Wit'ch Star (v5)

  “Where are our trackers?” Hun’shwa grumbled, squinting ahead, searching for the og’res he had sent up earlier.

  The mountain remained dark. But now it had grown ominously silent. Only thunder rumbled, mournful.

  The threshold to the Skull was a slab of granite wide enough to hold all the warriors. The lead group gathered just outside the carved fangs.

  There was no sign of their sentries.

  Hun’shwa bulled his way forward and stared down the dark throat of the tunnel. He gestured, and a torch was passed to him. He thrust it forward, but the sizzling flame was weak, shining barely past the entrance. He reached to a fellow beside him and grabbed his pair of goat bladders, strung together by a leather cord.

  With his torch, he lit one bladder, then the other. Once they were smoldering and red, he winged the pair down the length of the tunnel. They struck the stone floor and burst, spraying the walls with flame. The way ahead was lit.

  A few lengths down the tunnel, a body lay sprawled, facedown, feet toward them. Hun’shwa went to investigate, then motioned the others forward.

  Tol’chuk reached his side first. The corpse was that of an og’re, but its skin lay blackened and bloated as if it had been dead for days.

  “One of the trackers,” Hun’shwa said. He stared down the flaming passage. A few steps away lay a pair of smaller bodies. From their sizes, the youngsters were probably only a few winters old. They lay in postures of agony, blackened and bloated also. Farther down, other bodies could be seen as bulky shadows. “Ta’lank must have come inside when the screaming started. He only made it a few steps.”

  One of the hunters near the entrance made a warning noise, and held his torch high, toward the roof. Across the rocky ceiling, silky white drapes hung, blowing with the wet storm gusts.

  Tol’chuk reached and pulled down a section. It clung to his claws, sticky and oily. With distaste, he wiped it away. “Spiderwebs,” he said without surprise.

  “The wit’ch you told us about?” Hun’shwa asked.

  “She’s here.” Tol’chuk stared up at an empty sac of denser webbing that hung limp and flaccid. He imagined whatever had hatched from it had attacked the sentry and the others. Tol’chuk glanced back out the tunnel. “The Ku’ukla must know about Vira’ni. They waited until our clan was on the trail, then closed off any means of escape, driving us up into the deadly web she spun here to catch us.”

  “What do we do?”

  “What we set out to do.” Tol’chuk faced back down the tunnel; he knew it wound in a spiral up to the central cavern, with occasional smaller side tunnels leading off to spy holes, sentry posts, and storage spaces. He pointed ahead. “We raze the entire Skull.”

  “A cleansing fire,” Hun’shwa said sternly.

  Tol’chuk nodded. He remembered his last encounter with Vira’ni. He still bore the pitted scars from her spiders’ bites. In the past, it had taken two fires—ordinary flame and coldfire—to destroy the spider demon’s creations. This night it would be no different.

  He stared at the oily fires lighting the passage, then squinted at the ruined bodies of the og’re children. This night there would be two fires once again: ordinary flame and the fer’engata, the fire of the heart, the vengeful blood lust of a united og’re people.

  Tol’chuk strode forward, his eyes flashing with the beginning of his own fury. He saw one of the bloated bodies squirm with something roiling inside. In the past, he had witnessed the poisoned bodies of Vira’ni’s prey birthing new horrors; he barked an order to those that followed. “Burn the bodies. Flame everything!”

  Hun’shwa quickly joined him. Behind them, the tunnel flared brighter; the ripe smell of charred flesh singed down the tunnel. Hun’shwa swung another corded set of goat bladders, splashing flame farther down the tunnel.

  More bodies appeared. One took the flame of the burst bladders, igniting with unnatural speed. A flurry of tiny creatures exploded outward. All aflame, they scurried and fluttered from the burning body like a swarm of fireflies. Tol’chuk crunched through them, followed by the warriors of the Toktala clan.

  “So where are the creatures that attacked these others?” Hun’shwa asked.

  Tol’chuk had an idea. He wagered every entrance, spy hole, and sentry post of the Skull had been primed with the malignant web sacs of Vira’ni. Once unleashed, the creatures fled inward, killing all in their path.

