Wit'ch Storm

  Greshym followed Shorkan’s broad shoulders as he headed for the oaken door, but his knees shook. Somewhere far below the roots of the tower lay a beast Greshym had fled long ago.

  And centuries later, he was in no hurry to return.

  Some beasts were best left sleeping.

  A FOREST OF stone towers glided past either side of the skiff. Here stood the mythic city of A’loa Glen. Sy-wen had to lean far back to see the tops of the shattered structures. Craning her neck, she stared up at the ancient monuments of the drowned city. Algae and moss choked the bricks of the lower levels, while nesting terns and gulls argued for territory among the crannies of the higher levels. Windows long open to the wind and rain stared back at her, almost accusingly. How dare she disturb the graves of the dead?

  Sy-wen found herself cringing slightly from the sight.

  “Swing a bit starboard!” Flint called from the tip of the prow. The older man leaned over the edge of the boat and studied the waters ahead for obstacles. He had an oar across his knees that he had been using to slowly paddle them through the ancient byways of the sunken city. They had cut the sail as soon as the boat entered the watery graveyard of leaning towers, cracked domes, and crumbling walls. It was too dangerous to allow the wind alone to guide them through the treacherous maze.

  Near the bow, Kast swung his own oar to the opposite side of the skiff and gently prodded at the algae-slick brick of a nearby pillar. Crabs clinging to the ancient stones skittered away from the tip of his oar. The boat spun a bit to the right, and Kast began to paddle again.

  Conch surfaced with a weak huff of expelled air near Sy-wen’s elbow. She reached for his nose, but he sank again, too tired to keep his head above water for longer than a breath. He weakened rapidly as he swam through the choking kelp beds and reefs of brick and stone to keep up with the slow skiff. Emotions warred within Sy-wen. She knew they needed to hurry if Conch was to reach the healers while he still breathed. But at the same time, she wanted to slow and allow the exhausted Conch to rest. Even this dragging pace severely taxed her dear friend’s heart.

  Sy-wen rubbed at the tender webs between her fingers, nervous and fearful for her mother’s bondmate. If Conch should die . . .

  “Almost there!” Flint called with a renewed vigor in his voice.

  The boat rounded the bole of an immense tower to get a clear view of the coastline ahead. The city climbed out of the sea in a series of terraces that led up the slopes of the centermost peak of the island. Now closer to the shore, Sy-wen saw that what had seemed the crown of the mountain was actually a huge castle built on the peak’s summit. Sprouting from the top of the massive, towered structure were the skeletal branches of a monstrous tree, leafless and long dead like the city itself.

  A stray sea breeze chilled her skin. She shivered as the boat glided closer to the shoreline. To either side of the city rose high, sheer cliffs that seemed to reach out toward the tiny boat. Her eyes wide, she studied the world of the lan’dwellers. Except for the rare times she would sun herself on an isolated sandbar, she had never walked on land. Though her heart began to beat fiercely in her throat, a part of her thrilled at the chance to explore the paths walked by the banished. She continued to stare at the countless windows that opened onto abandoned homes. “I never imagined there were so many,” she mumbled.

  “What was that?” Flint asked from nearby.

  Sy-wen shrank shyly from his gaze, but his concerned eyes loosened her tongue. It helped to talk. “I was just surprised that there were so many of our people banished from the sea.”

  “Banished?”

  Sy-wen waved her arm to encompass the city ahead and behind them. “All those homes. I never knew so many of the mer’ai had been forced from the sea onto the land.”

  The old man’s eyes crinkled in confusion for a heartbeat, then relaxed into amusement. He chuckled under his breath. “Oh, my dear child, who ever gave you the idea that the shores were only populated by exiled mer’ai?”

  Her cheeks reddened with his laughter. She was half angry, half embarrassed.

  He reached a hand and patted her knee. “Sy-wen, not a single mer’ai has walked the shores of the Archipelago for over five centuries.”

  The shock must have been obvious on her face. “But . . . ?”

