Wit'ch Gate (v5)

  “Something’s wrong,” Innsu said, turning and sweeping back his cloak. His sickle-shaped sword flashed in the bright sunlight of the open yard.

  “It’s a trap,” Sy-wen said.

  Kast already had his own sword in hand. The elv’in bearers lowered Richald’s litter to the paving stones of the yard, and crossbows appeared from under their cloaks. Hunt pushed Sheeshon behind him, freeing a short ax from his belt.

  Joach reached for the nightglass dagger but found his belt empty. Defenseless, there was nothing he could do but scan the heights around him and wait for their attackers to reveal themselves.

  Across the yard, a set of thick double doors burst open, thrown wide by more than just the strength of arm. The wooden portals crashed against the stone, ripping from their iron hinges and falling away. Two figures walked out of the castle’s darkness and into the sunny yard.

  The first was tall, striking, dressed in a sweeping red desert cloak. His pale face and snowy hair were strange in this land of dark men. But it was his eyes, sparking red with anger, that held their attention. He eyed them all. “I see our doom. I see a boy who brings destruction upon people of the Wastes.”

  “Master Belgan?” Innsu said, stepping forward and lowering his sword. “You misunderstand them. They mean us no harm. Shaman Parthus says—”

  “Silence!” the pale figure snapped.

  Joach noticed how shocked the young assassin was by his master’s outburst. What was going on here?

  The second figure hobbled around the taller man, fully hidden in folds of cloak and silk. He leaned upon a staff and moved closer to Belgan. “Do not listen to the young fool,” the bent-backed man whispered. “He is clearly enthralled by the dire magicks of the wit’ch’s brother.”

  As these soft words reached Joach’s ears, he froze, ice forming in his veins. Even whispered, Joach knew that rasped voice. It had been in his head for over half a winter. He could never forget. He knew who stood at the guildmaster’s right side—the murderer of his mother and father. The one who had ripped him from his sister’s side and used him like a puppet.

  The darkmage Greshym.

  The bent figure shifted his grip on his staff. Belgan’s eyes seemed to shine momentarily stronger with the false brightness of a fever. Joach recognized a spell of influence, one of Greshym’s favorite magicks. But Belgan clearly fought this possession, trying to struggle through the fog of deceptions.

  Now alerted, Joach could almost smell the dark energies here. He had once dabbled in the black arts himself when he had stolen the darkmage’s staff. Squinting, Joach studied the monster’s new stave. Greenish crystals laced its length, shining sickly like dripping pustules on the gray wood. This new staff appeared even more deadly than the old poi’wood one. Joach’s blood rang with its proximity. Attuned to the dark magicks, he sensed the power welling through the staff and into the enfeebled figure.

  Strong emotions flared in Joach: rage, fear, hatred, loathing. But as he stared at the staff, his heart burned with both disgust and desire. A part of him was drawn to the energy emanating from the sick length of gray wood.

  His hands formed twin fists. He stepped forward, unable to control himself.

  Greshym’s gaze flicked in his direction. Milky eyes in an age-ravaged face stared back at Joach, amused, triumphant. From the doorway behind Greshym, a crooked, hulking creature clambered down the three steps on cloven hoofs. It groveled at the edge of the darkmage’s robe. From a flat-muzzled face, piggish eyes glared at Joach. Its pointed ears were held back against its skull in clear aggression.

  “Do you like my new pet, Joach?” Greshym whispered. “I needed someone to be my dog after you left me.”

  Before Joach could respond, the darkmage flicked his staff and touched the guildmaster’s shoulder.

  Belgan’s arm sprang up like a tweaked marionette. A signal. All around the yard—at windows, ledges, and doors—scores of armed men and women appeared. Weapons bristled: bows and arrows, swords and axes.

  Joach retreated toward his companions.

  The staff moved again, and the guildmaster’s arm swept down, like an ax cleaving wood.

  “Kill them!” Belgan yelled. “Slay them all!”

  KESLA REACHED THE canyon that led into Alcazar’s heart as Belgan’s order echoed out to the sands. She froze. What is happening?

