Wit''ch Gate (v5)

  Meric rolled to his feet, meaning to go to their aid. Mycelle and Tyrus ran with weapons in hand. Kral and Fardale guarded the barred door, along with Nee’lahn and Mogweed.

  “No!” Nee’lahn warned from behind the mountain man’s shoulder.

  Through smoke tainted with sulfurous brimstone, two figures strode into the room. Nee’lahn recognized them both: Captain Brytton, the d’warf leader, and an old familiar face, King Ry.

  But when the latter spoke, it was clear that the king was here only in body, not spirit. “It seems the dance is about to begin,” the bearded figure said in a high, sibilant voice, so unlike the hard shape it wore. The demon-possessed figure waved a hand around the ballroom. “But where are the minstrels and songbirds? Where are the courtly dancers?”

  “It’s your father!” Mycelle gasped, lowering her sword.

  “No,” Tyrus said, raising his weapon higher. “No longer.”

  “So the princeling has woken, I see.” The figure of King Ry spread his arms. “Come to me, my son.” The voice rang with high-pitched laughter.

  Tyrus spat. His spittle arced across the space, striking the possessed in the face.

  The demoness did not bother to wipe the spittle away as it dripped into the snowy beard. “Is that any way to greet your elder?” The creature strode forward, now exuding an oily darkness, revealing its true form. It stepped between the two fallen elv’in brothers. Black tendrils wafted out from the king’s fingertips, like curling ebony serpents.

  Nee’lahn’s inner magick thrummed to the energies in the room, recognizing it. Sweet Mother . . . no! She knew what manner of beast possessed good King Ry.

  The snaking bits of darkness lashed out to either side, biting into the prone elv’in twins. As the darkness touched them, their bodies racked with agony, mouths open in silent screams.

  Tyrus and Mycelle rushed forward, but a second legion of d’warves flooded into the room, bristling with weapons, warding them away.

  On the floor, the elv’in twins continued to writhe. Slowly, their skin was drawn to bone; their bodies curled in on themselves, bones twisting, as the life force of the brothers was sucked into the darkness. In moments, only dried husks remained on the stone floor.

  The face of King Ry was ripe with pleasure, eyes aglow with a dark light.

  Mycelle tugged Tyrus back as the figure stepped toward them. “I know this creature. It’s one of the Grim, the wraiths of Dire Fell.”

  Before them all, the darkness continued to pour forth, fed with blood, seeking more. Soon the true guise of the possessor took shape around the body of the king—a shred of night, all darkness and blood lust.

  Nee’lahn knew she had to act lest they all be destroyed. She stepped around the broad back of the mountain man. “Let us pass!” she called out to the apparition.

  A disdainful face turned her way. “Who seeks to order in such a sweet voice?”

  Nee’lahn stepped more fully forward and raised her lute, letting it settle easily into her hands. A fingernail touched a single string, and the weak note pierced across the room with devastating effect.

  The figure of King Ry crumbled backward, its living shadow reeling as if from a mighty gust of wind. A shriek arose from the darkness: the familiar wail of the Grim.

  “You know who I am, don’t you?” Nee’lahn plucked a second string. “You know the magick in the wood, the power of woodsong.”

  The demoness swung on the captain of the d’warves. “You’ve brought a nyphai here! How could you, you fool?”

  Captain Brytton shook his head. “Impossible. The nyphai are all dead.”

  “Not all of them! One yet lives!” A finger was pointed at Nee’lahn. “You fool!”

  Nee’lahn continued to step forward, fingers now moving brightly across the lute. Chords and notes echoed off the wall.

  The wraith wailed again.

  “I don’t know who you are,” Nee’lahn said. “But you serve the wrong master. Have you forgotten the song of the True Glen?” Her fingers danced across the strings, conjuring up memories of green life and purple blossoms, fairy lights and hummingbirds.

  “No!” The wraith pulled free of its possessed body and retreated. King Ry’s body, now an empty shell, collapsed to the floor.

  “Remember!” Nee’lahn urged, following the creature. “Remember who you are!”

  “No!” The wraith screamed in a high-pitched child’s voice and flew back into the ranks of the d’warves. Where it passed, it left behind a path of destruction. D’warves fell dead on the spot. Others fled, breaking ranks and running from the ballroom.

