Wit'ch Star (v5)

  With the torch gone, Kast found himself attacked from all sides. He could not go to his companion’s aid. His sword flashed, slicing and skewering.

  Hunt lay unmoving. Not even his chest rose and fell, but Kast saw the awareness in the other’s eyes. Awake in a dead body. The fear in the man’s eyes was as bright as any torch.

  One of the poisonous beasts slid up Hunt’s cheek, stretching out its tentacles. A tip brushed the edge of his nostril, thinning and slipping inside. The creature oozed forward, its body sliming into a more watery state. Unimpeded, its bulk flowed after its disappearing tentacle.

  Kast now understood this new generation’s means of access to its victim’s skull. Drilling was no longer necessary. Despite his own danger, he lunged to his friend’s aid. Hunt’s eyes shone with panic and horror . . . and something deeper, a silent plea to end his life now while he was still his own man. Kast dove forward with his sword, unsure how he meant to use it. But as he poised with his sword over his friend, he watched the last of the creature suck away into Hunt’s skull.

  He was too late. He had no other choice.

  He plunged the blade down—but before his sword struck, something landed on the back of his neck, burning with a thousand fires. Kast fell over Hunt, numb from the neck down. His sword clattered from his limp fingers.

  On his side, he found he could only move his lips, his eyes. He gasped, struggling to breathe, but a great stone pressed on his chest.

  Then the dungeon door swung open. From his vantage, he watched the approach of bare feet, stepping deftly around the tentacled beasts. He knew those ankles and the tiny webs between the delicate toes.

  Sy-wen spoke harshly. “Gather the simaltra. We’ll need as many as possible if we mean to take over both the castle and the Leviathan.”

  “And the second shipment of eggs?” It was Wrent, the captain of the guard.

  “They’ll be here by nightfall. So we must have the island secure, communication cut off, and the Leviathan under way by dawn. The new eggs must be seeded among the war fleet before they reach Blackhall.”

  Kast’s mind ran with the plan laid out here. The demons meant to sally forth from A’loa Glen, wearing the faces of trusted friends, and spread their corruption among the fleet. Whether their plan succeeded or not, such an attack would weaken the fleet and sow distrust, just when the fleets needed to be at their most united.

  He struggled for some way to raise a warning. But how? Distress must have been evident on his face. Sy-wen knelt beside him. She held one of the simaltra in one hand. “Do not fret, my love.” She bent forward.

  Kast gasped out one last plea. “Sy-wen . . .”

  “Too late for begging, my love.”

  Despite her words, Kast noted the smallest twitch of her left eye. He prayed to the Mother above that he was heard. He knew it was possible for the possessed to break free for brief moments. The elv’in captain of the befouled scoutship had managed to warn Meric and crash her own ship. Even Sy-wen had done it, back in the library. Now he needed her to do it one more time—for just a fleeting moment.

  He met Sy-wen’s gaze as she reached out with the beast. He read what he could in her eyes, seeking some answer, some clue to salvation here. There had to be a reason the enemy needed Ragnar’k. He was sure it wasn’t just for the dragon’s strength. For all this effort, there had to be more purpose here.

  Then, as he stared into the eyes of his love, he caught a glimmer of an answer. Shining clear from the demon were two emotions: fear and relief.

  Understanding bloomed. The dragon frightened them! Something about Ragnar’k threatened their plan.

  Kast fought the weight on his chest and drew a large breath. He reached with all the love and strength in his heart and spoke the words he hoped Sy-wen would understand: “I have need of you!”

  Again the left eye twitched. The hand that bore the tentacled simaltra paused, shaking ever so slightly.

  “I need you, Sy-wen . . . ,” he pleaded again.

  “Kast?” The voice was weak, a whisper on a wind, but it was thunder in his ears.

  “Now, my love . . . I need you now!”

  Her other hand lifted, reaching haltingly toward him. Then this hand also stopped. Sy-wen knelt, frozen in a silent war, with two hands held out—in one palm, a beast meant to corrupt, and in the other, an offer of salvation.

