Wit'ch War (v5) Read online

  He would have easily dispatched the last handful of soldiers if not for the sudden appearance of the leader of this watch. Standing shorter than most of his fellow soldiers and appearing frail of limb, the man was not outwardly intimidating as he stepped through the battered door. But he stopped Kral with a glance: Foul magick danced behind those tiny eyes. Kral recognized the man’s nature—ill’guard, an elemental twisted by the black magicks of his master. But the leader of the watch did not recognize Kral’s kinship. The Black Heart had hidden Kral’s secret too deep for even another ill’guard to recognize.

  As Kral paused, the ill’guard leader raised a clawlike hand and raked it in his direction. At this signal, a furious black cloud burst into the room from the hall outside. Wings and claws ripped through the air toward Kral. A flock of monstrous ravens and deadeye crows! Swinging his ax, Kral fought the demon birds. Such a weapon was little protection against such numerous small foes; still, he used blade, haft, and fist to beat back the assault.

  For a moment, Meric added his support from the bed. The elv’in used what little skill he could muster to send sharp gusts of magickal wind to attack the flock. The cloud of birds was battered ragged by the unexpected attack. Even the leader of the watch stumbled a step away, wary of this sudden gale.

  Kral pressed his attack, defense becoming offense, hoping to reach the ill’guard and dispatch the fool who had so foully interfered with his own plans. Yet suddenly, one of the crows slipped past Kral’s ax and dove toward his leg. It buried its sharp beak into the meat of his thigh. The pain was but a pinch, and Kral crushed the beast under the butt of his ax. But the damage was already done. Kral’s left leg went instantly numb. Unsupported, he toppled to the floor.

  The black cloud fell upon him, keening squawks accompanying their assault. Beaks and claws tore at him. In moments, he felt the ax kicked from his numb fingers.

  “Enough!” the leader screeched through the howl of the birds. “I need them alive!”

  The birds squawked their displeasure but obeyed their master, hopping and flapping away from Kral. Unable to move, paralyzed by the black magick, Kral could not even turn his head as he heard the footfalls of the ill’guard leader. From the corner of his eyes, Kral noted that Tol’chuk had fared no better. He lay sprawled across the rug, unmoving. It seemed even the og’re could not resist the numbing magick of the demon crows.

  The man’s pinched face leaned over to peer into Kral’s eyes. “No one hides from me in Port Rawl.”

  Kral suppressed a groan. Damn ill’guard fool! The man had no idea how artfully he had blocked his master’s true desires. Kral found small comfort in knowing how this man would suffer when the Black Heart learned of this interference.

  The leader of the watch straightened up, towering over Kral. “Shackle that monster and haul the lot of them to the garrison.”

  “Sir,” one of the soldiers asked, “what about this dead woman?” Kral saw the soldier’s boots kick Mycelle’s body.

  “My birds are still hungry for meat,” he said with a wave of his hand. “She’ll make a fitting meal.” At his signal, the flock swarmed over Mycelle.

  “Master Parak . . .” It was Mama Freda, naming the ill’guard leader. “I should warn you that the woman consumed poison. She killed herself. If your handsome birds feed on her flesh and blood, they could be poisoned, too.”

  Kral could just make out the startled look on the man’s face. Parak snapped his fingers and drove his birds from Mycelle’s carcass. Just then men grabbed Kral’s arms and began hauling him up. Half sitting in their grips, Kral had a better view of the room. Several men worked over Tol’chuk with iron shackles, while Mogweed already lay trussed in ropes.

  Mama Freda, her head bowed, stood beside the scrawny Parak. Her pet tamrink, Tikal, crouched on her shoulder, tail wrapped around the old woman’s neck. It stared with wide black eyes, shivering in restrained panic and making the tiniest whining noises in the back of its throat.

  “Thank you, Mama Freda,” the leader of the watch said. “As a fellow lover of beasts of the field, I’m sure you understand how dear my birds are to me.”

  Mama Freda absently scratched her tamrink behind an ear, calming the beast. “Of course. My duty is always to the city and the well-being of its citizenry.”

