Wit'ch Storm

  “What! Who?”

  “They didn’t say. But I overheard one of the questioners, the headwoman named Betta, mention something about a young girl from the forest who was about to give birth. She seemed very anxious, as if something was going wrong.”

  “You think this girl might be one of our accusers?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. But this Betta woman left to check on the birthing. And I think it was this headwoman that screamed. Something is dreadfully wrong.”

  Er’ril’s brow furrowed. “If anything goes sour with that birth,” he grumbled, “I can guess who’ll be blamed.”

  Kral rumbled beside Er’ril. “I spotted hunters gathering bundles of wood—more than is needed for their campfires.” He raised his brows suggestively. “If we don’t want to burn, we’d better find a way to remove ourselves from here.”

  “I’ll not argue with that. But how?”

  No one answered.

  Er’ril’s mind slipped and slid over various plans. None seemed realistic. Even if they escaped their bonds, what of Tol’chuk? Could they just abandon the og’re? And what of their gear? The wagon was easy to replace, but one of the captors had ripped the ward to A’loa Glen from Er’ril’s jacket pocket, absconding with the small iron-sculpted fist. How were they to proceed without the key to unlocking the magickal barriers to the lost city? Er’ril ground his teeth with frustration.

  “He’s back!” Mogweed’s loud squeak drew all their attentions. Even one of the guards glanced over his shoulder to scowl at them, but he turned quickly away as a second scream billowed from across the camp.

  “Quiet, Mogweed!” Er’ril commanded.

  The shape-shifter stood agitated in his bonds. “Over there,” Mogweed said with a nod. “Behind that bush.”

  Er’ril glanced where Mogweed indicated. “I don’t see anything.” Perhaps the shape-shifter was deluded by fear. Then Er’ril saw it, too: a pair of yellow eyes glowing behind the branches.

  “It’s Fardale,” Mogweed said with relief in his voice.

  The treewolf’s black form was indiscernible from the shadows of the high meadow grass and low bushes, but the intense amber eyes were unmistakable. Good. Er’ril added this new factor into the plans for escape. With the wolf’s aid, perhaps there was a chance. “Can you speak with him?” Er’ril asked, hope beginning to fill his tight chest.

  Mogweed’s eyes were already locked upon his brother’s. “Fardale says he’s scouted the camp—and warns it reeks of the corrupt stench he’d scented before.” Fear now shook the shape-shifter’s voice as Mogweed turned to face Er’ril. “It . . . it’s the scent of the spiders. But here the foulness has grown much stronger.”

  VIRA’NI WAS SO proud of her child. Her dearest one had already grown so much larger as it feasted on the midwife. It sat on Auntie Dee’s chest, now grown as large as a small calf. Underneath it, the old woman’s wasted flesh now clung tight to skull and bone, her many wrinkles gone as her sunken skin stretched flat across the bony planes of her face. How much younger Auntie Dee now appeared! What a fine gift Vira’ni’s child had granted the midwife for her work this night.

  But, of course, that wasn’t her child’s last gift.

  “Now, I know you’re hungry still, but we have much work to do if we are to prepare to catch our little wit’ch.”

  Her baby craned its face toward her. Two sets of mandibles chewed at the air, dripping blood onto the chest of the old midwife. It mewled softly at her, its membranous wings vibrating. Six stalked eyes waved at her in supplication.

  Vira’ni raised a palm to her cheek. Oh, how beautiful was her child! But this was not the time for cuddling. Maybe later. Right now preparations must be made.

  “Give your auntie a kiss for helping us, honey. Be quick about it. We must hurry.”

  Her baby swung back to the old woman and buried its muzzle between the midwife’s sagged breasts, digging through her shift and into the flesh. Vira’ni smiled as she heard the ribs break. Such an obedient child.

  With legs latched tight to the old woman’s torso, it worked its head into the midwife’s ravaged chest to reach her heart. Vira’ni then saw the large red glands at her baby’s throat convulse as her child delivered its final gift into the old midwife. Once finished with its kiss, her baby clambered off the old woman’s chest, its eight jointed legs dancing backward, its four membranous wings vibrating with excitement.