  Kast struggled to move, but his body could not fight the poisons. All he could do was lift his neck, raising his cheek from the stone floor, offering his dragon tattoo. It took every last dreg of his strength. He had no more breath for words, only his eyes, pleading, full of his heart’s desire.

  But once again, love failed against the chokehold of demonic magick.

  Something died in Sy-wen’s eyes. The hand bearing the beast again reached foward. A leering smile twitched her lips. Kast leaned away, but his body was an anchor he could not escape. The simaltra touched him. The burning slime of the creature seared his face. He closed his eyes, knowing he had lost.

  Sy-wen, I love you. Now and forever.

  He waited for the slumber of the green gases to take him away from the horror and loss. But before he could escape, a flame, a thousandfold more intense than the touch of the simaltra, scorched his other cheek. He felt fingers trace his neck, spreading the fire, marking the borders of his dragon tattoo.

  A whisper reached him through the pain, a balm that turned agony into ecstasy. “I have need of you . . .”

  16

  Tyrus and the others retreated to the bonfire. A thick fog had rolled in from the sea, blanketing the coastal cliffs and shrinking their world to the confines of the small park. Even the village had been swallowed by the mists.

  But the real threat could not be so easily wiped away. A continual hiss of hunger and blood lust echoed from all sides. Occasional darker shadows skittered through the fog.

  “If this soup grows any thicker,” Blyth mumbled, “we won’t see the weapons in our own hands.”

  “Keep steady,” Tyrus warned. He raised his sword, judging the sea breeze. “The cover of the fog could prove as much a boon to us as to the goblins.”

  “How so?” Hurl whispered. “Do you think we can slip away?”

  “The drak’il are creatures of the sea. If we can sneak through town and make it to the woods beyond, the beasts might not give chase.”

  Sticks rubbed his clubs together, the way a man might warm his hands. “If we can’t sneak through town, then we’ll bludgeon our way through.”

  Beyond the large man, Fletch knelt on one knee, his bow nocked with an arrow that tracked the drak’il as they closed around the park, worrying its edges. “Why don’t they come at us?” the Steppeman asked softly.

  No one answered for a long breath, until Hurl spoke. “It’s the park. They sense the wrongness here. Their noses are sharper than ours.”

  “Mother above,” Blyth snapped, “not more of that prattle about that cursed Stone Magus.”

  Hurl’s face darkened, but Tyrus noted how the man’s eyes flicked to the statues of the two frightened children.

  “Well, something’s keeping them back,” Fletch offered.

  Blyth could not argue this fact. For the moment, the beasts were indeed delaying their attack. But the hissing grew steadily around them.

  Still, their reluctance to attack made Tyrus wonder: if the drak’il were so reluctant to enter the park, why set the false signal fire here? A bonfire set elsewhere would have lured a ship just as easily from the sea.

  In the fire behind him, logs shifted with a creaking crackle. Tyrus wondered if his initial suspicion that the goblins had set the fire could be wrong. But if the drak’il hadn’t set it, then who did, and why?

  As he wondered, the sea breeze died away. The fog settled thicker—the moment Tyrus had been waiting for. “Ready, men,” he whispered, tightening his grip on his sword. “On my command, we’ll head for the northern wall, run its base, then over the wall and through town. We must keep hidden in the fog
for as long as possible. Once discovered, they’ll be on us as thick as fleas on a mangy dog’s arse.”

  Heads nodded all around.

  Tyrus’ gaze fell on their archer. “Time to prove your skill, Master Fletch.” He pointed to the south. “Can you strike one of the drak’il over there?”

  Fletch swung around. “Aye, Captain. It’ll be dead before it strikes the ground.”

  “No,” Tyrus said. “Shoot for a leg or arm. We want the foul thing screeching like a wounded bird.”

  Fletch nodded and took aim.

  “On my word,” Tyrus said.

  With one of their own wounded, the drak’il would flock to the south, believing their prey were trying to break free there. With the goblins distracted, Tyrus and his men would make their escape in the opposite direction.

  “Ready,” he whispered. Dark shapes moved along the southern wall. “Now!”