  “Still, you should have warned us of these strangers. You know the new statutes. None of them registered with their respective castes or paid their tithes. If it wasn’t for our one-armed friend over there—” Parak pointed to where a rough soldier dressed in colors of the town’s gatekeepers lay dead. “—who so skillfully shadowed the swordswoman and reported her location, we would never have discovered this clutch of criminals. As such, they are now slaves of the watch.”

  Kral’s blood thundered in his ears. So this assault was for no other reason but to gain slaves. As in all matters of Port Rawl, it seemed even the ill’guard were guided by the shine of gold coins.

  “Your pardons, Master Parak. But you know my rule: I heal; I don’t ask questions.”

  Parak snorted in amusement. “Yes. That is why you are so valued a citizen.” He turned to face his men as they finished lashing Kral’s arms behind him. “Take them to the garrison.”

  “What about the sick one in bed?” one of the soldiers asked.

  “Leave him. From the looks of him, he’s already half in his grave. He’ll fetch no good coin.” Parak glanced around the room. “The rest of this lot, though, should bring us a nice price on the slaver’s block.”

  The soldiers began hauling their bounty toward the door. Kral’s arms were yanked cruelly behind him as he was dragged away, but the numbness in his limbs masked any pain.

  Parak faced Mama Freda and waved an arm to encompass the room. “I apologize for the intrusion, Mama Freda. I’ll send someone to clean this mess on the morrow.”

  Mama Freda stood among the many dead, amid the stench of blood and excrement. She bowed her head. “As always, you are too kind.”

  ER’RIL KNELT BESIDE Elena’s bed. Aromatic oils of the woods scented the air of the cabin, but under the sharp odor was the tang of blood and medicines. Soiled bandages were piled at the foot of the narrow cot, and pots of willow bark and woundswort lined the planks.

  As Elena slumbered, Er’ril held the girl’s hand in his own. She was so cold, her lips so pale. She did not respond as he rubbed her wrist—only a whispered mumble, nothing more.

  “She does not wake,” he said to Flint. The old Brother had applied what little healing skill he knew to save Elena. The two of them were alone in the cabin. Joach and Moris were doing their best to man the sails and rigging while guiding the boat along the coast.

  “Perhaps it’s best she sleeps,” Flint finally said as he pulled a thick wool blanket up to her neck. “Her body needs its energy to heal. Even as I stitched, the edges of her wound were knitting together on their own. Her magick protects her.”

  “Then she’ll live,” Er’ril said.

  “She should already be dead,” Flint answered. He sat back on his heels on the far side of the bed. He stared somberly at Er’ril. “The poison of a drak’il’s tail kills with the barest scratch. I suspect her slumber is her body’s attempt to rally its meager resources to keep her alive. But there are limits to which even her magick can protect her.” Flint slipped one of Elena’s ruby-stained hands free of the blanket. “See how her Rose slowly fades as she lies here. Her magick feeds her spirit, sustaining her.”

  The deep crimson of Elena’s hands had waned to a sallow pink. Er’ril raised his eyes to Flint. “And when the girl’s magick fades completely away . . . ?”

  Flint met Er’ril’s gaze unflinchingly, then simply shook his head sadly.

  “Then what are we to do?”

  “I’ve done all I can. The healers who once studied in A’loa Glen may have been able to aid her, but . . .” Flint shrugged. The island had been lost to the Dark Lord’s minions.

  “What about dragon’s blood?” The healing properties
of a seadragon were well known. “If we reach the rendezvous site with the mer’ai . . . ?”

  “She’ll be long dead by then,” Flint said. “But you’ve given me an idea. There’s a skilled healer in Port Rawl. Her apothecary is well stocked with herbs and potions. I don’t know if she carries dragon’s blood; it’s scarce and expensive. But she is a wise healer.”

  “Port Rawl?” Er’ril asked skeptically. Little good was ever gained by a visit to that swamp city.

  “I also know a few good men in Port Rawl who can help crew the ship. Alone, we are too few to properly sail the Seaswift into the tricky currents of the Archipelago. And if we should be attacked again . . .” Flint shrugged. Only luck and black magick had saved them this time.

