Wit'ch Star (v5)

  “No!” Joach spat, seething.

  Greshym shoved his stumped wrist toward Joach, whose trapped body convulsed, back arching from the wall despite the restraints. A scream burst from his lips, along with a gout of blood.

  “Joach!” Elena cried out.

  “Do as I say,” Greshym hissed at Er’ril, “or I’ll make the girl suffer, too.”

  After a tense pause, Er’ril dropped his weapon, pushing it away.

  Greshym lowered his stumped arm. Joach collapsed, sagging back to the wall, blood dribbling from his lips.

  “Joach . . . ?” Elena moaned.

  “He’ll live with nothing worse than an ache in his belly,” Greshym said. “But that can change. It’s up to you.” He nodded to Er’ril. “And it seems one more life has been added to the pot. You are a hard bargainer, my dear. Now I’m forced to offer two lives for the ancient sword.”

  “Don’t do it,” Er’ril quickly blurted.

  Greshym ignored the plainsman. His eyes stayed on Elena, while his staff remained pointed at Er’ril. “Have you ever seen skin stripped from a body in one tear? It’s a bit tricky, but I’ve had practice. You just pick the one: Er’ril or Joach. Husband or brother.” Greshym swung his staff back and forth. “I don’t care which.”

  Elena knew they were defeated. She nodded to the blankets. “The sword is right there, under the furs.”

  Greshym’s eyes widened as he stared to his toes. “It was there all along?” He glanced to Er’ril and shook his head. “I could see her making such an error, but you? You should know better. You hold a talisman strong enough to defeat the Black Heart, and you leave it lying about like kitchen cutlery?” He crossed to the bedding and kicked through it. He was satisfied with a distinct clank. “I expected complicated wards that only Elena could unlock.”

  Er’ril glowered at the darkmage.

  Warily, Greshym tucked his staff under his arm and fished through the furs. He straightened with the rose-pommel hilt in hand. He shook off the sheath to reveal the icy length of elemental steel. “Shadowsedge . . .” Greshym said with awe, suppressing a relieved laugh. “Mine at last!”

  He dropped his bone staff and kicked it aside. The simple action was enough to tell Elena how awful a weapon the blade must be.

  She met Er’ril’s eyes. He was staring at her hands. He clearly understood her powers were pent up, unavailable. His eyes returned to hers. “Remember your family’s bathing chamber,” he whispered. “When you burned it down . . .”

  Elena frowned. She had told Er’ril that story long ago. She had barely bloomed to her Rose, just after her first menstra. While soaking in a cooling tub, she had willed the waters to warm, but with no control of her magick, she had come near to boiling herself alive. But what did that have to do with now? She had no access to her powers. She wasn’t bloodied . . .

  Then her eyes grew wide. Her hands hadn’t been bloodied then, either. Afterward, thinking back on it, she had figured the release had to do with the bleeding from her first menstra. The flow of blood from the core of her womanhood must have allowed the magick to stream out into the bathwater.

  She stared at Er’ril. From first bleed to first blood . . .

  He knew she still seeped from their first night together. Blood again—from the heart of her womanhood. Could this be a way?

  She listened to the magick raging inside her, the pure energy, fresh from the Void. She willed it to flow from her ruby hands, back to her heart. As she did so, the glow faded from her fingers.

  Greshym turned to them, holding the sword before him. “As bargained, I will spare the lives of those you love, but there is another here to whom I owe a debt.”

  Er’ril stepped between the mage and Elena. “I’ll not let you harm her.”

  Greshym laughed. “Always the knight, Er’ril.” The darkmage swung to the desk. “But I intend your woman no harm. I’d prefer she waste her life attacking the Black Heart. To that end, we are united in purpose.” He pointed the sword to the Blood Diary. “It is Cho. I mean to make her pay for making me dance like her little puppet.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Now you shall understand the full power of the sword—to break spells, to unbind what is bound.”

  Joach realized his intent the same moment as Elena. “No!” he gasped out, spitting blood.

  Greshym eyed him, lowering the sword slightly. “Some dreams are better left dead.”

