Wit'ch Gate (v5)

  “Not much farther!” Wennar wheezed.

  Ahead a pair of elv’in guards led the way. They were to gather in the queen’s audience chamber on the palace’s lowest level. Elena glanced out a window and spotted a few elv’in windships aloft over the ravaged city. Lamps lit their riggings, and ropes trailed down to rescue those most at risk.

  Praying for the citizens of Stormhaven, Elena hurried after Wennar. As she ran, she pictured the face of the elv’in boy who had stolen a kiss from her cheek, his eyes full of life, full of joy. But now look what she had brought to his home: fire and death. Such was the fate of all who met her. And though the flames here were not lit by her own hand, they might as well have been. She was ultimately to blame for the destruction here. The dark forces of the Gul’gotha must have sensed her presence here.

  “Thank the Sweet Mother,” Wennar grumbled.

  Elena glanced ahead. The stairwell’s end came in sight. As a group, they rushed out of the slanted tower and into the main keep.

  “This way!” one of the elv’in called.

  In the main keep, the floors were still tilted, but it was now all downhill. They raced down the passage. Other elv’in crowded these lower halls, many still in their bedclothes like Elena, seeking refuge in the lower levels of the towers. Panic and fear were bright in their eyes. But that was not all. Elena caught the narrow-eyed glares and whispered curses as she was led past by the guards.

  One thin man spat at her feet. “Begone, wit’ch!”

  Wennar elbowed him aside and pushed Elena ahead. “Don’t mind him, mistress.”

  Elena bit her lip.

  But others took up the man’s chant. “Begone, wit’ch!”

  The noise drew other elv’in into the hall from neighboring passages. The guards were forced to bare their swords against the growing crowd. Their progress slowed. Behind them, the crowds now surged, pressing them from the rear.

  “She’s murdered us all!” a woman shrilled.

  To the left, a dagger appeared in someone’s hand. All Elena saw was a flash of silver. But Wennar was there, catching the attacker’s wrist and breaking the thin bones with a loud crack. The man fell to his knees in pain, but Wennar kicked him aside after relieving him of his weapon.

  Now armed, Wennar sheltered Elena in front of him, keeping her close to the backs of the guards. The double doors to the queen’s private audience chamber lay ahead, but the way was packed with a swelling mob. They could not move forward.

  “Kill the wit’ch!”

  Wennar grunted as a piece of broken chair leg was thrown at his head, clouting him on his ear. His feet stumbled, but he kept his place. “We need to get clear of this passage.”

  Elena glanced to her ruby hands, ripe with power. Could she slay these panicked folk? Kill them so she might live? She clenched her fists. Sweet Mother, do not make me do this.

  Then the doors to the audience chamber crashed open. All eyes swung around. Queen Tratal towered in the threshold. Though her form was clothed in a long shift and her hair fell loose to the small of her back, there was no mistaking that royalty stood before them. Her skin was as pale as fresh snow; her eyes blazed with ice-fire. All along her bare arms, blue cascades of energy shimmered. Even her hair was alive with power.

  When she spoke, her voice rumbled with the threat of thunder. “What is the meaning of this?”

  A man answered from down the hall, brave in his anonymity. “The wit’ch has brought this destruction upon us all! We must be avenged!” Murmurs of assent wafted through the crowd.

  A dagger appeared in Queen Tratal’s hand. She held it out toward the crowd. “Then kill me,” she said, her words crackling down the hall. “It is I who brought Elena here against her will. If anyone is to blame for this night, it is your own queen. It is my pride that has brought ruin down upon us all.”

  Elena was close enough to see the tears in Tratal’s eyes. The dagger trembled in the queen’s fingers—not from fear, but agony and sorrow.

  “Take this knife and plunge it into my own breast!”

  The hall grew deathly silent. “No!” those nearest answered. The sorrow of their queen quickly spread outward. People fell to their knees, into each other’s arms, sobbing. Like ice floes in spring, the crowd began to break up around them, falling away.

  Tratal lowered the blade with a look of regret, almost as if she wished someone had taken up her challenge. Her eyes met Elena’s, and the fire died in them. “Come,” she said. “We’ve not much time.”

