Wit'ch Fire

  “Hurry,” Er’ril called. “The beasts grow impatient, and the path stales.”

  As Elena followed, her feet dragging as if they were full of sand, the moon’falcon flitted across the cavern to alight on her shoulder again. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the wolf trailing in the shadows on her heels. What made these creatures of the field trust her?

  She glanced to her ruby hand, the wound on her thumb gone.

  And what of the unknown spirit who had granted her this magick? Why did this spirit trust her, too? She was only a farmer’s daughter; what strength of substance did these creatures all see in her?

  Tears suddenly appeared in her eyes, but she wiped them away before anyone noticed them. She did not want this responsibility. She sniffed back her tears. Was there no one to whom she could pass this duty?

  She stared at Er’ril’s wide back as he marched ahead. Her liege man, he had called himself. In her heart, Elena knew the magick was her burden to bear, but maybe she did not have to bear it alone. This thought dried her tears. Maybe there was someone she could lean on, someone she could trust.

  “My liege man,” she whispered to herself, allowing her tongue to taste the words.

  27

  KRAL PASSED THE radiant green stone to Tol’chuk and wiped the blood from his fingertips onto his trousers. The strange hissing had faded to a whisper, then vanished. The resulting silence weighed like the heavy air before a summer storm. He left the og’re to examine the elv’in’s stone and crept farther down the crumbling stone hall.

  The greenish glow from the small gem lit the black hall, swamping the walls in an unnatural sheen. Ahead, strings of moss and rootlets festooned the ceiling, while the floor was littered with ancient rock that ground to powder under his heel.

  Kral slapped aside a root trying to lodge in his beard. Ducking his head, he rounded a corner. Tol’chuk and the light followed. The hall ended just ahead with a large chamber beyond. Kral motioned for the og’re to stop and wait.

  He unhitched the ax from his belt, and with its leather-wrapped hickory handle firmly in hand, he slunk forward. The greenish glow lighted the dried blood still on the ax’s blade. It shone a purplish black, like a bruise on the iron. He ground his teeth at the reminder of his dishonor, the lie that had passed his tongue. He tightened his grip on the weapon. Maybe fresh blood would help wash away the foulness upon his blade and heart.

  Kral reached the entrance to the large chamber and crouched with his back against one wall of the hall. He darted a quick glance into the room ahead. The room had once been a great hall of some kind. Vaulted ceilings spanned into the darkness above, and on the walls, faint frescoes whispered with echoes of a distant past. The hall must have been a meeting chamber: The walls were pocked with the openings to many other passages. The chamber was so large that even the sharp green light from the stone could not pierce to the far wall of the room.

  Kral stayed crouched and searched for any sign of the elv’in. The strange man must be near, since his glowing stone had rolled back to them, but as much of the floor as Kral could see lay empty. Maybe he was deeper, beyond where the light reached. Kral stood and waved Tol’chuk closer to him so the stone could light the chamber more fully.

  The claws of the og’re scraped loudly as he lumbered up to Kral. They entered the hall together.

  “I smell . . . something odd,” Tol’chuk said. The og’re had his nose raised and splayed wide.

  Kral stopped and eyed the room ahead. With the better lighting, a splash of wet blackness could be seen staining the gray stone. He pointed. “Blood.”

  The two stepped forward together, but the og’re’s eyes kept wary watch on the walls around them, rather than on the floor. Kral allowed him to keep guard and knelt to confirm that what lay on the floor was indeed blood. He dipped a finger to the stain and raised it to his nose. It smelled of musky iron. A smeared trail disappeared into the hanging blackness at the deep end of the chamber.

  “The blood is still warm.” Kral straightened up. “Meric must not be far.”

  The og’re seemed to be ignoring him. His grinding voice just warned, “The smell . . . it grows stronger.”

  Kral sniffed. He smelled nothing but dust and mold. Impatient, he nodded to the trail of blood.

  They followed the path into the darkness. Within five steps, Kral realized why the light from the stone had failed to penetrate to the far wall of the chamber. There was no far wall. Beyond the floor ahead lay only open space, as if some monstrous god had cleaved away the back half of the chamber, leaving a deep gorge ahead.

