under the blankets near the foot of the bed. She yanked her feet away just as a fiery-maned face popped from under a fold of blanket. Its huge black eyes blinked at her; then a tail ringed in gold and rich brown fur wriggled free.

  “Tikal . . . Tikal . .
. bad puppy,” it intoned mournfully.

  Elena caught a pungent whiff arising from that end of the bed. The beast looked oddly chagrined, head bowed, tail tucking around its neck.

  The old woman scolded the animal and shooed him away. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said and sat on the edge of the bed, still holding the cup. “Tikal is still upset by the sea voyage. Normally he knows to use a chamberpot. I’ll fetch a dry set of bedclothes in a moment.” She grimaced in the creature’s direction, sending it scurrying to perch atop the nearby table. The old woman then turned to Elena. “He’s upset because the last time either of us were aboard a sailing vessel was when we were first caught by the slavers.”

  Elena sensed no threat from the woman, but while naked under the sheets, she felt vulnerable. “Am I with slavers now?” she asked hoarsely, her throat raw.

  The woman smiled. “Oh, my dear, don’t you remember anything?” She laughed a quick note, a friendly sound. “We rescued you from the flaming ship. Well, Tol’chuk did, that is. He found you nearly blacked out in the lower decks. Luckily, an og’re’s eyes are sharp in dim light, and with his stone guiding him, he found you quickly. Any longer and the smoke would have killed you.”

  Elena remembered the sharp claws and the dark shape looming over her after climbing from the trapdoor. “Tol’chuk?”

  “Yes.” She patted Elena’s blanket-covered knee. “Luckily, we were already under sail when we spotted your smoke, giving us a jump on any other ship from Port Rawl. Now drink this elixir of fellroot and bitterwort. It’ll help clear your chest of the smoke. The coughing may get worse over the next hour, but the herbs will loosen the phlegm so you can clear it.” She smiled kindly and held out the mug again. “Mostly you just need rest.”

  This time Elena took it. The stone of the mug felt warm and soothing in her clammy hands. Elena could almost sense the healing properties through the stone. “My brother?” she asked fearfully over the cup’s rim.

  “We fished everyone from the sea, except—”

  A knock at the door interrupted them.

  “Come!” the old woman called out.

  A familiar figure strode into the room. The slender limbs, the hawkish nose—even with his hair but a silver stubble, she could not mistake the elv’in Meric. “I have an extra pot of hot water—” he began to say. Then his eyes grew wide as he spotted Elena. “You’re awake!” he said with delight, such strong emotion rare in the haughty fellow. Elena noted that he needed a cane now to hobble across the floorboards to join them. “I see you’ve met Mama Freda,” he said as he leaned on the foot of her bed. “Without her healing skills, neither of us would be here now.”

  “What happened to you?” she asked, noting the fading scars on his face.

  He opened his mouth to answer, but Mama Freda cut him off. “There is time for the exchange of tales later. Right now, I’d like to get this child up and moving a bit. She’s been bedridden near on an entire day. And I think a short walk in fresh air will help her lungs.”

  Meric nodded his agreement but did not move, still staring at Elena.

  Mama Freda just sighed. “A bit of privacy, sir.”

  The elv’in’s eyes grew wide. “Of course . . . I’m sorry . . .” he mumbled, straightening up. “It’s just that she’s changed so much. Flint warned us, but with her awake like this, it’s just so much more . . . more astounding.”

  Mama Freda shooed him away. “Let her finish her drink in peace.”

  Meric glanced one last time before slipping out of the room. “She could be ancient King Dresdin’s first child,” he mumbled as he left. “The resemblance to the old tapestries is amazing.”

  Once the elv’in was gone, Mama Freda removed a thick robe from the sea chest. “After you finish with the herbs, I’ll take you above.”

  Elena nodded. She sipped the elixir slowly. The cinnamon’s flavor could not completely mask the bitter tang of the medicinals. Still, it was hot and soothed the raw ache in her throat. As she closed her eyes and inhaled the scent into her sore lungs, she tried not to think about Er’ril and what she had discovered below the decks of the tainted Skipjack. The memory was too tender, and no elixir in all the lands could soothe that pain.

  “Are you all right?” Mama Freda asked. “Is the medicine too hot?”

  Elena opened her eyes and realized tears had blurred her vision. “No, the herb tea is fine,” she muttered. How had the eyeless woman noted her few tears? Pushing aside such mysteries, Elena sighed and drained the last of the mug’s contents. “I’m done,” she started to say, but the healer was already reaching for her empty cup.

  “Then let’s get you some fresh air.” Mama Freda helped her stand and slipped the robe over her shoulders. The old woman gave her a quick hug and whispered in her ear. “Time alone is the best healer of some wounds.”