  “Where are they?” Hun’shwa repeated, swatting as a burning scorpion landed on his arm. “Where is this Vira’ni?”

  “Where all spiders lurk,” Tol’chuk answered, pointing ahead, toward the cavern named the Dragon’s Skull. “At the heart of her deadly web.”

  Jaston hunkered under a lip of rock with his companions. It offered scant protection against the storm. Rain lashed, cold, stinging like a whip. The winds had grown, threatening to tear them from the trail. The og’res seemed little bothered by the storm. They crouched on the path like so many tumbled boulders, water sluicing over their craggy features.

  The remaining members of the clan, the females and the youngsters, kept apart from the newcomers. Near at hand, a single female suckled a babe and stared round-eyed at them, accusation in her gaze. Whatever curse had befallen the clan had started with the return of Tol’chuk and the arrival of his companions.

  Jaston turned from the stare. Down the path, a cadre of hunter-warriors stood guard between their wards and the Ku’ukla clan below. But he also noted the trio of huge og’res closer at hand, keeping near Jaston and the others in case they should prove a danger.

  “Whatever Tol’chuk is doing,” Magnam said, “he’s not exactly furtive.” The d’warf stood a step out of the shelter.

  Jaston joined him. The entrance to the Dragon’s Skull glowed red with flames, as if it were a fire-breathing demon. Winding up from there, each opening in the mountain shone with firelight. Jaston could make out the slight spiral to the pattern, like the winding body of a wyrm—a wyrm with a fire in its belly.

  “I hope they have enough oil and fire to reach the chamber,” Jaston said.

  Magnam squinted through the downpour. “A fire doesn’t sound half bad right now.” The d’warf continued to stare up, the frustration clear on his face.

  Jaston took up sentry with him. “There’s little help we can offer Tol’chuk and the others.”

  “Sometimes, in battle, a little help is the difference between victory and defeat.”

  Jaston glanced over at the d’warf. “I thought you were just a cook?”

  “Fine,” he growled, “then sometimes a little spice is the difference between a great meal and a ruined one.”

  Jaston sighed. “I don’t like being left behind either.”

  “What do we do if Tol’chuk fails?” Mogweed asked as he huddled deep in the shelter. “Did anyone think of that?”

  “Of course,” said Magnam, not turning around.

  “What?” Mogweed asked, his eyes hopeful of a plan.

  Magnam shrugged. “We die.”

  Mogweed frowned, sinking back.

  The elv’in captain placed a hand on the shape-shifter’s shoulder. “Fear not. If need be, you can transform into a winged creature and fly from here.”

  Mogweed stared out into the storm, lancing and forking with spears of lightning, winds howling. From his pale face, it was clear that the prospect of flying into the dark storm did not appeal to the shape-shifter. “Just because I can grow wings, doesn’t mean I have a natural ability to fly,” he said dully. “It would take time to gain the skill to wing such a fierce storm safely.”

  “Well, something is managing it,” Magnam said. He pointed an arm toward the warring skies.

  Jaston glanced to where he pointed, but all he saw was black emptiness, as if the world had vanished beyond the reach of their sizzling torches. Then a crack of lightning flashed, returning the world for a blinding moment. In the skies overhead, a winged creature rode the gusts like a storm-tossed skiff—then darkness swallowed it away.

/>   “What was that?” Jerrick asked. “It’s like no bird I’ve ever seen.”

  Jaston squinted, waiting for the next bolt of lightning. The elv’in captain was an elemental of the air. If Jerrick couldn’t identify the creature . . .

  The next crack was farther away, offering just a flicker of light. The shape was gone, vanished from the skies.

  “Maybe it’s some demon,” Mogweed whispered.

  Jaston unsheathed his sword. Others slid weapons free, too, except for Jerrick, who lifted a hand crackling with the energy of the storm itself. Og’res might not be allowed to bring weapons to the meeting, but there was no such restriction on man, si’luran, d’warf, or elv’in.

  A growl arose from one of the trio of og’res nearby. The baring of weapons and play of magick had drawn their attention.

  Lightning again crackled across the night, flaring brighter than the sun. The skies remained empty. Whatever had been spotted earlier had clearly fled.