  With the skill of his Steppe clansmen, Fletch let loose an arrow. It whistled through the misty air, then struck with a soft thud of flesh. A wheedling cry of pain cut through the steady hiss.

  “Go!” Tyrus whispered.

  Leading the way, he raced surefooted down a flagstone path, weaving around bushes and statues. The others followed, as silent and fleet of foot as himself. Ahead, the waist-high wall grew clearer out of the mists.

  Tyrus reached the wall and ran along its length, bent in a half crouch to limit his exposure. At the northeast corner of the park, he motioned the others over the short wall. He stood guard as Hurl, Fletch, and Blyth scrambled over. Sticks waved him to go next, crouching with his clubs.

  Across the park, the squeals from the wounded goblin ended with a gurgled outburst. The drak’il were not kind to their wounded. Silence descended.

  Time was running short.

  Tyrus turned to the wall as a commotion erupted from the mists: scuffles, a single grunt, a quick squeak. Tyrus swore under his breath.

  Blyth’s face appeared at the wall. “Goblin,” he mouthed apologetically. His eyes were sharp with wary concern.

  Off to both sides, hoots and sharp hisses arose. Claws scrabbled on stone, drawing closer. The drak’il were circling back.

  Tyrus vaulted the low wall, quickly followed by Sticks. A goblin lay at their feet. Its skull had been cleaved in two. Hurl knelt beside it, wiping his ax clean in a mound of grass.

  Crouching, Tyrus pointed to the nearest street of the village. Again he led the way and raced across the scarp of bare dirt and grass. He dove into the shelter of the narrow street and flew down the broken, weedy cobbles. The avenue split and crisscrossed others. Tyrus didn’t stop to get his bearings at any forking or crossroads. He trusted his own instincts. Still, with the fog this thick, one deserted street looked like another.

  Behind them, the drak’il horde erupted with shrieks and furious yips; their dead brethren must have been discovered. The furious hissing echoed along the streets and added to the confusion of direction. At times, it sounded as if they were running toward the cries, rather than away.

  Didn’t I pass that burned shell of building already? Tyrus stumbled to a stop, panting silently, and searched around him. Three streets led from here.

  Blyth slid beside him. “Captain?” he whispered.

  Tyrus shook his head, shrugging his lack of certainty.

  Somewhere nearby a slate roof tile crashed on cobblestone, but again the echoes played tricks with the sound. Tyrus searched the neighboring rooftops. Nothing but fog.

  Blyth pointed his sword toward one street, motioning them in that direction. But Hurl stepped forward and nodded another way.

  The strum of a bowstring sounded, and a goblin crashed to the stones from an upper-story window, an arrow feathering its eye. Fletch straightened from his crouch, drawing another arrow from his quiver.

  Sticks waved his club toward all the streets, silently indicating that any way was better than staying where they were.

  Tyrus couldn’t argue with the giant’s logic and took off.

  They ran, sticking close to the walls. Streets flew by. Either the village had grown in this beastly fog, or they had indeed made some wrong turns. They should have been out the village and into the woods by now.

  At least the screeches of the goblins had grown quieter. But that itself was unnerving. Their pace slowed again, eyes darting toward every dark shadow.

  Then with a final few steps, the buildings vanished on either side. It took several more steps until they were sure they had cleared the village.

  A gasp of relief escaped Blyth. Tyrus leaped ahead, hope surging. In his exuberance to escape the fog-bound trap, he ran headlong into a dark form that suddenly appeared out the mists. He could not catch his legs in time and fell at the stranger’s feet.

  He sprang up to discover the lurker was not a living creature, but another statue. He stared up into a familiar face: the worn stone visage of a stern patriarch, standing with his arms crossed—the statue that guarded the entrance to the cliffside park. His heart sank to the bottom of his belly. “We’ve run full circle,” he gasped, turning to the others.

  Hurl backed a step. “No!”

  Tyrus thought the Northman was simply voicing his despair, but Fletch gasped, his voice full of horror. “There’s no bonfire.”

  Tyrus’ eyes widened. Even the fog shouldn’t hide the huge blaze, especially so close. He swung around to find the statue reaching for him.

