Wit'ch War (v5)

  But magick or not, Joach also remembered his false dream of battling Er’ril atop a tower in A’loa Glen. With that clear mistake, he had no confidence in his prophetic abilities.

  Joach touched his forehead, confused.

  Xin whispered at him. “Share, Brother. Spread the fear to loosen its hold.”

  The small man’s calming words finally broke through to him. His voice trembled as he spoke. “I . . . I saw a massacre. I think we were betrayed.”

  Xin studied Joach for a moment, his head slightly cocked. Then he reached to Joach and again traced the awakening eye upon his forehead. “You are wizen.”

  The steadfast gaze as Xin traced the mark on Joach’s brow helped clear the muddle in his mind, and Joach suddenly sensed the truth of his vision. He turned toward the others gathered around the rails. “Flint was wrong,” Joach said, his voice growing as firm as his resolve. “The sargassum weed is a trap.”

  VOICES ARGUED ACROSS the crowded galley table. Elena listened, one hand resting in her brother’s as they sat beside each other.

  “The weed would not betray one of the Brotherhood,” Flint insisted.

  A tall stately woman frowned from across the table. She encompassed both Flint and Joach in her displeasure. Her skin was the color of ivory, while her hair, hanging straight and long, shone like a cascade of sunlight in the glow of the chamber’s torches. Elena recognized the similarity of features between this woman and Sy-wen, who was seated nearby with Kast. There was no question that this was their friend’s mother. “I entrusted half of the mer’ai forces to join you here in this sea of weeds. You promised it to be a safe haven. Now word comes of a trap.”

  “Not word,” Flint insisted. “A vision. Even if the boy’s sight was truly prophetic, a weaving is only a possible view of a future, not a certain one. The future is fraught with many paths.”

  Elena heard the exasperation in the old seaman’s voice. The brief moment of jubilation at the arrival of the mer’ai and their dragons had quickly ended when Joach had rushed from the foredeck to warn Brother Flint of some unknown menace in the forest. Joach had described his vision of the attack upon their forces here. With such threatening news, Flint had quickly called an assembly of leaders to discuss their options.

  As a representative of the Council of Elders, Sy-wen’s mother had been sent with the expeditionary force into the sargassum forest. She would speak with the voice of the mer’ai. Kast, on the other hand, had been given the aegis to speak for the Bloodriders by their leader, the high keel. Since the Dre’rendi fleet was too large and cumbersome to traverse the weed, the Bloodriders had anchored on the southern fringes of the Doldrums to await the others. So far, Kast had added no word to this argument. He had just sat silently, stone faced, as the others argued.

  Everyone seemed split on what to do. Flint had suggested they wait until he could at least study Joach’s vision to judge its veracity. Meric, though, had insisted that Elena was too vital, that they should leave the sargassum now. Sy-wen’s mother had frowned even at the elv’in’s plan. She spoke of not only leaving the sargassum, but of abandoning their planned assault on A’loa Glen entirely. It was as if all their careful plans were being shredded before Elena’s eyes.

  Glancing down the row of worried and angry faces, Elena knew that the fate of Alasea rested on what was decided in this room. Without a united army at her back, she would never retrieve the book from the clutches of the Dark Lord. And if the Blood Diary was not retrieved, Alasea had no hope.

  Elena knew she must somehow find a way to unite this group.

  Kast finally spoke, clearing his throat loudly enough to draw the others’ attentions. Since he had yet to speak, they all listened raptly, hoping the Bloodrider would add his support to one of their individual sides. Kast leaned forward. “Are you all blind? We must not hide!” He turned to stare over Sy-wen’s head toward her mother. “Have we not fled for generations from the Black Heart of the Gul’gotha? Are you not tired of tucking tail and running? If we ever mean to shake these foul shackles, we will have to fight sometime. Yes, men will die. Dragons will perish. Did any of you come here expecting otherwise?”

  Kast pointed to Joach. “The boy has brought us a word of warning. I repeat: warning.” Kast glowered at Flint. “I care not if his vision tests true. He has warned us of an attack. Instead of testing him, we should prepare. An ambush only works if the victim is blind to it. Forewarned, as we are now, we can pull the fangs from this beast, turn their ambush back upon themselves. Why flee?”

