Wit'ch Gate (v5)

  MYCELLE SIGHED. SHE was finally understood.

  As blood choked her throat, she closed her eyes, readying herself for the pain to come. It would only be a short time more. She prayed for forgiveness in these final moments. She had slain so many in the name of preserving Alasea. The faces of the hundreds of elementals murdered with her poison—some willingly, some without their knowledge—passed before her mind’s eye: children, women, elders. So many. Tears flowed down her cheek—not from pain of her wounds, but from the hollowness of her heart.

  “Mycelle . . .” Her name was whispered in her ear. She was too tired to open her eyes. She knew the voice. It was Lord Tyrus.

  “Are you ready?”

  She nodded, beyond worry of the dagger’s bite.

  “Mycelle . . .”

  Be done with it already, she thought, flickering open her eyes.

  Tyrus’ face hovered over hers. He stared into her eyes. She was surprised to see the tears in his eyes. He was a hard man, a pirate who had slain thousands. His tears fell upon her face. “I release you from your duty. You’ve served our family well and long.”

  She felt a small bit of comfort from his words and smiled, closing her eyes again.

  A flare of pain burned up from her belly as he worked the blade. She bit back a gasp, but found the prince’s lips suddenly upon hers, pressing hard, holding back the pain with his touch. Time stopped for just that brief moment, stretched beyond the pain and blood. She found herself sobbing.

  “I love you,” he whispered between their lips.

  And in that final moment, she knew he spoke truly. The hollowness in her heart filled with warmth and love. Then, with the sweetest pang, the world let her free.

  NEE’LAHN WATCHED TYRUS rise from his embrace of Mycelle. Her form had transformed while they had kissed, changing from the d’warfish figure back to the familiar long-limbed Dro. He pushed up, crying, and silently turned with a large swath of flayed skin in his hand.

  Tyrus half crawled to Kral’s discarded ax and cradled it in his lap. With his head hung, he wrapped the skin around the iron head of the weapon. “I’m sorry . . .” he muttered to no one.

  Nee’lahn stood, giving him a moment of privacy.

  “I think it’s working,” Meric said, staring across the throne hall.

  Nee’lahn stared past the whirling wind and prayed Mycelle’s sacrifice had not been in vain.

  KRAL SLOUCHED NAKED in his chains, blind to all around him, deaf to the yelled orders. Some part of him knew the d’warves were grouping for a final assault on his old companions. But he found no part of him that cared. Any hope for freeing his ancestral home from the corruption here had died.

  Then slowly, through the fog of his despair, he sensed a surge of energy, like a spark on dry tinder. Kral recognized this feeling. He rose with a growl to his feet while reaching outward to his ax.

  Yes!

  He felt the font of power, a new skin upon which to define the beast inside him. He touched the dark magick—and instantly recognized the skin that fueled the fire. Si’luran . . . shape-shifter. He glanced across the hall and saw his companions grouped together. Tyrus held his ax and stared back at him. The prince’s eyes were bright with tears.

  “Mycelle,” he muttered to himself, understanding.

  He stared down at the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles. With a flow of flesh, he stepped free. Iron chains clattered to the ground.

  The noise drew the eyes of the d’warf king, standing before the white granite throne. The squat creature’s eyes grew wide as Kral stepped away from the chains.

  “I’ll have my throne now,” Kral said coldly. He willed his body back to the shape of a snow leopard, fur spreading in a tingling wave, claws sprouting, injuries healing, muscles bunching into the lean and powerful form of a forest cat. He chose this form in honor of Mycelle. She had been Dro, and the leopard was their heraldic symbol. It was only fitting that the mountain cat of the deep north rip the evil from this place.

  Before the king’s guards could react, he leaped upon the old d’warf, tearing away an arm that was lifted in defense. The d’warf bellowed in pain and shock, tumbling back into the seat of the Ice Throne. “No! We serve the same master!”

  Kral’s lips pulled back in a feral grin, displaying long fangs.

  “No!” the king cried.

  Kral leaped again with a scream that roared throughout the hall and landed atop the d’warf, digging in his claws. The king cowered. Kral could smell his fear, hear the fluttering beat of his prey’s twin hearts.