  Er’ril pulled a chair closer to the bed as he weighed their options. Sitting down, he raised a palm to Elena’s cheek. Her flesh was like ice. Around his own heart, a similar coldness settled. He could not watch her die. “We’ll have to risk it.”

  Flint nodded and stood. “Then I’d better alert Moris to our new plans and let the boy know of his sister’s condition.”

  “The boy . . .” Er’ril said, stopping Flint. “About that magick . . .”

  “I know,” Flint said. “Joach shouldn’t have been able to wield such might. Therein lies something worth closer study. But either way, I think that staff should be burned and its ashes cast into the sea.”

  “No,” Er’ril said. “Leave the boy his staff.”

  Flint’s eyebrows rose in doubtful acceptance. “Whatever you say.” The old man reached for the latch to the door.

  “Flint . . .”

  The grizzled Brother glanced over his shoulder.

  “Keep a close watch on the boy,” Er’ril finished.

  Flint’s face grew grim. Both men knew the stranglehold that the black magicks could have on a man. Even a pure spirit could be choked by the black arts’ grip. With a sharp nod, Flint ducked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  Alone with Elena, Er’ril leaned back in his chair. He pushed aside his worries about Joach. His immediate concern lay wrapped in woolen blankets before him.

  Er’ril studied the small girl, his fingers clenched with worry. If she died, so died the last chance to free Alasea. But in his heart, Er’ril knew it was not the fate of his lands that clenched his fist, but a simpler fear—the fear of losing Elena herself. In his long life, he’d never had a younger sister to watch over, nor a daughter to dote upon, but somewhere on the dark journey here, Elena had become both to him—and perhaps more.

  But who was she really—wit’ch, woman, or savior?

  Er’ril sighed. He had no answer.

  Upon her pale features, the first signs of womanhood were just beginning to shine through the roundness of childhood: the soft curve of cheekbone, the fullness of lips. He reached forward and combed back a strand of fiery curl from her smooth brow. And when had the black dye faded from her hair? She must have been hiding it from him, hoping he wouldn’t notice. A ghost of a smile shadowed his lips. Even with the fate of Alasea hanging over her head, the simple vanities of a young girl still weighed her heart. This thought gave him some small cheer.

  But as he leaned back in his chair, Er’ril’s smile dimmed. His eyes wandered to the moon shining through the small porthole. “Savior or not,” he muttered to the empty room, “I will not see you die, Elena.”

  5

  BREAKING FROM DARKNESS, Mycelle woke to streaming light so bright that it blinded her. She blinked against the glare. Was this the Grand Bridge to the next life? If so, she had never suspected the transition would be so painful. Her entire form was afire with an intense itch that burned both inside and outside—but inside and outside what? She had no true awareness of a body, only of pain defining the boundaries of her form.

  “Lie still, child,” a bodiless voice murmured in her head.

  “Wh-where am I?” she asked, unsure if she spoke with her lips or with her thoughts.

  Either way, the speaker heard her question. “You’re safe—at least for the moment.”

  That voice . . . She knew that voice. “Mother . . . ?” As soon as she spoke the word, Mycelle knew this was not correct. “Mama . . . ?” Then her memories returned in a babbling torrent—images, sounds, smells, all falling back into order. Mycelle remembered the warm room, the burned elv’in, and the small golden-maned pet of the old healer. “Mama Freda.”

  “That’s correct, child. Now don’t struggle. The paka’golo is not finished with its work yet.”

  Mycelle still felt no awareness of her body. Was she lying on her back or belly? The blinding light filled her entire mind. Suddenly a violent spasm wracked through the core of her being. She retched violently.

  “Keep her head turned,” Mama Freda said. “She’ll choke if you’re not careful. Yes, like that . . . Very good.”

  Mycelle coughed and spat. What was happening? The last she remembered was swallowing the poison in her jade vial. She recalled slumping to the floor, glad to protect Elena with her own death, relieved that the poison was painless, tasteless. Why was she still alive? For a horrifying moment, the thought of failure wormed through her mind. She still lived. Could the secret of Elena’s location still be wrested from her?

  “No . . . I must not . . . Elena . . .”