  Stone-cold fingers latched onto his neck.

  His men, hardened pirates and loyal to their captain, came to his aid with sword and ax. But the fingers continued to tighten, and he was lifted by his neck off the ground like a kitten. His vision darkened. The sword fell from his grip, but he fought and struggled, kicking and digging at the fingers that held him trapped—to no avail.

  His airway closed off. His head pounded with each beat of his heart—and still the fingers squeezed. The world vanished into darkness. His legs and arms became as heavy as lead.

  But even this assessment was proven wrong in the next heartbeat. “Sweet Mother . . .” Hurl’s voice rang in his pounding ears. “He’s turning the captain to stone!”

  Sy-wen woke to herself, called forth by a dragon’s bellow. She blinked as the world of light and sound returned to her. The dark cave of malice in which she had been trapped no longer held her. She was free!

  Ragnar’k roared under her as she straddled his neck. He dug his silvered claws into the dungeon floor and fanned his wings, knocking aside piled eggs. Tentacled creatures lurched away from the crush of his claws. Sy-wen felt burning on the bottoms of her feet, sharing the dragon’s senses as he squashed the foul things under his claws.

  She sobbed aloud, both at the joy at being free and at the heartache that tore her being. She remembered the atrocities she had committed, the innocent blood on her hands. Possessed by the simaltra, she had watched all, experienced all, unable to control her body, while dark tendrils had wormed into her deepest secrets and memories. Her will had been ripped from her, replaced with something as black as the bottom of the deepest sea.

  The dragon surged under her. She ducked from the low ceiling, almost crushed against it. Ragnar’k was wild, maddened by a rage unlike any she had felt before. He struck out with blind fury, bellowing, roaring. She felt drowned in his anger and grief, but underneath his seething emotions, she recognized the cause of his rage. Tied to his heart, she saw it was for herself the giant grieved.

  “Ragnar’k,” she whispered. “I’m here. Calm yourself.”

  The dragon froze in midstrike, one claw raised. Bonded?

  “Yes, my love. It is I.”

  He lowered his claw. I dreamed you lost, swallowed by tentacles.

  “It was not a dream,” she whispered, yet unsure what exactly had transpired. Why was she free again? She remembered sensing Kast’s need, the pleading of his eyes, the love in his heart. She had stretched all her energies to touch that heart.

  Then the explosion of magick . . . and she was free. Her will was h
er own again.

  Kast, my love.

  A flow of warmth entered her from two hearts, dragon and man.

  New tears filled her eyes, but she wiped them away and stared around the room. The dungeon door was wide open, but the men under the simaltra’s thrall had vanished. While possessed, she had not been privy to the innermost plots of the Dark Lord’s monsters, but she knew they feared Ragnar’k. They had hoped to possess Kast and thus hold the dragon in check. But with Ragnar’k free, they now retreated, withdrawing their dark tentacle from A’loa Glen. It was a small battle won, but a larger war still loomed.

  As Sy-wen searched the room, she realized one other was missing.

  Hunt was gone.

  She recalled the penetration of the high keel’s son by the simaltra and despaired. It seemed she had been the only one freed by the dragon’s magick.

  Closer at hand, the tentacled beasts retreated from the dragon’s assault, sliding along walls, floor, and ceiling. Ragnar’k stretched his neck and bellowed, warning them away.

  But the effect was more profound.

  Under the direct brunt of his roar, the creatures shriveled and dried as if under a searing wind. A large swath of the beasts dropped like dried clots from the stone wall and ceilings, dead.

  Sy-wen stared in amazement. In the past, the trumpet of the dragon had been capable of stripping dark magicks from the skal’tum, the winged demons of the Black Heart. A similar magick must be at work here. The black spells of the beasts could not withstand the elemental energy of the dragon’s roar.

  As the desiccated beasts fell, she sent her silent encouragement to her mount.

  Ragnar’k swept the room with his bellows, scorching and charring the horde. He tromped through the cracked eggshells, rooting out any last ones and roaring them into oblivion. She sensed his satisfaction as he sifted through the rest of the room, sniffing and pawing.