Dragonwitch

  “Lights Above, mercy!” Eanrin growled.

  He whipped about and rushed back to the nearest gate into the Near World.

  9

  AKILUN, WHO HAD REMAINED BY MY SIDE, his deep eyes studying my face, rose suddenly and crossed to his brother. Though he spoke in a low voice, I strained my ears and caught his words.

  “Are you certain, Etanun?” he asked. “Is it wise for us to venture with her to Etalpalli?”

  “Why do you ask?” Etanun said. “She and her people are desperate. And from what she has told us, can you doubt that it was our own Prince who guided her to us through the Wood?”

  “True,” Akilun replied, and I saw him bow his head and cast a swift glance my way. “But when I looked into her eyes, I saw death.”

  “You saw the mark of Cren Cru,” Etanun said and his grip upon the sword tightened.

  “No,” Akilun said. “It is something else. Death in fire. Death in water. The death of thousands. Flame. And the fall of night.”

  I turned away from them, wrapping my arms and my wounded wings tightly about my body, for his soft words frightened me as neither Cren Cru nor the dreadful Wood had done. I could not explain it, and this made it worse by far.

  But Etanun said, “My brother, man of insight, would you counsel me to rest my sword and allow the Parasite to destroy yet another demesne?”

  I waited to hear Akilun’s answer. It never came.

  Instead, Etanun approached, his sword in hand, and when I looked, I saw that Akilun drew close behind, and he held the lantern Asha. When I saw its light, delicate and white, I found my heart rising. For the first time since the fall of my mighty parents, I began to hope.

  Goblins filled Gaheris Castle.

  From Alistair’s window, Mouse saw the creature stride from the crypt. He saw the bloodshed in the courtyard, the crushed coffin, the dishonored form of the dead earl. He saw Leta flung around like a husk doll, and he saw the Chronicler held in the monster’s grip.

  “You seek the dwarf, little one.”

  “I seek the dwarf,” Mouse whispered without knowing what he said.

  Then goblins poured from that narrow doorway as though it were a portal from another world. They killed as they went, and Mouse could not see if they took prisoners.

  “I’m not part of this,” he whimpered.

  In moments, they would be swarming every passage of the castle. In moments, they would find this chamber.

  Mouse fled to the door, his hands trembling as they reached for the latch. He wanted to crawl under the bed and shiver into nothingness, to let the nightmare of monsters sweep over his head and be gone! But that could never be. He must escape this chamber now, before they filled the keep and he was trapped.

  He opened the door and peered out. The corridor was empty, but all around were roars and screams.

  If he could get to a lower level, perhaps he could escape out a window? He was small; he might fit through one of the narrow openings. Or if he could make it to the wall, perhaps he could jump? Not on the river side, of course; that would be suicide. But off the southern wall, would the ground below be soft enough? Was it worth the risk of a broken leg or worse?

  He stepped out into the passage.

  Alistair moaned.

  It was a slight sound compared to the screams rising from outside, but Mouse started and looked back into the room. The young lord’s eyes blinked blearily open, but they were glassy, unseeing. The wound at his shoulder was blackening fast, spreading ugly veins of poison across his chest, up his neck.

  “They’ll kill him.” Mouse closed his eyes, and a curse choked him. “They’ll kill him in his bed.”

  If he tried to help, the goblins would catch them both.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” he told himself. “I am no part of this.”

  The next moment, the sounds of horror below ringing through the air and rattling Mouse’s ears like the voice of insanity itself, the boy sprang back across the chamber. He took Alistair’s limp arm and pulled it across his shoulders. “Dragons eat you,” Alistair groaned vaguely, trying to push the boy away. But he was too weak and scarcely awake.

  “Come on!” Mouse muttered, hoping the tone, if nothing else, would give Alistair the right idea. “You must help me, or I shan’t be able to help you!”

  His head lolling, Alistair sagged but somehow found his feet. He was much taller than Mouse and a great deal heavier. The boy cursed and knew even as he staggered under his burden back to the doorway that they would never make it out alive. Goblins would pour up the stairway, ripping, tearing, slaying as they went! They would run the young earl through and tear Mouse to pieces. How vividly his imagination painted it all, as though it had already happened.