  “Please . . .”

  Snarling his victory, Kral ripped out the throat of the d’warf king. Hot blood sprayed the white granite. He tasted it on his tongue. His prey’s mouth opened and closed as if drowning; then the light of life faded from his eyes.

  Satisfied at last, Kral kicked aside the dead body and mounted his throne, crouched, muzzle bloodied. He stared around the hall, roaring again, claiming the Ice Throne for himself.

  The remaining d’warves froze; then in a rush many fled, heartless with the loss of their king. Others, mostly the royal bodyguards, rushed forward with bloody vengeance in their eyes.

  Kral met their charge, leaping and flying into their ranks. He used the full magick of the shape-shifter, flowing from one shape to another as he rolled through the axes and swords. He left a trail of broken and twitching bodies in his wake. He raced from one end of the hall to the other, no longer just satisfied with attacking those who threatened. He chased down fleeing d’warves, ripped out their hamstrings, then circled back to feed on their hearts.

  Soon the granite floors were slick with blood. Nothing moved except the beast who stalked among the dead around the lone island of the living. A raging whirlwind protected these few. He lifted his muzzle and sniffed. The winds even kept their smells from him.

  He edged toward these others, low to the ground, a growl flowing from his throat.

  Once he neared, the winds died down. He found himself facing Tyrus. The Mrylian lord was flanked by Meric on one side and Nee’lahn on the other. Fardale and Mogweed hung back, near the sprawled body of Mycelle.

  But Kral’s eyes ignored them all. His eyes were focused on the ax.

  Tyrus ignored his challenging growl and tore the shape-shifter skin from his ax. Once again, Kral felt the magick ripped from his control. Flesh flowed back to that of a man again. Kral pushed up and stood naked before them. He held out his arm. “My ax.”

  Tyrus lifted his sword between them. “First a promise, mountain man.”

  Kral lowered his arm. He knew he could not defeat Tyrus barehanded against steel. “What?”

  Tyrus swung his sword to encompass the room. “We’ve helped you win back your ancient throne and lands.”

  Kral stared to Mycelle’s body. “I recognize your role. Ill’guard or not, I know the price in blood paid here. You’re all free to leave. I’ll not harm any of you.”

  “It is not our lives that we bargain for.”

  Mogweed squeaked behind him. “Not all we bargain for, that is.”

  Tyrus ignored the thin man. “I’ll return the ax only if you swear to use it first on the griffin.”

  Kral glanced behind him. The monstrous black Weirgate still stood beside the Ice Throne. Its wings were spread wide, its jaw stretched in a silent howl of rage, revealing the black fangs. Kral stared at its red eyes. He could almost sense the Dark Lord staring back at him, raging at his betrayal, but he could not back down now. The Citadel would never be truly free, never be open to his people’s clans until this monstrous statue was destroyed.

  “I’ll do as you ask,” he said, turning back.

  Nee’lahn stepped forward. “Be warned, Kral. Do not touch the statue yourself. It can tap into your elemental energy, draw the energy from your body.”

  “I understand.” Again he held out his hand.

  Tyrus still hesitated. “Swear it.”

  Kral sighed. “I swear on the Ice Throne and on my blood a
s a member of the Senta Flame.”

  Grudgingly satisfied, Tyrus dropped the ax and slid it across the bloody granite to Kral’s feet.

  Relieved, Kral bent and retrieved his weapon. He gripped the hickory handle. “What makes you believe I can succeed?”

  Tyrus glanced to Mycelle, then back to Kral. “Prophecy.”

  Kral’s eyes narrowed. He remembered the prophetic words of the prince’s dead father. Mycelle was to give her blood, and he was to win back the crown of his people. Together, they held the key to true victory. He nodded and turned toward the waiting griffin.

  “Let this end now.”

  MOGWEED WATCHED THE naked man stalk across the hall, holding the ax in his arms. All eyes were on what was to happen next. But Mogweed had his own concerns. He cared not about Weirgates and old thrones. He had started on this long road to find a cure to the curse that bound him and Fardale.

  Prophecy.

  It seemed that old King Ry’s auguries were focused on this single night. Mycelle had died. Kral had won back his throne. But what of the prophecies surrounding the twin shape-shifters?

