Wit'ch War (v5)

  Elena met each attack with a blow of her own. Steel rang clear across the yard. Elena, for the briefest twinkling, felt the true rhythm of the dance. For a crystalline moment, nothing else mattered in the world. It was a battle of perfect clarity, a poem of motion and synchronization. And behind it all, her wild magick sang in chorus.

  Elena finished with a double feint and dropped her sword’s point. She saw her aunt hesitate, then follow the bait. Elena turned her wrist and spun her sword’s tip, trapping the other’s blade at the guard. Elena flicked her wrist. In a flash of steel, it was over.

  An empty hand was now raised between them—but not Elena’s this time.

  Mycelle lowered her outstretched arm, shaking the sting from her wrist. Her aunt bowed her head ever so slightly. “Elena, that was the most perfect Scarecrow Feint that I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Even while knowing you were doing it, I couldn’t resist.”

  Elena grinned foolishly at her aunt’s praise. Sudden clapping brought her attention to the others who had gathered at the sound of the clanging blades. Er’ril stood with Brother Flint in the rear doorway to the cottage. Both men’s eyes were wide with appreciation. Even Joach stood speechless near the woodpile. “Good show, El!” he finally blurted as the clapping subsided.

  At her brother’s feet crouched Fardale, the si’luran shape-shifter in his wolf form, his black fur showing its rust and copper highlights in the bright sunshine. He must have just come back from his usual morning hunt for rabbit and meadow mice. He barked his consent to the others’ praise and sent a brief image in a flash of amber eyes: A wolf pup wrestles its littermate to become pack leader.

  Elena accepted their praise while keeping a firm grip on her sword’s hilt. The siren’s song of her magick still rang in her ears, almost drowning out the others. “Again,” Elena said lustily to Mycelle.

  “I think this is a good place to stop,” Mycelle said with a small laugh. “When I get back from Port Rawl, we’ll take your lessons to the next level.”

  Elena had to bite her lip to keep from begging for more. Magick had flamed her blood and urged her to continue. Elena felt ready to take on a battalion of swordsmen.

  “Elena, you’re bleeding,” Joach suddenly said. “Your hand.”

  Elena glanced down. Thick red drops of blood rolled from her sliced thumb and slid down the length of her lowered blade. She pulled her hand from the eyes of the others. “It’s just a scratch. I didn’t even notice it.”

  Er’ril crossed over to her. “Those are the most dangerous injuries—the ones you ignore as minor. Let me see.”

  Reluctantly, Elena passed her sword to her aunt, then pulled free her fouled glove, unsheathing her true weapon. Rich with wild magicks, ruby whorls slowly spun across the skin of her hand.

  Er’ril held her palm and examined the thin slice. “Just the skin. No muscle. Let’s get inside, and we’ll clean it up and bandage it.”

  Elena nodded and followed the plainsman into the kitchen. Seated on a stool, she endured his ministrations quietly. He pressed a dab of sweetwort ointment to the wound, but even now her thumb was beginning to heal, her flow of magick knitting the wound together.

  For a heartbeat, Er’ril studied the healing cut with narrowed eyes, then put a light wrap over it. By this time, the others had finished with their congratulations and had left to finish various chores of the day, leaving the two of them alone.

  “With the bandage, you’ll not be able to wear a glove for a few days,” Er’ril mumbled. Even with only one hand, he skillfully secured her wrap with a final snug pull, then sat back on his heels to stare her in the eyes. “Pass me your other glove.”

  “Why? I didn’t injure that hand.”

  “Your glove.” He held out his palm, his eyes suddenly dark.

  Elena slowly slid her left hand free of the lambskin glove. She passed it to him, keeping her hand hidden.

  “Show me.”

  “I don’t see what—”

  “Your sword cut was already healing. That only happens when you’ve touched your magick.” Iron entered his voice. “Now show me both of your hands.”

  She would not meet his eyes as she reluctantly displayed her palms on her lap. She stared at the twin ruby hands. They were no longer mirror images of one another. Her right hand—her sword hand—was slightly less rich in whorling dark dyes. The magick spent during the swordplay had slightly drained the full richness of the ruby color. In the sunlight streaming through the window, her subterfuge was plain. Elena had used magick against Mycelle to sharpen her swordsmanship against her teacher.

