Wit'ch Storm

  Kast and Sy-wen followed. Sy-wen kept one hand on the large man’s arm to keep her feet steady, but she soon found her land legs. She took a few steps on her own but stayed near Kast’s side just in case. Around her, the eyes of the robed ones followed their course. Whispers passed among these others; not all of them sounded friendly.

  Flint paused near the glowing trunk that pierced the center of the chamber. He touched his thumb to his lips in respect. “The ancient root of the koa’kona,” Flint explained, then continued to the far side of the room.

  Rounding the thick root, Sy-wen kept a wary watch on its glowing surface. But once she was past it, her eyes saw the far wall of the room. A gasp escaped her throat.

  Etched upon the wall was a monstrous relief of a seadragon curled up on itself as if asleep, its wings folded back in slumber. The carved sculpture encompassed the entire back wall of the cavern. The dragon depicted, carved of a stone blacker than the surrounding rock, was gigantic, three times the size of any dragon that ever had swum the oceans. But even this estimate was questionable since it lay curled up on itself, its body wound round in a snaking spiral until the tip of its tail touched its snout. Its huge head, with its eyes closed, lay buried in the center of the coil. Even if she jumped, she did not believe she could touch that stone head.

  “Ragnar’k,” Flint whispered, awe evident in his tone.

  The single spoken word drew the attention of a small, robed man nearby. He removed his fingers from a crystal the size of a whale’s eye and pushed closer to them. His eyes ran like cool water over Kast and Sy-wen, then settled on Flint. He pushed back his cowl from his bald head. He, too, wore a silver star earring. “Brother Flint, you should not have brought them.” The man’s voice was chilly. “They are not of the Hi’fai. They have not been summoned.”

  “Brother Geral,” Flint said, matching the ice in the other’s voice, “I truly wish this burden was not mine, yet it is not Ragnar’k that has called them here—but prophecy.”

  “You and Brother Moris are fools,” the other hissed, glancing nervously at the dragon sculpture. “I’ve already communed with Ragnar’k, and his dreams this morning are confused, agitated. Something has disturbed the dragon’s rest.” He glanced significantly at Sy-wen and Kast. “Nothing will be prophesied this day. If Moris ever answers today’s summons, he will find no support for his claim.”

  “Just because you don’t share Moris’ vision does not make it false,” Flint answered.

  “But he was never a strong weaver. To put so much credence on his visions is . . . is foolish.” The man now almost trembled with anger.

  Flint placed a hand on the other’s sleeve. “I know his words frighten, Geral, but they can’t be ignored. Other weavers have had similar visions throughout the ages. Ragnar’k will awaken. I can tell from your face that you know it to be true. The dragon’s dreams are confused because already he no longer slumbers as deep. Like a seadragon rising to the surface, his spirit wakes.”

  Geral tore his robe free of Flint’s fingers. “You and the others should have been cast out from the sect.”

  Flint shook his head sadly. “Do we repeat history, Brother? The Hi’fai were once cast out of A’loa Glen because of words of doom. Do we now do the same?”

  Flint’s words seemed to shake the man, whose voice receded from his rage. “But Moris speaks of our own doom, the death of our sect.” The other obviously sought some consolation from Flint.

  He did not get it. “We are doomed,” Flint said. “The Hi’fai have protected Ragnar’k for countless centuries. After today, we will no longer be needed. It is the time for someone new to take on our burden.” Flint reached a hand and gently touched Sy-wen’s arm.

  The other’s shoulders slumped, resigned. “Is she mer’ai?” he asked in a tired voice, finally recognizing her presence. His eyes, cold before, had softened into sympathy as they settled on her.

  Flint raised Sy-wen’s hand. Confused by their words, she did not object as Flint parted her fingers to reveal her webbing.

  “You were always a good fisherman, Flint,” the other conceded with a quiet snort. “I heard you netted her dragon, too.”

  “In the Grotto, injured but alive. The healers work to save her bondmate.”

  Sy-wen tired of this misinterpretation and cleared her throat to draw their attentions. “Conch is not my bondmate,” she said meekly.

  Flint patted her shoulder. “Just because you haven’t actually conceived a child does not preclude him from being your bondmate. It is your moon’s blood that bonds you.”