  Elena pushed past the guards and stepped around those weeping on the slanted floor. Once at the queen’s side, Elena touched Tratal’s bare arm, a silent gesture of sympathy.

  Queen Tratal placed her hand gently atop Elena’s. “I’m sorry.”

  “Is there nothing I can do to help save your city?”

  Tratal shook her head. “We’ll take flight on our ships, save as many as we can.” The queen led Elena into her audience chamber. The room was deep and long. Its walls were draped in tapestries, and a throne of polished mahogany stood at one end. While normally serving as a hall for the queen to settle disputes and oversee her city, now it was a rallying point for the royal household. Elv’in of all ages and dress scurried about the room, preparing to evacuate the palace.

  Elena stared at the organized confusion, frowning at a row of elv’in elders bent over strange devices along the far wall. “What of my friends?” she asked.

  Tratal nodded across the chamber. Elena finally noticed Mama Freda bandaging up Er’ril’s arm. The plainsman sat atop a crate of their gear. Even from across the room, Elena recognized the Blood Diary in his lap; he guarded it even now.

  Tratal led her toward them. “I’ve also sent for your companions on the Sunchaser. They should arrive at any moment with one of the smaller skiffs. In the confusion, you should be able to slip away as the city is pursued.”

  Er’ril spotted Elena and stood, trailing a length of ripped linen from his left arm. “Elena, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she answered, waving him back down. “Let Mama Freda finish her work.”

  The old healer yanked on her length of bandage. “He’s been pulling at these reins since the first fireball, wanting to gallop to your side.”

  Er’ril opened his mouth to protest, but Elena silenced him with an upraised hand. She directed her next question back to Queen Tratal. “These fireballs . . . do you know where they came from? Or who attacks?”

  Queen Tratal nodded to the four elv’in elders and their bronze devices. “Come. We’ve not much time. But you should this see yourself.”

  Elena and Wennar were led quickly across the room to the four stations just behind the throne. The men sat upon high stools before wooden columns sprouting bronze contraptions. They had their faces pressed to oval cutouts in the columns while their fingers manipulated bronze mechanisms.

  As the queen approached with Elena, one of the elv’in straightened, pulling his face away from his station. “My queen,” he said with a bob of his head. “I’m afraid we’ve discovered no safe path for the city.”

  Queen Tratal placed a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Germayn. You and the other farseers should attend to your own families. But first, could you show Elena what you’ve seen?”

  He bobbed his head again. “Certainly, my queen.” He hopped off his seat and patted the stool. “Sit, child.”

  Elena, her brow wrinkled with curiosity, climbed the seat. Wennar was offered another station. Once settled, the old elv’in coaxed the two to peer into the cutout in the column. The oval shape was a perfect fit for her face, the wooden edges worn smooth from ages of use. Within the column, Elena found only darkness, but sensed the column was hollow.

  “Let me open a farseer channel,” the elder said.

  Elena heard the elv’in swivel the bronze controls. Queen Tratal spoke as he worked. “We’ve crystal eyes set on the city’s underside to pierce the belly of the storm. Ancient architects of the city devised a complex of
mirrors and prisms to allow us to spy upon the world below us.”

  “There we go,” the elder mumbled. An echoing click sounded.

  The interior of the dark column lit up, drawing a shocked gasp from Elena. A fiery view of a blasted landscape was reflected in a mirror tilted in front of her face. Elena instantly knew at what she was staring.

  Wennar named it aloud, his voice strained. “Gul’gotha.”

  Below Stormhaven, a mountainous terrain spread in all directions. Even in the predawn darkness, the landscape was easy to discern. Sprinkled amidst the dark peaks glowed hundreds of volcanic cones. Crimson magma churned in their craters, some brighter than the midday sun. It was an infernal land of smoke, fire, and ash.

  As she watched, one of the cones exploded forth with a fountain of lava. From the volcano’s fiery throat, a large, flaming boulder coughed skyward. It was no random event. With her face pressed to the farseeing device, Elena saw other peaks cast out fireballs, all aiming in fiery arcs toward the city.

  Elena pulled away, shocked, the blood draining from her face. “The Land itself is attacking the city.”