  “It’s called a blood sword,” Er’ril said tiredly. “A form of magick that I wish you’d never learned.”

  Elena pulled away her hands back from his scrutiny. “Why? It cost only a trace of magick.”

  Placing a hand on her knee, Er’ril moved closer to her. “It costs much more than that. I saw it in your eyes. You didn’t want it to stop. In my time, mages also heard the siren’s call of wild magicks. But it was only darkmages who heeded the cry without care for the harm it might cause.” He nodded toward her two hands. “And you are doubly marked. I can only imagine how fierce this call must be in your blood. You must fight its temptation.”

  “I understand,” Elena said. Since first using her magick, the song of the wit’ch had been a constant melody. She knew the danger in listening too closely and resisted the wit’ch in her, never relinquishing the woman. It was a fine line she walked. Over the past year, she had learned the art and importance of balance.

  “That’s why a blood sword is so dangerous,” Er’ril continued. “You offer the magick a tool by which to escape your control. With enough blood, the sword itself becomes host to your magick—almost a living thing, a wild thing. It has no conscience, no morals, only an insatiable blood lust. It will eventually overwhelm its user. Only the strongest mage can master a blood sword and tame its will.”

  Elena listened with horror at what she had almost done.

  “But that is not the worst,” Er’ril said. “Once fully blooded, the sword is forged forever. The magick fuses permanently with the steel. It can then be borne by anyone, and its magic-wrought skill is available to any wielder. There were tales of darkmages passing blood swords to ordinary men and women, people unable to resist the magick’s call. They quickly became enthralled to the swords, slaves to their blood lust.”

  Elena’s face paled. “What happened to them?”

  “These swordslaves, as they were named, were hunted down and killed, and the blades were melted to raw ore, driving off the twisted magick. It cost many lives. So beware what you so casually forge, Elena. It may cause more sorrow than you can fathom.”

  Elena slipped her one glove back on and fingered the wrap on the other hand. With her wound bandaged and healing, the call of the wit’ch subsided. “I’ll be more cautious. I promise.”

  Er’ril studied her a moment as if testing her sincerity. Satisfied with whatever he saw, his eyes softened their stern glint. “One other item, Elena. About that final exchange with your aunt, blood sword or not, it was not all magick that guided your arm. You’ve grown in skill.” His voice grew firmer. “Never forget that there is a strength in you that has nothing to do with blood magicks.”

  His quiet words, more than all the boisterous exclamations of the others, touched her deeply. Sudden tears welled up in her eyes.

  Er’ril stood up, seeming to sense her emotions, and grew quickly awkward. “I must be going. The sun is already high, and I promised Flint to take a look at the Seaswift’s outfitting. If we are to leave with the new moon, there is still much to be done.”

  She nodded and scooted off her stool. “Er’ril,” she said, sniffing a bit and forcing his eyes back to hers. “Thanks. Not just for this—” She raised her bandaged hand. “—but for everything. I don’t think I’ve actually told you how much you’ve come to mean to me.”

  Er’ril’s cheeks colored, and his eyes were suddenly shy. “It’s
. . . I . . .” He cleared his throat, and his voice grew hoarse as he stumbled out of the room. “You need not thank me. It’s my duty.”

  Elena stared at his back as he strode away.

  Whether Joach’s dream was prophetic or not, Er’ril was a knight she could never mistrust.

  Never.

  BY THE TIME Mycelle was ready to leave for the coastal city of Port Rawl, the afternoon sun had warmed the bluffs to a moist heat. Clothes clung to damp skin, and a shimmering glare shone off the ocean. Mycelle was anxious to be under way, cinching her saddle one final time and adjusting her packs.

  Squinting and shading her eyes, Mycelle turned to the group gathered to bid her fair travels. Living mostly a solitary life, Mycelle did not care for these emotional partings. Sighing and determined to finish it quickly, she crossed to Elena and gave her niece a brief but firm hug. “Practice while I am away,” she said. “I expect you to perfect your Feather Parry by the time I’m back.”

  “I will, Aunt My.”

  Elena seemed to want to say more, but Mycelle crossed to Er’ril. “Watch after my niece, plainsman. A storm is growing, and I’m trusting you to shelter her.”