  “I . . . I know.” She blushed a bit with the intimacy of the conversation. “Conch is my friend, but we are not blood-bonded. He is my mother’s dragon.”

  Flint’s expression grew wide with shock. “But the prophecy was clear . . . the spell of release . . .” He sank to the stone beside her and gripped her shoulders. “Conch must be your bondmate!”

  She shook her head while the small man pulled up his cowl. “I told you Moris was wrong,” Geral said. Relief had raised the pitch of his voice.

  A deeper voice boomed behind them. “I am not wrong.”

  All turned to stare at the huge, dark-skinned man who had come up behind them. He threw back his cowl, his bald pate reflecting the glow of the root. “Ragnar’k wakes. This is certain. I can hear it in his voice. But the prophecy was precise. When the stone dragon moves, the mer’ai and her bonded must be present for the spell to work . . . or A’loa Glen is doomed.”

  A red-haired boy suddenly bumped his way beside the hulking, dark-skinned man. His hands covered his ears. “It’s so loud,” the boy cried, his voice raised as if trying to call above the sounds of a storm. He winced in pain.

  Sy-wen studied the boy. He seemed to be her own age, and his green eyes contained as much confusion as her own.

  “It’s the boy from the stairs!” Geral said with sudden heat. “Moris, how dare you bring him here? He’s a creature of the Dark Lord!”

  “No, he is a strong weaver,” the dark-skinned man said. “Ragnar’k calls him, too.”

  Geral backed from all of them. “You break our laws, Moris! Flint! You expose our most sacred secrets to foreigners. And for what? Some diddled vision! The prophecy is not coming true.” He pointed a finger so angrily toward Sy-wen that Kast stepped in front of her protectively. “She arrives without a bonded dragon. The prophecy is proven false!”

  As the man retreated farther, others gathered around Geral. His rage seemed to be igniting those near him. Mumbled words of agreement began to spread. “They must be cast out!” Geral finally declared in a booming voice, bolstered by the others and his own fear.

  Even more robed men came to support him.

  Flint tried to argue with them, but the dark-skinned man placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We have failed,” Moris said calmly to Flint. “The vision was precise. Without the bonded dragon, Ragnar’k will die as he wakes. He will drown in the very rock that has held him safe for these many centuries. He cannot be pulled free of the stone without the strength of a mer’ai and her bondmate.”

  “I’m sorry,” Flint said. “I just assumed . . . She was a mer’ai, and she protected the wounded dragon.”

  Suddenly a loud crack exploded across the room. All eyes—even Geral’s—turned to the carved dragon.

  Sy-wen knew, regardless of the arguments otherwise, that all here expected the stone dragon to move. But it was the boy who pointed out the true source of the noise. “Over there!” His sharp voice drew all their attentions.

  To the left of the dragon, the stone of the wall churned as if made of molten rock. As it eddied and swirled in slow, heavy circles, it grew blacker, a bruise upon the wall. Soon, where once rock stood, an oily shadow now stained the stone. As they all watched, a fist suddenly burst from the shadowy, churning blackness—a fist that gripped a long staff with black energies crackling down its shaft. The staff seemed to draw the light and the warmth from the cavern.

  Sy-wen sic
kened at the sight of the malevolent force that danced along the shaft. Her belly began to churn to match the swirling shadows. She backed away, bumping into Kast. The strange boy now stood near her shoulder. Only she heard his whispered words. “He’s found me. I’ve led him here.” Terror laced his words.

  From the wall stepped a robed man cloaked in inky shadows. He was hunched and bent over his staff. His face was wrinkled and blotched, his eyes milky with age. Behind him followed a second, taller man, a contrast in form to the first. Straight backed with smooth features, he surveyed the chamber. His face might be considered handsome, but it was the beauty of a carved stone: cold, hard, and cruel.

  Sy-wen shuddered at the sight of them. Her insides quaked.

  “It is the Praetor!” Geral called from behind Sy-wen. “We’ve been betrayed!”

  Flint spoke without hope. “Our doom is upon us.”

  His words reached inside Sy-wen to her shuddering, queasy belly and lit her innards on fire. Gasping, Sy-wen suddenly clutched her stomach and fell to her knees, her eyes blind with the rising pain. She rocked back and forth, her arms tight. It had never been this bad.