  “So it would seem,” the queen said. “Scout ships and my farseers had deemed the volcanos dormant. But once the city passed over it, the peaks began to erupt. Whether a foul hand directs the assault or whether it is some unnatural defense triggered by our presence, no one is able to say. All we know with certainty is that we’ve flown into this trap with no safe passage to escape it. Our only hope is for evacuation aboard our smaller, swifter ships.”

  Elena and Wennar climbed down from their stools. “Are there enough ships?” she asked.

  Queen Tratal turned away, her pained expression answer enough.

  Across the hall, near one of the narrow windows, an elv’in sentry with a spyglass called out to the queen, drawing all their attentions. “I’ve spotted Jerrick’s skiff!” The young sentry turned, and Elena realized it was Prince Typhon, his nose bandaged. “But it’s taken flame! It burns!”

  Queen Tratal glanced down to Elena with concern.

  “What is it?” Elena asked.

  “It’s your friends’ boat,” the queen said in a rush, hurrying toward Typhon. She yelled to her guards as she strode his way. “Open the Storm Gate!”

  Elv’in scurried to obey, exposing long chains hidden behind narrow tapestries at the back corners of the room. As the chains were worked, old gears groaned overhead. The entire wall behind the throne began to rise, opening an expansive view across the city of Stormhaven.

  As the monstrous gate winched open, smoke billowed into the hall. By now half of the city was aflame. Standing by the throne with the queen, Elena coughed and blinked against the fumes. Below, ships of all sizes drifted above the carnage. Rope ladders dangled down from the open hulls, crowded with fleeing townsfolk.

  Elena glanced to Tratal. It was more than stinging smoke that drew tears from the queen’s eyes. “What have I done?” Tratal moaned.

  Prince Typhon stepped to their side. “There!” he said, pointing out into the maelstrom of smoke and fire. Off to the left, a tiny boat swept in a steep dive toward the palace. Its keel trailed smoke and flames. Its mast was a torch in the darkness. “They’ll burn to cinders before they can reach here.”

  “No,” Queen Tratal said firmly. “I may not be able to save my city, but I can rescue this one ship.” She lifted her arms, eyes closing.

  The young prince stepped away, drawing Elena with him. He stared back upon the queen with a mix of awe, love, and concern. “The queen weakens rapidly. All this horrible night, she has fought to bolster sections of the city, to keep the broken sections aloft long enough for ships to rescue as many as possible. But even here in the heart of the storm, her power is not limitless.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Elena asked.

  He shook his head. “She is mistress of the storm. This is her domain.”

  Er’ril, his arm bandaged from wrist to elbow, joined them. Mama Freda shadowed the plainsman with Tikal on her shoulder.

  “I smell lightning in the air,” Mama Freda whispered.

  “It starts,” Typhon said.

  Elena glanced to him. “What?”

  “The queen seeks the storm’s heart.”

  Near the Storm Gate, Queen Tratal’s arms crackled anew with blue energies. She gave a strangled gasp, and her hair blew into a nimbus around her. Rivulets of sweat trailed down her face as her skin grew translucent—but beneath her glassy skin was not bone. Instead, storm clouds churned amid flashes of lightning. She was becoming the storm itself.

  As the queen stood, her limbs started to tremble. Prince Typhon rushed to her side, catching her as her legs gave out, holding her up. Suddenly Tratal’s neck arched backward, and a scream ripped from her throat.

  SINGED AND BLISTERED, Tol’chuk continued to bat at the flames as the conflagration ate the last of the skiff’s sails. It was hopeless. Flames raced along the rails. The deck burned underfoot. Tol’chuk bellowed his frustration.

  Then, as if the skies themselves had heard his protests, an answering cry pierced the storm’s thunder. Tol’chuk searched the skies. Far off to port, a stream of clouds broke over the city wall and raced toward their ship. Tendrils broke from its foremost edge, spreading outward. Tol’chuk’s eyes grew wide. Lit by the fires below, the race of clouds looked like a giant’s arm reaching out toward them, fingers spreading above.

  The d’warves aboard the skiff stopped their attempts to stanch the many fires. “What new horror is this?” Magnam asked.

