Wit''ch Gate (v5)

  Meric scowled at the bitter-tongued shape-shifter.

  But Nee’lahn seemed not to have heard him. Instead, she raised her lute and began to strum a slow melody, the notes as haunted as the deep forest. She slipped ahead of the rest, leading the way into the darkness of the Dire Fell.

  Book Three

  BURNING SANDS

  8

  ATOP THE DECK of the Eagle’s Fury, Joach studied the surrounding lands far below. The sun beat mercilessly, and the heat could not be escaped. Taught by the elv’in sailors, Joach wore a bit of folded tartan atop his head, keeping the sun from his face and neck. Standing middeck, he stared out past the rails.

  The terrain below was a broken waste of sand and rock. Sun-blasted mesas and deep canyons crisscrossed the landscape under the keel of the mighty windship. The region, known as the Crumbling Mounds, was where the southern end of the mountainous Teeth waned down into dry foothills before disappearing completely into the endless sands of the Southern Wastes. Few lived among the scrabbled cliffs and flinty scarps. At night, occasional camps could be seen by their campfires, most likely silk caravans crossing the harsh land. The only true inhabitants were the thick-browed giants who roamed these lands, living in deep caves away from the sun, coming out only to hunt at night.

  Behind him, Joach heard a delighted giggle. He turned. Under the shade of the sails, the assassin Kesla was playing a game with a tiny child. The pair knelt over a tumble of thin sticks, carefully attempting to remove each piece of wood without disturbing the others.

  Kesla bent with her nose almost touching the pile, her fingers teasing free a sliver of wood. Suddenly her hand jerked, and the pile of sticks crumbled.

  On the other side, the small child clapped her hands with delight, laughing brightly. “I win! I win!”

  Kesla straightened up. “You’re too good at this, little flower.”

  The child clambered to her feet and dove at the assassin, giving her a firm hug.

  Kesla returned the affection, squeezing her tightly, and slid smoothly to her feet, pulling the girl up into her arms. Turning, she found Joach staring at her. The slim smile on her face hardened.

  With a final squeeze, Kesla lowered the child to the planks and patted her on the backside. “Sheeshon, why don’t you find Hunt? Get him to fetch you a treat for winning.”

  The girl bobbed her head vigorously and ran off, all legs and a flag of black hair.

  Wearing a frown, Joach watched her disappear down the aft hatch. Though the girl had been born among the Dre’rendi, she bore the likeness of the mer’ai: webbed fingers and toes, glassy inner eyelids. Joach was still not comfortable with a youngster of just six winters joining them on this risky venture. But the child, Sheeshon, had come aboard with Hunt, the high keel’s son. The odd pair shared some strange bond, tied to magicks and old oaths. “She is my charge,” Hunt had said firmly as he boarded. “I swore a blood oath to her grandfather to watch over her.”

  Kesla knelt back down and began to collect the sticks from the deck.

  Joach stepped to her side. They had been en route toward the Southwall for almost a quarter moon, and he had spoken barely a word to her. She glanced up at him. Her deep violet eyes flashed in the bright light, cutting to his heart.

  Swallowing hard, he turned away. He still had trouble reconciling the kitchen scullion named Marta with this smooth assassin. How easily his heart had been tricked.

  Kesla cleared her throat. “Why don’t you come try your hand at this game? It’s not as easy as it appears.”

  “I have no time for games,” he said coldly, but his legs refused to move.

  “Yes, you looked so busy there standing by the rail. Besides, it’s not just a game. It’s a guild exercise tool, used to train apprentices in the subtle movements of fingers and hand.”

  Joach scowled. “An assassin’s game. Then I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

  “ ‘Fraid I’ll win?”

  He turned and found her staring up at him with one eyebrow raised coyly. He hesitated, feeling his neck growing red, then swung to the far side of the pile and collapsed to his knees. “Throw the sticks.”

  She collected the remaining bits of wood, tapped them into order in both her fists, then tossed them into a thick pile, like a tumbled deadfall in the deep wood. “You have to choose carefully. Pluck a twig without moving any others.”

  “I know how to play.”

  “So you’ve been spying on us.”