  Auntie Dee’s body, which had long ago grown still as the child had fed, now began to twitch upon the ground. The old woman’s mouth opened and closed like a fish stranded on a dry bank. Then her glazed eyes began to glow a soft red.

  Suddenly the midwife bent at the waist, sitting up. Her mouth hung slack, and a blackish drool dripped from her lips. Fingers flailing, her hands scrabbled across the floor as the baby’s poison spread to all corners of the dead woman.

  Just then, behind Auntie Dee’s shoulder, Vira’ni saw the tent flap stir. Her child scrambled to the side of the door as Betta bowed her way inside. “Is the birthing done?” Betta asked as she pushed the flap of the tent wide open. The huntress straightened once through the doorway, but her face twisted with disgust. “Sweet Mother, what’s that stench?”

  Vira’ni just smiled proudly. Auntie Dee tried to answer, but only a choking gurgle flowed from her damaged throat.

  “Auntie Dee?” Betta approached the back of the old woman sitting among the tumbled pillows.

  Drawn by the voice, the midwife slowly turned her head, her neck twisting all the way around. Her vertebrae popped and cracked like snapping branches until Auntie Dee faced Betta.

  The huntress stared, her eyes huge with horror. She stood frozen, her hands fluttering around her throat like startled birds. Then Betta screamed, a beautiful screech that pierced the tent to fly through the camp.

  Auntie Dee lurched to her feet, swinging around to return her head to its proper place. She stepped toward Betta on shaky legs, a gurgle still flowing from her bloody throat. With palsied motions, Auntie Dee pointed to her own chest as if to show Betta where Vira’ni’s baby had kissed her. The old woman’s spasming fingers dug at the raw-edged wound in her chest, ripping at it. Then with a sudden jerk, Auntie Dee tore her rib cage open.

  Betta screamed a second time, but sadly it was not as piercing.

  From the midwife’s open chest, a spawn of black-winged scorpions burst forth. Each a thumb’s length long, they swarmed over the panicked huntress, stingers jabbing. With her hands batting at the creatures, Betta fell backward out of the tent, coated with the scrabbling bodies of the poisonous beasts.

  Naked, Vira’ni followed, pushing aside the teetering figure of the ravaged midwife. Hollowed out, Auntie Dee collapsed in a rattle of bone and skin upon the pillowed floor. Vira’ni ignored the old woman and crossed to the tent’s opening. She threw back the flap and found Betta lying on her back just beyond the doorway. The huntress’s skin had already started to blacken, and her belly had bloated like a dead cow left too long in the summer sun.

  Beyond Betta, a ring of hunters stood limned in their camp’s fires, faces stunned in horror.

  Vira’ni ignored them and spoke to Betta’s still form. “Now don’t be selfish. Share the kiss, my little ones.”

  With her words, the swarm burst from the corpse’s belly in a thick black cloud, spreading out to consume the waiting hunters. Screams rose into the night as ebony stingers spread their deadly kisses. A small child ran panicked among the fleeing legs toward Vira’ni, tears flowing across her cheeks. Vira’ni knelt to collect the frightened child in her arms. “Hush, my dear, there’s nothing to fear.”

  Vira’ni pulled the child tight to her naked bosom. What a sweet little girl with those pretty curls! She was almost like a tiny doll. Vira’ni covered the child’s ears to muffle the screams of the camp. Poor thing. Children were always frightened by loud noises. Vira’ni remained crouched by the sobbing child and waited.

  It didn’t take long. Around her, hunters collapsed in
agonized poses to the flattened meadow grass, and their cries soon died away as the poisons took effect. Vira’ni sighed and stood up, still carrying the child in one arm. Everywhere bodies lay strewn around the camp. One sorry fellow had even fled into one of the fires to escape the kiss of the scorpions. As the flames charred his bones, thick oily smoke billowed into the night sky, the smell of burning flesh tainting the chill breezes.

  Vira’ni scowled at his flaming form. Sweeping back her long black hair, she turned away from the sight and crossed toward where the prisoners were staked at the camp’s periphery. The scorpions knew her will and had left the five butchers of her children alone. She would deal with the murderers personally. As Vira’ni maneuvered between the small cluster of tents, the child in her arms continued to sob. “Hush, little one,” she said, then lowered the child to the ground.

