Wit'ch War (v5)

  Mycelle pushed up to her elbows on the table. A groan escaped her lips. Her muscles were as sore as if she had been battling with both swords all night.

  Glancing around, Mycelle saw that she was in the storeroom of the healer’s apothecary. Lines of wooden shelves stocked with bottles, flasks, and pouches filled the room, except for the back section where she lay atop an oaken table. A row of small wire cages lined the nearby wall. Strange beasts peered out from these small cells, eyes glinting in the light of the new sun. The assortment was amazing: wingless feathered creatures, lizards with ridged spikes down their backs, small furred rodents that swelled up with air and hissed at her movement. From her wanderings, Mycelle knew these beasts were not of Alasea, but from lands beyond.

  Mycelle sat up as Mama Freda approached from the bank of cages. Meric, swaddled in bandages, limped after her with the use of a crutch. Fardale padded beside the elv’in. At least the wolf, holed up in the stables with the horses, had managed to escape the clutches of the ill’guard, too.

  Reaching the table, Mama Freda wrapped a blanket around Mycelle’s nakedness and helped her sit up on the edge of the table. “Your strength should quickly return.”

  “H-how?” Mycelle asked, fighting her tongue. “The poison . . .”

  “Extract of nightshade,” Mama Freda answered. “A common enough poison . . . but I have my ways.”

  Mycelle knew the old woman was hedging. “Tell me.”

  Mama Freda glanced at Meric, who nodded. “She’ll need to know eventually,” the elv’in said.

  The healer turned to a nearby cage behind the table. Still feeling dull and disjointed, Mycelle twisted to see.

  “In Yrendl,” Mama Freda said as she worked the latch on the tiny cage, “the jungles teem with many poisons, but as in all things, there is always a balance. The gods of the jungle created a special creature to help protect our tribes against these poisons.” Mama Freda turned. Coiling around her wrist and about her fingers was a purplish snake striped in blues and greens. “We call them paka’golo. In the language of my people, it means ‘breath of life.’ The serpents are steeped in elemental magicks. Where most snakes carry venom in their fangs, the bite of a paka’golo draws poisons out.”

  Mama Freda offered Mycelle the snake to examine closer. Mycelle reached out her hand, curious at such an odd beast. A small red tongue flickered out from its scaled jaws to investigate one of her fingers. Then slowly the serpent stretched its body to slide from the old healer’s fingers onto Mycelle’s palm. She had expected it to be cold and slimy but found its scaled skin to be oddly warm and smooth. It writhed in slow movements up her forearm, then seemed to settle there like a fanciful piece of jewelry.

  Fardale slipped closer to sniff at the snake.

  Mycelle raised her eyes from the serpent. Something did not make sense. “I concocted my own poison,” she said. “I know its potency. It often kills before the poison even reaches the belly—too fast for any cure.”

  Mama Freda sighed and nodded. “Yes, you are right. But the paka’golo were aptly named by my people. They truly carry the ‘breath of life.’ Besides curing the poisoned, they can bring back those recently killed by the touch of venoms.”

  “How is that possible?”

  Mama Freda shrugged. “It takes more than just their bite. The serpent itself must enter the poisoned body of the deceased.”

  Mycelle’s eyes narrowed, but she did not flinch. She was never one to shy from hard realities. She recalled the squirming she had felt in her belly, the sickness, the sense of its magick pulsing through her flesh. The snake had been inside her. She even recalled the sensation of it sliding and writhing up her throat and out her lips.

  “Inside you, they use their magick to rid your tissues of poison and suffuse your body with their spirit. They become part of you.” This last part seemed to worry Mama Freda. She glanced away from Mycelle.

  Meric hobbled forward. “Tell her all of it.”

  Mama Freda turned, her thin lips drawn tight. “The serpent and you are now one. Bonded. The two of you share a single life.”

  “What does that mean?” Mycelle asked, suddenly afraid of the answer.

  “You are now linked forever with this paka’golo. During the first night of each full moon, the serpent must bite you. Once life bonded, you need the magick of its fangs to sustain you, and it needs your blood to survive. Without its magick, you will die.”