  Two will come frozen; one will leave whole.

  As the group watched Kral cross the throne hall, Mogweed turned his attention to Mycelle’s body. He touched the edge of her cloak, pulling it back. Clearly Mycelle’s prophecies had twined into Kral’s future. So it made sense that the same might be true for the predictions about Mogweed and Fardale. The three predictions twining together—like a twisting snake.

  Mogweed tugged the cloak from the dead woman’s shoulders, revealing the tiny striped viper. The paka’golo still lay snugged around her upper arm.

  Here was the source of Mycelle’s shape-shifting, and she had no further use for it. Why not make it his own?

  Cautiously, he reached for the small viper. A tiny tongue flickered in his direction. He let the snake taste the tip of a finger with its tiny fork, then slowly drew back his hand. The paka’golo followed, uncoiling from its perch, stretching toward Mogweed’s heat and scent.

  It must know its prior master was dead.

  The snake unwound and slid forward. Mogweed lowered his hand and shifted slightly forward, offering his palm.

  The viper’s belly touched his skin, sending a shiver over Mogweed’s flesh. But he kept his arm still. The paka’golo slid up his palm, tongue flickering at the strange landscape. At last, its tail dropped from Mycelle’s cooling flesh. With a tickling slither, it moved farther up Mogweed’s arm. The tail wrapped itself around his fingers.

  Mogweed allowed himself a thrill of excitement. It was accepting him.

  He glanced up and found Fardale staring at him. The wolf’s eyes glowed with the barest flicker of amber.

  Sorry, Brother, Mogweed thought.

  Then a sting like no other jerked Mogweed back. It was as if his hand had been thrust into the hottest flame. He opened his mouth but had no breath to scream. His chest was locked in pain. He stared down at his arm.

  The open jaws of the paka’golo were locked onto his wrist. He watched its body spasm as it pumped its toxin into his veins.

  Mogweed fell backward, shaking his arm. But the snake was latched by fangs and coiled around his wrist. The fiery burn spread up his arm.

  Fardale leaped over Mycelle’s body, coming to his aid. Begging with his eyes, Mogweed held out his arm toward Fardale. Then the flesh of his limb began to melt. The pain was still there, but Mogweed stared in shock as the frozen flesh began to flow again like a true si’luran. He remembered spying upon Mycelle in the grove.

  Sweet Mother, it’s working!

  Then Fardale was there, lunging and snapping at the snake with a flash of teeth. He managed to grab it by its tail.

  “No!” Mogweed gasped out past the pain.

  The snake’s fangs released. It coiled around and struck Fardale on the tender flesh of his nose. The wolf howled.

  Mogweed tried to grab up the paka’golo, but his flowing flesh would not obey. He struck Fardale in the nose as the wolf’s muzzle melted with the magickal poison. Their two fleshes mixed.

  Frightened, Mogweed tugged, but he found himself unable to free himself. The transforming poison continued to spread through both their bodies, both figures melding together.

  Mogweed suddenly heard his brother’s voice in his head, not in the wolfish images but plain words. Brother, what have you done?

  He had no idea. He found himself dissolving away. The world grew dark around him, fading. He sensed he was not alone as he sank into the burning darkness. He had no mouth with which to speak. Fardale, can you hear me?

  There was no answer. The darkness grew complete.

  Mogweed cried out with his mind, pleading for salvation.

  Then he heard voices in the distance, sounding as if they arose from down a hole.

  “What’s happened to them?”

  “I don’t know. It looks like they melted.”

  “Isn’t that Mycelle’s snake?”

  “It’s dead.”

  “What about Mogweed and Fardale?”

  During this discourse, Mogweed tried to yell, struggling to let someone know he was alive. But was he? This last thought terrified him. He stretched toward the voices as they continued to speak, using them like a hook with which to draw himself out of the darkness.

  “We have more important concerns,” a stern voice said.

  Mogweed recognized Tyrus. With each word, the voices grew louder and the darkness lighter. Mogweed continued to focus.

  “Kral’s almost reached the griffin,” Tyrus continued.

  “But we can’t just leave them like this,” Nee’lahn said.