  “I command thee to remember!” Nee’lahn called, singing, adding her voice to the chorus of the lute’s woodsong.

  The wailing died away. A smaller, scared voice rose from the shred of living darkness as it paused by the door. “I . . . I cannot . . .”

  Then the Grim fled, leaving an echoing cry behind it.

  Clearly wary of the magick here, Captain Brytton called a retreat and backed out of the ballroom, regrouping his damaged troops.

  Mycelle ran forward and checked the hall. “They’ve gathered just around the bend. We must move out now before they grow bold again.”

  The sharp sound of steel on stone drew Nee’lahn’s attention back to the ballroom. Tyrus leaned over his father’s body, sword in hand. His father’s head lay cleaved from its neck. “I will not give the demon a place to roost. At least, not in my father.”

  Mogweed and Fardale joined Mycelle by the door. “Let’s go,” Mogweed urged.

  Kral helped move Tyrus from his father’s side. “There’ll be time for burials and prayers later.”

  “There’s no blood,” Tyrus said dully, pointing with his sword.

  Nee’lahn stepped to the prince’s other side. “He was long dead. An empty vessel for the . . . for the . . .”

  Tyrus swung on her, eyes hard as the black granite. “What? You know more than you say!”

  Nee’lahn clasped her lute across her chest protectively.

  Meric came to her aid. “Leave her, Lord Tyrus. Such matters are best discussed well away from here.”

  Mycelle agreed and ordered them to follow. She ducked out the door and raced down the hall, opposite where the d’warf host regathered. In a tangled group, they fled.

  “I know the way from here!” Mycelle called back. She fumbled a coin from a pocket and clutched it to her lips. “Xin, hear me!”

  Nee’lahn heard no answer, but in a few steps, Mycelle stumbled to a stop, pausing at the entrance to another winding staircase. After a few hushed heartbeats, Mycelle lowered the coin, fingers white-knuckled around it.

  She turned to them. “Trouble. The Stormwing had to break its mooring and flee. They had been discovered. The top terrace now crawls with d’warves. Another trap.”

  Meric’s thin lips frowned deeply. “What are we to do? We can’t go up. We can’t go back.”

  They all remained silent.

  Finally, Nee’lahn answered. “We go down.” She pointed toward the stairs that wound back into the depths of the castle. She turned to Lord Tyrus. “The secret tunnel you mentioned in the cell. Take us there.”

  “But it only leads to the Dire Fell. Even you said that path is death.”

  “No longer.” Nee’lahn held up the lute. “A way opens.”

  “How?”

  She shook her head. “Lead us.”

  Tyrus bit his lip in indecision, eyes narrowed with suspicion of her. Behind them, a roar arose from Captain Brytton’s forces. “They come!” Mycelle said.

  Tyrus scowled and hurried forward. “This way then.” He raced down the steps, taking them two at a time.

  MERIC FOLLOWED BEHIND Nee’lahn. It did not take magick to sense the tension flowing from the small nyphai. Her arms hugged the lute to her chest, her face—when he glimpsed it—was pale.

  Tyrus led the way down at a furious pace as the booming calls of the d’warves gave chase. Nee’lahn stumbled to keep up.

&nb
sp; Moving to her side, Meric gripped her elbow, supporting her.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered, careful to keep their words private.

  “We have no other choice.”

  “It’s not too late. We could try to forge a path through the encircled encampment. If we could reach the forests of the Western—”

  “There is no going back. You saw what lurked in King Ry.”

  “One of the Grim.”

  Nee’lahn glanced hard at him. “Both of us know better than that.”

  Meric lowered his face. “Can you control them? Will the lute’s song enchant the wraiths long enough for us to pass through the Dire Fell?”

  “I believe so. Memories hold great power. They will either flee or become enthralled. Either way, they should leave us safe.”

  “But what of the one who possessed King Ry? Where was her madness? Though clearly bent to the Dark Lord, she was lucid, calculating.”

  Nee’lahn shook her head. “The Gul’gothal demon must have found a way to untwist the damage. But I don’t know why she serves the Black Beast.”