  “Stop struggling!” Mama Freda ordered. “I said you’re safe. The soldiers of the watch have left with their trophies. They thought you were dead from poison.”

  A new voice intruded. “She was dead.”

  “Hush. Death is not as final as most would suppose. It is like a child’s croup. If caught early, it’s curable.”

  A derisive snort. “She still looks dead to me.” Mycelle suddenly knew that voice, the snide arrogance. It was Meric. “How long does this process take?”

  “The sun is just dawning. It’s almost over. She’ll either rally now, or we’ll lose her forever.”

  The voices faded into the background as a roaring suddenly filled Mycelle’s ears. If she could have found her hands, she would have clapped them over her ears. What was happening? She had a thousand questions, but the noise, the blinding light, and the fiery burn made it hard to think. With all her senses overwhelmed, she became aware of something beyond all the pain and confusion.

  She reached out to it, like a drowning woman for a floating log, something to hang on to, something solid in this intangible plane. It scintillated and sparked like a jewel in sunlight, moving slowly through the core of her being. What was it? She sensed magick surrounding it, radiating from it like heat from a hearth. It seemed to suffuse through her, cooling the burn slightly with its passage.

  A vague sense of recognition drifted in her mind. She struggled to clear the fog from her awareness, reaching toward this new magick with her seeking talent. What was this strangely familiar scent? She sniffed at it with her talent. The elemental signature was unusual: mold, dirt, and a touch of black coal. Suddenly she knew why it was familiar. It was the elemental magick she had sensed in Mama Freda’s storeroom earlier, among the drying herbs and shelves of medicines. Something from beyond the lands of Alasea.

  As she studied it, the magick swelled, becoming a part of her. The source of the elemental power climbed closer, as if from some abyss, sliding and curling toward where her mind hid. Its magick grew stronger as it approached. Hues of blue and green whorled about it, pushing back the blinding light. Then it was upon her, burning her magick, drowning her. Mycelle felt something vital being ripped from her.

  Mycelle choked; she could not breathe. It filled and enveloped her. She writhed as awareness of her body returned in a searing rush.

  “Hold her limbs! Pin her down!”

  “I can’t—”

  “Curse you! Sit on her if you have to, you scrawny bird!”

  Mycelle fought for air! She struggled to gasp, choking.

  “Tikal . . . Tikal . . . Tikal . . .”

  “Get your tail out of my way!” The squeal of an upset beast. �
��Now’s the moment, Meric! The paka’golo climbs up from her throat. She lives or dies on this moment.”

  “Sweet Mother!”

  “Help me hold her jaws open. Get me that mouth gag. No, not that! Over there!” A curse under mumbled breath. Then Mycelle felt lips at her ear. “Don’t fight it. Let it pass.”

  Mycelle did not know what the old woman meant. Her back suddenly convulsed in a contorting spasm. Tears burst from her eyes.

  “Hold her!”

  Then Mycelle screamed—a ripping cry as if she were casting the very life itself from her body. And in a way she was. Mycelle felt something squirm and coil out from inside her throat, sliding out through her stretched lips as she screamed. She choked and gasped as what she gave birth to slipped over her tongue and out of her body.

  Once her throat was unblocked, her spasming body collapsed down and rattling gasps tumbled from her lips. Darkness resolved into watery images: blurred faces, movement, wavering light. She raised a hand to her face. She was soaked in sweat. With each breath, her eyes continued to focus.

  “Lie back, child. Rest. Keep your eyes closed.”

  Mycelle did not resist her words, too weak to argue. She simply obeyed. She sensed a table under her back. No soft bed, but bare planks. Still, she did not move. She let the tremors and mild twitching calm in her limbs. Her breathing became less ragged, and her moist skin cooled. Someone opened a window nearby, and a cool breeze raised gooseflesh on her legs and arms. She was suddenly conscious of her own nakedness.

  Embarrassment and shyness finally moved her to open her eyes. She blinked against the brightness, but it was only the soft light from a rising sun that lit the room. Voices could be heard nearby, muffled in whispers: “. . . live, but the bite of a paka’golo will be needed to sustain her.”