Wit'ch Gate (v5)
Ragnar’k . . .
“Grab the boy!” Greshym ordered savagely. “Bring him into the castle!”
His captors hesitated. Joach turned his head. Greshym motioned to the tall pale figure, who had remained a statue the entire time. The figure turned to the hunters. “Take the boy!” he croaked out, clearly a puppet whose strings had been pulled.
“Yes, Master Belgan.”
Joach was jerked to his feet and slung between the two tall men. Greshym led the way through the open doors and into the castle’s darkness. The beaten creature followed, groveling at its master’s heels.
Passing through the threshold, Joach craned back around and watched Ragnar’k rip into the defenders of Alcazar, tearing through them, forging forward.
But it was too late for Joach. His limp form was hauled farther into the depths of the castle. Ahead, Greshym lifted his staff aglow in the murk. Behind them, the castle’s broken doors swept back into place, slamming shut with the finality of a coffin’s lid.
SY-WEN SAT ATOP her dragon. Though the great beast was not able to fly out of this confined space with his injured wing, he was able to defend their rapidly weakening companions. Up to now, they had managed to hold off the ambush through magick and strength of limb, but neither was an indefatigable resource. Against so many, it was only a matter of time until the sheer numbers attacking them overran the smaller party.
As such, Sy-wen had no choice but to call forth the dragon. They had delayed up to now, hoping for some sense to come to the denizens of Alcazar. Once the black dragon was released, it would be hard to convince the castle’s defenders that their group was not some minion of the Black Heart. And this concern proved rapidly true. The sudden appearance of the dragon triggered a general panic. People fled. Some of the slower were trampled under the feet of others. Those that remained, the bravest and most skilled, fought even harder. From here, there was little chance of gaining the trust of Alcazar. Their best hope lay in escape. They would have to take their chances in the open desert.
Using wing, claw, and fang, Ragnar’k cleared a space between the attackers and the defenders. Behind the large dragon, the others gathered in a corner of the yard, not far from the gates. A temporary lull settled over the courtyard as both sides regrouped. The northerners needed a way out of here.
Sy-wen pointed to the iron barrier. “Can you rip out those bars?”
A dismissive snort sounded. Small cage not hold Ragnar’k.
As the creature turned, Richald called from his broken litter, his weak voice carried on winds of magick to her perch. “Joach . . . I don’t see the boy anywhere here.”
Sy-wen twisted in her seat and searched the small corner. The elv’in was right. Joach was missing. In the confusion of fighting, he must have been separated. She searched the wide yard but saw nothing.
She stood slightly on the dragon’s back and yelled, “Joach!”
No answer. An arrow whistled past her ear. She sank back closer to Ragnar’k, under the shield of his half-raised wings. A small voice shouted from the far side of the yard. Sy-wen squinted and spotted Kesla standing at an upper balcony. How had she gotten up there?
“Joach was captured!” Kesla shouted, her words as shrill as an eagle’s cry. “He was taken inside! I will try to find him, but some dark magick has taken root here. Make for the desert! Join with Shaman Parthus! I will join you with Joach if I can!”
Sy-wen lifted an arm, acknowledging that Kesla had been heard.
Hunt spoke near the dragon’s wing. “It could be a trick. It was Kesla that led us into this ambush. How do we know she does not mean Joach harm?”
Innsu, the young assassin, heard his words and responded hotly. “Kesla is no traitor.”
Sy-wen considered both their words—but she also remembered the way Kesla had stared at Joach on the journey here. It was not hard to read the young girl’s heart. It took a woman to recognize love in another’s eyes. Sy-wen straightened in her seat. “She will not betray Joach,” she said firmly, and turned away. With a silent thought, she urged Ragnar’k to attack the gate.
With a grunt of assent, his neck twisted; fangs as long Sy-wen’s forearm grabbed the bars. She felt the dragon’s muscles tense and bulge with the strain of the stubborn iron. His silver claws dug deep into the paving stones.