  Too stricken with terror, the little girl collapsed to the dirt, crying and rocking back and forth. Vira’ni stepped over her and continued toward the stakes. “Now there’s no reason to carry on like that,” she said as she left. “Why don’t you play with my baby? You two will have fun.”

  Vira’ni knew her own child had been following close at her heels, its scaled legs scrabbling and scritching in the dirt. As she continued onward, Vira’ni heard the sobbing child scream once behind her; then there was only silence. Vira’ni smiled. Every child needed a playmate.

  Now she came within sight of the five stakes.

  Vira’ni stopped behind a low tent and studied them. Four men and one woman, she noted. Murderers all! Her warmth and goodwill after birthing such a fine child dried to a hard knot in her gut at the sight of them. She stalked into the open, unashamed by her nakedness. Why should she be the one ashamed? Her shoulders shook with suppressed rage. She stepped over the blackening bodies of the two guards and kicked aside a fallen spear.

  Her baby, now done playing, scurried up next to her. Its wings beat at the air as it tried to gain flight. Already hungry again, it mewled plaintively at her. Vira’ni sighed. A mother’s work was never done.

  Ahead, the female prisoner gasped at the sight of Vira’ni’s baby. At least this small woman had the good taste to recognize the astounding beauty of the child. A surge of pride warmed Vira’ni’s heart. Perhaps Vira’ni would even let the woman feed the baby before killing her.

  Then one of the men, the prisoner with only one arm, dared to speak. “Sweet Mother! It can’t be!”

  Vira’ni turned hard eyes toward the man.

  “Is that you, Vira’ni?” he asked, his eyes wide and shocked.

  Surprise froze Vira’ni where she stood. Even the hungry cries of her child seemed dull in her ears. She gazed at the bound man, seeing him clearly for the first time: black hair, ruddy complexion . . . and those eyes! Those piercing eyes the color of stormy skies. “Er’ril! I knew it! I knew you weren’t dead!”

  Both stared in silence at each other.

  Then the huge black-bearded man cleared his throat. “Er’ril, you . . . you actually know this woman?”

  Er’ril nodded. His words were like dry leaves crumbled underfoot. “Yes. Long ago. We were once lovers.”

  8

  ELENA HEARD THE screams from the camp die quickly in the wind. What was happening? Fear and worry clenched her hands on the reins of her mount as she rode across the dark meadows. Were they the cries of her friends? She shook her head to dismiss such thoughts. Even from two leagues away, Elena could tell that many more voices were raised than were numbered in her party. Still, it was possible her companions’ voices were mixed in with that dreadful night music.

  But now, nothing. Even the tree frogs and crickets had been quieted by the screams, as if the entire world held its breath. This abrupt silence was worse than the cries. Elena could almost sense death in the quietness of the night.

  With the fires of the camp as a beacon, she urged the war charger to faster speeds, but even Rorshaf had his limits. After almost a full day of outracing flames, spiders, and ambushers, the horse’s gait could achieve only a shaky gallop. Still Rorshaf fought his fading heart to obey his rider, his chest heaving, his breath trailing in twin streams of white, like banners in the cold night air.

  Suddenly, Rorshaf stumbled as a hoof struck an unseen obstruction. Elena twisted in the saddle to maintain her perch. Rorshaf, though, was a skilled crag stallion, and among the icy cliffs of Kral’s home, good balance was bred into the horses’ bones. Rorshaf caught himself up before he rolled, pulling back into his gallop.

  With a heave, Elena hauled herself straight in the saddle. Biting her lower lip, she pulled back on the reins and slowed the horse to a walk. She was being foolish. Her urge for speed had been a blind reaction to the screams. Her heart, rather than her head, had guided her actions.

  Elena glanced across the fields. The sliver of moon was too pale to shed more than wan light across the waving grass, and pools of mist collected in the folds between the round hills. Racing too quickly through the dark meadows risked another stumble, a broken leg, or worse. And what was she hurrying toward? To what end? Her aunt’s words echoed in her head: Between you and your companions stands a creature of the foulest ilk, of the blackest magicks . . . You can’t defeat it.

  Elena pulled Rorshaf to a stop. In the far distance, near the horizon, a vague, reddish glow marked where thousands of embers still smoldered in the rimwood forest. Not far from the horizon, the fluttering flames of the nestled camp danced shadows across the hills. She stared, unblinking, at the fires.

