“How . . . ?” She both laughed and sobbed into his chest, unable to form words, her vision blurring. She squeezed him tighter. He was not a figment of a cruel dream, a ghost to disappear on waking. Over the past moons, she had dreamt often of her brother, but this was real. He was flesh and bone. She could not stop crying. “How did you. . . ?”
He raised a palm and touched her cheek. “Hush.”
By now, a grizzled, gray-bearded man strolled up behind her brother. He had a pipe clenched between his lips. “So it seems you two know each other,” he said gruffly.
Joach loosened his hold on Elena at the approach of the old man but refused to let her go completely. He kept one arm around her shoulders as he introduced her to the man. “This,” he said, grinning his boyish smile, “is my sister, Elena.”
“Yes, the wit’ch. I figured as much.” He nodded toward Elena and passed her a handkerchief for her tears. He surveyed the rest of the party, his eyes growing large at the sight of the huge treewolf. Then he beckoned them all inside as if they had just come from a neighboring farm. “About time you got here, Er’ril.”
Joach had started to turn away when Mycelle stepped from behind Er’ril. Her brother’s head snapped back around to face the swordswoman. “Aunt My?” he asked, his voice shocked. “What . . . what are you doing here?” Joach let go of Elena and reached to embrace his aunt.
Elena smiled, having momentarily forgotten there was another member of their lost family present.
As Joach reached for Mycelle, their aunt held up a hand. “Whoa there, Joach. I just saw how you hugged your sister. I’ve got wounds that can’t withstand that kind of love.” She leaned and gently hugged him, then let go. Her eyes filled with tears. “You’ve grown even more than your sister,” she said, wiping at her eyes.
“Flint,” Er’ril said, ever gruff, ever serious, “how did you ever come by the boy?”
“Moris found him in A’loa Glen,” he said, waving off the question. “But the story’s long, and I’ve got a pot of stew simmering. It’ll burn if I don’t get back to it.”
Before they could enter, a deep roar cracked across the hills, freezing everyone in place.
Er’ril reached for his sword.
As they all turned, a winged shape suddenly swept up from below the bluff’s edge behind them. It arched and swung toward the cottage.
“Skal’tum!” Elena cried.
Joach wrapped his sister up in his arms. “No, El, it’s nothing to fear.”
Er’ril drew his sword, as did Mycelle. Fardale growled.
Flint pushed through them all. “Jumpy sorts, aren’t you all?” The old man ran his eyes up and down Mycelle’s physique as he passed. He glanced at Er’ril, pursing his lips appreciatively. “C’mon,” he said with a nod toward the bluffs. “My stew will have to wait. I sent a messenger out to rally some forces, but it looks like she’s returning early. And I don’t like what that implies.”
Er’ril followed, his eyes narrow and suspicious. “What’s going on, Flint?”
Elena, her eyes on the skies, did not hear the old man’s response. In the last rays of the setting sun, Elena saw it wasn’t a monster of the Dark Lord that glided the coastal winds, but a striking figure of iridescent black scale and silver claws. As the sun set behind them, the last rays sparked a brilliant radiance off its scales. It spun on the tip of one huge wing and swept back toward the bluff. Elena’s mouth hung open as she followed on numb feet, her neck bent back to study the handsome beast’s flight as it moved with power and grace across the darkening skies.
Elena trailed behind the plainsman, her brother’s arm around her shoulders. Ahead, the huge black creature landed at the bluff’s edge, digging gigantic claws into the rich soil. As it perched above the crashing surf, it swung its stately black head in their direction as they approached. Eyes of cobalt and ebony studied them.
“It’s the dragon Ragnar’k,” Joach explained.
Now closer, Elena spotted a small girl seated atop the dragon. Her green hair blew like a sweep of willow about her face. Joach raised his arm, greeting her. The girl returned the gesture. “That’s Sy-wen,” Joach explained to Elena. “A mer woman.”
Elena’s eyebrows rose high. The mer were supposed to be creatures of myth, but after all Elena had seen, she did not doubt her brother’s claim.
As they crossed the meadow to join the dragon and its rider at the bluff’s edge, Flint and Er’ril were deep in conversation. Elena drew close enough to hear their words. Er’ril’s face had darkened with the fading light. “So A’loa Glen is lost,” he said, dismayed. “And my brother . . .” His voice cracked, and the plainsman could not speak any further. His eyes stared far off. Elena had never seen him so distraught.