  “Before the fall of Alasea, the mer’ai and the fishermen of the shorelines lived alongside each other, working the seas together in harmony and cooperation. It was a time of peace and shared prosperity. But then the Gul’gotha came, and darkness claimed the land. To escape the reach of the Dark Lord, your people fled to the deep oceans, exiling themselves forever from the corruption of the land. For the five centuries of the Dark Lord’s reign, no mer’ai has since returned to the shores of Alasea.”

  Sy-wen sat back upon her pile of blankets, stunned by his words and story. “Five centuries? But the banished of my people, where did they go if not to the land?”

  Flint shrugged, but Sy-wen caught a quick glance toward Kast before the old man turned away. “I don’t know, but your people were always harsh in their punishments, unforgiving as the sea itself.”

  Wrapping the blanket tightly over her shoulders, Sy-wen sank deeper into her own thoughts. So then where did the banished go if not expelled to the world of stone and rock? She remembered how a dragon bonded to one of the banished mer’ai would pine for many moons, the seas echoing with its lost, forlorn cries. The great-hearted beasts only did this one other time—when their bondmate died.

  Sy-wen’s heart grew cold. A stony realization began to settle in her chest. Tears came to her eyes.

  If what Flint said was true . . .

  She choked back a sob, her heart unable to deny his words. If the old man spoke the truth, then those who broke mer’ai law weren’t banished—they were killed.

  Remembering the pining wail of the dragons, she stared up at the cliffs ahead. Tears blurred her sight, and her stomach began to sicken. She was suddenly less concerned about leaving the sea.

  Behind her, Kast spoke up into the silence. “Where to now, Flint?” he asked. “I see no port, no dock.”

  “The city’s piers are over yonder,” Flint answered, waving toward the opposite side of the city. “But we aren’t going to the main port. Too many eyes, too many questions.”

  Kast lifted his oar from the water. “Then where?”

  Flint pointed toward one of the sheer cliff walls to the left of the city. “Guide us over there, Kast.”

  Sy-wen kept her arms wrapped around her belly as the boat slid toward the towering wall of rock. She listened to the little paddled splashes as the skiff was propelled.

  “Head toward that fall of rock just ahead!” Flint’s words drew Sy-wen’s eyes. His arm pointed to where a section of the cliff wall had cracked and tumbled into the sea. “We need to get to the far side of the rubble and out of sight of the main city.”

  Kast grunted his acknowledgment and adjusted his paddling to round the boat toward the rockfall. He used the paddle as a rudder to turn them into a tiny bay formed by the boulders and cliff walls.

  Sy-wen glanced behind them. With the view blocked, she no longer saw the towers of the terraced city. She twisted around. Even the sunken section of the city was out of the direct view of the tiny bay. It was as if the city had vanished in a blink.

  “Now what?” Kast asked gruffly.

  Sy-wen studied the cliff face. Were they to dock here and climb the jagged, damp rock?

  “This is the entrance to the Grotto,” Flint explained. He raised a hand to his lips and made a sharp, warbling whistle.

  “Not more magick,” Kast grumbled sourly. He gripped his paddle on his lap with white knuckles.

  Sy-wen shrank down, not knowing what to expect. She prepared for another jump in location like at the Arch. Still, what actually occurred startled her.

  A section of the cliff face suddenly shimmered and parted into huge folds, revealing the mouth of a sea tunnel behind it. She cringed back from the mirac
le. Then she spotted the two robed men on either side of the entrance with long hooked poles in their arms. She blinked a few times as the men used the poles to draw wider the entrance to the tunnel. It took her a few moments to recognize what was happening.

  Kast put into words her own surprised realization. “It’s not magick, just a camouflaged leather drape.”

  “Sealskin actually,” Flint corrected. “It takes the dyes better when painted to match the rock of the cliff, and weathers well, too.”

  Kast swore under his breath as he turned the prow of the boat to point at the opening.

  “Not everything requires magick,” Flint continued. “It is a precious commodity and not to be wasted when a simple trick works better.”

  “Wh-where does it lead?” Sy-wen asked as the boat swung toward the tunnel.

  Flint squeezed her hand reassuringly. “It is only a little ways.”