  What was she to do?

  The thought of turning back and obeying her aunt’s instructions to flee passed through her mind. It was not too late. She could take Rorshaf, and even in the horse’s weakened state, she was sure they could reach the distant plains by morning.

  No! Elena waved this thought away. She would not abandon her friends. That was not a choice.

  But then again, what were her choices?

  She removed the glove from her right hand. The “mark of the Rose,” as Er’ril referred to her hand’s ruby stain, had faded with her magick’s release to a pale sunburn. Only a little of the magick’s strength still coursed through her veins. For a moment, she considered again the thought of dumping the residual magick she contained and renewing now, bringing her Rose to full bloom. Even though Er’ril’s warnings were fresh in her ears, fear of facing the unknown enemy with only a fraction of her power scared her more.

  Elena found her other hand reaching and pulling free her sheathed dagger. The knife’s bright blade caught the scant moonlight and shone like a small lamp in her hands, drawing Elena’s eyes. She was sure the dagger was visible for hundreds of leagues.

  The knife’s brightness gave Elena reason to pause. The release of her magick would be a far greater beacon this night than a shining blade. If she were to drain her magick, all eyes would be upon her, including the evil at the camp. Elena lowered the dagger back to its sheath. She was unwilling to expose herself to whatever lay in wait among the flickering campfires.

  As she pondered her choices, a plan began to grow within her. She might be low in power, but there was also a certain strength in shadows and surprise. With luck and the cover of night, there was a chance to free her friends without needing the power of a full Rose. Who was to say she even needed to confront the foul creature?

  With this in mind, she climbed off the war charger. Rorshaf would be too noisy and large for her to creep unseen upon the camp with him. She must go on foot. While her mind whirled with plans, she pulled the packs and saddle off the war charger and walked him to cool his heated skin. Once satisfied the horse’s heart had calmed, she hurriedly rubbed him down, then tossed his lead around the thin bole of a scraggly meadow oak.

  “Stay here,” she whispered at the horse.

  Rorshaf pulled lightly against the tether and rolled a large eye toward her. Elena could tell he did not like the situation but would obey.

  Elena ruffled through the packs, loading all she would need into o
ne satchel. As she buckled the pack, her eyes spotted Kral’s ax tied to the abandoned saddle. Its red iron surface had been honed to a dull sheen, but no amount of grinding or polishing had been able to remove the black stain that marred its surface—a foul blemish where the blood of a skal’tum had etched the metal.

  Without thinking, Elena crossed to the weapon and unlashed it. Hefting the ax, she weighed it in her small hands. Though heavier than she could truly wield, its strength and sharp edge gave her comfort. Propping it over one shoulder, she faced the distant campfires. She would need to be as hard as the iron of the ax.

  Clutching the hickory haft of the weapon, she set out toward the fires at a hard pace. With over a league to travel, she wanted to reach the camp while night’s cloak still hid her. As she marched, her thoughts dwelt on her companions. Were they still alive? Was this dangerous journey needlessly putting herself in jeopardy? Her steps did not falter. In her heart, she somehow knew they lived. Whether this hope was wishful thinking or some invisible bond that had formed between her and her friends, she did not know. But she could not leave without the others.

  As she continued, the night grew colder, her white breath marking her steps, but the exertion of slogging through the muddy meadows kept her warm. Soon the camp was only an arrow’s flight away. She circled a bit to the right to place a large hill between her and the encampment. She wanted her approach to be as furtive as possible.

  By now though, even without seeing the camp’s interior, she knew something was amiss. No snatches of voices or clatter of cooking pans echoed from the far side of the rise. Worse yet, a foul but familiar stench marred the night’s winds: burning flesh. Elena found herself cringing, unnerved. She knew that stink too well. Tortured images of her parents wrapped in cloaks of flame bloomed in her mind’s eye. She fought these memories back. Now was not the time.

  She slowed her pace as she neared the looming mound, searching its crest for sentries. Either they were too well hidden or no one stood guard. She crouched low in the tall grass as she continued toward the deeper blackness at the base of the bluff. From here, she must be cautious. All her plans depended on stealth.