  Joach glanced up. She cocked her head. Her amber hair, braided into a tail, hung over one shoulder. “It’s a simple enough game,” he answered.

  “Sometimes the simplest games are the most tricky. Pick a stick.”

  Joach chose carefully. A stick from the top of the pile. A deft pluck should leave those under it undisturbed. He used his left hand, since his right was missing two fingers. As he reached, concentrating, his fingers trembled. He pulled back, clenched a fist, then reached again. This time he tweezed the small sliver of wood and removed it cleanly. He sat back up. “Done!”

  “Very good,” Kesla whispered, and bent over the pile. She studied it with narrowed eyes. First from the right, then the left. From top to bottom. Finally, she chose a stick near the very bottom—a risky move with the other sticks piled atop it. Her fingers darted forward, almost too fast for the eye to follow, and the stick appeared in her hand. “Done,” she said, placing her token near her bare knee.

  Joach stared at the pile. How had she done that? He reached to another stick from the top and removed it without disturbing the rest.

  She nodded and took another twig from the middle of the pile.

  After six more exchanges—Joach plucking from the top and Kesla removing slivers from the bottom—Joach’s brow was beaded with sweat. His palms were damp. She moved with such assurance, lightning quick. Joach knew he was outmatched and that Kesla had let Sheeshon win the earlier games.

  His fingers reached again, trembling. He felt her eyes drilling into him. He could hear her breathing, smell her pleasant scent. Lavender. Distracted, he glanced up at her.

  She nodded to the pile. “Your move.”

  Joach bit his lower lip and leaned close to the pile, beetling his brow with concentration. He reached for a twig balanced on the top. An easy target. Across the pile, Kesla made a chirping noise deep in her throat, warning him away.

  Joach scowled. He would not be tricked. His fingers steadied. He reached and plucked the stick without disturbing any of the others. He held it up proudly. “Done. Now it’s your—”

  Kesla pointed to the pile. It trembled and collapsed in upon itself.

  Joach stared, stunned, suspecting some trickery. “How . . . ?”

  “Sometimes a wall is only as strong as its roof.”

  Joach’s mouth hung open. He knew he had not only been outplayed, but outfoxed, too. She had skillfully hollowed out the support in such a way that by his lessening the weight on top, the underlying structure could no longer stand and had collapsed.

  “Loser picks up the sticks,” Kesla said, standing and moving to the rail.

  Joach watched her step away: her slender figure, the swell of her breast, the tilt of her hip as she stood, the way the wind played with stray bits of unbraided hair. He was suddenly glad he had to pick up the sticks. He was not ready to stand, not in these tight breeches. He concentrated on his work, moving slowly, trying to find his way back to his anger for the woman—but he found he could not.

  With the stray bits of wood collected, he composed himself and shoved to his feet. Perhaps it was time they finally talked—really talked.

  As he moved to her side, standing close, she lifted an arm and pointed. “The dragon returns.”

  Joach searched the skies and saw nothing at first. Then, against the backdrop of the blinding sun, a black shape dropped out of the glare and swept toward them. It was Sy-wen and Ragnar’k.

  The pair had left at dawn to search the country ahead as the ship approached the western edge o
f the Crumbling Mounds. They had not been expected back until dusk.

  As he watched, Joach saw the dragon lurch, tumbling down toward the broken landscape. He gasped, clutching the rail. Then the wings sprang wide, catching an updraft. The plummeting fall evened out into a long swoop, shooting upward, back toward the ship. “Something’s wrong,” Joach said. “Fetch Hunt and Richald!”

  He glanced to his side but found Kesla already gone. Turning farther, he saw her ducking through a hatch, a call for help already being sounded. Joach returned to his study of the sky.

  What could be wrong?

  SY-WEN HUGGED TIGHT to the mighty dragon, her feet clamped tight in the ridge folds at base of his neck. “You can do it, Ragnar’k. It’s not much farther.”

  The dragon’s voice whispered in her head, so unlike his usual brass voice. No fear, my bonded. My heart is strong as sky and sea together.

  “I know, my great dragon.” She ran her webbed fingers along his scales. “I never doubted it.”