  The boy was the only one to bend to her aid. “We must run,” he said, trying to get her to stand.

  Answering him was beyond her; even standing was impossible as the searing pain lanced through her lower belly.

  Mother below, please not now!

  Her prayer was not answered. A final spasm gripped her belly. Blood spilled from between her legs, soaking through her skintight leggings, more blood than she had ever shed on any of her moon’s cycles.

  “You’re bleeding,” the boy said, letting go of her shoulder. “Hey, you, she’s bleeding! We need to get her out of here.”

  Kast bent over her, pulled down by the boy’s tugging arm. His eyes grew wide at the sight. He hurriedly took the scarf from around his neck and reached to stanch her bleeding.

  Sy-wen shoved his arm away, but her eyes fell upon the tattoo of a diving seahawk. Free of the scarf, it once again lay exposed on Kast’s neck. She froze, her breath held in her throat, her eyes fixed by the red-and-black tattoo. Her gaze met the hungry stare of the hunting hawk. She could not stop herself, not with her heart thundering so loudly. Unbidden, her hand rose toward Kast.

  Flint suddenly yelled from nearby, but he sounded far away. “No! You must not!”

  He was too late.

  Her fingertips touched the seahawk.

  23

  AS JOACH STOOPED at the foot of the carved dragon, chaos swirled through the cavern. He seemed tossed upon a sea of white robes. Some fled past him, trying to escape the two darkmages, while others surged toward the foul men, knives appearing from folds in their robes. It seemed not all were so willing to forsake their cavern sanctuary to the Dark Lord.

  From the far side of the cavern, black flames snapped and spit among the white robes. In all the fury, Joach had lost sight of Greshym and the Praetor. Screams and rallying yells echoed across the cavern, but more chilling than the crackle of black fire was the occasional icy laugh that rose from the battle. It was the mirth of a black-hearted conqueror amused by the slaughter and the blood on his hands.

  Unsure in which direction to flee, Joach simply remained crouched beside the young girl. His mind spun, and his heart wailed with guilt. How had Greshym followed him? The darkmage must have known Joach’s act was a ruse all along, and he had used Joach as a cat to flush out the rats in the Edifice.

  As he crouched, the song of the dragon continued, throbbing and racing through the marrow of his bones. It sang to his own heart; it sang of release, of escape. Joach wished he could answer it.

  Beside him, Joach saw the bleeding young girl reach a hand toward her large, black-haired protector. She touched the man’s tattooed neck, almost like a lover. “Kast,” she mumbled softly, “I need you.” But the man suddenly spasmed as if her fingertips were hot coals. A mixture of a gasp and a sigh escaped his throat.

  Joach reached toward the man to see if he needed aid, but as his own fingers touched Kast’s sleeve, his mind suddenly swelled with dragon song. The room vanished around him, and Joach found himself floating high above a midnight sea. Below him, he saw waters dotted with sleek, red-keeled ships, their prows depicting fierce dragons. Thousands of lanterns swung from the ships’ riggings, lighting the boats and the seas around them. Yet this was not the sight that caused his blood to thrill. Among the boats, riding the waves like horses in a prairie, were countless seadragons, smaller twins to the one named Ragnar’k, and atop their backs were sleek, barechested riders. Joach knew the old fables and put a name to these dragonriders.

  The mer.

  Suddenly the view swung closer, as if he were a falcon diving toward the scene. He landed upon the deck of the largest of the ships. Weatherworn and sea-hardened men surrounded him. But he focused instead on a tall man standing on the foredeck. With dark hair peppered in gray, he could have been an older brother of the one named Kast. Yet somehow Joach sensed this was no brother but an ancestor. He knew that what he viewed now had occurred in the distant past. The players were long dead, the boat long rotted and sunk.

  A smaller, thin-limbed woman stood before this hard man. Her silver-green hair matched that of the girl in the cavern. As the woman raised a tiny hand toward the other’s neck and touched the tattoo, Joach noticed two things: Her hands were webbed, and the tattoo—some type of hawk—matched the one on Kast’s neck. The man, who Joach somehow knew was the leader of these ship-bred men, arched back from the small mer woman’s touch, his mouth open in ecstasy.