One of the assassins used the moment of distraction to race forward, ax raised. But Hunt ducked under the dragon’s wing and blocked the cloaked man. Ax rang on ax. Both men were skilled masters of their weapons—but Hunt was not as fresh. His heel slipped in a pool of blood, and he missed a parry. The wood handle of his opponent’s ax cracked across the Bloodrider’s face. He fell backward.
The opponent lunged forward, his ax sweeping down in death stroke.
“Ragnar’k!” Sy-wen yelled.
I see, my bonded . . .
The dragon twitched his wing, slamming its edge into the attacker’s side. From her perch, Sy-wen heard ribs crack, and the man went sailing across the yard. Hunt, dazed, lumbered to his feet and wiped blood from his lips. He spat out a single tooth that skittered across the stones, then glared at the row of attackers, daring another to approach.
No one did. It seemed they were only too happy to let the outlanders leave.
The groan of iron and rasp of stone drew Sy-wen’s attention. Glancing back to the gate, she saw the portcullis and a section of the barrier above pull free. With a final tug, Ragnar’k ripped it away and tossed it across the yard. It clanged and bounced across the bloody paving stones.
With the way now open, Sy-wen waved the group forward. She and Ragnar’k would defend their rear.
Outside the gate, a group of desert tribesmen, those who had accompanied them from Oo’shal, helped the injured. One of the party stepped forward, eyeing the dragon warily. “Shaman Parthus waits for you in the desert.”
Sy-wen nodded. “Hurry,” she urged her friends.
Innsu helped one of his injured comrades, while Hunt carried Sheeshon, who was clearly terrified. With the litter broken, Richald was hauled between two of the cloaked desert men. The other elv’in were too weak from fighting to assist. Limping, the worn and bloodied party retreated into the chasm.
Once the others were safely under way, Ragnar’k backed into the canyon, keeping a watchful eye on any last attack. It never came. No one was willing to challenge the beast, especially when it was clearly leaving.
Sy-wen glanced across the fouled yard. Blood stained the red stones black. Bodies lay twisted. The very air reeked of death. She glanced to the castle beyond. Though the fighting in the yard had ended, somewhere in the keep’s shadowed halls, the battle still awaited a final act. Two of their party had yet to escape this ambush.
Sy-wen willed them her strength. “May the Sweet Mother protect you both.”
KESLA FLED THROUGH the halls, moving lightly on her toes, ears pricked for any noise. She had to find where they were taking Joach. She had seen the ravenous beast’s attack. Joach needed a healer’s attention as soon as possible. But she had to be cautious. Clearly the cloaked stranger wielded black magicks.
Wending down stairs and gliding silently along passages, Kesla came at last to the first level of the keep. She stepped into the great meeting hall and pulled her cloak’s hood over her head, hiding her face in shadow. She studied the room. People crowded here, some helping the wounded, some walking dead-eyed. All were shocked and bone-tired. Among them, servants bustled with hot water, bandages, medicinal herbs, and salves.
Kesla kept her face down as she strode purposefully across the room. Groans and cries of pain echoed around her, and she cringed. As she walked along one of the walls toward the far side, familiar voices caught her attention. Her feet slowed.
“I can’t believe Master Belgan did not at least try talking to these outlanders.” It was Humph, Alcazar’s stablemaster. There was no mistaking his short, stout body and muscled arms. “It is so unlike Belgan to strike without council.”
“And that dese
rt wanderer . . .” Kesla recognized Humph’s companion: Mistress Shargyll, matron of the kitchens. The large woman wiped her hands on her stained apron. “He crossed near me as I prepared the morning’s meal. My skin crawled with his mere presence. There is something wrong about that man.”
“I agree. Master Belgan takes this stranger’s advisement too easily. During the attack, I saw young Innsu fighting alongside the outlanders. And when the group left, I overheard a tribesman say they were being taken to the desert, to join Shaman Parthus.” Humph blew out a rude noise, sounding not unlike a disgruntled malluk. “None of this makes sense.”
Kesla paused, hearing her own sentiments in the stablemaster’s words. Could she trust these two to help her? Joach’s chances were best with more allies. Kesla stepped to Mistress Shargyll’s side.
The large woman glanced over to her, sensing her presence. “What is it, child?”