  Joach struggled, eyes wild. “I’ll make you pay!” The gray stone staff rattled on the planks, but he failed to move it more than a handspan.

  Greshym eyed his efforts, lifting one brow. “You are strong, my boy. What I could have done with you, given the time.” He shook his head sadly and turned back to the Blood Diary.

  Elena did not waste her brother’s efforts. In the moment of distraction, she reached to the core of her being and touched the chorus of power there. As the darkmage stepped toward the desk, she lashed out with her magick. Wild energies lanced burning from the heart of her womanhood.

  Greshym sensed the release of unstoppable power and lunged forward. The magick blasted through the planks at his heels, missing him by the breadth of a hair.

  Splintered wood shattered up. Raw magick crashed through the ship and out the belly, leaving a hole clear through to the ground far below. The backwash cindered Elena’s bonds. She fell limply from the wall.

  Er’ril was immediately at her side.

  Across the ragged hole, the darkmage teetered, the back of his cloak singed. He caught his balance and turned, the sword held before him. “Clever girl,” he growled at her. “But you’ll never get a second chance. The sword will protect me from even your magick.”

  Elena knew this to be right. She had wielded the sword herself. It would protect its bearer. “Leave with the sword then,” she said, standing. “But I’ll not let you harm the Blood Diary.”

  Greshym frowned at the book on the desk; the smoldering hole lay between him and the Diary. “This is not over, girl. That I promise!”

  He stepped forward, ready to leap through the hole and away with his prize. Elena felt the dance of magick in the air.

  A blur of movement caught her eye. Er’ril dove from her side, leaping and rolling. As he tumbled, he pulled a dagger from his boot and flung it with all the accuracy of an experienced juggler. The blade struck the mage’s wrist, skewering it.

  Greshym’s sword arm was thrown back. Shadowsedge tumbled from his limp fingers, to clatter harmlessly against the hearth.

  The darkmage was not so lucky. Twisted off balance, he began his own slow tumble through the hole. A wail of disbelief shrieked from his throat. With his staff abandoned, stripped of the sword, he had no magick to stop his fall.

  Down he went, screaming.

  Er’ril knelt at the hole’s edge. Elena joined him.

  The darkmage’s body cartwheeled end over end, arms and legs flailing. Far below, he struck one of the stripped orchard trees. The sharp, broken top pierced his chest. He slid, spiked through the gut, to the midpoint of the tree, then hung there, unmoving.

  Joach slid down the wall as death released the binding spell.

  Elena remembered Aunt Mycelle’s warning long ago about putting too much faith in magick alone. Here was the proof. Shadowsedge, one of the most potent talismans ever crafted against magick, had failed against something as simple as an ordinary Standish dagger.

  Er’ril touched Elena’s shoulder, drawing her back, but Joach stepped to her other side. His chest heaved. His face was pale with fury. In his hands, he held Greshym’s bone staff.

  “Not yet,” he said in a half moan. His lips continued to move, but no further words were heard.

  Elena felt a chill waft out from her brother. “Joach . . . no. It’s over.”

  He ignored her. His lips were blue from the cold coming off him. He lifted the staff and pointed it down. With a final silent utterance, he jabbed it toward the bloody tree below.

  A jet of black flame spat from the staff’s end: balefi
re. It ripped through the dark morning, drawing shadows to it as it struck the bloodied tree. Flaming sap and bark blasted out, sailing far into the fields. The balefire burned down to the impaled body and burst with a surge of black flames. A scream of the damned wafted upon its fires for an endless moment, then faded away, leaving only a smoky ruin, flames dancing atop a smoldering stump.

  “This time he’s truly dead,” Joach mumbled. The bone staff crumbled to ash in his fingertips, raining down through the hole. Joach turned his back and strode stiffly toward the door. Without another word, he was gone.

  Elena found herself unable to move. She was glad Greshym was gone, the monster who had slain her parents and tormented her brother. But a strange sense of defeat washed through her. She stared from the smoldering stump to the doorway. Who had truly won here?

  Er’ril collected a blanket from the floor. He covered her singed clothes. Through the hole, the bright sounds of horns rose to them, reminding them of the other war raging below.

  Er’ril drew her up, held her close until her shaking subsided.