  Flint’s words proved to be somewhat false. The sea tunnel led deep into the island, twisting this way and that. It took a moment of coaxing to encourage Conch to follow. But Sy-wen’s touch and soft words finally convinced the weakening dragon. She saw the shocked look, mixed with awe, on the faces of the silent entrance guards as they glided into the tunnel.

  As they traveled, Sy-wen studied the walls, which were aglow with occasional torches. To either side of the channel was a stone walkway used by the entrance guards. Behind the boat, Sy-wen could see Conch’s nose occasionally surface. The passage was too narrow for the dragon to swim beside them. Even this bit of separation made her edgy. She kept glancing back to her friend to ensure he still followed.

  Finally, after a time that seemed like forever, the tunnel emptied into a fair-size subterranean lake. The crystal-calm waters were wide enough to accommodate even one of the larger fishing boats that hunted the sea.

  “There is a dock directly ahead,” Flint said, pointing.

  Sy-wen sat up straighter. The far side of the lake ended at a small rock beach. She spotted a wooden jetty protruding like a tongue at them.

  Kast guided the boat toward it. “Where are we?”

  Flint had his ear cocked as if listening to something other than the tattooed man’s question. He held up a hand for silence, then turned to them, his face much more dour. “We must hurry. Time runs short. The summons is already well under way.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kast asked.

  “The dragon awakens,” Flint said, a trace of fear in his voice.

  Sy-wen stared behind her at Conch. What did he mean? Of course the seadragon was awake.

  “Paddle toward the pier,” Flint insisted.

  A group of white-robed men appeared from a nearby tunnel and rushed down the wooden dock. Their clopping steps echoed across the still water. Even from across the lake, Sy-wen could see that their arms were burdened with red, steaming pots.

  “The healers,” Flint said with a nod toward the gathered men. He dug his paddle deep into the water to encourage the skiff to a faster speed. “They’ve been waiting since dawn.”

  Kast also lent his strong arms and back to propel the boat toward the dock. Within a few anxious moments, hands were reaching out for flung mooring lines, and the skiff was secured to the pier’s end.

  A relieved sigh flowed from Sy-wen’s chest. They had made it! She allowed herself to be hoisted from the boat, keeping the single woolen blanket wrapped over her bare chest.

  Flint spoke at her side, his voice hurried. “We have no time to lose. You must get your bondmate to beach himself up on the shore here so the healers can work on him.”

  Sy-wen nodded. Throwing the blanket from her shoulders, she dove cleanly into the shallow water. Ignoring the frigid snap of the sunless pool, she swam to where Conch rolled listlessly beside the skiff.

  He swung a large black eye toward her as she touched his neck. His scales were so cold. Her fingers found the rope tether tied around his withers. He needed to be cut free. Her fingers reflexively sought her knife sheath. Empty. She had forgotten it was lost when she had been captured.

  She kicked to the surface and found the eight healers staring back at her. Flint stood among them, while Kast was finishing securing the skiff.

  “Cut his tether!” she called. “He can’t reach the shore while tied to the boat.”

  “Kast!” Flint called out, but the tattooed man had already heard. A flash of silver, and the knot that held the dragon to the boat was severed.

  Conch’s snout surfaced beside Sy-wen. He snorted and shook his head slightly, as if sensing his freedom.

  “Come with me,” Sy-wen urged her friend.

  Reaching a hand to his chin, she encouraged him to keep his nose above water and follow her as she swam toward the pebbled shore. “There are healers here who will help you mend.”

  Conch snuffled and bumped at her hand. He would do as she asked.

  As she guided her friend, Sy-wen soon felt the shore rise under her feet until she could stand in the shallows. Wobbling a bit, she backed until only her ankles were still in the water. Free of the sea, her body seemed weighted with anchors. Both the slippery rocks and her own inexperience with walking on land kept her balance shaky.

  Conch followed her, heaving himself in short bursts of energy until he finally lay exhausted at the shore’s edge. He tried to raise his head for one final push, stretching his neck toward Sy-wen. But it was too much for his weakened body, and his head sank back down to the smooth pebbles.

  “That is far enough,” Flint said at Sy-wen’s shoulder. “My healers can work on him from here.”