  Mycelle glanced to the snake, her eyes wide. Surely the old woman was mad. Reaching out with her elemental talent, she probed for the serpent’s magick inside her. She felt nothing. Relieved, she pushed harder, just to be sure—and again only emptiness. She glanced to the snake, meaning to study its magick. As she delved into it, a frown appeared on her lips. Nothing.

  Raising her gaze, she glanced to Meric and sent her senses out toward him, searching for his scent of lightning and storm. Her eyes grew wide with horror. Again she felt nothing. She sat up straighter, shocked. “I . . . I’m blind,” she whispered.

  Meric stepped closer, eyes crinkled with concern.

  For the first time, Mycelle realized the dull sensation in her head was not just the fuzziness from the cure, but a deadness in her spirit. She turned frightened eyes first toward Mama Freda, then Meric. “I can no longer seek,” she mumbled. “My elemental ability is gone.”

  Mama Freda spoke quietly. “There is always a price to be paid.”

  Meric stepped to the table’s edge, raising a hand to comfort her, then suddenly froze. He leaned nearer, studying Mycelle’s face. “Your eyes!” he exclaimed. “They’ve changed.”

  Mycelle’s hands rose to her face, checking what new horror awaited her. The snake at her wrist hissed slightly at the sudden motion.

  “They’re now golden and slitted,” Meric said, glancing at the wolf who sat nearby, “like Fardale’s eyes.”

  Mycelle’s fists clenched on her cheeks. It could not be. She dared not hope.

  “I’ve never witnessed such a change,” Mama Freda said. “She—”

  Mycelle stopped listening. Warily, cautiously, she reached deep inside her heart and touched a part of her spirit that had withered and died long ago. Where once there had been nothing, she now felt a familiar resistance. She pushed gently and felt bone and sinew, long trapped in one form, shift and bend. Like an iced pond in spring, frozen flesh melted. She stood on legs of clay beside the table, the blanket falling from her shoulders as bone gave way.

  The paka’golo hissed and writhed tighter on her arm as its perch melted underneath it.

  Mycelle raised the serpent before her eyes. What miracle was this? The paka’golo had not only returned her own life, but it had revitalized her dead heritage. Mycelle willed her flesh back to solidity, returning to the form with which she was most familiar. “I . . . I can shape-shift again,” she explained to the stunned group. Tears of joy ran down her cheeks as her voice cracked. “I’m not only alive, I am si’lura!”

  Fardale’s eyes glowed toward her, a deep amber, and for the first time in countless winters, images flowed into Mycelle’s mind, the spirit talk of her people: A dead wolf, nuzzled by a mourning pack, comes back to life. The pack howls their joy.

  JOACH STOOD AT the starboard rail of the Seaswift as the sun rose out of the oceans in the east. He studied the westernmost edge of the Archipelago as the ship sailed north along the coast. Around him, dawn transformed the distant islands from menacing black humps into towering green mountains. Mists draped the peaks, glowing a soft rose in the morning sunlight. Even from here, Joach caught the sweet scent of the islands’ lush foliage carried on the sea’s early breezes.

  “There is much beauty here,” a stern voice said behind him.

  Joach did not have to turn to know it was Moris, the tall dark-skinned Brother. “And much danger,” Joach added sourly.

  “Such is always the way of life,” the Brother mumbled. Moris stepped to the rail beside Joach. “I’ve just come from your sister’s bedside. She remains
the same. Alive, but a prisoner to the poisons.”

  Joach remained silent, fear for his sister clenching his throat. “Why did those goblins attack her? Were they sent by the Dark Lord?”

  Moris’ brows bunched together with concern. “We’re not sure. Goblins are notorious for carrying a blood grudge. When your sister destroyed the clutch of rock’goblins in the ruins of the ancient school near your home, word must have spread to other of their foul ilk, even to the coastal clans of the drak’il.”

  “And they’ve been hunting for her ever since?”

  “So it would seem, but I still suspect the Black Heart’s hand in this attack. It was too coordinated, too well orchestrated. Someone guides these beasts.”

  Joach tightened his grip on the poi’wood staff in his left hand. “How much longer until we reach Port Rawl?”

  Moris turned to study the passing coastline, then examined the billowed sails. “If the winds keep up, we’ll reach port just before sunset.”