Kesla lifted her face and saw the shock in the kitchen matron’s eyes. “I need your help,” Kesla whispered.
Mistress Shargyll stared, stunned. Humph leaned over and blinked in surprise.
Kesla did not know how they would act from here. She pleaded with her eyes—then Shargyll reached a thick arm and scooped her to her side, pulling her between them. “You should not be seen here, little Kes. There is murder in the air. Many think you’ve betrayed Alcazar.”
Kesla nodded. “I ran into Symion. I know the lies that have been seeded here and that took root in Master Belgan. These outlanders came at my bidding, with Master Parthus’ blessing. They are strong allies, come to help us, not harm us.”
“I knew it!” Humph exclaimed a little too loudly.
Others glanced their way. Shargyll moved her wide bulk to hide the smaller girl and tugged Kesla’s hood a bit farther over her face.
“Master Belgan is under some dark enchantment,” Kesla said. “He and the stranger have taken a prisoner, a friend. I must find where they have imprisoned him. According to Shaman Parthus, the future of the Wastes lies in this man’s blood. He must be freed.”
“I saw the lad you mentioned,” Humph whispered. “Gravely wounded. He should have been taken to the healers. Even a prisoner deserves having his wounds dressed. That callousness alone made me question Master Belgan’s spirit.”
“Do you know where he was taken?” Kesla asked.
Mistress Shargyll answered. “I overheard Ynyian and Dryll when they came down for a flagon of ale. They have the boy bound in Master Belgan’s chambers.”
“I must go there.”
“How can we help?” Humph said.
Kesla had been taught in the assassin’s way of the snake: to move unseen, to enter hidden places, to strike swiftly. But here she would need help. She glanced to her two old friends. “It will be dangerous.”
GRESHYM’S BLOOD RAGED. He clumped angrily back and forth across the small chamber whose windows had been curtained against the sun. His plan had come so close to fruition. He glowered at the misshapen beast cowering in a corner. If not for the untimely attack by the stump gnome, Joach would have been lost to the black magicks by now, his spirit tainted forever. With the boy bent, it would have been a simple thing then to complete the one final act necessary to return youth to Greshym’s decayed body.
So close . . .
Leaning on his staff, Greshym studied Joach. The boy was tied to the bed, naked, spread-eagled. Blood from his severed wrist seeped into the bedding, even with the tourniquet. His skin was pale from shock and blood loss. Joach’s eyes remained dazed, as he waxed into and out of consciousness.
Greshym scowled and crossed back to Joach. The boy must not die. In his young body, so rich in magicks, lay the hope of freeing Greshym of his own decrepit one. Greshym lifted his staff and touched Joach’s stumped wrist. He whispered a quick spell. Slowly, severed veins and arteries closed; then flesh sealed over the exposed bone. Soon the ragged tear was replaced by a smooth stump. Satisfied, Greshym repaired the arrow wound just as effortlessly.
Greshym saw the boy’s body relax, his breathing deepen. Death had been staved off for the moment.
Though still lost, Joach’s eyes slowly refocused.
Good. Greshym leaned away. He could now continue what had been interrupted. He leaned his staff against the bed, then held out his hand to the room’s only other occupant.
Belgan passed him a long, crooked dagger.
Greshym’s fingers closed over its hilt. There was another way to break this boy. It would take only a little more work.
JOACH WALKED THE dream dessert again. He stood naked under the starless sky. Blood trailed his feeble steps across the sand. He teetered, weak. Then a wave of coolness swept over his body. It was as if he dove again into the refreshing waters of Oo’shal. The soothing energy spread through his body, centering upon his burning wrist and inflamed shoulder, a balm that washed away pain. He sighed in relief, lifting his arm to watch rent flesh seal to a smooth stump.
“Magick,” he mumbled to the empty desert.
The desert answered. “Dark magick. Can you tell one from the other?”
Joach turned and found a familiar figure standing at his side. “Shaman Parthus?”
The elder was dressed in his usual red desert cloak, the hood tossed back. His eyes shone brightly. “It is time you accepted your heritage.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are a shaper. A dream sculptor. If you are to live, you must accept your gift.”