  A throaty growl of pride sounded from his long neck. He swept his black wings and struck for the higher skies. To the east, the Eagle’s Fury hung even higher. It would be a difficult climb.

  Sy-wen tried to straighten in her seat, but her link to Ragnar’k meant she felt his pain. The skin of her belly and legs burned with a phantom fire. She bit back a cry. She could only imagine how much worse it must be for Ragnar’k. The attack had flayed his entire underside, searing it, blistering it.

  Bonded . . . ?

  “I’m fine, Ragnar’k.” She gasped between clenched teeth. “You need to catch another updraft. We’ll need more height to reach our roost.”

  I try. His muscles bunched under him, and he beat his wings, scrabbling upward, straining.

  Sy-wen leaned back down over her friend. Agony spread down her arms as he fought for more sky. Tears ran down her face. “Higher, my sweet beast . . .” She tilted her head and saw a miracle.

  The sleek windship dove toward them, sweeping in a graceful arc to intercept. They had been spotted, their distress noted.

  “The ship comes. Hold out a little longer.”

  For you . . . forever.

  Behind the beast’s thoughts, she sensed Kast. Ever since the trials of the War of the Isles, the two had not been so separated. She sensed the man behind the beast. She pressed a palm to the dragon’s scaled flank and, closing her eyes, sent out her love to both hearts buried deep—dragon and man.

  Ragnar’k shifted under her. Without opening her eyes, Sy-wen sensed the approach of the ship and felt her mount prepare to alight on its aft deck. She clung tight as he tucked his wings. “Careful,” she whispered.

  She need not have worried. The landing was sure. She opened her eyes and saw Richald, the captain of the Eagle’s Fury, climb up the ladder from the middeck. She raised an arm in greeting as the dragon under her collapsed to the planks.

  “Ragnar’k!”

  Tired . . . sleep now.

  Sy-wen rolled from his back, keeping one hand on the beast to maintain the magick. His chest heaved, and the breath from his wide nostrils was ragged. Her feet slipped a bit on the deck as she edged forward. Glancing to the wet deck, she realized it was blood—from Ragnar’k. “Oh, no . . .” She swung to the elv’in captain. “I need dragon’s blood—now!”

  Richald nodded. The copper streak in his silver hair glowed like a streak of fire. “It comes.” He pointed back to the ladder where Hunt climbed the rungs, a large cask balanced on his shoulder.

  “Hurry!” Sy-wen urged. She felt her own breath growing short, gasping, but it was only her shared senses with the dragon.

  Richald whisked over to the Bloodrider’s side and relieved him of the barrel. The elv’in captain rushed to the dragon’s snout.

  Sy-wen maneuvered to join him, fingers trailing along the scales. “Drink, my sweet giant,” she urged.

  Richald struggled with the cask’s lid, face growing red with the effort. Then Hunt was there, a short ax in hand. He cleaved into the lid and ripped the cracked planks with his fingers.

  “How is he?” a voice asked behind Sy-wen. It was Joach. He and the girl Kesla climbed to the deck.

  Sy-wen waved away his inquiry and leaned her forehead against Ragnar’k’s neck. “Smell the blood. Drink.”

  Near her elbow, the cavernous nostrils twitched. She felt muscles strain, but he was unable to raise his head. Bending, using her shoulder, she struggled to lift his head. “H-help me!”

  On either side, the group lifted the beast’s snout. Hunt shoved the barrel closer. A long, snaking tongue slid out and tasted its thick contents. The others strained under the bulk. The tongue lashed out again and scooped up a large draught.

  Good . . . the dragon sent to her weakly.

  “Keep drinking.”

  “I think he’s doing better,” Joach said at her side.

  Muscles moved under the thick scales, and Ragnar’k ducked his nose into the cracked barrel, snuffling and drinking. In moments, the group was able to step back as the dragon began supporting himself. Ragnar’k slurped at the thick blood of his brethren, strength returning as he healed.

  Once the cask was empty, Ragnar’k flipped it over the far rail with a toss of his nose, trumpeting his satisfaction.

  Sy-wen hugged his thick neck. “Now you can rest, my giant.”

  Have large . . . big heart . . . he echoed.

  “As big as the sea and sky together.”

