Wit'ch Fire: Book One of The Banned and the Banished

  It growled at her in warning but did not approach any closer, apparently as cautious about her as she was of him. It took a few steps back, limping on its right front leg. The remains of some sort of bandage hung from the injured limb. It was hurt. She saw that one of its ears was torn, shredded and matted with blood.

  She remembered the howl they had all heard earlier. She guessed this was the creature that had voiced that pain.

  Both stared at each other warily. The wolf had stopped growling and now just stood, slightly wobbly, on three legs. She studied the traces of the old bandage. The wolf could not have done that itself; it must have been cared for by someone. She knew some woodsmen used wolves to aid their hunting. Was this someone’s lost pet?

  As she realized the wolf was not going to leap at her throat, she allowed herself to breathe again. She leaned away, meaning to retreat, then paused. Fear kept her ready to bolt, but the swordsman’s words about not letting fear control one’s actions kept her crouching in place. Maybe the wolf needed help, like her uncle.

  And another thought occurred to her. Maybe its keen nose could even lead them all out of here! Elena pictured her sick uncle. They needed a way out quickly. If she could coax the wolf …

  Taking a chance, she bit her lower lip and crawled a step forward to the stream. Using both hands, she cupped a scoopful of cold water and held it out to the wolf. Surely it would take this gesture as a friendly one. The wolf’s eyes narrowed slightly with suspicion.

  She forced her arms not to tremble as she held her position firm. At that moment, the falcon flapped down and gently landed on her shoulder.

  The wolf eyed the bird, then looked again at the offered water.

  It took a step forward.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”

  The wolf padded another step toward her, its nose now so close she felt its hot breath on her fingers. It craned its neck forward. A tentative tongue slipped from between exceptionally long fangs to touch the water. Though wanting the water, its eyes never left hers. The yellow eyes, she now noted, were odd. The irises were slitted up and down, not round, more like a cat’s eyes than a dog’s.

  As she stared in fascination and awe, its eyes suddenly dilated black and darted to her right. It pulled its neck back with a growl.

  “Get back, Elena! Now!” She glanced over her shoulder to see Er’ril stepping from around a boulder behind her, his sword raised in menace toward the shaggy wolf. “Run behind me.” Er’ril lunged at the wolf with the sword.

  Without thinking, Elena threw herself in front of the swordsman’s weapon. She knocked his blade aside with the flat of her hand. “No!” As her right hand made contact with his sword, a flash of ice blew out from her palm to swallow Er’ril’s sword.

  Er’ril gasped and shook the frigid weapon from his hand. The iron sword crashed with a clang to the stone, and like a glass vase, it shattered into a thousand frozen pieces.

  Elena watched the swordsman’s eyes settle on her face. He wore an expression of red-cheeked anger mixed with shock. “My sword!”

  “I didn’t mean to do it,” Elena said in a small voice, hiding her right hand behind her back. The realization that she had just destroyed their party’s only weapon dawned on her. Tears rose to her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Behind her, she heard the wolf growl.

  ER’RIL GRABBED THE stunned girl and swept her to the side, prepared to do battle with the huge wolf. The beast was injured, so perhaps he still had a chance of driving it away with a swift kick or the strike of a fist.

  The wolf, though, was not growling at them, but had his back turned and faced toward the dark trail they had traversed earlier. The wolf’s hackles were raised, and a long, steady rumble flowed out to the darkness.

  “Something’s coming,” Elena said.

  Now Er’ril could hear the scuffle of disturbed shale and a more familiar noise—hissing. “Goblins.” He pulled Elena away.

  The wolf backed toward them, sloshing through the small stream.

  Elena pointed to the beast. “He knows, too. They’re probably the ones who injured him.”

  Er’ril ignored her words and pushed Elena ahead of him as he retraced the route back toward the fissure. “We need to get to your uncle and keep moving. Without a weapon, we have no chance of breaking out of here. We need to keep ahead of them.”

  Elena was staring back. “The wolf is following us.”