  “Always,” Er’ril said with a terse nod. “And you watch your own step in Port Rawl. You’ve heard Flint’s news.”

  She nodded. “I’m familiar with Swamptown,” she answered, using the nickname of the port city. Landlocked by vicious swamps and guarded from the sea by the tricky currents of the thousand isles of the nearby Archipelago, the town was a haven for those who skirted the law. Governed by a corrupt and cruel caste system, justice was an obscene word in Swamptown. Only one rule was obeyed by all in Port Rawl: Guard your back.

  Before she could turn away, Er’ril stopped her. “Are you sure you’ll know if any of the others have been corrupted by the Dark Lord?”

  “For the thousandth time, yes!” she said in surly tones, ready to be off. “Trust my talent! My elemental sense will judge if they are tainted by black magick. I am a seeker. It is what I do.” She scowled at the plainsman.

  Er’ril bridled against the sudden anger.

  Elena spoke in the plainsman’s defense. “Er’ril is just being cautious, Aunt My. If one of them has become an ill’guard—”

  “I will kill him myself,” she said, turning away and ending the discussion. She knew her duty. For hundreds of years, the Black Heart had been twisting the pure elemental magicks in innocent folk, creating an army of loathsome ill’guard. In Port Rawl, Mycelle would search for their other mates—Kral, Mogweed, Meric, and her own son, Tol’chuk. She would judge if any of the four had been twisted by black magicks. Only if they were all clean would she reveal Elena’s hidden location. If not . . . She settled her crossed scabbards more firmly in place. She would deal with that problem, too. But in her mind’s eye, she pictured her son’s craggy face. Even though half-bred with si’luran blood, he had grown to appear much like his og’re father. Could she slay her own son if he had been corrupted?

  Mycelle put aside those worries for now. There was one last member of their party who still awaited a farewell.

  Joach stood nearby, shifting his feet, the black poi’wood staff clutched in one fist. Mycelle frowned at the scrap of gnarled wood. Over the past few days, the boy seemed to be always carrying the foul talisman. She crossed to her nephew and hugged him quickly, avoiding the touch of the staff. Mycelle’s skin crawled whenever she neared it, and she did not like Joach’s newfound fascination with the talisman. “You’d best keep that . . . that thing out of sight,” she said with a nod. “It’s bad luck.”

  Joach moved the staff back from her. “But it’s a trophy from our victory over the darkmage Greshym. How is that bad luck?”

  “It just is.” Scowling, she turned back to her mount, a piebald gelding with nervous eyes.

  Well to the side of the horse, her companion on the journey ahead sat on his haunches, trying to keep his wolf scent from spooking her mount. Still, the piebald danced slightly as Mycelle approached, clearly anxious about its proximity to a huge treewolf. Mycelle pulled the lead taut. “That’s enough now. Settle down.” Since Fardale was coming along, the horse needed to get accustomed to the wolf’s presence.

  Fardale stretched and stood, clearly indicating his readiness to depart. Amusement shone in the slitted amber eyes that marked his true heritage as a shape-shifter. Though Mycelle had settled into human form voluntarily, forsaking her blood right forever, Fardale had had the choice stolen from him. It was a curse that had trapped Fardale in his current shape and his twin brother, Mogweed, in human form. They had ventured forth from the forests of the Western Reaches in search of a cure for their affliction, becoming entangled with the wit’ch on their way to A’loa Glen.

  It seemed everyone, for varied reasons, was being drawn to the sunken island city.

  Mycelle mounted the saddle and twisted to face the others. “If all is well, I should be back before the new moon. If not . . .” She shrugged and turned to face the road ahead. There was no reason to finish her sentence: If she was not back within six days, she would either be captured or dead.

  “Be careful, Aunt My!” Elena called behind her.

  She raised a hand in salute. Then, with a click of her tongue, she nudged the gelding down the coast road. The wolf trotted a few horse lengths to the side, passing through the meadow grass like a shadowed shark in a green sea. Mycelle did not look back at the others.