  Joach turned to face the tall Brother. “Will Elena hold on until then?”

  Moris placed a hand on his shoulder. At first, Joach shied away from the comforting touch, but then his brave resolve crumbled and he leaned into the man’s support, only a boy again. “Elena’s magick is strong,” Moris consoled him, “and her will even stronger.”

  “I can’t let her die,” Joach moaned into the Brother’s shoulder. “I promised my father that I’d watch over her. And at the first sign of danger, she’s almost slain at my side.”

  “Do not blame yourself. By calling forth your magick, you drove off the drak’il and allowed us to escape. At least now she has a chance.”

  Joach grasped at this thin straw. Perhaps Moris was correct; his black magick had at least helped protect his sister. That had to mean something. He pushed free of Moris’ hand and stood straighter, wiping his forearm across his nose and sniffing.

  “Still,” Moris continued, “beware the lure of the staff. It is a foul talisman, and its magick seductive.”

  Joach studied the length of poi’wood. Its oily touch felt slick under his fingers. Seductive? That was not a word he would use to describe it. Only the urgency of protecting his sister had forced him to call forth the staff’s black arts. He ran one finger along its polished surface. But was he being totally honest? A part of him knew that it had been fury more than brotherly love that had fueled his attack on the murderous sea goblins.

  “Be careful, boy,” Moris added. “A weapon sometimes comes with too high a price.”

  Joach remained silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. But in his heart, he knew that he would pay any price to keep Elena safe. He still remembered his father’s earnest eyes as the large man placed the burden of Elena’s safety onto his son’s smaller shoulders. It had been his father’s last charge to him: Guard your sister.

  Joach would not dishonor his father’s memory by failing.

  Moris clapped him on the shoulder before returning to his duties. “You and your sister are both strong willed. It’s in the strength of your young hearts that I find hope.”

  Joach blushed at his words and tried to stutter a thanks, but only managed an embarrassed gurgle.

  Moris strode from his side and crossed toward the stern. Alone with his thoughts, Joach turned back to the oceans. Leaning over the rails, he stared into the blue waters. Dolphins occasionally followed in the bow’s wake, but this morning the waters were as empty as his spirit.

  “How far we’ve both traveled, Elena,” he mumbled to the passing seas.

  It was then Joach saw a face staring back up at him from under the waves. At first, he thought it but his own reflection in the glass-clear swells. But then his throat clenched as he realized his mistake. The vision was not his own reflection, but someone rising up out of the sea, suspended in a bubble that scintillated with magicks.

  Joach had opened his mouth to yell a warning when the shock of recognition stilled his tongue. He knew this man: the narrow face, the thin brown mustache under a hawkish nose, even the sneering eyes. The face had haunted his nightmares for many moons.

  It was the butcher of his parents!

  The smiling face rose from the waves, his lankish brown hair sliding dry from the sea, untouched by the salty spray. Beyond the man, the seas boiled with the twisting forms of hundreds of drak’il.

  “So you think you’ve traveled far, have you, my boy?” Rockingham said with a jeer, obviously having eavesdropped on Joach’s private words. “Unfortunately, not far enough to escape me.”

  KRAL STALKED ACROSS the length of his cramped cell, scowling through the thick iron bars at the guards. The place reeked of sour bodies, and the clink of chains echoed from other cells. Somewhere farther down the row, a prisoner was softly sobbing. Kral ignored all this, his hands itching for the hickory handle of his ax. Curse the interference of these blasted fools! He smashed his fist into the timbered wall.

  “Cracking the bones in your hand will not free us,” Tol’chuk said behind him. Tol’chuk’s voice was like the grinding of a granite millstone: harsh and unyielding. The other two occupants of his cell had been so silent all night that Kral had almost forgotten their presence. Sharing his cramped cell, the og’re sat hunched on the straw-littered floor, arms and legs in huge shackles used to hobble draft horses, while Mogweed lay sprawled on the narrow cot, an arm over his eyes.

  “But we were so close,” Kral said between clenched teeth. He let his anger show but disguised the true reason for his fury. “Elena needs as much protection as we can muster, and now not only are we kept from her side, but her aunt is dead. If only they hadn’t discovered us, we would’ve been gone by morning.”