  Er’ril spotted the wolf, too. It kept a wary distance away, somewhat hidden, and clung to the shadows of the boulders. It kept pace with them, padding silently.

  “He’s protecting us,” Elena said.

  “No, he’s just following the light.”

  “He has an old broken splint on his bad leg. Someone must have lost him.”

  The girl was right, but there was no telling if the wolf had gone feral on its owner. The splint looked old and weatherworn, as if the creature had been traveling some distance with it. Wild or not, it did not seem an immediate threat, and if the goblins should attack, its long teeth might prove useful, perhaps buying them time to flee. So Er’ril let it follow behind—as long as it kept its distance.

  Once the old man and his lantern came into view, Elena dashed ahead to kneel beside her uncle. Er’ril joined the girl, noticing that Bol’s chest still rose and fell. He placed a finger on the old man’s neck. The pulse was weak.

  He straightened and searched the darkness. After they had fled the stream, the hissing had faded. At least the goblins were again keeping their distance.

  Elena raised her eyes to Er’ril. “Is he going to die?” “I don’t know. He’s an old man.” “What can we do?” “I can carry him.”

  She eyed his single arm with doubt in her eyes. “He’s light. I’ll manage.”

  Elena nodded, resting a palm on her uncle’s chest. The hand glowed a rich ruby in the double light. Er’ril recalled the strength of the power that had frozen his sword. He had barely dropped it in time to keep his hand from being consumed by the ice. She had powerful magick, but her control was weak. Still …

  “There is one other way,” he said. “But there are risks.”

  She brightened. “What?”

  “Your magick.”

  Hope died in her eyes. She sagged her head. “No. I can’t make it do what I want.”

  “You kept me from harming the wolf.”

  “Maybe, but I didn’t mean to destroy your sword. The magick is wild.”

  “In my time, young mages were always fouling up. I had a brother, Shorkan. He came to his Chyric power the same age as you. Once when he was young, he burned down our kitchen as he tried to light our hearth with his magick.”

  “He got better, though, right?”

  He nodded. “With practice and training, he became a great mage.” “But who can train me?”

  Er’ril knelt beside her. “I was my brother’s liege man.” “What’s that?”

  “His protector. Each mage was assigned a liege man to keep them from harming themselves with their early magick. I was beside Shorkan during his initial training, pulling him out of many scrapes. We liege men were not privy to the higher arts but were instructed in the lessons of control—how to manage the flow of power. We learned these lessons to assist those in our charge.” Er’ril tried not to wince as he picked up her red hand. “I can perhaps help you.”

  “Really?”

  “I will try. But what you must do to help your uncle, though it is a simple thing, requires a subtle touch of magick.” “Will this save him?”

  “I don’t know. What I’m going to teach you is not a true healing—that is beyond my knowledge. What I can show you is how to pass a small drop of your magick to your uncle. This will boost his spirit and maybe allow him to escape this fainting illness.”

  Elena stared at him with doubtful eyes. “What if something goes wrong?”

  “Then he will die.”

  Her eyes twitched wide with fear. She stayed silent and hugge
d her arms around her chest. After several silent moments, she finally spoke. “But Uncle Bol could die if I don’t try.”

  Er’ril nodded, impressed with the resiliency of the child. Her hand trembled as she unclasped her arms and studied the whorls of color on her ruby palm, but a determination and resolve shone forth from her eyes.

  She stared directly at him, her jaw tense. For the first time, he saw in that small face the woman she would become. Bright green eyes, a wash of red hair, strong lips. She would grow to be a woman of fair beauty—if she lived that long. “Show me what I must do,” she said.

  He knelt and beckoned her down beside him. “It requires blood.”

  She withdrew from him slightly.

  “Fear not; this is small magick. Just a drop.” Er’ril pointed to the sheathed dagger Bol had given the child.

  Elena reluctantly withdrew the wit’ch’s dagger from her waist. Its silver glowed in the bird’s light like a sliver of the moon.

  “Pass me the dagger,” Er’ril said.

  The child did, more than willing to relinquish the weapon.