  Soon horse and wolf passed around a high bluff, and the cottage was out of sight. Mycelle relaxed her shoulders slightly. The road was her true home. With the wolf trotting well to the side, it was easy to imagine herself alone. For most of her life, she had traveled the lands of Alasea, searching the countryside for those rare folk gifted with elemental magicks. It was a harsh, lonely life, but one to which she had grown well accustomed. A sword and a horse were enough companionship for her.

  Putting aside her worries, she let the horse’s easy, rolling gait lull her, settling into her old routine. The wagon-rutted road wove in and out of groves of cypress and pine. Occasionally small herds of tiny red deer darted away from their approach. Otherwise, the road remained empty.

  Her plan was to reach the seaside hamlet of Graymarsh before dark. From there, it was an easy day’s journey to Port Rawl.

  As they traveled, the day wore on in easy strides. The roads remained empty, and the afternoon grew more pleasant as the midday heat faded to twilight breezes. Sooner than she had expected, the sun neared the horizon, and if her map was accurate, she suspected Graymarsh was only another league or two ahead. They had made good time that day.

  Around them, the bluffs became more forested, and the hills became a little steeper. Suddenly a low growl from the wolf arose to the left of her path. Fardale came racing back to the road. Mycelle pulled her gelding to a stop. The si’luran wolf could speak to other shape-shifters mind to mind through locked gazes; but since Mycelle had settled in human form, she could no longer communicate in this manner. The only human she knew who could speak the si’luran tongue was Elena—another gift of the child’s blood magicks. The wolf growled again and turned to stare ahead down the forest road.

  “Is someone coming?” Mycelle asked.

  The wolf nodded his head.

  “Danger?”

  Fardale whined warily. He was not sure, but he warned her to be careful.

  Mycelle clucked her tongue to the horse and tapped the mount forward. She shifted so that the crossed scabbards on her back were free and the two sword hilts within easy reach. The wolf disappeared back into the wood. Fardale would stay hidden to attack if any threat arose, using the element of surprise. From the corner of her eye, Mycelle searched for any sign of the wolf. Earlier, she had easily been able to spot his dappled form trailing beside her, but now it was as if the huge treewolf had simply vanished. Not a twig snapped; not a shadow moved.

  Mycelle began to hear a soft singing from up ahead. She edged her gelding around a curve in the rutted road. The tr
ees grew denser, and the road ran straight for a good span. The singer stood to the right of the trail, half shadowed by the thick limbs of an old wind-carved cypress. The fellow traveler gave no acknowledgment of Mycelle’s appearance and kept quietly singing an old ballad in an unknown language.

  Wrapped in a motley cloak, seemingly sewn as a patchwork from rags, it was impossible to tell if the stranger was a man or a woman. Mycelle searched the surrounding woods. There was no sign of any others. As Mycelle slowly approached, clopping along on the packed dirt of the road, the singer’s song changed rhythm so subtly as almost to add the cadence of the horse’s hooves to the music.

  Once near enough, Mycelle raised up an arm in greeting, empty palm open, offering no threat. The singer still did not acknowledge her, just continued the haunting melody. Now closer, Mycelle should have been able to tell what manner of traveler this was: man or woman, young or old, threat or friend. Still, the hood of the patchwork cloak hid the singer’s face. Not a speck of skin showed from beneath the motley attire.

  “Ho, traveler,” Mycelle said. “What news of the road ahead?” This was a standard roadside greeting from across almost all the lands of Alasea. It was an offer to share tidings of the land and swap both information and wares.

  Still, the singer continued the song. But now the measure of the melody changed. It slowed and faded as if the voice drifted far from here. Yet, oddly, the effect of the music grew stronger in Mycelle. She seemed drawn to each fading note and strained for meaning behind the foreign words. Just as the song finally finished, Mycelle would have sworn she made out three whispered words there at the end: “Seek my children . . .”

  Squinting her confusion, Mycelle drew nearer. Had she truly heard those words, or was it a trick of her own mind?

  Mycelle pulled her horse even with the stranger, meaning to query the singer further. What had the stranger been trying to tell her? As her horse drew to a stop, the stranger vanished with her song. The patchwork cloak collapsed to the forest floor, as if the singer had never existed. And what Mycelle had thought was a mantle made from quilted rags was now seen to be just gathered leaves of various hues, a patchwork of autumn foliage and spring greenery.