  Kral walked to the lip of the chasm. The blood trail led over this edge and into the tumble of rocks below. He glanced at the smeared path again. Had Meric dragged himself here, seeking safety below, or had his bloody carcass been hauled and dumped? And what had attacked him?

  Tol’chuk hissed. “They come. The smell!”

  A strange odor suddenly hit Kral’s nose like a blow. The odor of festering wounds enveloped him. Kral raised his ax.

  “What is it?”

  “Not it, them!” The og’re raised a claw and swept across the room.

  From the passages all around them, pairs of red eyes—like hundreds of angry red stars—reflected the light back toward them.

  A hissing arose around them.

  Kral backed a step, his boot’s heel slipping over the lip of the cracked floor.

  Suddenly the hissing blew toward them with a fury, and the pack of beasts raged from the tunnels.

  ROCKINGHAM RUBBED HIS sore wrists and cracked his neck to loosen his bones. A mixture of anger and relief fought in his breast. “I thought you had left me to the crows,” he said sourly.

  Nee’lahn kept in one hand the knife with which she had sliced his bonds, obviously still wary of him. “I would not have done that. Besides, we need the horses.” She gathered the reins of Mist and of Er’ril’s stallion. Kral’s huge war horse glowered at her as she approached.

  Rockingham took a moment, still massaging the muscles of one arm, to appraise Nee’lahn’s companion. The man stood as tall as Rockingham, and as thin. His lanky brown hair hung loose, not tied back in any typical fashion of this region. An outlander, Rockingham guessed. The angles of the stranger’s face were sharp and his narrowed eyes even sharper. He wore a hunter’s coat of sewn leather over gray leggings and jerkin. Strange fashion for these parts.

  “Who is your friend?” Rockingham finally asked Nee’lahn.

  Nee’lahn finished checking the security of the packs on the horses. She wiped a hand over her forehead, sweeping back stray hairs. “Kral is helping him find his lost companion.”

  The stranger stood silent, as if trying to fade into the wet wood around them. Rockingham faced him. “What’s your name, friend?”

  “Mogweed.” His voice was edgy, nervous.

  “You’re not from these parts, are you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Where do you hail from?”

  He stayed silent.

  Rockingham recognized when someone was trying to work up a fabricated story. This man had secrets. He liked that. A person with something to hide could be coerced—if only Rockingham could discover his secret.

  “I . . . I come from the southlands,” Mogweed finally said. Rockingham nodded but did not believe a word. Even Nee’lahn must have sensed the lie on the stranger’s tongue, because she glanced up with a sour expression on her face.

  What was this man doing here in these drenched woods? What did this stranger want? The desire in a man’s heart was the price of his soul. If he could just discover that . . .

  As Rockingham studied Mogweed, the stranger suddenly tensed and cringed down. A heartbeat later, the horses began to nicker in agitation. The war charger stamped an iron-shod hoof.

  Then both he and Nee’lahn heard it at the same time. The beating of heavy wings approached from the deeper valley. It came from the direction of the cottage. Neither had to speak the name of what flew this way
.

  “They must not have found the girl,” Rockingham said.

  “Hurry!” Nee’lahn urged. “The cavern’s not far from here. It’s too small for the skal’tum. We’ll be safe there. Kral is already inside.”

  Mogweed must have known of the shelter she mentioned. He gripped at Nee’lahn’s sleeve. “No, it’s not safe. My brother—”

  “Trust us,” Rockingham said and caught the reins to the gray mare that Nee’lahn tossed to him. “Nothing in those caves can be as bad as what hunts us now.”

  Mogweed hesitated. His eyes searched the wood as if seeking a way to bolt. Like a frightened deer, Rockingham thought.

  Nee’lahn spoke to the man, slipping her sleeve loose from his grip. “This is of no concern to you, Mogweed. They seek us. If you flee, I doubt they would follow.”

  As Nee’lahn swung atop the stallion, Mogweed’s eyes continued to sweep the dark forest. Fear shone in those strange amber eyes.