  Elena’s eyes grew wide with the Bloodrider’s passion. She found herself on her feet. Here was the ally she needed. Kast had forged an opening, and she must break through it. She slipped the gloves from her two hands. “Kast is right,” she said before anyone else could speak. She felt all their eyes upon her. “If we flee, we run blind. Here, at least, we know what comes.”

  “But what if Joach is wrong?” Flint said.

  Kast came to his feet, adding his support physically to Elena. “So? Then we move on. It costs us nothing to prepare.”

  Flint nodded, clearly considering their case.

  Elena persisted. She could not let the momentum slow. “There is another view that no one has voiced,” she said. She glanced specifically at the cold countenance of Sy-wen’s mother. From the woman’s expression, the mer’ai elder had been little swayed by Kast’s words. Elena pointed toward Joach’s staff. “My brother is already touched by black magicks. What if his vision itself is a trap?”

  “What do you mean?” the elder said with disdain.

  “What if the vision was sent by the enemy, meant to trick us into fleeing the safety of the sargassum? Maybe they know we’re hiding here and hope to flush us out by sending visions of death if we stay. They hope to send us fleeing into their true snare.”

  Joach stood, meaning to interrupt. Elena knew her brother meant to argue against her words, to insist his vision came from within himself. But that would just weaken her arguments. She glanced sharply at him and he held his tongue, adding his quiet support.

  Elena went on. “Joach’s vision offers no clear path. Death can be awaiting us just as surely outside the forest as within. Kast offers us the wisest path: Proceed as if an attack is coming. Catch the enemy in its own snare.”

  Flint stood. “Elena makes a good point. With danger possible all around us, we might as well make a stand here as any other place.”

  Though her countenance had paled, Sy-wen’s mother remained unconvinced. “There is one safer place,” she said. “Under the waves. In the endless expanses of the Deep, the Gul’gotha will have a hard time finding the mer’ai.”

  Sy-wen, red faced, pushed to her feet. “Mother! Do you propose to flee once again? Do you expect these good people to lay down their lives so that we might once again run and hide? Are we fated forever to repeat our craven history?” Sy-wen’s shoulders shook. She grabbed Kast’s hand in her own. “I will not! Flee if you must, but I am staying!”

  A flush rose in the elder’s cheeks, angry or embarrassed.

  “We will stay, too.” Elena glanced to where Meric and Tol’chuk were now standing.

  The healer from Port Rawl slowly pushed to her feet. “If you’re all staying, I guess Tikal and I aren’t goin’ anywhere.”

  This left only Sy-wen’s mother still seated. She seemed little impressed by the assembled group standing around the table staring down at her. Elena sensed that the pressure here would likely just stiffen the stubborn back of this woman. Waving her hand, Elena indicated for everyone to sit. Chairs shuffled as she was obeyed.

  Only Elena remained standing, staring at her opponent. She did not want to lose the support of the mer’ai during the coming assault. She spoke quietly, the fire gone from her voice. “I’ve lost parents, uncles, aunts, friends. So I have the right to ask this of you—of all the mer’ai. Join us now. Heed my brother’s vision and make it false. The future is not set in granite. After over five centuries, one thin hope for driv
ing the Gul’gotha from these lands and seas now exists. I beg that you don’t flinch from making the hard choices this day. The fate of freedom rests on the back of your dragons. Please do not turn away.”

  The woman stared at Elena silently, lips pursed tightly. Slowly her face relaxed. “For someone so young, you speak boldly, with perhaps too much passion. Over the years, I’ve learned passion leads to mistakes.” Her eyes seemed to turn inward. “I’ve paid dearly for those mistakes and have learned from them. I now do not make decisions in haste.”

  “It is not haste that—”

  The woman silenced her with a single raised finger. “I have not finished. Besides passion, you also argue well. Dare I say that you would even do well seated on the Council of Elders?” She bowed her head slightly in Elena’s direction. “The mer’ai will stay. We will help set this trap. It is time the dragons rose from the seas and were heard again.”