  Nevertheless, he supported Alistair into the corridor. He could scarcely balance, and he fell against the stone wall, bruising his shoulder, just managing to keep the tall young man upright.

  The goblins were coming. Mouse saw their shadows along the wall at the end of the corridor. He froze, unable to find his heartbeat.

  “Pssst! Look here, mouseling!”

  Again Mouse started and turned. From the doorway a few paces down the passage, the scrubber’s ugly old face peered out at them. He beckoned with the handle of his mop. “Inside, quick!”

  Desperately, Mouse flung himself and his burden forward. They reached the open door and fell headlong into the chamber, but Mouse was up like a shot. He heard the bark of a goblin voice, thought he saw a shadow along the floor. His mouth open in a silent scream, he pushed the door shut and stared at the lock to which he had no key.

  Any moment . . . any moment . . .

  There was an inside bolt. He threw it just as a goblin hurled its weight against the door. One instant more would have been too late.

  Mouse stood, his hands shaking, one finger dripping blood where the iron bolt had caught it. He turned around, crying, “Help me!” to the scrubber.

  But the room was empty, save for the prone form of Alistair on the floor. Of the scrubber there was no sign.

  “Come out. Come out, tender mortal!”

  There was no time for wonder nor even for pain, only action. That bolt would not hold them forever. Fire coursing through his body, Mouse grabbed a nearby chest and, with strength he did not know he possessed, shoved it across the floor, blocking the door. Beasts and devils! If he could move it, so could those monsters.

  “We’ll have you in a trice anyway. Best come out and give us no fuss!”

  He understood. Their dreadful voices rang through his head, and he understood each word as though it were spoken in his own tongue.

  “Fire burn! Fire purify!” Mouse cried out and leapt back. There was a washbasin along the wall. It quickly joined the door and the chest. What else? What else? Their hands were at the latch!

  Mouse turned about, searching the room. He realized—in a distant manner, for it scarcely mattered now—that he stood in the dead Ferox’s own chamber.

  There was a chair by the fire. He shoved it alongside the washbasin and the trunk. The earl’s hunting knife and a ceremonial sword hung upon the wall. Mouse leapt for the sword, but he could not lift it from its place. So he took the knife, cutting himself in his frenzy, and stood with it clutched in his hands for half an instant.

  But he did not know how to use a knife.

  It dropped with a ringing clang to the floor. Mouse flew to the window, drew back the heavy curtains, and looked out. No use! The earl’s room overlooked the inner courtyard. Even if it weren’t three stories up, there would be no escape that way. The monster below stood in the center of a nightmarish horde. Men, women, and children were being dragged before him and forced to their knees.

  Mouse let the curtain drop. He couldn’t watch whatever horror was taking place outside.

  “Come out, little mouse! Come out and play!”

  The great door rattled on its hinges. The iron bolt buckled, ready to give.

  The boy wheeled about and grabbed a tapestr
y down from the wall. Cumbersome though the dense fabric was, it could do no good against that assault. But Mouse could not stand there and do nothing, and there was little else he could lift in the room. Jumping over the prone Alistair, he added the tapestry to his pile.

  He did not notice the heavy door the tapestry had covered. And he did not, above the din of the onslaught, hear the croak and groan of its hinges. He was aware of none of this until a voice he had never heard before spoke behind him.

  “I say, Imraldera, old thing, what by Lumé’s crown are you doing here? You let the Faerie Circle open! You let goblins into—”

  Mouse screamed and swung about. An orange cat as large as a spaniel, tail raised in a questioning curl, stood in the dark doorway of the earl’s secret passage. Golden eyes fixed upon the boy. They were not animal eyes. They were more sentient than those of most humans.

  The cat drew back his lips, and it was a man’s voice that fell from his mouth. “You’re not Imraldera!” he growled, leaping into the room. “Who are you?”

  The bolt broke.