  Then the woman spoke. “Mark all your male children as they come of age with the poison dyes from the blowfish and reef octopi as we have taught you. There will come a day when we will call you again to our sides, again to be our sharks above the water. Do you make this oath willingly and bind your people to us?”

  “I do,” the man gasped. “Our blood is yours to cast upon the seas.”

  She removed her fingers from his neck. “Then be free until we call you again to claim your dragon heritage.”

  Suddenly the vision snapped away, and Joach was once again in the cavern. Someone had grabbed his shoulders and was yanking him away from Kast and the girl. Disoriented, Joach could not find his footing and fell hard to the stone floor. He glanced up, rolling away a bit, expecting to see Greshym’s hoary face. But it was Moris who grabbed at his arm.

  “Keep back from them,” the dark-skinned brother warned.

  “What’s happening?” Flint asked.

  Moris’ eyes shone brightly, almost as if tears threatened. “Don’t you see? I was wrong. Ragnar’k warned that a mer’ai and her bonded must be present for him to survive his waking. Since Ragnar’k is a dragon himself, we both just naturally thought this meant one of their bonded dragons. But can’t you see how we were wrong?” He pointed at Kast.

  The Bloodrider picked up the girl.

  Joach regained his feet and watched the eyes of the girl’s protector glaze over. Joach recognized his dull, slack expression. It was a form of the spell that had enslaved him to the darkmage.

  Joach could not keep silent. “He’s bonded to her,” he said. “Just like in the past. The ancient oath.”

  Both brothers glanced briefly at him.

  Moris spoke first. “I told you the boy was a strong weaver.”

  Kast carried the girl away from the conflict still raging on the other side of the chamber. He hurried toward the exit.

  “We should follow them,” Joach said nervously. He saw how few of the white-robed people still resisted the darkmages. The smell of charred flesh filled the cavern. Bodies lay scattered across the stone floor, their white robes singed by darkfire. Joach spotted Shorkan and Greshym, two black islands in a sea of white. Black flames danced out from them to lap at those who threatened. So far the darkmages had ignored Joach’s group. They seemed more interested in the huge glowing root in the center of the chamber.

  “What should we do?” Flint a
sked as he watched Kast stride away. “Go to the aid of our besieged brothers? Flee?”

  Joach liked this last choice, but kept silent by Moris’ side.

  “No, Flint,” Moris answered; his voice had a tone of exultation. “The winds of prophecy blow through this cavern. Nothing we do from here will change the outcome.” He waved his arm to encompass the entire cavern. “All this is just so much sound and fury. The purpose of the Hi’fai is ended. It is the time for new warriors to carry on the battle for the Light. We are finished.”

  “But we must . . . Shouldn’t we . . . ?” Flint’s hands were clenched into fists. Joach could tell Flint resisted Moris’ words. He was not a man used to inaction.

  “Watch,” Moris said simply. He pointed toward the wall behind them all.

  The sculpted dragon was the same as ever. Joach did not know what to expect. The dragon still called, but since the strange dream of the ships, the song no longer seemed directed at him.

  Suddenly a small, white-robed man darted in front of the carving. Joach was startled to recognize him as the one who had been speaking with Moris on the stair, Geral.

  “You have destroyed us all!” Geral screamed, his red eyes drilling at Joach. “You led the demons to us!”

  Moris placed a large hand on Joach’s shoulder and faced the raging brother. “Geral, it was over ages ago. This morning was foretold before A’loa Glen had a name. Be at peace.”

  A dagger slid into Geral’s hand from a hidden wrist sheath. “Not until I cut this pestilence from our home.” Geral leapt at Joach.

  Stunned, Joach found his legs frozen. He raised his arms and winced down, expecting the man’s weight to slam atop him. But it never happened. After a long heartbeat, Joach looked up. A gasp choked out of him, and he scrambled backward.

  Geral was stopped in midleap, held above the stone floor by a smoky claw. Geral struggled within its grip until he was tossed aside. His head struck a wall, and he collapsed in a tangle of limbs.

  “Stand back,” Moris warned, pulling Joach with him. “Ragnar’k comes.”