  Elena’s knees weakened. “Thank you,” she muttered. Elena found everyone’s eyes upon her. She knew words were expected from her. Flint had told her yesterday that those assembled here gathered not for her, but for Alasea. Yet as she stared into the others’ eyes, Elena knew Flint was mistaken. As much as she might object, she represented Alasea: They were here for her.

  Still standing, she spoke as if to herself. “My uncle once told me stories of Alasea’s past: stories of cities whose magick-wrought towers scraped the clouds, tales of gilded streets and lands of plenty where creatures from every land gathered in peace. As I listened, I thought such tales were just myth, mere childish fancies. How could such beauty and grace have ever existed in this world?”

  Elena lowered her hand slightly to stare at those gathered, tears in her eyes. “I see that grace here now—and know such a world is truly possible.”

  Before anyone could respond, the door to the galley burst open, startling them all. The young boy Tok rushed inside. He led one of the mer’ai, bare chested and still wet from the sea. Tok waved to the man. “I told him you was discussing plans, but he says he has news you must hear.”

  The mer’ai warrior gasped words between panting breaths. “Something . . . in the water . . . It . . . it . . . !”

  The elder woman’s voice snapped at him. “Bridlyn! Speak clearly.”

  The man gulped for a moment, then swallowed hard. “The channel we came through. It’s closed. There’s no way back.”

  “What do you mean?” Flint asked.

  Sy-wen answered. “While Ragnar’k and I flew over the forest, the other dragons swam under the floating weed. They came up here through a hidden passage below the lake.”

  Bridlyn nodded. “We had sentries posted near the channel leading out from here. Just at dusk, the passage wove closed, weeds choking shut.”

  Flint raised a hand, a scowl on his face. “Calm yourself! The weed did the same to our channel here. It’s only hiding our paths.”

  Bridlyn looked at Flint with horror. “It drowned both our sentries! Even their dragons were choked in weeds. Strangled!”

  19

  IN THE MOONLIGHT, Rockingham stood atop a hump of red weeds. His boots were soaked down to his cold toes. The bottom fringes of his green robe hung heavy with saltwater from his lone venturing into the edges of this drowned forest. With one hand, Rockingham drew the robe tighter around his neck. Greshym had insisted he wear the heavy garment—it was the raiment of the Brotherhood’s old sect that communed with the green life. In Rockingham’s other hand, he bore a long white staff whose end was topped with a carved cluster of wooden leaves. It was Brother Lassen’s ancient oaken stave.

  Rockingham continued deeper into the strange wood, the footing treacherous in the bobbing matts and hills of weed.

  Earlier that day, he had been sent by swift ship to the Doldrums and unceremoniously dumped into this forest just before sunset. Once here, Rockingham had knelt at the forest’s edge and performed the rites Greshym had taught him. He had begged the weed to hear him and to hold the wit’ch’s group in its grip. Though Rockingham had not heard any acknowledgment from the sargassum, he had felt it. A weight, not unlike a wind, had rolled over him and hovered over the branch of oaken wood in his hand. Then the weight had vanished. Rockingham somehow knew the intelligence here had understood his plea.

  His only role now was to act the part of the Green Brother, to wander this wet land until the legion of skal’tum arrived from A’loa Glen. Greshym had told him that he would have to traverse Brother Lassen’s old steps and venture into the forest alone, bereft of any black magick. Greshym had warned that the use of the arcane arts risked overshadowing the faint traces of Lassen’s spirit in the wood. If they were to maintain their ruse, they dared not touch black magick—at least not until the weed was won to their cause.

  Afterward, once the weed had trapped the wit’ch, a quick strike should destroy the forces gathered here before the slowly dreaming forest could even realize it had been betrayed.

  Rockingham peeked at the stars shining through the mesh of branches overhead, searching for any sign of the skal’tum. The legion should have taken wing just at sunset. It would not be long until the skies filled with their pale, scabrous wings.

  Casting his eyes back to the forest’s floor, Rockingham continued deeper into the wood, thankful for only one thing. Through the fabric of his robe, he rubbed the long scar on his chest. As long as he maintained this foolish masquerade, the Dark Lord was forced to vacate him, leaving him in peace. Yet Rockingham knew such a reprieve would be short-lived. Once the ruse was shed, Rockingham’s chest would again swell with dark energies and burst open with the Black Heart’s foul presence. He would again be swallowed in the immensity of that one’s evil.