  Er’ril took one of the old man’s hands and laid it on his own knee. Then, using the knife, he poked a small hole in the tip of Bol’s thumb. Thick blood welled like a black pearl from the wound. He offered the knife back to Elena. “You must do the same.”

  He saw her wince and clench her fist away. Her expression sparked a sudden memory of the small boy sacrificed to forge the Blood Diary. He, too, had worn the same shocked look when faced with his first cut. Er’ril stared at the small girl and prayed she wouldn’t share the boy’s fate.

  “You must do this. Your uncle performed the initial cut in christening your dagger. This next must be by your own hand.”

  She nodded and fought to unclench her fist and reach for the knife. With a surprisingly steady hand, she raised the blade above her red thumb.

  “Just a nick. Too much blood will be hard to control.”

  She took a deep breath, darted one quick look at him, then stabbed the tip to her thumb. He noted she was careful not to dig too deep. Once done, she sheathed the knife casually, as if she had just buttered a slice of bread. Her eyes remained fixed on the blood seeping from her injured thumb.

  “Good girl. Now place your wound atop your uncle’s.” As she reached to do so, he stopped her hand. “When you make contact, you will be able to … able to feel your uncle.”

  “Feel?”

  He scrunched up his brow. How could he describe something he had never experienced? “My brother once told me it was like suddenly becoming that person. You don’t sense their thoughts, but simply know what it’s like to wear their skin.”

  Her eyes narrowed—whether with worry or doubt, he couldn’t tell. “Then what do I do?”

  “As soon as you feel this contact, allow no more than a breath to pass, then you must immediately sever the connection by removing your thumb. The longer you stay connected the more magick will flow into your uncle. You must not let more than a heartbeat of magick seep into him.”

  “Won’t a little more help Uncle Bol heal quicker?”

  “No. This is raw magick, not a controlled spell. Only the chosen, like yourself, can be a vessel of so much power. No more than a drop can be risked.”

  “What if I give him more?”

  “Do you remember my sword?”

  ELENA PICTURED THE sword encased in an ice so cold that it made iron brittle. She stared at her uncle spread out on the rock floor. She would not let that happen to him.

  She remained kneeling, fixed and afraid to move, fearful of harming any more of her family. From the corner of her eye, she spotted the wolf buried in the inky shadow of a nearby boulder. His amber eyes glowed from his hiding place, reflecting back the moonlight from the falcon on her shoulder. The swordsman held her uncle’s bloody thumb toward her, staring. So many eyes were on her.

  She closed her own eyes and took a huge breath, willing herself calm. She opened her eyes and looked only at her uncle’s face. He—the man who had regaled her with countless tales by firelight—needed her. And now she was living in one of his fanciful stories.

  As she stared, she suddenly realized how much her uncle looked like her own mother, with the same cheekbones and set to the eyes. And his nose, broader than her own, was so like her brother Joach’s. So much of her family was in the lines and planes of his face. As this thought dawned on her, her heart grasped some sliver of hope. If she saved him, perhaps in some measure she could keep a small piece of each of them alive.

  She lifted her face to the swordsman.

  He wiped away a tear from her cheek.

  She pushed his hand away. “I’m ready.”

  Holding out her uncle’s hand, he reminded her, “Only a single drop.”

  With a final deep breath that sounded more like a moan, she pressed her thumb on her uncle’s wound.

  At first nothing happened, and she almost cried with a combination of relief and hopelessness. Then she felt a part of her drawn through the wound into her uncle. She still saw out of her own eyes, saw how her touch seemed to tense her uncle’s body, felt the falcon fly from her shoulder with a startled cry, and saw it perch on a spur of rock. Yet at the same time, she felt the tickle of beard on her neck and how her joints ached in protest to tensed muscles. She also felt the cold stone under her back as she lay sprawled on the rock.

  Mostly, though, she sensed her heart straining to beat, struggling and quivering; but she was unable to tell if this was her own heart or the shadow of her uncle’s. She was lost somewhere between the two. The line between Elena’s awareness and her uncle’s sensations blurred.