  A malluk, eyes rolled to white in panic, burst out of the chasm’s gloom and galloped toward her. Kesla dodged to the side, almost trampled into the sand as it raced from the canyon and out into the open desert, packs and gear flying from its back. Its drover was not far behind, a shout on his lips, a whip raised in his hand. The man’s forehead was bloody. He must have been thrown by the beast.

  Kesla stopped him as he ran past. “What’s wrong?”

  Already the clash of steel on steel rang out to her. Men shouted deeper in the canyon.

  The tribesman shook his head and spoke rapidly in the desert tongue. “An ambush. The master of Alcazar has gone mad. He’s closed the gates to the castle and seeks to murder the outlanders.”

  “Why?”

  The man shook his head and ran after his panicked mount, leaving Kesla alone at the entrance to the canyon. She tried to grasp meaning behind the drover’s words. It made no sense.

  Turning from the entrance, she raced back into the desert and ran along the edge of the great rock, circling its base. When she was younger, she and Innsu used to sneak out of Alcazar. Both trained in the assassin ways of the snake, and there were few walls they could not scale. Flying past a tumble of sandstone boulders, Kesla came upon a section of cliff face that seemed sheer.

  She shrugged her cloak aside and, with a flick of her wrist, shot a grappling rope up to a small outcropping high overhead. With a skilled tug, she set the trisling hooks and scrambled up the thin rope of braided spider’s silk. Her toes in their soft boots found easy purchase. Once high enough, she used her weight to swing the rope, her feet racing along the wall. At the right moment, she shoved with all her strength and swung up and out to a small ledge. She let go of the rope with one hand and snatched a hold on the ledge’s lip. Hanging precariously, she caught a loop of the rope around an ankle so as not to lose it, then freed her other hand and grabbed the ledge. Quickly, she pulled herself up onto the narrow shelf. Rolling, she retrieved the slack rope, snapped its length to free the trisling hooks, and wound the rope back to her hip.

  She repeated her efforts twice more to scale the sheer face until far above the desert floor. At its top was a lookout’s post, long deserted and mostly forgotten. She and Innsu had discovered it in their youth. Pulling up onto the stone platform, she crossed to the tiny tunnel that burrowed into Alcazar. The passage was no more than a long crawlway. On hands and knees, Kesla scurried down its length.

  In the narrow space, the panic in her heart welled up. Why was Belgan attacking her companions?

  Dusty and abraded, Kesla finally reached the tunnel’s end. She used a spy mirror to examine the small storeroom. Nothing but crates and an old rolled rug propped in the corner. She crawled out, senses straining for any sign of others. Once up, she slipped to the door, pressed an ear to the wood, then tested its hinges. A whispered creak sounded as she twisted the latch and edged the door open.

  Beyond was a deserted servant’s hall. The air smelled little disturbed; dust lay thick. Kesla did not hesitate. She had been taught the wisdom of when to sit still and when to hurry, skills learned from the masters of this very house.

  In a few swift steps, she reached the stairs leading from the heights to the more-occupied lower sections. As she flew down the steps, the sounds of battle grew around her: screams, shouts, clashes of steel.

  When she reached the fifth level of the keep, she darted from the stairwell and headed toward the windows and balconies that opened onto the central yard. She did not have to go far before she collided into one of her fellow students, five years her junior, running back from the open window.

  He had a bow s
lung over a shoulder, and his quiver was empty. His eyes flew wide as he recognized Kesla.

  She grabbed him by his shoulder before he could flee from her. “What is going on, Symion? Why are you attacking the outlanders?”

  The younger boy cowered a bit. “Master Belgan says they come to destroy us all, minions of the wit’ch you killed.”

  “Killed? What are you talking about?”

  “You’re bewit’ched! You’ve brought death back to Alcazar!” Symion tried to break free of her grip, attempting to use the cinch-knot technique, but Kesla easily countered it and held him in place.

  “Nonsense,” she hissed at him. “I’m not under any spell. The wit’ch still lives and has freely offered to aid us in our battle against Tular.”

  In Symion’s eyes, suspicion shone.

  “It’s true, Symion. This fighting must be stopped, or all hope for saving the Wastes will be lost. You must take me to someone who will listen.”

  “But the wit’ch’s brother—”

  “Joach?”

