Wit''ch Gate (v5)

  She leaned down and rubbed his neck. “Never, my sweet dragon. Never.” She stared out at the beleaguered ship, a flaming cloud in the night sky, and prayed for them. It was all she could do.

  AS THE Eagle’s Fury foundered above the blazing flowers, Joach raced to where the others were gathered atop the stern deck. Overhead, the burning foresail was cut free, and it flapped away. In the rigging, a chain of elv’in sailors passed buckets, hand to hand, to drench ropes and stanch the smoldering of the foremast.

  Joach climbed the stern ladder. Smoke began to rise all around the ship. Its planked sides were etched and burned from swiping passes of the fiery lances. Pulling himself up, Joach called to Hunt and Richald. “We need more height! We need to keep the keel between us and the blooms!”

  “Richald is trying,” Hunt said. “But he is tied to the ship; each strike weakens him.”

  As Joach neared, he heard the elv’in lord groan, his face a mask of pain. Kesla hovered around the tall figure. “We have to find a way to help him.”

  Joach searched the skies for an answer, wishing his sister were here. They needed Elena’s magick. Coldfire or wit’ch fire—either would be welcome now. Anything to fight this weed!

  A ripping explosion sounded behind him. The ship’s deck bucked, tossing him to the planks. Joach rolled around. Sprouting from the middle of the ship, a spear of light shot into the sky, thrusting right through the belly of the ship. Bits of burning planks flew high, spinning away. The mainsail burst into flame.

  A pair of the elv’in sailors, caught in the blaze, tumbled from the rigging and over the ship’s side. Another was incinerated where he stood on the deck, his seared bones standing for a moment, then toppling down.

  As quickly as it had struck, the spear blinked off. The blooms that had generated the intense spike had exhausted their energy. But for how long? The vine was growing cunning, learning to coordinate its efforts.

  “Joach! Help me!”

  Half blind from the radiance, Joach turned and saw Kesla struggling to hold Richald up. The elv’in’s face was lined with horror and agony. “My ship . . .”

  Hunt was already on his feet. “Help the captain. The fires need to be doused before they spread!” The Bloodrider vaulted over the rail to the middeck. He joined the dwindling crew of sailors in putting out these new flames.

  Joach half crawled over to Richald and Kesla. Under him, the ship lurched, drifting down toward the deadly fields. Joach grabbed the elv’in lord’s other shoulder. “You must keep fighting!” he urged. “Don’t give up!”

  “The Fury . . . I can’t . . .”

  Joach shouldered the man to his feet with Kesla’s help. “Yes, you can. Or are you all wind and no substance? Prove your worth, prince of the Blood!”

  Richald’s eyes flicked toward Joach. A flash of anger flared past the hopeless pain.

  “You still have a ship! You still have sails! You’re supposed to be the heart of this vessel. Act like it, Richald! Meric wouldn’t give up like this and weep like a child!”

  Anger changed to prideful fury. The man shook free of Joach’s grip and shoved Kesla away. Richald glared at Joach, then turned his eyes to the skies. He lifted his arms, and elemental magick bloomed in crackling spurts along his raised limbs.

  The gales resumed. The foundering ship pushed forward, edging upward again. Drawn by its movement, new flares of light attacked. Smoke and flames encircled the ship.

  Off the port side, Joach saw several spears joining together, attempting to fuse into another dread spike. The ship could not take a second such coordinated attack. Something had to be done. He leaned over the rail as wind whipped his lanky red hair. He held the locks from his eyes—then snapped upright, a sudden idea coming to him.

  Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier?

  He swung back to the elv’in lord. “Richald! We’re pointing the wind the wrong way! Drive it into the weeds! Lash the flowers with your gale. Don’t let them hone in on the Fury!”

  Richald’s eyes slowly focused from the sky back to Joach.

  Kesla straightened. “Sweet Mother, he’s right! Caught in the winds, the flowers won’t be able to focus!”

  Richald slowly nodded, too strained to speak. Overhead, the remaining few sails began to sag as some wind was stolen from them and diverted.

  Joach returned to his watch by the port rail. The river of winds split, and a whirling tributary swept down upon the vine. As the winds shook petals and rattled stalks, the beams of fiery light were blown out like candles. Nearby, the growing spike of coordinated energy was driven into disarray.

  “It’s working!” Kesla yelled. “They can’t aim!”

  Joach leaned and searched forward. They were only a quarter league from the end of the fields. Around them, the burning lances of light wobbled and spat sporadically. With luck, they might make it.