  After a long moment, she found her voice. “If you hadn’t remembered about the blood—” she began, glancing up to him.

  “Shush,” he whispered. “Do you think my taking your maidenhood was something I’d forget so soon?”

  She stared into his eyes and saw a trace of guilt mixed with pained responsibility. She touched his cheek. “If you hadn’t . . . we could easily have lost everything this morning.”

  He simply hugged her tighter. But the horns continued to sound below; the world would not wait forever. Finally, he stepped from her side and retrieved Shadowsedge from the corner, slipping it into his empty sheath.

  He met her gaze. “Greshym’s appearance—it had something to do with Joach, didn’t it?”

  Elena nodded. “He did it for Kesla—some way of resurrecting her, a magick or spell that Greshym must have traded for his freedom.”

  Er’ril glanced toward the doorway. “Once one starts down that dark road . . . Can we still trust him?”

  Elena stared toward the empty doorway, wondering at this question, frightened that she even had a doubt. Her words were a whisper. “I don’t know.”

  It was well past midday, and Joach could still taste the bitter alchemy of dragon blood on the back of his tongue. The elixir had healed the ache in his belly from Greshym’s attack, but it did little to mend his bruised heart.

  He stood at the prow of the Windsprite. Rain soaked his hair and ran in rivulets down his neck and back. He didn’t bother shivering. The core of his being was colder than the downpour. He lifted his face to the dark skies. It was midday, but it still seemed twilight.

  Would this gloom never end?

  Gripping his staff, he swung his gaze below. In the battle to come, he would prove himself as best he could. He would not fail.

  But despite his determination, Elena’s eyes still haunted him. She had said all the right things after the battle belowdecks: how she understood his need, how she forgave him, how he was still her brother. But he had seen something different in her eyes. She no longer held him as close in her heart. And he knew that this was one wound that even dragon blood would never heal.

  He closed his eyes on this pain and instead focused on another frustration: Greshym was dead. Joach had made sure of it, striking out with blind fury, casting the balefire that roasted the darkmage’s body to ash. But he found little satisfaction in the act . . . in fact, the opposite was true. Without doubt, he hated Greshym with all his heart. The mage had stolen everything from him: parents, his youth, the woman he loved . . . now even the deep bond with his sister. But he understood that an important key to his own identity had been lost forever this morning.

  What I could have done with you . . .

  These last words of Greshym’s ate at him. With the darkmage’s demise, so died any hope of understanding the depths and breadth of his own magick. Joach shook his head. While his heart remained bruised, a core of anger grew into a hot ember.

  Perhaps Elena had acted too hastily. If she had just waited—

  “Are you ready?” Harlequin interrupted his thoughts.

  Joach opened his eyes back to the world.

  Below, the two armies—og’re and si’luran—awaited the final assault on the pit. They had forged ahead through the long morning to within a stone’s throw of the crater’s rim. There the armies had lain entrenched through the day’s middle, tending the wounded and readying for the last surge into the pit.

  The landscape below had gone ominously silent. Only the rumble of thunder rolled over the blasted valley. The entire world held its breath.

  “Joach?” Harlequin asked again.

  Half turning, Joach glanced across the deck. Everyone was assembled, packs in place, weapons sheathed and strapped. He met Elena’s gaze. She nodded with reassurance toward him. She stood in black boots and a dark cloak, a match to the knight beside her. Joach caught the glint of the rose pommel at her hip: Shadowsedge. She also carried the Blood Diary inside her cloak, ready for the rising moon.

  Joach met her gaze, reading the edge of doubt behind her encouragement. He would not fail. “Sound the charge,” he directed the spy.

  Harlequin Quail waved to Tol’chuk. The og’re, standing at the starboard rail, lifted a curled ram’s horn to his lips.

  “Let it begin,” Joach whispered to himself.

  The horn blared across the valley, and a roar answered from below.

  The og’re army lumbered in a wall of clubs and muscle toward the shrouded pit. Behind them, a sail of wings rose in a dark cloud as the si’lura took to the sky.

  “Now,” Harlequin said needlessly at his side. The plan had been the small man’s, but it was up to Joach to execute it.