  Fear and the swordsman’s warning caused her to yank her thumb away. As soon as contact was broken, she snapped fully back into her own body. Shaking her head loose of cobwebs, she sat back on her heels, suddenly feeling very small and, for some reason, starkly alone.

  A groan drew her attention outward to where her uncle was struggling to sit up. He raised a shaky hand to his forehead. “What happened? Did I fall asleep?”

  He seemed to be much better. His color had pinkened and his breathing sounded clear. But Elena knew better than to expect that he was healed. She had felt his heart. Uncle Bol was still sick.

  She hugged her uncle but found no words. Er’ril, though, related all that had happened to her uncle.

  Once the swordsman had finished explaining, Uncle Bol took Elena by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length so he could study her. “You saved me with your magick. I feel about ten years younger, ready to take on a battalion of goblins.”

  His smile was infectious, and an embarrassed grin appeared on her face.

  “See, I told you that Fila’s strength was in you.” He pulled her back to his chest in a fierce hug. As she lay within his embrace, she listened to the old man’s heart. She remembered the straining beat, the weak flutter of his pulse. Each beat made her shiver, afraid it would be his last.

  Of what use was this magick? How could it save a world when it couldn’t cure an old man? She suddenly felt the weight of the last two days without sleep. She allowed her uncle to hold her up.

  As she slumped in his embrace, a rumble of hissing arose around her again, sibilant and demanding—rock’goblins. Her uncle pulled her to her feet. When would she be able to rest?

  “Hurry,” Er’ril called. “The beasts grow impatient, and the path stales.”

  As Elena followed, her feet dragging as if they were full of sand, the moon’falcon flitted across the cavern to alight on her shoulder again. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the wolf trailing in the shadows on her heels. What made these creatures of the field trust her?

  She glanced to her ruby hand, the wound on her thumb gone.

  And what of the unknown spirit who had granted her this magick? Why did this spirit trust her, too? She was only a farmer’s daughter; what strength of substance did these creatures all see in her?

  Tears suddenly appeared in her eyes,
but she wiped them away before anyone noticed them. She did not want this responsibility. She sniffed back her tears. Was there no one to whom she could pass this duty?

  She stared at Er’ril’s wide back as he marched ahead. Her liege man, he had called himself. In her heart, Elena knew the magick was her burden to bear, but maybe she did not have to bear it alone. This thought dried her tears. Maybe there was someone she could lean on, someone she could trust.

  “My liege man,” she whispered to herself, allowing her tongue to taste the words.

  27

  KRAL PASSED THE radiant green stone to Tol’chuk and wiped the blood from his fingertips onto his trousers. The strange hissing had faded to a whisper, then vanished. The resulting silence weighed like the heavy air before a summer storm. He left the og’re to examine the elv’in’s stone and crept farther down the crumbling stone hall.

  The greenish glow from the small gem lit the black hall, swamping the walls in an unnatural sheen. Ahead, strings of moss and rootlets festooned the ceiling, while the floor was littered with ancient rock that ground to powder under his heel.

  Kral slapped aside a root trying to lodge in his beard. Ducking his head, he rounded a corner. Tol’chuk and the light followed. The hall ended just ahead with a large chamber beyond. Kral motioned for the og’re to stop and wait.

  He unhitched the ax from his belt, and with its leather-wrapped hickory handle firmly in hand, he slunk forward. The greenish glow lighted the dried blood still on the ax’s blade. It shone a purplish black, like a bruise on the iron. He ground his teeth at the reminder of his dishonor, the lie that had passed his tongue. He tightened his grip on the weapon. Maybe fresh blood would help wash away the foulness upon his blade and heart.

  Kral reached the entrance to the large chamber and crouched with his back against one wall of the hall. He darted a quick glance into the room ahead. The room had once been a great hall of some kind. Vaulted ceilings spanned into the darkness above, and on the walls, faint frescoes whispered with echoes of a distant past. The hall must have been a meeting chamber: The walls were pocked with the openings to many other passages. The chamber was so large that even the sharp green light from the stone could not pierce to the far wall of the room.