  Hunt yelled from the middeck, his voice booming with command. “Get back, everyone! Its no use! She’s lost!”

  Joach had concentrated so fully on the fields that he had forgotten about the more immediate risk. He turned and saw the main mast explode into a flaming torch, catching another sail in its blaze. Other flames raced along ropes and rigging. Elv’in sailors leaped from their perches to the deck.

  Hunt suddenly appeared, flying up the ladder to join them. He carried the girl Sheeshon in his arms. His face was blackened with smears of soot. “The fire’s in the lower holds. It’s burning from the inside out. The ship is doomed.”

  With his words, the winds ebbed. Behind them, Richald sagged, lowering his arms. “We can’t win.”

  Joach strode up to the elv’in prince and struck him hard across the cheek. “Don’t ever say that!”

  Richald’s eyes flew wide. He touched his bloodied lip as rage flared bright. “No one strikes—”

  “Fly this ship, Richald!” Joach screamed. “As long as we live, there’s always hope! You’ll drive this ship until it burns out from under you.”

  Richald stepped toward Joach.

  “Enough!” Kesla said, stepping between them. “Use your anger to fuel the winds! We’re almost through the fields. The open sands lie not much further.”

  “I have only the one sail.”

  “Then you must prove your skills, elv’in,” Kesla said. Richald stared at her, then set his face to stone. He lifted his arms, and the winds grew sharp again. “We’ll never reach the sands.”

  “What does it hurt to try?” she challenged.

  Around them, smoke billowed as the ship limped forward. The heat from the growing fires became a roaring hearth. Occasional lances of light chased after them, but the straggling winds kept the vine cowed.

  No one spoke. Everyone held their breaths, clinging to handholds. Joach searched beyond the rail, an arm across his nose and mouth, choking. Below the ship, the smoke parted. Under the keel, a broken terrain of dark canyons and sand-swept mesas appeared. He leaned closer, blinking the smoke and tears from his eyes.

  No vines, no flowers!

  Joach spun around, yelling, “We’re clear of the fields!” Faces turned in his direction, a glimmer of hope—then an explosion blasted. A middeck hatch blew high into the air. Flames licked upward from the ship’s bowel, roaring like a netherworld demon. Under Joach’s feet, the entire ship shook and began to list. He grabbed the rail as the ship rolled.

  Behind him, he heard Kesla call out. “Don’t falter, Richald.”

  “Too weak . . .” the elv’in captain gasped.

  The ship tilted, canting at a steep angle. Joach’s legs went out from under him. He hugged the rail with both arms.

  “Hang on!” Kesla screamed.

  The Eagle’s Fury slipped into a steep dive, a flaming stone crashing from the skies.

  9

  IT TOOK UNTIL dawn for Sy-wen to reach the wreck of the Eagle’s Fury. Her mount’s injured wing had limited their flights to short, feeble hops. Ragnar’k struggled for longer jaunts, but Sy-wen forced the dragon to proceed slowly. Sha
ring his spirit, she sensed his pain. Her right arm felt as if it had been thrust into fire, and when in flight, the agony almost overwhelmed her. Despite their injuries, they worked themselves across the scrabbled landscape of the Crumbling Mounds, following the path where the flaming ship had passed overhead.

  As the sun crested the eastern horizon, Sy-wen and Ragnar’k finally reached the open sands and dunes of the great Southern Wastes. Sy-wen hung limp atop her mount—weak and thirsty. A thick column of smoke marked their goal.

  Without being told, Ragnar’k shoved off the spur of rock that he had lighted upon and took wing, gliding low over the tall dunes. Sy-wen leaned on his neck and stared at the desert below. Like a great ocean of sand, she thought dully. It seemed endless, welling up into smooth waves, its constancy interrupted only by occasional rocky shoals.

  As she clung to her mount, Ragnar’k crested over a tall dune and swept up in a wide circle. Bonded . . . the ship . . .

  Sy-wen straightened. A gouged trail of destruction led forward. Dunes lay blasted; hunks of wood flanked the path; a broken mast stood impaled in a shallow slope of sand.

  Ragnar’k rose higher on a thermal.

  In a deep valley ahead, Sy-wen spotted the bulk of the ship. It lay beached up against a dune, its hull cracked. Small fires still glowed and smoldered from its broken belly. Tiny figures moved around and over the husk of the ship. Rescued crates and supplies stood piled off to one side.

  “Some still live,” Sy-wen said, pointing an arm. She silently directed her mount to land.