  With a scream of winds, a spat of lightning danced among the giant’s fingers. Thunder blasted, throwing them all to the deck.

  Only Jerrick maintained his position, standing at his tiller, eyes filling with tears, face exposed to the winds. “My queen . . .”

  Overhead, the clouds split open, and a downpour flooded over the burning ship, drenching, pelting, swirling. Near Tol’chuk, the burning mast hissed angrily as it was doused by rain.

  Tol’chuk rolled to his feet. Thank the Sweet Mother!

  “Look!” Magnam said, pointing toward the city wall. Tol’chuk turned from the mast. Out beyond the towering wall, the storm clouds swirled, afire with lightning. At first, Tol’chuk failed to see what had caught the small d’warf’s attention, but as his vision broadened, he began to discern a form hidden among the clouds.

  No . . . not hidden in the clouds, but made of the storm itself.

  He saw a woman crouching in the storm, with lightning for eyes, her arm reaching out over them, drenching their boat with lifesaving rain.

  From this distance, Tol’chuk recognized the pain and sorrow in her face. Even the thunder seemed to moan with the grief in her heart.

  “Who is that?” Magnam asked.

  Jerrick answered softly, sobbing, as he fell to his knees by the tiller. “My queen . . .”

  ER’RIL WATCHED TRATAL fall limp in Prince Typhon’s arms. He hurried forward with Elena at his side. “Let me help you,” Er’ril said, bending down. He handed the Blood Diary to Elena, who clutched the book to her chest, her gaze fixed on the queen. “Let’s get Her Highness away from this open gate.”

  Typhon nodded gratefully, his eyes wide with concern. Between the two of them, they were able to carry Queen Tratal to her throne. But Er’ril could have carried her on his own, even with his injured arm. Her body was as light as spun cotton.

  Once the queen was settled in her cushioned chair, Mama Freda joined them and ran her hands over Tratal’s body. “She’s cold as the grave.”

  Typhon glanced between the queen’s prone form and back to the open gate. Smoke continued to billow into the hall. Overhead, a fireball sailed past the top of the palace spires, smashing the highest levels to burning splinters, showering flaming debris across the gateway. The prince took a step toward the opening, but his gaze shifted back to the queen. His fists clenched in frustration. “I should help oversee the landing of Jerrick’s skiff, but . . .”

  “G
o! I’ve enough help here. See to the boat!”

  He nodded, relieved to have the decision taken from him, and raced to join the other elv’in at the gate.

  “I should go help him,” Wennar said. “It is my d’warves who are aboard the boat.”

  Elena nodded, giving him permission. Once he stepped away, she moved near the queen and Mama Freda. “What can I do to help?”

  The healer fingered Tratal’s throat. “The beat of her heart is faint. She is fading.”

  Elena held up one of her ruby hands. “What if I lent her some of my magick?”

  Er’ril stepped closer to protest, but one look from Elena kept him quiet. Though he may now be her husband by elv’in law, she warned him that this was not a matter up for discussion. Er’ril bit his lip. Elena had lent her magick to others in the past to help bolster their spirits—once with her Uncle Bol as the old man’s heart had failed, and once even with Er’ril when he had been poisoned by a goblin’s dagger. But it was not without risk to Elena herself.

  Mama Freda patted Elena’s hand. “I don’t believe your magick will help here, child. It is not her body that is fading, so much as her spirit. It is not sickness that casts the queen out, but her own will.”

  “But if I strengthen her body . . .?”

  Mama Freda shrugged. “I am no wit’ch. I cannot say.”

  Er’ril sighed and spoke. “If the queen is doomed, what harm could it do to try?”

  Elena glanced to Er’ril with surprise. He maintained a fixed stare at Mama Freda. Though he might not like Elena’s choice to risk herself for a queen who had betrayed them, he was still her liegeman. He would offer whatever advice and counsel that he possessed.

  The old healer shrugged again. “As I said, I am no wit’ch.”

  Er’ril reached to his belt and pulled free a rose-handled dagger.

  “My wit’ch’s blade!”

  Er’ril held out the dagger to Elena. “The queen had them return all our gear taken from the Sunchaser.” He nodded to the stacked crates.