  Tears, unbidden and surprising, rose in Rockingham’s eyes. For the moment, he was somewhat his own man. Using the boles of the trees and his staff as support, Rockingham worked his way deeper into the forest. A part of him wanted nothing more than to disappear forever into this quiet and wet place. He would be glad to drown in these brackish waters. But he knew death was no escape. He had died twice already—once by his own hand and once while battling the wit’ch. And each time, death had failed him. He tried to grasp the reason for his first death. He recalled a tumble from a high cliff into a surging surf. He could not recall anything before that, no matter how hard he struggled to remember.

  “Why?” he called out to the silent forest. “Why can I never rest?”

  No answer was offered. Sullenly, Rockingham climbed a larger hillock of tangled weed. As he reached the summit, a thrill suddenly trembled down the length of the wooden staff. Rockingham almost dropped the stave in fright, but he recognized where he stood. Before him, a small granite pillar topped this rise. Here was where Brother Lassen had sat for decades communicating with the great forest. Here was where Lassen had also died.

  It was also where Rockingham was supposed to await the skal’tum.

  Shivering, he strove to collect himself. He stared at the unadorned stone pillar, a monument to the ancient Brother. Rockingham knew some words were needed to acknowledge the site and the man’s deed. He grumbled as he stood over the man’s grave. “Lucky bastard.”

  With this utterance, the staff again trembled in his grip. Rockingham jolted. Against his will, his arm rose, reaching the staff toward the stone. As the carved leaves touched the plain granite, an explosion flung Rockingham backward. Catching a handful of weeds, Rockingham managed to keep himself from tumbling down the steep hill. Rolling up on his knees, Rockingham saw the staff hovering by the pillar. A hazy white cloud seemed to seep out from the stone and envelop the length of oak.

  As Rockingham watched, the cloud swirled and shrank in on itself, coalescing tighter and tighter, until the mists seemed to gain substance. As it did so, a shimmering glow grew even brighter, and a figure was formed from cloud and light. It was a robed man. He held the oaken staff in his right hand. The mists swirled at the edges, but Rockingham could not mistake the face glowing from under the hood. He had seen t
he paintings when Greshym had instructed him in this duty.

  It was Brother Lassen.

  The apparition spoke, his voice echoing as if from far away. “Who calls me?”

  Rockingham sat frozen, unable to form words.

  The ghostly eyes found his. It pointed the staff at Rockingham. “Why do you disturb me?”

  “I . . . I did not mean to.” Rockingham raised his arms in supplication. “Forgive me, Brother Lassen. I did not know your spirit resided here.”

  The coldness in the shade’s eyes grew focused. “I am no longer just Brother Lassen. You also speak to the forest. I have been communing with this wood for so long that the line between the two of us is blurred. I am the forest, and the forest is me. We are now one. The forest allows me to see time for what it is—an endless sea. I give the forest the ability to see the beauty in tiny movements of time, to appreciate the flight of a bird across the sky, to value the span of a single day, to see life through the eyes of a man. Each is a gift to the other—to see the long and short in life.”

  “I . . . I am sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb either of you.”

  “You are not to blame.” The shade lifted the green staff and examined its length. “I can sense you in the wood. Your pain has drawn me from my slumber in the stone. There is a corruption in you that cannot pass my grave unchallenged.”

  Cringing back, Rockingham feared the ruse of the darkmages was about to be exposed by this Brother of the wood. He dreaded the wrath of this strange forest and even stranger ghost.

  But the shade continued speaking calmly. “Do not fear. Though I sense the corruption in you, I also sense that your spirit rails against the evil inside. This is good. But in truth, it is no matter to me.” The shade’s glowing eyes swung toward Rockingham. “It is not revenge that drew me from my grave, nor wages of war. Neither the wood nor myself dwell any longer on the wiles of men’s hearts. Here time is endless. Around us, cities rise, and kingdoms fall. It is of no matter. It is just another cycle of life. Instead, I come to you because your kindred nature calls to me.”