  Symion frowned. “A wanderer came from the desert. He holed up with the guildmaster in his rooms for half a day. When Belgan came out, he was convinced the wit’ch’s brother was a danger to all the Wastes, bent to avenge his sister.”

  Kesla was shocked. Master Belgan was not one to believe rumors and innuendos. What had convinced Belgan that Joach and the others were a threat? Again it made no sense. Belgan would not move without serious proof. For a moment, she began to doubt herself. Could it be possible? Could she have been somehow deceived?

  She shook her head. There was no way. “Master Belgan must have been deceived,” she mumbled, though such a thought shook Kesla to her foundations.

  Distracted, she allowed the boy to wriggle free of her hold and dance out of her reach.

  “You are the one deceived!” Symion yelled back at her and raced down a side corridor before she could stop him. She heard his voice raised in alarm, announcing her presence.

  Kesla hurried away, toward the windows and balconies. She had to see what was happening. She had to find a way to stop this madness that had infiltrated her home.

  She turned a corner, and sunlight flared up ahead, flowing through a set of doors thrown wide open. She hurried forward to the balcony. It was abandoned, most likely Symion’s post during the ambush. She recalled his bow and empty quiver. He must have run out of arrows and gone to fetch more.

  Stepping into the bright light of the midday sun, she crossed to the balcony’s balustrade. The sounds of battle swelled. She leaned over the rail to view the central yard.

  Below, chaos reigned. The paving stones flowed with blood. Bodies lay sprawled across the yard. The clash of steel rang loudly, as did the cries of rage and screams of pain.

  Amidst the fighting, Kesla easily spotted her friends.

  Kast and Hunt fought with axes in one hand and swords in the other. They were twin whirlwinds of death, laying waste to all that neared. The two guarded both Sy-wen and little Sheeshon. They would let no one come close.

  Not far from them, in the thick of the melee, Innsu twirled, bringing the quick death of the striking snake. He spun and twisted his curved sword, while two other tribesmen fought to guard his flanks. Even from her high perch, Kesla recognized the mask of pain fixed on Innsu’s face as he slew those he knew by name.

  From the far wall, a volley of arrows arced toward the outlanders and their allies, but rather than raining down upon them, a sudden gust turned the flight aside. Below, Kesla spotted the reason for the sudden fortuitous breeze.

  Richald sat upon his broken litter, an arm held high, scintillating with energy. Around him, his fellow elv’in danced with crossbows and thin silver swords, guarding their captain. They flew like flittering moths, almost too fast to see, bringing death both near and far. Richald suddenly flicked his wrist, and the deadly volley of arrows swung to pepper down upon the attackers themselves.

  Men and women fell. Kesla watched one girl, no older than eight winters, take a bolt through the eye and fall, twitching upon the stone.

  Kesla knew her name. Lisl.

  Tears of frustration and anger blurred Kesla’s vision. Master Belgan would never allow someone so young to fight. He would never allow any of this to happen—not if he was in his right mind.

  The fighting continued.

  Off to the right, someone screamed and fell from a balcony, crashing broken-limbed to the pavement below, an elv’in bolt through his neck.

  Death had truly come to Alcazar—but not for the reason Master Belgan had claimed. It was not vengeance that fueled this battle. It was delusion. Two allies had been set against one another. But why? And more importantly by whom?

  Kesla searched the bloody yard. Finally, leaning far over the rail, she saw her answer directly below her. Master Belgan stood at the main entrance to the keep, his red cloak and flowing white hair easy to spot.

  At his side stood a bent-backed figure, leaning on a long staff. Kesla had never seen him before, but she could guess who he was—the wanderer Symion had mentioned.

  From her vantage point, she watched in disgust as a misshapen creature pranced about the pair of men. It was clearly being driven wild by its blood lust, gnashing at the air, claws ripping at the edge of Master Belgan’s cloak. But Kesla’s teacher seemed oblivious to the horrid creature’s antics and braying cries. Watching this, Kesla cast aside any lingering doubts. The guildmaster was possessed by some geis or spell.

  The cloaked figure lifted a stumped wrist and pointed. The motion drew Kesla’s attention from the strange beast. Belgan stepped aside, and Kesla saw to where the bent figure pointed.