  “We all lost much this past night,” Tol’chuk said, his voice mournful.

  Kral suddenly remembered that Mycelle, besides being Elena’s foster aunt, was also the og’re’s mother. He had not considered how the loss of Mycelle, dead by her own hand, must affect the huge creature. He forced his features to a calmer demeanor, one of sympathy. “I’m sorry, Tol’chuk. I was not thinking. Your mother did what she had to do to protect the child.”

  “We will find a way to rejoin the others,” Tol’chuk said, still dour.

  “How?”

  “We must retrieve my pouch. If freed, the Heart of my people will guide me to her.”

  Kral’s eyes narrowed. He had forgotten the tool of the og’re, a chunk of precious heartstone that bound the og’re’s spirit to the magick in its heart. The crystal was a vessel for the deceased spirits of Tol’chuk’s people. It normally acted as a spiritual channel, carrying the deceased over to the next world. But the stone had been cursed by the land itself for an ancient atrocity committed by one of Tol’chuk’s ancestors. The curse was given form in the shape of a black worm in the core of the crystal. The Bane, as it was named, trapped the spirits of the og’re clans within the stone, consuming the spirits and not allowing them to ascend to the next world.

  Tol’chuk had been given the duty to break his ancestor’s curse. But how the og’re might accomplish this was unknown. Tol’chuk had only the urging of the magick in the stone to guide him.

  “And you think the crystal could guide us to where Elena hides?” Kral asked. “Even without Mycelle’s knowledge?”

  Tol’chuk shifted his huge bulk farther from the bars, slightly turning his back on Kral. His iron chains clanked. “If we can escape,” he added.

  Kral turned from the others and crossed to the barred door. He pounded a fist on the bars to draw the eyes of the pair of guards at the end of the hall. “Yo, guardsmen. I must speak to your leader.”

  One of the two guards, a stout fellow with bristled black hair, broken nose, and squinted eyes, waved a hand dismissively back at Kral. “Pipe down, or I’ll use my knife to carve your tongue out.” The guard returned to whatever conversation he’d been having with his partner, a shaven-headed ruffian with a severely pocked face.

  Mogweed spoke up behind Kral. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”


  Kral glanced over his shoulder. The pale shape-shifter had pushed up onto his elbows and was staring at him. “I’m trying to see if I can bully our way out of here,” the mountain man answered.

  “With one of the ill’guard? Are you daft? Our best hope is that they simply forget about us.”

  “Not likely. Slavers are not lax about their property.”

  “Then maybe it’d be best if we let them sell us. Once we’re out of this prison and away from that ill’guard creature and his cursed birds, we’ll stand a better chance of escaping.”

  Kral would have normally nodded at the wisdom of Mogweed’s advice. But he could not risk the og’re being taken from his side. Tol’chuk was now his only lead to the wit’ch. “No, we stay together,” he said. “Besides, we don’t have the time. Er’ril will leave at the new moon if we don’t show up.”

  Mogweed lowered himself back to the bed and put an arm back over his tired eyes. “Maybe that’s best,” he mumbled.

  Kral scowled at the shape-shifter’s cowardice. He turned back to the door and banged his fist again on the frame. The iron bars rattled in their hinges. “I have news for your leader,” he yelled back to the guards. “Information that’ll fetch more than my price on the slaver’s block.”

  The bristle-haired guard growled at the interruption and reached for his sheathed dagger, but the other sentry placed a hand on the fellow’s elbow.

  “What news?” the pock-faced guard asked, still holding back his partner.

  “I’ll only tell it to your leader, the man with the trained crows.”

  A spurt of profanities flowed from the stout guard with the dagger. He wrestled free of the other’s grip, but the other sentry persisted. Though they spoke in whispers, Kral’s ears, trained by many winters of tracking in the mountains, picked out their words. “Hold on there, Jakor. Let’s hear what the bearded fool has to say. Lord Parak may pay us a nice finder’s fee.”

  Twisting his lips into a sneer, Jakor slammed his dagger back into its sheath. “You’re a fool, Bass. He’s got nothing. Only trying to save his own skin. He probably heard that the Sect of Yuli is looking for a few new eunuchs and is trying to keep from being clipped.”