  Nee’lahn spoke again. “I know who you are, Mogweed. You’re from the Western Reaches, like me. But you’re not a man. Your slitted eyes speak what your tongue does not. You are si’lura.”

  Rockingham choked on her words. “Shape-shifter!” He backed from the man. So this was the stranger’s secret. He scurried atop his own mount, wishing to escape a creature of such foul legend.

  Nee’lahn spoke again. “Si’lura, it is easy for you to hide here. Just shift into a woodland beast and disappear. This fight is not yours.”

  “No,” the man said, his eyes wild. “You do not know me. I cannot change! I am trapped in this form.”

  His words seemed to surprise Nee’lahn. She paused in her saddle, her eyebrows arched. The noise of the beating wings grew louder. She reached a hand toward the shape-shifter. “Then come with us or flee; we cannot wait.”

  Mogweed took a step away, then stopped. Just as Nee’lahn began to pull her arm back, he darted forward and gripped her hand. She yanked him up behind her seat.

  Nee’lahn kicked her horse to a gallop and led the way. For a moment, Rockingham thought of fleeing in the opposite direction to gain his freedom. He listened to the beat of wings on cold air and shuddered. He spurred his own horse to follow. To land in the hands of the Dark Lord’s lieutenants after failing to retrieve the girl was pure folly.

  He thundered after Nee’lahn. He needed the cursed child.

  Rockingham stared at the back of the man seated behind Nee’lahn. His initial shock of the si’lura had waned. What was there to fear from a shape-shifter who couldn’t shift? He was just a man then—a man with a secret and a need, a man who could be manipulated. Rockingham recognized a key when it landed in his lap. Perhaps with such an ally he might yet unlock his bonds and escape both his present captors and the wrath of the Dark Lord.

  He kicked his horse to narrow the distance between the racing mounts.

  The clapping of wings echoed from the valley walls in pursuit.

  If only he had enough time . . .

  TOL’CHUK KNEW these beasts. The og’re tribes were often plagued by runs of rock’goblins through their lower caverns and tunnels. Rarely were they more than mere nuisances: stealing bright objects, breaking stoneware, fouling corridors with both their stench and spoor. Never had he heard of them brandishing weapons.

  As these goblins swarmed up toward them, though, flowing from the surrounding tunnels like a flash flood down a dry gully, each of the small creatures bore a wicked blade that glinted green in the stone’s light. Each goblin alone posed no threat—not to an og’re, or even to the large mountain man beside him. But these were not lone beasts.

  Tol’chuk remembered a spreehawk he had seen as a child. It had made the mistake of chasing a gingermouse to its warren home. Alone in a field, the mouse would have made a nice meal; but when its brethren had boiled from the many neighboring burrows, the hawk had become the prey, set upon by the tiny teeth of hundreds of mice. All that was left of the mighty hawk were cleaned bones and a hooked beak; even the eyes had been plucked empty. This memory flashed across his mind’s eye as the swarm burst from the tunnels.

  Now he was that hawk.

  Kral growled something low in his throat, unintelligible. He had his ax hefted for battle.

  Useless, Tol’chuk reasoned. The og’re did the only thing he could. He scooped the large man beside him in one of his massive arms and hauled him up in a firm embrace. Shock at his action stunned the mountain man for a blink, then the man began to thrash, believing himself attacked. With Kral in his arms, Tol’chuk leaped into the black gorge.

  To the mountain man’s credit, Kral did not scream, only froze in the og’re’s embrace as they plummeted. A jutting rock crashed into Tol’chuk’s shoulder, tumbling him to the side. Tol’chuk fought for balance and barely kept his feet under him as he smashed onto a ledge of stone. The force of their combined weight crushed the og’re to the rock. Air exploded from his chest as he struck the floor, though he was careful to protect the human man, cushioning Kral from the impact with his own body.

  Kral rolled off him—to the great relief of Tol’chuk’s bruised lungs. The mountain man pushed to his knees and glowered at the og’re, his eyes red with rage. “What do you think you do, og’re?”

  “There be no hope above. There lay only death.”