  Sudden insight dawned in Meric. He recalled his own darkfire trial in the cellars under the ancient keep of Shadowbrook. “She must have been forged, changed into an ill’guard.”

  Nee’lahn frowned at him, not understanding.

  Meric explained. “If the Black Heart can use his dark magicks to enslave an elemental, bend the pure magick and spirit to his will, then perhaps, while forging this spirit, the Dark Lord’s fiery process unwound what was twisted, allowing this one’s sanity to return, warped though it may be.”

  Nee’lahn seemed to grow paler. “If he could do it to one . . .”

  “He could do it to the entire host.”

  Nee’lahn began to tremble. “That must not happen. I’d rather them all destroyed, than turned against the world.”

  Meric pulled the nyphai under his arm. “We’ll not let it happen.”

  She leaned into his arms.

  Below, Tyrus came to a halt between floors. He placed his hands on the neighboring wall, eyes drifting closed. Then he shoved, and a section of blank wall swung open—a secret door. He grabbed a torch from a sconce. “This way! It’s not much farther.”

  The prince ducked through the threshold and closed it after them, then continued on.

  Meric and Nee’lahn followed. Beyond the door was a long, narrow passage. It ran straight. They followed the flickering torch as Tyrus ran. It seemed like forever until the end was reached. The passage ended at a blank wall of granite—a dead end.

  As the others gathered, Tyrus knelt and picked up something glittering from the floor. He turned with it in his hand. It was a simple circlet of gold, unadorned except for a thumb-sized inset of polished black granite shaped like a small star. Tyrus’ fingers shook as he held it.

  Mycelle identified the discarded object. “The crown,” she said in a hushed voice. “The crown of Castle Mryl.”

  “My father’s crown,” Tyrus said. He stared back at the blank wall. “He came this way.”

  “After the fall, he must have attempted to escape. One last desperate act.” Mycelle shook her head sadly.

  Tears filled the prince’s eyes. He clutched the crown in one hand and moved to the blank wall and touched it with his free hand. “And he failed.” Tyrus turned to Nee’lahn. “Beyond here lies the Dire Fell. You said before that you knew why this secret passage had been built. I want to know why. My father took this path, and it led to his death . . . and worse. Why should we trust your word now?”

  Nee’lahn glanced to the floor.

  Meric gripped her elbow. “Tell him.”

  “Open the door, and I’ll tell you all.”

  Mogweed scooted nearer. “Is it safe?”

  “As long as I have the lute, no harm will come.”

  Tyrus hesitated, then turned to the wall and placed a hand on its surface. In moments, his hand grew as black as the granite and sank into its depths. Meric watched the prince concentrate, his arm moving as if his sunken fingers were manipulating something inside the rock.

  A loud crack sounded. Tyrus gasped and pulled his hand from the rock. “The lock was very old” was all he said.

  Using his shoulder, Tyrus pushed, and a door opened in the wall, swinging outward. Lifting his torch, Tyrus ducked through the portal and out into the night.

  The others followed, stepping from stone to soft loam.

  Ahead, the dark forest of the Dire Fell opened before them. Monstrous trunks climbed high into a sky obscured by twisted and leafless branches. Massive roots, knobbed and protruding, created a woody maze of barked arches and colonnades. Beneath it all huddled an underbrush of sallow ferns and prickly bushes.

  The forest lay silent. Not a bird twittered; not an insect whirred.

  Tyrus turned to Nee’lahn. “What secret do you know of the Dire Fell?”

  “I know all its secrets,” Nee’lahn said softly. She stepped forward, staring into the forest, tears on her cheeks. Then she turned and faced the others and lifted an arm to encompass the entire wood. “This is my home. This is Lok’ai’hera.”

  No one spoke for several moments, too stunned.

  “Your home?” Mycelle asked with stunned disbelief.

  Nee’lahn nodded.

  “And what of the wraiths?” Tyrus asked coldly. “The Grim?”

  Nee’lahn glanced to her toes. “They are the last of my people.”

  Tyrus stepped toward her, murder in his eyes, but Mycelle stopped him. “Let her speak.”