  The washbasin, chest, and tapestry flew across the room as the door burst open, knocking Mouse from his feet. He landed atop prone Lord Alistair, his eyes unseeing, his ears unhearing in the overwhelming rush of terror. He felt the reverberation of goblin footsteps upon the stone, smelled the stench of goblin breath and goblin death.

  With a yeowl like a panther, the cat leapt forward, flinging himself at the goblins. Mouse scrambled up from the floor and pounced for the knife he’d dropped. His hands grasped the hilt, and he spun about, prepared to defend himself to the last. But he saw a man, a tall golden man dressed in scarlet. In his hand was a long knife, darting like claws. Unlike the blades of the housecarls in the courtyard, his weapon pierced the goblins’ armor. Though they towered over him and must each have doubled his weight, he spun and darted, avoiding their stone swords and dealing wounds upon their rock hides. They screamed and Mouse heard one cry: “It’s the knight! The gate guarder!”

  They retreated, howling, and the golden man pursued them into the passage. For one moment, Mouse believed he had gone for good. But the next, he sprang back into the room, his eyes wide and his hair bristling. He slammed the door, though the bolt was broken and it could provide no fortification. Growling, he took hold of a tall wardrobe and, without any apparent strain, pulled it on its side across the doorway. It would provide pause against whatever force with which the goblins returned.

  Then he turned on Mouse.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  Mouse fell to his knees. “Please, please, glorious one!” he cried. “You must help us!”

  The stranger trod on Alistair’s hand as he crossed the room. His knife upraised threateningly, he glared down at Mouse. “I am not glorious,” he said, and then he sniffed, his nose wrinkling. “Where is Imraldera? I smell her on you.”

  Mouse cringed away like a cowering puppy before a lion. “Please!” he cried. “The Silent Lady is held prisoner beneath the Citadel of the Living Fire!”

  “What?” Deftly sheathing the knife, the stranger grabbed Mouse by the shoulder of his tunic and dragged him to his feet. “I left her at the Haven to guard the gates in my absence, and I return to find goblins breaking through to the Near World, and you’re going to gibber about some citadel ?”

  “She’s there, sir! I swear!” Mouse cried. “She sent me to find Etanun of the Faerie folk! She sent me to bring back Etanun’s heir!”

  “Nonsense,” Eanrin snarled. “Imraldera wouldn’t leave the gates unguarded, and she hasn’t—”

  The door rattled, and the heavy wardrobe inched away, leaving a crack opening. A great goblin hand struggled through, tearing at the rock wall. “Come out, little knight!” one of them roared. “Come out and face our brothers!”

  Mouse shrieked, straining against the stranger’s hold. “Help me!” he cried. “Help me get out, and I will explain everything!”

  The stranger cursed. Then he dropped the boy, and the two of them took Alistair’s arms and hauled him upright. “Hurry,” the stranger said as he slung Alistair across his shoulders. He was significantly stronger than he looked. “Into the passage.”

  Mouse obeyed, ducking into the darkness, which was soon all the darker when the stranger followed and pulled the door shut behind. Mouse heard him mutter something, presumably some locking or shielding enchantment, and only just in time, for the goblins burst through. Mouse, trembling in near blindness, heard their furious growls as they tore apart Earl Ferox’s room, searching for their quarry.

  “Move your feet!” the stranger hissed.

  Mouse hastened down the passage as fast as he could go without seeing. The stairway was long, narrow, and steep, and dampness made each step slippery. He nearly fell several times, but the stranger caught him from behind. Beyond the stone walls were sounds of horror and battle. Were the goblins slaughtering all the pale dwellers of this land? Mouse shivered and wept and whispered, “I am no part of this!” But he believed it less every time he said it.

  The walls gave way to uncut stone and deeper darkness and heavier dankness, as though fresh air never came to these parts. They were below the castle now, Mouse thought, winding down and down into the rocky outcropping over the river on which it was built. The sounds of war diminished. Now he heard only the tramp of his own feet and the labored breathing of Alistair, still slung across the stranger’s shoulders. The stranger himself moved with catlike stealth.