  Elena knew the woman sensed the ache in her heart. She returned the hug. “I pray you’re right,” she whispered.

  Mama Freda touched Elena’s cheek with a warm palm, then turned to guide her out of the room. Tikal rode on the healer’s shoulder. Elena was glad the old woman’s cane kept her from moving too quickly. Elena’s own limbs felt like those of a newborn, shaky and weak. Luckily, they did not have far to go—only down a short passage and up an impossibly steep set of stairs.

  Holding the upper deck hatch open, Mama Freda helped Elena up into the clean air of late morning. The fresh breezes felt like ice in her lungs. Coughing a bit, she stood in place, taking in the bright sunlight and soft winds. Already she felt vigor returning in her limbs.

  “You be looking much better,” a graveled voice said behind her.

  Elena turned and spotted Tol’chuk standing by the ship’s rail. He wore an awkward smile, yellowed fangs glinting in the sun. She crossed to the huge og’re and hugged him. “Thank you for risking your life to save me.”

  Once free of the embrace, Tol’chuk patted his thigh pouch. “The stone would allow me no other choice. Besides, a bit of flame be little threat to an og’re’s thick skin.”

  She patted his arm. “Well, thank you anyway,” she said, smiling at his humility. She glanced around the deck. “Where’s Mycelle?”

  Tol’chuk’s features clouded over with sorrow. “She be gone.”

  Elena’s heart clenched. She could not face more death. “Is she . . . is she dead?”

  Tol’chuk touched her with an apologetic claw and corrected Elena’s misinterpretation. “Sometimes I be thick in the head. Mycelle be fine. She and Kral, along with the shape-shifters, have gone to stop the Dark Lord’s armies in the north. She left a letter for you, explaining it all.”

  Elena breathed again, relieved. They were not dead, but her mind was too fuddled to deal with the implications of the others’ departure. She would ponder the loss later, but right now, she simply did not want to feel. Her heart was too raw.

  From the stern, another familiar voice arose. Glancing back, she spotted Flint with a few black-skinned sailors by the wheel. From the flush to the old Brother’s cheeks, he seemed to be in the middle of an argument with them. He waved to her, then returned to his discussion.

  “El!” Joach rushed at her from where he and the boy Tok had been sparring with staffs on the deck. “You’re up!”

  She endured his embrace, glad to see they were all safe. All this attention was beginning to tax her.

  Joach straightened, a stern look on his face. “If you ever shove me overboard again . . .” he scolded, but he could not maintain the ruse of anger. A foolish smile bloomed on his lips. “Thank the Mother you’re safe, El.”

  Mama Freda must have sensed her growing exhaustion. “Come, leave her be,” she clucked at Joach and scooted him back with her cane. From her shoulder, Tikal also scolded the boy with sharp squeaks. Once Joach relented, Mama Freda turned to Elena. “Let’s walk a bit, then back down you go.”

  Elena nodded. She crossed the deck, coughing every now and then. Mama Freda placed a palm on her forehead at one point, but the healer seeme
d content with whatever she felt.

  They ended up standing by the rail, staring over the open seas. Green islands with shores of steep cliffs rode the waves all around them. They must have entered the Archipelago while she slept. Elena scanned all the horizons. Not a smudge of dark smoke marked the sky anywhere.

  “The boat sank quickly,” Mama Freda said. “We searched the waters for half a day but found no sign of him.”

  “He was already gone,” she muttered.

  Mama Freda remained silent, just placed her hand atop Elena’s.

  Across the sky, gulls called to one another. Elena listened, her eyes staring at the swells as the boat rode the currents and winds.

  Suddenly, Mama Freda’s pet, who had been chittering softly and trying to unwind the healer’s braid, erupted with loud screeches. Elena’s gaze darted up just as the gulls overhead began their own angry cries. Tikal clutched tightly to the thin neck of the healer, the beast’s eyes wide with fright. He stared toward the skies above.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Elena asked.

  Mama Freda’s blind face also stared upward. “I see what Tikal sees,” she said in worried tones. “His eyes are sharper than those of a man. It’s some strange bird flying this way.”

  “The wyvern.” Elena searched the skies for a black speck. “It must be coming back.”

  “It’s odd . . .” the healer mumbled.

  Then Elena saw it. It dove out of the sun’s glare, as if birthed by its fires. As it shot across the blue skies, scudding under white clouds, its plumage shone like fire.

  Elena and Mama Freda scrambled back as the bird plummeted directly toward them. Tripping on the old woman’s cane, Elena fell. A commotion arose behind her as others spotted the attacker, but Elena’s eyes were fixed on the plunge of the winged predator.

  It was much too small to be the wyvern. But what was it?

  She raised her red hand against it, scrambling for something to poke her skin to release a flow of fire.

  Then it was too late.