“I don’t under—” Joach suddenly gasped, folding over as pain again struck him, ripping into his chest.
The shaman did not move to aid him, but simply stood silently.
Joach lifted his hand from his chest. Blood dripped from his fingers. He stared down to his bare skin and saw a rune slowly form, carved in fiery lines of pain. Glancing back up, he saw a new world overlap the dream desert. A small chamber appeared as a ghostly image. In this other world, his body was bound to a bed. He watched as Greshym, bent over his body, dragged a dagger along his chest, drawing the rune in his flesh.
Greshym seemed to sense Joach’s attention and glanced up. “So you wake, Joach? Good. I want you to watch this.”
In the desert, Joach turned to Shaman Parthus. The tribesman and desert had grown just as insubstantial as the room. “What is happening?”
“You are twixt the dream and the real, Joach, where only a sculptor can walk. I can’t follow you there.”
Greshym also seemed to have heard Joach’s question. “You ask what’s happening, my boy? Isn’t it obvious?” He lifted the bloody dagger. “What won’t be given willingly, I’ll take by force. I mean to steal your spirit and twist it past any undoing. You will be mine forever.”
As the darkmage returned to his work, Joach stared back at Shaman Parthus. “Help me,” he pleaded.
The image of the shaman faded further. “I can’t walk your path, Joach. Only you can do this.” Parthus lifted an arm and pointed to the bloody trail he had left in the sand.
Joach stared at the bright stain.
“Remember what I taught you,” Parthus said. “In the dream desert, what is figment can be given substance by your attention. Use this knowledge; tap into the power of your blood.”
“I don’t know how to—”
“The dreaming desert has called you. It is time you answered.” The shaman’s form slowly dissipated. “You go now where I can’t follow.”
Joach gazed around him. The dream desert seemed to glow brighter. Simultaneously, the room beyond grew more substantial. He watched as Greshym handed the dagger to the tall, pale figure of Master Belgan. In the corner, he spotted the crouched beast, licking its burned flank.
Even in his nose, the two worlds commingled: the dry stillness of the glowing desert mixed with the hint of burning tallow from the bedside candles. But one smell was shared by both worlds—the red scent of Joach’s own spilled blood.
He stared again at the bloody sand. With the two worlds overlapped, the red trail seemed in both planes:
dribbled both on the sand and across the floor of the chamber. A connection between the two worlds. Though he did not fully understand, he remembered the shaman’s words. He concentrated upon the blood, trying to make it more real. As he did so, he felt a bit of his spirit and strength drain out and fill the blood. The stain grew brighter and more substantial, the connection between the two worlds stronger. Joach began to sense the flows of power here. He could almost see the threads of magick twining out from his blood and into the sand. And as he stared further, these thin strands grew more substantial. But what did it mean?
Before he could ponder the mystery, a loud knock drew his attention back into the castle chamber. Someone pounded on the room’s door.
At his bedside, Greshym waved his hand, and Belgan called out gruffly. “What do you want? Who disturbs us?”
The room’s door creaked open, and a short, stocky man bowed his way into the room. “I’ve come to report that the outlanders have been chased off. They’re retreating deep into the desert.”
Belgan nodded. “Thank you, Humph.”
The man’s eyes flicked toward Joach strapped to the bed. Greshym noticed his attention. “Persuasion to make the young man reveal his secrets.”
Humph nodded, wearing a sick expression. His eyes narrowed briefly as he turned away. He waved a hand, and a portly woman stepped into the room. She carried a wide tray in her arms, burdened with tankards of ale and plates of sliced meats and breads.
“I thought you and your guest might like some food,” Humph said. “Mistress Shargyll has prepared a small dinner.”
From the corner, the hunched beast lifted its head at the smell of roasted meats, still warm from the kitchens’ ovens. It shambled closer, snuffling.
The woman glanced to the creature, suddenly seeing it. Her eyes flew wide, and she shrieked, throwing her platter into the air. Food and ale flew high. She pulled out a small dagger and warded off the beast.
“There is nothing to fear,” Greshym said with thick irritation.