  “Wait,” Meric interrupted. “Something’s happening.”

  The darkness fell back away. Light flared again. Torchlight.

  Mogweed opened his eyes. He had eyes! Hands rose to feel his face. He sat up and stared down at himself. He was back in his same body. He patted his form to make sure. Though he was naked and seated atop the clothes he had been wearing a moment ago, he was whole.

  Conscious of the others’ attention, Mogweed stood up, covering himself with his hands.

  “What happened to your brother?” Nee’lahn asked.

  Mogweed stared around him. Fardale was nowhere in sight.

  “I watched you two melt together,” Nee’lahn said. “One mass of flowing flesh.”

  “Two will become one,” Mogweed whispered. He turned to the others. “The prophecy.” He lifted an arm and concentrated. He felt the bone inside turn to warmed butter. He willed brownish fur to sprout along its length. “I can shape-shift again! I’m free of the curse!”

  “And Fardale?” Meric asked.

  Mogweed glanced around one more time. His brother was surely gone. He bit back a smile of triumph. At last. He was free of his brother.

  Tyrus spoke from a few steps away. His eyes were on the far side of the hall. “Kral is ready.”

  Meric and Nee’lahn swung around.

  Alone, Mogweed studied the small twisted snake lying on the floor.

  Two will come frozen; one will leave whole.

  Mogweed smiled. He was that one.

  KRAL STOOD BEFORE the griffin. The towering weirgate loomed over him, wings spread wide. The lion’s muzzle curled back from its curved fangs. Attuned to the dark magick, he felt the monstrous chunk of ebon’stone pulse with energy. He found his own heartbeat struggling to match. And deeper than his own heart, he felt the Dark Lord’s brand upon him burn brighter, a black rune charred into the rock of his elemental spirit.

  Kral hesitated, arms trembling. He tore his eyes from the griffin’s ruby gaze and glanced to the white granite throne of his people. The blood of the d’warf king stained its pristine surface. Kral tightened his hold on the ax handle. He could not let this chance pass by. The Citadel, the ancestral home of his people, the throne of his own clan—it must be cleansed!

  Stepping back, Kral raised the ax above him in a double-fisted grip. He knew his actions defied the v
ery master who had granted him the power to win here, but he could not stop. He had crossed the line already, and there was no turning back. He made a silent prayer to himself. Once he was done here, he would do the bidding of the Dark Master. He would hunt down the wit’ch and burn her heart upon the Gul’gothal altar. He would pay back his debts in blood.

  Kral turned once again to the griffin. He had been taught by his clan’s elders: Look a victim in the eye. If you are strong enough to take his life, then do not shirk from seeing him. Kral did this now. He stared into the fiery gaze of the griffin and slammed his ax down between those ruby eyes with all the force and energy in his body.

  His arms jarred with the impact, shattering a small bone in his right hand. The crystal ring of iron on stone echoed throughout the hall.

  Kral cried out, falling back, not from the pain of his injured hand, but as something vital was ripped from the marrow of his bones. He lifted the ax, but all that lay in his grip was its hickory handle. The iron blade had split into shards upon impact with the Weirgate, while the ebon’stone statue remained unharmed.

  Behind him, he heard Tyrus. “He failed. The mountain man failed.”

  Gasping, Kral stumbled another step back. The broken pieces of his ax head lay on the dark granite. He felt as shattered inside, but at the same time strangely free, as if rusted chains had fallen from his heart. He stared at the remains of his ax. The hidden fist of ebon’stone was nowhere to be seen.

  What had happened?

  Kral searched inside him. The black rune that had been forged upon his spirit was gone. He fell to his knees. “I’m free . . . truly free.”

  Where normally these words should have been shouted with joy, tears flowed down his face. The black rune was gone because the stone upon which it had been branded had vanished, too. He was empty. The Rock of his spirit had been sucked away, its elemental energy drawn fully into the Weir.

  Kral knew from his battles with other ill’guard that without the fuel of an elemental fire, the dark magicks could not sustain. He touched his chest—both his elemental magick and the Dark Lord’s taint were gone—leaving only this hollow husk behind. He covered his face and began to weep, unashamed of who might see. He had won his freedom but lost his heritage.