  At the foot of the stairs, a figure was forced to his knees. An arrow protruded from the prisoner’s shoulder. He was held in place by two journeymen assassins: Dryll and Ynyian, masters of the hunt.

  Belgan waved a hand, and the figure’s hood was ripped away. The prisoner glared up at the two men.

  Kesla gasped, a fist at her throat.

  It was Joach.

  JOACH GLOWERED AT Greshym, then spat at his enemy, his aim true.

  The darkmage merely smiled at his display, not even bothering to wipe the spittle dripping from his chin.

  The response from his captors was more dramatic. Joach’s head was yanked cruelly backward by a fist twisted in his hair. One of the assassins leaned to his ear. “Do not again insult a guest of Alcazar.”

  On his other side, the second guard grabbed the arrow imbedded in his shoulder and ground the shaft in farther. Joach’s shoulder exploded with fire. He tried not to cry out, but the pain was too great, too sudden. A scream ripped from his throat. Tears rose in his eyes.

  Moments ago, he had been knocked off his feet by the hunter’s arrow. He had been stunned, unable to move, even when the tides of battle had flowed away from him. Cut off from his companions, he had been easily captured by the pair of hunters.

  His head was released, and Joach sagged to the paving stones. Behind him, cries and the strike of steel grew dim as agony threatened to overwhelm him. Movement drew his eyes back forward. Greshym leaned toward him. A leathery beast capered at the darkmage’s ankles, snuffling at Joach’s blood. Greshym nudged it aside and reached toward Joach with the butt of his staff.

  Joach struggled to pull away, but he was restrained by his captors. The sick, corpse-gray stave wavered before his eyes.

  “You can smell the magick in here, can’t you?” Greshym said. “You’ve tasted the blackness. It marks you, Joach.”

  “Never,” he gasped out. But in truth, he could sense the energy thrilling through the foul wood. Its greenish crystalline surface glowed and pulsed with power. Joach had a hard time looking away. It was darkly beautiful. His blood remembered wielding the dread magick of balefire.

  Unbidden, a hand—his half hand, two fingers lost to the sick magick of an ill’guard in the catacombs under A’loa Glen—reached to the wood. It was the hand that had once held Greshym’s stolen staff. It drew to the l
ength of wood like lodestone to iron. Blood dribbled from his fingertips—blood that had trailed down his arm from his impaled shoulder.

  Greshym’s wrinkled smile spread wider.

  A part of Joach knew he’d be lost if he touched the staff. It would claim his spirit forever—but he could not resist. Bloody fingers stretched to the gray wood, drawn by its power. Deep in his heart, a scream bubbled up. He knew he was a moment away from total annihilation. A simple touch, and all would be lost.

  A savage howl erupted. It cut through the dark enchantment. Joach’s eyes flicked to the side. The beast at Greshym’s feet lunged forward. It snapped at Joach’s bloody fingers, crazed by blood lust and hunger, unable to resist the flesh dangling so near. The creature’s wide maw swallowed his hand to the wrist; razored teeth tore into flesh, crushing through bone.

  Joach fell back, but his arm was caught by the creature. It shook his limb like a dog fighting for a bone.

  “No, Rukh!” Greshym screeched with thwarted rage. He struck the creature backhanded with his staff. The beast flew high, striking the wall hard and landing in a curled ball. It mewled and writhed on the stones, its flesh smoking where the staff had touched.

  Joach was thrown backward by the flare of magick, colliding with his captors. On his knees, Joach raised his arm. Blood fountained from the severed stump of his wrist. His hand was gone.

  One of his captors quickly twisted a length of binding cord around his upper arm, cinching it tight, squeezing off his blood. Joach swooned on his knees, falling on his face toward the stones. Before he hit, he was jerked slightly and landed on his good shoulder. He rolled enough to see the fighting in the yard: blood, steel, screams, sprawled bodies, and crawling wounded.

  In the middle of the chaos, a black blur grew, spreading wide. Joach tried to focus on it through his pain and shock. A smoky cloud. Then the darkness formed a great winged dragon crouched in the center of the yard. It bellowed with rage.