  Then from below the cliff’s edge that bordered the trail, a form shot up only a few arm’s lengths away. The party tumbled back, retreating under the narrow lip of their temporary shelter. Og’res barked in warning, and grumbled shouts erupted.

  The creature alighted on the rain-slick trail. It was a small girl, svelte and thin-limbed. Her wings flapped once, then tucked away behind her. “I have this many fingers,” she said, holding up a hand and wiggling her digits.

  This provoked a response from an og’re warrior. He loped toward the child, fist raised, clearly meaning to smash it to pulp.

  Jaston bolted between them. “No!” he shouted. Though the word probably meant nothing, the tone and the raised sword spoke clearly.

  The og’re grumbled, eyes flashing with menace. But he held off for the moment.

  Jaston turned to the newcomer. “Cassa?”

  The girl stared up at him, crinkling her nose in childish confusion. Then her eyes quickened with intelligence. “Jaston! I found you!”

  “Cassa . . . how . . . ?”

  “I don’t have time for explanations. The ground you stand on reeks of poisons. You must get away, now!”

  “I cannot. We’re trapped.” He quickly related their situation.

  As he finished, the child turned to where the spiraling and snaking path of fire led far up the mountain. “It comes from there!” She pointed. “Venom trickles down this peak like a horde of spiders.”

  Jaston took the child by the wrist.

  “Ow!” the girl complained.

  “I’m sorry, lass.” He spoke rapidly. “Cassa, did you say spiders?”

  “That is the poison I scent from that peak.”

  “Vira’ni,” Mogweed cried.

  “So the spider wit’ch has spun her web up there,” the d’warf said dourly.

  “What are we going to do?” Mogweed whined.

  Jerrick answered from behind them all, his voice afire with vengeance. “We join Tol’chuk in burning the creature from her nest.” Small bolts of energy crackled from his fingers as he pushed past Jaston and the swamp child. “The demoness will pay for Freda’s death.”

  “We can’t go up there!” Mogweed yelled. “It would be our deaths!”

  Magnam hiked his ax to a shoulder. “I’m going.” He stepped forward, heading after Jerrick. “At least we’ll be out of the cursed rain and wind. If I’m going to die, I’d rather it be when I’m dry and warm.”

  Jaston turned to follow them.

  “My love,” the child said, warning.

  “I must. The danger here threatens you as much as it does me.”

  After a moment, she nodded. “At least keep me with you. It may take poison to fight poison.”

  Jaston took the girl’s hand and glanced back. “Mogweed?”

  The shape-shifter looked back at the line of og’res, out to the storm, then up the mountain. He shook his head, then tromped after the others, a scowl on his face. “I hate spiders.”

  10

  The heat had grown near to blistering. The flames behind Tol’chuk cast his shadow ahead. Flanking him, a pair of og’res tossed a smoldering set of oil-filled bladders down the tunnel’s throat; flames burst and the air reeked.

  Hun’shwa pushed to his side. “We’re almost out of oil.”

  “How much farther to the Skull?” Tol’chuk asked.

  The clan leader squinted. He was covered in soot. Several deep burns marked his skin, blistered and red. “No more than a quarter league.”

  “Then we protect what we have.” Tol’chuk waved back the pair of hunters. “The true fight lies ahead of us.”

  Hun’shwa nodded.

  Tol’chuk marched on, skirting the new flames. Since the last turn in the passage, no more bodies littered the floor. Whatever monsters had been birthed by the spider queen’s egg sacs had killed those in the lower levels. Then the victims’ screams must have chased any other og’res into the main chamber. The natural response of his people when threatened was to group together. Few menaces could challenge a cornered pack of og’res.

  But what had happened to the others? Had they all succumbed like those here, blackened by poison? No one spoke as they continued onward. Dread weighed heavily in everyone’s heart.

  Hun’shwa shoved the end of a dead torch into the fresh flames and brought it to life. With the sole brand as a light source, they continued down the dark passage. So far they had lost only one of their twenty-odd army. The unfortunate fellow had approached too close to one of the bodies. It had burst before the flame could damage the flock of winged crablike creatures inside. By the time aid reached the hunter, half his face had been consumed, and the beasts were already burrowing into his chest. They were forced to burn him while he still lived. The flames had quickly muffled his screams.