  A gentle feeling of pride and contentment overwhelmed her, coming from the dragon like the purr of a kitten on a lap.

  “Sleep now,” she said softly, and stepped back.

  As her fingers left his scales, the transformation reversed. Scale and wing exploded outward in a spinning whirlwind of bone and claw. The sails nearby flapped, caught in the edge of the maelstrom. Then the storm of scale collapsed in on itself, winding down and around, forming at last into the large frame of man lying on the planks belly down, naked.

  “Kast?” she asked tentatively. She always worried that sometime the transformation would fail to return the man she loved.

  The tall Bloodrider groaned and rolled over onto his back. His belly and the tops of his legs were seared red, raw and blistered.

  Sy-wen covered her mouth fearfully and dropped to her knees beside him. But as she reached out a hand, the healing of the dragon’s blood continued its magick. Yellowed blisters sank. Red skin grew pink, then pale. Singed hair across his broad chest grew back into familiar landscapes. She touched his cheek as his eyes fluttered open.

  “We made it?” he asked, thick-tongued and dazed.

  She nodded. “Back on the Eagle’s Fury. Do you know what happened?”

  He nodded. “The more times I become Ragnar’k, the more the dragon’s memories merge with mine.” He struggled to sit up but winced in pain.

  Joach flipped off his own cloak and drew it over Kast’s shoulder. He and Sy-wen helped lift the big man to his feet.

  “He needs to rest,” Joach said. “Let’s get him to your cabin.”

  “No,” Kast said with returning strength. He ran a hand over his chest. “We must prepare.”

  “I can tell them what we’ve seen,” Sy-wen argued. “You rest.”

  Kast struggled from their grips. “I’m fine.” But his next step toppled him back toward the planks. Joach caught him and held him up. Kast groaned. “Perhaps . . . a short rest.”

  As a group, they assisted Kast to his cabin belowdecks, then returned to the large galley to discuss the events of Sy-wen’s journey. Everyone gathered around a long wooden table; the cook prepared a platter of fruits and cheeses and a pitcher of thin ale.

  “What happened?” Hunt asked.

  Sy-wen chewed on the edge of a dry biscuit. “We flew away from the sun in a direct course, following a dry riverbed as a landmark. About forty leagues from here, we spotted a wide lake stretching north and south and went down to investigate. We figured it might be a good place to restore our water supplies for the desert
journey. But as we neared it, we saw it was not water that reflected the sun so invitingly, but a field of flowers whose petals were silvered blue and reflected the sun’s light.”

  Kesla gasped. “Narcissus vine. But it doesn’t grow among the Mounds, only in the deep deserts, near the Southwall.”

  “You’ve seen this flower before?”

  Kesla shook her head. “No. Only a few blademen, those who hunt the deep wilds of the Blasted Fringe, have seen the vine and lived.”

  “What sort of plant is it?” Hunt asked.

  The assassin hesitated. “Some say it was born from the blood of the ghouls that once haunted the ruins of Tular. As I said before, the vine usually grows only along the sandstone cliffs of the Southwall. Rootless, it’s able to crawl along the wall’s length, hunting its prey. All who approach too near the Southwall must be wary of its path. A single bloom by itself is harmless, but the vine, as it stretches across the sand or drapes along the sandstone cliffs of the Southwall, will produce hundreds, thousands, of palm-sized blossoms. Each is able to collect the sun’s heat in its shiny petals and reflect it back on an enemy. Multiply this by a thousand and it can produce a blaze as hot as the sun itself, capable of burning a man down to a smoking skeleton in mere heartbeats.” She gaped at Sy-wen. “You were lucky to have survived.”

  “We almost didn’t. But Ragnar’k’s scales are as hard as stone. He shielded me and took the brunt of the attack on his belly. Yet even his scales could not protect him from the flames.”

  “So what are we to do?” Richald asked. “I can’t take the Eagle’s Fury across there.”

  “We’ll have to go around it,” Kesla said. “It’ll delay us reaching Alcazar, but it’s better than burning to cinders.”

  “Time runs short already,” Joach mumbled, then turned to Kesla.

  “How many days until the next tithing of children is demanded by the demons of Tular?”

  Kesla frowned. “Half a moon.”