Flint chewed his pipe. “I’m afraid so. I’ve heard reports that flocks of skal’tum have been seen circling the towers of the city. Boats report other strange beasts seen in the waters around the island, and five times more the number of ships go missing at sea than before. I’m afraid the Dark Lord is digging in his heels. If we’re ever going to get the Blood Diary, we need an army.”
By now, their group had reached the bluff. They kept their distance from the dragon, though it had already lost interest in them and stared out at the ocean. Elena’s and Sy-wen’s eyes met briefly. The mer woman nodded at her. Elena suspected they were around the same age.
Flint spoke to Sy-wen. “How did it go? Were you able to convince your mother to help?”
“Conch had already reached my mother,” Sy-wen said, “and passed on your request for aid.” She waved an arm to encompass the seas below the bluffs. “And there is her response.”
Beyond the crashing surf, the blue waters undulated in slow, regular swells. Nothing lay there but empty waves.
Elena noticed the old man’s shoulders slump.
Then the small mer woman reached and touched her dragon’s neck. At the quiet signal, Ragnar’k stretched out his long throat and bellowed across the waves, his call echoing along the cliffs.
Wincing at the noise, Elena leaned into Joach.
As the dragon’s roar ended, the smooth sea beyond the frothing surf bloomed with hundreds of snaking heads as countless submerged creatures surfaced. “Seadragons,” Elena whispered, awed. Like a scatter of jewels across the midnight blue waters, more and more dragons, in various hues and sizes, rose from the sea.
Each dragon bore a rider, an arm raised in salute.
“My mother sends her greeting to you,” Sy-wen said with a ghost of a smile, “and pledges her aid.”
Beyond them, huge behemoths of the deep sea rose like barnacled islands, spewing fonts of spray from holes along their backs. The spray caught the sun’s glory, casting twilight rainbows to the horizon.
Flint whistled appreciatively. He fingered a small star-shaped stud in his ear. “You did it, Sy-wen,” he muttered. “You’ve brought back the mer’ai from the Deep. The prophecies weave together this night. Can you feel it?” he asked Er’ril. “When the sun next rises, the war will be upon us.”
His words—war and prophecy—chilled Elena.
Suddenly, the black dragon trumpeted again, a piping wail that startled Elena. His countless brethren below chorused back, a rising tune that somehow blended with the pound of the surf below them. It was a song that united sea and beast.
But deeper in the dragons’ song, Elena heard more. She heard the drums of war, the beat of sword on shield, and the trumpet’s charge.
Joach whispered in her ear as the light faded around them, his eyes wide upon the host below. “They’re here for you, Elena.”
His words brought her no joy. Tears rose in her eyes. From here, she knew nothing would be the same.
As if sensing her emotion, Fardale stepped to the edge of the bluff and added his voice to the chorus below, a long low cry that escalated into the ululating howl. The loneliness of his song spoke to Elena’s heart.
Joach slipped his hand in hers and squeezed. She returned the silent affec
tion. Whatever may come, Elena thought as she held tight to her brother and listened to Fardale’s cry, at least she would no longer face it alone.
Hand in hand, brother and sister watched the seas turn dark as the day died. The warmth of family flowed between them, stronger than any ruby magick.
And so as Elena stares out at her dragon army, I must end this part of her tale. From this night forward, the oceans will run red with the blood of heroes, cowards will show their true colors, and brothers will raise swords against each other.
Yet is that not always the tides of war?
So for now, let’s rest and pretend we don’t hear the drums of battle in the pounding of the surf.
Tomorrow is soon enough for the lands of Alasea to bleed.
James Clemens was born in Chicago,Illinois, in 1961. With his three brothers and three sisters, he was raised in the Midwest and rural Canada. He attended the University of Missouri and graduated with a doctorate in veterinary medicine in 1985. The lure of ocean, sun, and new horizons eventually drew him to the West Coast, where he established his veterinary practice in Sacramento, California. He is the author of Wit'ch Fire, Wit'ch Storm, and Wit'ch War. Under the name James Rollins, he is also the author of the national bestseller Subterranean.
Books by James Clemens
Wit’ch Fire
Wit’ch Storm
Wit’ch War
Wit’ch Gate
Wit’ch Star
A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 1999 by Jim Czajkowski
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
www.randomhouse.com/delrey/
Library of Congress Card Number: 00-190209
eISBN: 978-0-345-45369-3
v3.0
James Clemens, Wit'ch Storm
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