  Since then they had proceeded with additional caution.

  Tol’chuk refused to let anyone else lead after that. If there were new traps ahead, he wanted to be the first to face them. He walked a step in front of Hun’shwa. The brand the leader held sputtered out, leading to a mumbled curse.

  As darkness settled around them, Tol’chuk spotted a weak glow ahead. He hissed for silence. They proceeded more slowly, a short distance toward where a reddish light marked the end of the tunnel, a baleful ruby hole.

  Tol’chuk stopped.

  “The Dragon’s Eye,” Hun’shwa mouthed in a hushed whisper. The chamber of the Skull lay beyond the Eye’s threshold.

  Tol’chuk took a deep breath to steel himself. Hun’shwa placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a short squeeze. In this small gesture, Tol’chuk felt the backing of the entire Toktala clan.

  Tol’chuk motioned for the others to hang back, then continued ahead. After a few steps, he found Hun’shwa following. He glanced to his uninvited companion. Hun’shwa ignored his narrowed eyes and nudged him ahead. The larger og’re still held the burned-out torch in one hand like a club.

  Frowning, Tol’chuk crept forward. They separated to either wall and slid up toward the Eye.

  As Tol’chuk approached to within a few steps, a flurry of tiny scraping sounds echoed out to him, like a thousand flint blades rubbing against rock. The sound raised the tiniest hairs of his body.

  With a final tightening of his resolve, Tol’chuk moved to the Eye and peered through the threshold. As prepared as he was for any horror, the sight before him stunned him to a stop.

  Lit from below, the Dragon’s Skull was a cavernous chamber. The Eye opened halfway up one wall. A domed ceiling lay above, cracked in places, allowing rainwater to sluice down in trickling streams, like a hundred waterfalls. Thunder rumbled beyond the mountain, threatening, heavy.

  Below the Eye, the bowled floor lay as far down as the roof was high. From the opening of the tunnel, the walls sloped in a series of wide steps or tiers. In a clan-wide gathering, the steps would act as galleries to seat the assembled members.

  To his despair, Tol’chuk saw the seats were not empty. Thousands of og’res lay slumped upon the tiers, some singly, som
e in family groups, some in tumbled piles. And strung like Winterfest garland, streams of ropy webbing lay over the still bodies.

  Tol’chuk felt his legs weaken, his vision dim. All the clans . . . his entire people . . .

  “They live,” Hun’shwa whispered urgently.

  It took Tol’chuk a moment to comprehend. Near at hand, the chest of the closest og’re slowly rose and fell while his head lolled, a rope of drool hanging from slack lips.

  Tol’chuk peered wider, noticing small movements among the others here. Not dead, he realized with relief, but poisoned or magicked into some unnatural slumber. He straightened near the entrance. As long as they still breathed, there was hope for his people yet.

  As he stared, a voice oily and slick rang out from the lowest tier of the stepped cavern. “Tol’chuk! Be welcome!”

  Tol’chuk searched, but he knew who called. “Vira’ni . . .”

  Down below, the floor was a steamy glowing cauldron. A wide crack split the floor of the chamber, through which molten rock churned and spat tongues of flame. The glow lit the entire cavern.

  The Dragon’s Throat.

  The rainwater streaming from the ceiling ran down the tiers and drizzled into the gullet of the Dragon, raising a continual stream of mist and sweltering steam. Even here at the entrance, the heat challenged that of the flaming passage behind him.

  “Come. Don’t be shy, my gentle giant.”

  “Stay hidden,” Hun’shwa hissed. Before Tol’chuk could object, Hun’shwa dashed through the Eye and down a few of the tiers. He rose onto his legs, threatening with his makeshift club. “Show yourself, demon!”

  A long silence, then cold laughter met his display.

  Tol’chuk stepped out. “Get back, Hun’shwa!”

  “So it seems you’ve brought guests. As a host, I’d be remiss not to offer the same courtesy.” Tol’chuk spotted movement below: a darker shadow moving through the steam. “Children, don’t be bashful. Come and play!”

  Again Tol’chuk heard the sounds of knives dragging across rock, skittering and sharp—the same noise had stopped as he had reached the Eye. He searched for the source, but it did not come from the floor below.