  For a moment, a flash of regret crossed Kral’s features, as if he had welcomed the fight—or maybe just the outcome. “I make my own decisions,” he finally said, his voice straining high. “Don’t do something like that again.”

  “I be . . . sorry.” Tol’chuk struggled to sit up. The effort must have shown on his face.

  “You’re injured.”

  “Not bad. Og’res be thick boned.”

  Kral’s voice now had a trace of concern. “It was a foolish act, leaping blindly.”

  “I saw . . .” His mouth struggled with the common tongue. “I spotted this ledge from above, man of the mountains.”

  Kral looked doubtfully at him.

  “Og’re eyes pierce the dark better than humans’.” By now, Tol’chuk had managed to get his feet under him. He pushed upright but swayed.

  Kral placed a hand on the og’re’s shoulder to steady him. His other hand still clutched his ax. He had not dropped it, and Tol’chuk doubted even death would ever pry the weapon from his fingers. Ax and man seemed one.

  The mountain man stayed quiet until Tol’chuk took a few deep breaths and his feet steadied. “I owe you an apology,” Kral finally said in a calmer tone. “And I owe you my life. I misjudged you sorely.”

  Tol’chuk fingered a bruised rib. “Your people always have.”

  “I won’t repeat that mistake.”

  Tol’chuk clapped him on the shoulder. “Then I will try to . . . try to warn you before I push you off a cliff again.”

  A crack of a smile broke across Kral’s features. “You are a strange og’re.”

  “More than you know.” He released the man’s shoulder. “But where now? I jumped . . . but did not think where to jump next.”

  Kral retrieved the glowing stone that had slipped from the og’re’s fingers on impact. Luckily, Tol’chuk thought, it had not rolled from the ledge. The mountain man held up the stone. “Whatever we decide, we had better hurry. The elv’in’s light fades.”

  Tol’chuk noted that the stone, which before had stung his og’re eyes to look at directly, now caused no discomfort. “The goblins will not let us rest, either,” he added. Stepping to the edge, Tol’chuk searched the terrain below.

  “Do you see a way down?” Kral asked at his shoulder.

  “I see the chasm’s floor. It be too far to jump.”

  Kral had backed to the wall and ran a hand along the stone. “The cliff is rough. There are many handholds and protruding rock. We could try climbing down.”

  Tol’chuk turned to Kral. “I see a fall of boulders below us. If we could scale to there, we could climb to the chasm’s floor.”

  Kral nodded and seemed to be weighing the various risks
, his eyes far away. Suddenly he pointed his ax to the far end of the chasm. “Are my eyes casting phantoms in this gloom, or is that a light yonder?”

  Tol’chuk swung around and stared where the mountain man pointed. Yes, a glow—two lights!—bloomed in the distance. He watched the lights bob. The twin flames approached the same wall upon which their ledge rested, but much farther down the chasm floor.

  “Goblins?” Kral asked.

  “No, goblins do not like light. It weakens their blood.” Tol’chuk remembered how the og’re tribe kept powder pots burning to keep the rock’goblins from sacred areas of their caves.

  “Then who?”

  “I know not.”

  “You said your og’re eyes were keen in dark places. Can you make out any details?”

  “The distance be great,” he said and strained his eyes toward the light. He caught occasional glimpses of shadows moving in the glow but failed to make out any details. “No, nothing. It be too—” The og’re tensed.

  “What?” Kral’s voice rose with concern.

  The og’re raised a claw. Odd images formed in his head, yet the touch was familiar: Fardale. The wolf-brother was below, attempting to tell him something: A wounded cub finds protection. A strange scent sparks a trail. A few other images half formed in his head but were too fleeting to register fully.

  Only one other image coalesced: Blood flows with sparks of lightning.

  Tol’chuk did not understand the meaning of this last image, but the wiry hairs of his back ridge bristled.

  “What do you see?” Kral asked impatiently.

  “Not see, feel. Something strange be happening down there.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “A friend . . . a brother . . . be down there. Not alone.”

  “What does he tell you?”

  Tol’chuk shook his head. “He be too far away to be clear.” As they watched, the twin lights vanished into a distant tunnel below.