  Suddenly Mouse’s feet touched icy water. He cried out, clawed desperately at nothing in the darkness, and fell to his hands and knees, soaking himself through.

  “Hush, mortal!” the stranger said. “We’ve reached the river; it’s still high from autumn rains.” His voice was grim, as though he spoke through clenched teeth. “I never come this way so early in the winter. Dragon-eaten dampness. You’d better have a good explanation for me at the end of this!”

  Mouse, shivering and wet, got to his feet. “Go on,” said the stranger with neither kindness nor sympathy. “It opens up eventually. You’ll see light in another minute.”

  Mouse stumbled forward as ordered. It seemed like another hour, not a minute. But at last the cold gray of an overcast day gleamed at the end of the tunnel. Wading as fast as he could in the icy water, Mouse hurried forward. But the current became stronger, and he soon had to stop for fear of being dragged into the cold clutches of Hanna.

  “Here,” the stranger said and, looking around, Mouse saw that he had climbed up onto a wide ledge above the water and laid Alistair out upon it. He offered Mouse a hand, and soon the quivering child found himself pulled up beside the other two. He sat with his back against the wall, staring at his companion, whose face he could only just discern in this partial lighting.

  The stranger was looking back up the tunnel, his fine long nose sniffing delicately. “I don’t think they’re following us. I’d smell them if they were,” he said. Then he addressed his attention to Alistair, rolling the young man over to inspect his wound. “Great Lights above us!” he cried when he saw the blackened gash, which steamed in the cold tunnel. Then he bared his teeth, more animal than man in that moment. “I know whose blade did this. I’ve seen wounds of this kind before.”

  Mouse drew himself together, folding up his knees and wrapping them with his arms. He watched the golden stranger close his eyes and press long-fingered hands to Alistair’s shoulder. The next moment, the lapping of river water below became accompaniment for a fey song, the like of which Mouse had never before heard. It was the oddest sound following the terror of that long night and longer morning. Though it was a song of peace and healing, Mouse shuddered.

  When the stranger withdrew his hands, his face was drawn and tired. He frowned but nodded. Staring, Mouse breathed a quick prayer: “Fire burn!”

  The black spidery lines of poison were faded to an ugly red, and the festering wound was now only a puckered white scar.

  “It’ll do,” said the stranger. “Curse
that dragon-blasted goblin! He killed more than a few of my people with that poison in the war with Arpiar. We should have done away with him when we had the chance.”

  He seemed to be talking to himself, not to Mouse, so the boy did not respond. His mind was numb, but a voice from his memory whispered: “Someone is coming who can put a stay on the poison.”

  And that same voice had said:

  “You seek the dwarf, little one.”

  How could the scrubber have known? How could he have predicted such bizarre happenings? None of it made sense! But then, nothing had made sense since the moment Mouse had turned his face to follow the blue star.

  The stranger, his shoulders arched and his eyes snapping fire, turned suddenly like a predator spotting its prey. Mouse shrank still more into himself, wishing he could hide from that gaze.

  “All right,” said the stranger, “tell me what’s going on here, girl, before I lose what’s left of my temper.”

  10

  THEY JOURNEYED WITH ME through the Wood Between until we came at last to Cozamaloti. The lock placed upon it by my brother was strong; anyone with less need than I would have turned away, for Cozamaloti Gate had taken the form of an enormous waterfall thundering over a precipice. To pass into Etalpalli, we would have to jump into the churning mist below.

  But the Brothers Ashiun never hesitated. Their strange gifts, sword and lantern, gripped in their hands, they stood on either side of me, and together we leapt.

  It was like stepping through a door. No fall, no rush of wind. Merely a step, and we stood on the borders of my city. And though I strained my eyes, I saw no wings brushing the sky. There was nothing but the hush of Cren Cru’s devouring and the call of his Twelve echoing faintly among the towers: “Send out your firstborn!”

  Taking to the sky, I led the brothers swiftly through the winding streets to Itonatiu, where my brother waited. They climbed the winding stairs while I flew directly to the summit and found Tlanextu there.