  “Ages ago,” Nee’lahn said dully, not looking up, “long before the coming of man to these shores, the forests of Lok’ai’hera spread from coast to coast. In our arrogance, we tried to reshape the Land, bringing down mountains so more trees could be seeded. But one day, a great Blight was cast on the wind. Trees began to die, twisting on themselves, leaves falling dead. The nyphai tied to these trees were not left unchanged. As the woodsong of their bonded trees was warped, so were my sister’s spirits, ripping them from the flesh and changing them into the mad wraiths—the Grim.”

  “But why did this happen?” Mycelle asked. “Where did this Blight come from?”

  Nee’lahn glanced apologetically at Meric. “In our continued arrogance, we blamed the elv’in, thinking they had betrayed us. But now I know better. It was the Land itself, warring against our attempt to thwart the natural order. We had grown too haughty and were punished for it. The disease ate away our forests until there was only this small grove here at the northern edge.”

  “And the rest of the blighted forest?” Mycelle asked softly. “Where did it go?”

  Nee’lahn’s voice choked. “We burned it. By our own hand, we torched the diseased trees, hoping to burn away the sickness before it threatened this last section of the woods. During the great conflagration, ash clouds hid the sun for many moons.”

  Nee’lahn wiped at her eyes. “But eventually new growth took root in the razed lands, and green shoots grew forth from ash. As this new forest took shape, the Northwall and the Southwall formed, thrusting up and encircling the Western Reaches, giving form to the Land’s will that this burgeoning forest be protected and cherished. And over the centuries, the Western Reaches was born, birthed from our fires.”

  “And your own glen?”

  “Our efforts had failed. We did not escape the Blight. Trapped beyond the wall, our trees continued to die until only the smallest grove at its heart survived. By this time, man had come to inhabit the lands of Alasea. The magick of the Chyric mages helped sustain us. This new magick held off the Blight and kept the surrounding Grim at bay. But with the fall of Chi, we became defenseless again. The Blight returned to threaten the last of our trees. The Grim grew stronger. The Northwall became home to the Dro, human allies of the Land charged with keeping the Grim from penetrating the Western Reaches. The last of my sisters joined the Dro and their kings in this cause.” Nee’lahn glanced to Tyrus. “Hence, the secret passage through th
e wall: an unspoken pact between our two peoples.”

  Nee’lahn turned to the forest. “But eventually there was just my lone tree, the sole survivor. The lute was carved from its heart, and using the last dregs of Chyric magick, my bonded’s spirit was moved into the lute’s wood, preserving it from the Blight and allowing me to search the lands of Alasea for a cure.”

  Mycelle moved and touched the nyphai’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Nee’lahn.”

  Tyrus seemed little swayed by her story. His eyes remained dark. “And these wraiths, these blighted spirits of your people—they’ll allow us just to pass?”

  Nee’lahn raised the lute. “The pure woodsong will keep them at bay.”

  Meric stepped forward. “Like it drove away the Grim that possessed your father, Tyrus.”

  “The wraiths of my people cannot stand to hear the old songs, to remember the True Glen. It forces them to face memories that are too painful. They will not come near us. This I promise.”

  Tyrus’ face remained hard as he closed the secret door. “Then let us go,” he said, stepping away from the Wall and toward the forest. “Let us seek out this griffin beast and return the north to its peoples.”

  This earned a growled assent from Kral.

  Nee’lahn stepped to the prince’s side and touched his elbow. “I’m sorry for your father, Lord Tyrus. Fifteen winters ago, it was King Ry who opened this very door to allow me passage into the south. He knew terrible times were coming, and an even greater darkness than the Grim was taking root in the far north. He was a good man.”

  Tyrus grumbled something under his breath, but his shoulders were less tight, less angry.

  Nee’lahn bowed her head.

  Meric joined her, walking in silence as they entered the edge of the dark forest. “I know that was hard,” he consoled her. “But in these times, secrets are as dangerous as magick. Only truth will set us free.”

  “Thank you, Meric,” she said with a tired smile.

  Distantly, a single wail echoed through the forest, full of hunger and fraught with madness.

  Mogweed edged closer with Fardale at his side. His words were full of sourness and spite. “Welcome home, Nee’lahn.”