  Joach fed his blood into his staff. Gray stone turned pale. Green crystals flared along its length. Joach lifted his staff and tapped it on the planks of the ship.

  Distantly, he heard Harlequin yell to the Windsprite’s captain. The ship slipped forward under his feet. Exclamations of wonder rose from those gathered behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know what they saw.

  As the elv’in ship surged forward, a twin was left in its place. To the eyes below, it would seem the Windsprite never left its position in the skies. The ship sailing forward was masked in cloud and illusion, the spell like the one he had used to catch Greshym by surprise earlier—a diversion, a mock-up to trick the eye. Joach prayed the end result would be more successful this time.

  The ship flew onward, riding over the two armies. Then from up ahead, a legion of monsters burst from the mists, leaping and winging forth to meet the assault. Screams carried on the winds. Howls and shivering sounds of madness rose like steam.

  But the ship flew above it all, ignored and unseen.

  In moments, the battle vanished under the keel, taking the world with it. The landscape became a sea of mists, whirling in a churning eddy. The ship’s captain aimed for the eye of the whirlpool, drifting over the pit and down, as if caught in the vortex.

  “Everyone below!” Er’ril called. “To the ropes and pulleys!”

  Joach stared down a moment longer. Though he knew the ship was cloaked in illusion, he sensed something immense staring back up at them, an abyss of darkness from which there would be no escape. It seemed to call to him. He found himself leaning over the rail, mesmerized by the churning mists.

  “Joach?” Harlequin said at his side, touching his elbow. “It’s time.”

  With the man’s touch, Joach tore his gaze free—but he could not so easily escape the sense of doom. He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter.

  “Are you all right?” the short man in bells asked.

  Joach nodded. “I’m fine.” On this foul and endless journey, what was one more lie?

  25

  Kast prepared to launch from the Dragonsheart as an argument played out at his side. Hunt stood on the deck, tugging little Sheeshon toward the dragon. “I won’t go without Roddie!
” she yelled.

  Hunt dropped to one knee. “We must. It’s dangerous enough to bring even you.”

  Beyond the pair, Hunt’s father, the high keel, stood with his meaty hands on Rodricko’s small shoulders. Beside them, Xin stood with the portly Shaman Bilatus.

  It had taken the entire morning to relate the danger of the oily creature lurking in the Southern Gate. Strategies had been rethought. Crows were sent like arrows between ships on the sea and in the air.

  Kast was the center of all the flurry. The loss of the dragon was a serious blow, for while Kast could still wing through the air in this form, he was not a gifted flyer. It had taken all his concentration to reach the ship, landing in a tumble across the deck. Despite appearances, he was not Ragnar’k.

  After he finally got his message delivered—aided by the considerable skill of Xin to read the secrets in another’s heart—plans were quickly altered. A cadre of elv’in Thunderclouds would proceed in advance of the surface fleet. They would lance the creature with bolts from their keels and try to draw it into the open. Then Dre’rendi forces would attack from the sea with catapults. Under this cover, the mer’ai and their dragons would rush the seawall, slipping through the jagged Crown of Blackhall to the lagoon beyond. If the creature tried to flee into the waters, the dragons would be waiting to battle the beast. And once under siege, the monster would be attacked from all sides until victory was achieved.

  A trumpet sounded crisply across the morning.

  Kast raised his head. The six Thunderclouds were already swelling their sails to sweep forward. Unbidden, a growl escaped his throat. His heart ached with worry for Sy-wen, alone on those black shores. Silver claws dug gouges in the planks. He had spent too long here already. Every beat of his giant heart was another moment that Sy-wen was in danger.

  A childish scream drew his attention back to the closer battle.

  “Sheeshon, stop fighting me.” Hunt’s face was as red as his crimson shirt. Kast noted how wasted the high keel’s son appeared. His black cloak hung loosely from his rolled shoulders. His cheekbones stuck out more prominently. While possessed, the creature inside Hunt sought to harm its host: refusing to eat, vomiting, digging gouges from his face, tearing hair. But with Sheeshon in hand, Hunt was his own man again, tall, proud, his hair braided in a neat warrior’s knot.