  Already the white-robed men were splashing through the shallows, the edges of their robes tied high around their thighs. Stone pots of steaming liquid lined the shores. The smell from them reminded Sy-wen of stewing seaweed, but an acrid sharpness underlay the herbal scent.

  Flint must have seen her gaze and curled nose. “Balm of willowbark and bittersroot. It will give Conch’s wounds strength against festering and will ease his pain.”

  Sy-wen nodded, barely hearing his words. The gaping gash on Conch’s chest from a spear thrust held her attention. The scaled edges had curled back from the wide wound, exposing the muscles and bone underneath. Sy-wen knew the dangers of even minor injuries in the sea. Parasites and contagion soon took root in open wounds, leading to pestilence and the rot of flesh. As she stared, seawater drained out from the ragged-edged hole in splashing gouts with each shuddering breath of the dragon.

  Witnessing the extent of his injuries, Sy-wen’s heart sank. To confirm her fear, she caught one of the healers glance to another and shake his head mournfully. They, too, knew death when faced with it.

  Oh, Conch! Tears flowed down her cheeks, and her knees began to give way. Flint caught her before she fell. He waved Kast to his side. “Help me. She does not need to see this.”

  “No, I want to stay and—” But her words died into sobs.

  She felt Kast scoop her in his arms again.

  “I know somewhere warm,” Flint said. “She can rest while the healers work their medicines.”

  “Lead on, then,” Kast said in his coarse, thick voice.

  Flint nodded. As he turned away, he mumbled something under his breath. Though the words were unclear, from his strained and sullen tone, the regret he felt was quite evident. He cleared his throat and nodded forward. “It’s just a little ways.”

  The passage from the lake chamber reeked of the healer’s willowbark potion. Its scent was a constant reminder of Conch’s dire health. No one spoke as Flint led them through the twisting corridor. Sy-wen lay still in Kast’s arms, too tired and scared for her dear Conch to protest being treated like a child.

  They crossed other side passages as they journeyed on through the maze of tunnels. Sy-wen tried to pay attention to the path they followed but soon lost count of the twists and turns. Even the reek of the healer’s medicinals finally faded.

  Kast glanced frequently behind him and crinkled his brow in concentration. He hitched Sy-wen hig
her in his arms. “I thought you said it was only a little ways,” he said after a while.

  Flint’s only answer was an arm pointed forward. He seemed preoccupied, listening, his head cocked to whispers only he could hear.

  Kast followed with a grumble in his chest. Sy-wen suspected the big-boned man was just as lost and confused by the passages as she. But with no other choice, he followed Flint.

  After a time that seemed endless in the narrow passageways, the old sailor finally stopped by a torch sizzling in an iron sconce. The tunnel exit was just ahead. From the echo of their footsteps, the chamber beyond sounded large.

  Flint turned to them, his words and manner odd. “Here is where we need to be,” he said. The boldness in the old man had faded to a sullen attitude. He would not even meet either of their eyes. “Come. It is time to see how this endgame plays.”

  “What are you saying, Flint?” Kast’s voice had an edge of menace.

  “Come.” He led them into the neighboring chamber.

  Kast followed, though his eyes searched ahead warily.

  Sy-wen shrank farther into Kast’s arms as they entered the large cavern. It was roughly circular in shape, the walls imbedded with glowing crystals of varying sizes. The source of the glow was the reflected light from a twisted column of woody growth, its cracked and gnarled surface dancing with flows of light. It reminded Sy-wen of the glowing algae beds that lit the deep reefs of the ocean trenches. The light had a quality that seemed unnatural for this land—for this world, even.

  “Wh-where are we?” she asked.

  The room was also occupied by other people in white robes—close to fifty, Sy-wen estimated. They were all positioned at various stations along the walls, hands raised to the glowing crystals. Were they other healers?

  Sy-wen wiggled free of Kast’s arms. It took her a few moments for her legs to support her. She leaned on Kast. The robed men—and Sy-wen spotted a few women’s faces among the cowls—glanced toward them as they stepped within the chamber.

  “I must show you something.” Flint led the way across the room.