  Ragnar’k circled the smoky column and spiraled to the sand.

  Eyes watched them land. As the dragon settled with a loud huff of relief, figures moved toward them. Sy-wen spotted Joach and the Bloodrider Hunt. She slid from her seat and lifted an arm.

  Joach approached, his clothes torn, a large bruise on his cheek. “You survived,” he said, exhaustion heavy in his voice.

  She nodded. “But Ragnar’k is wounded. He’ll need a draught of dragon’s blood to heal. I don’t think he can fly any farther.”

  Hunt shook his head. The large man was covered from crown to foot with soot. “I’m sorry. The casks were burned or shattered. The little that survived was used to help those injured by the crash. There’s not a drop left.”

  Sy-wen groaned and turned, still resting a hand on the dragon. “We’ll manage.”

  Ragnar’k swung his head around and snuffled at her hair. Strong heart . . . will heal.

  “I know you will,” she said, “but perhaps you should sleep. We can mend the wounds easier as Kast.”

  Man . . . not as big heart. He pouted.

  She smiled tiredly. “But he has smaller wings.”

  Ragnar’k nuzzled her again, sending a silent but reluctant consent. She hugged him and willed him her love and thanks, then stepped back. The ancient spell reversed, and scale and claw wound back down to bare legs and arms.

  As Kast stumbled forward out of the spell, he clutched his arm to his chest. His forearm was seared and blistered, but he kept his face stoic. “How many survived?” he asked, ignoring his own injury.

  Joach offered the naked man his cloak, torn and soot-stained. As Kast tied it around his waist, Joach answered his question. “Besides us, not many.” He pointed to the piled supplies. “The girl Sheeshon and the assassin Kesla were bruised and shaken up, but they’re doing well.”

  Sy-wen spotted the young woman rocking the girl in her lap.

  Joach continued. “Richald survived the crash, but he shattered his leg and now won’t speak. He keeps with the other elv’in. More than his broken leg, I think it’s the loss of his ship that has truly crippled him”

  “What of his crew?” Kast asked.

  “Three survived. Four died in the crash.”

  Kast surveyed the broken and smoldering wreck. “What now?”

  “We continue on foot. Kesla says Alcazar lies about seven leagues from here—a hard trek but manageable. This day, we’ll gather what we can, then rest. After the sun goes down, we’ll load a litter and travel by night.”

  Sy-wen stared up at the pillar of smoke. “Will it be safe until then? Eyes—not all of them friendly, I imagine—are sure to see this and investigate.”

  Kesla suddenly appeared at her elbow, startling Sy-wen. The assassin moved so silently. Turning, Sy-wen saw that not a single footstep marred the smooth sand.

  Kesla answered her question. “Sy-wen is correct. It’s not safe. Not only will eyes see the smoke, but the sands of the Wastes hide even worse beasts. They’ll be attracted to the blood. We should build a pyre and burn the bodies. Leave no trail and leave as soon as possible.”

  Joach shook his head. “We have no water. We’re all exhausted. It’ll be cooler to walk the night.”

  “And more deadly,” Kesla argued sternly.

  Sy-wen watched Kesla and Joach stare each other down. Clearly the friction between them was piqued by more than just their current situation.

  Kast spoke up. “I think we should heed Kesla’s guidance. She knows the Wastes better than any of us. These are her homelands.”

  “I agree,” Sy-wen said.

  Joach stared a moment longer, then turned on a heel. “Fine. I’ll let the elv’in know.”

  Kesla stared at his back, then sighed. “I should get Sheeshon ready.”

  “I’ll help you,” Hunt said, following after her.

  Alone, Sy-wen turned to Kast. She stared up at him with a weary smile, glad to have him back at her side. “How’s your arm?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “You’d better.” She leaned into him, careful or his burns.

  He put his good arm around her and pulled her tight. “We’ve a long journey ahead of us. Perhaps we should find a bit of shade and rest while we can.”

  She trailed a finger down his chest. “Rest?”

  Kast stared down into her eyes. “Did you have something else in mind?”

  She reached up with her lips and spoke huskily. “I have need of you.”

  A ghost of a smile shadowed his face as he leaned down to meet her mouth—but before their lips could touch, a scream arose from near the shipwreck.

  GUILDMASTER BELGAN KNELT with the shaman in the darkened private courtyard. Though the morning sun climbed the blue sky, it had yet to rise above the heights of Alcazar to shine down into the tall, narrow yard. In shadows, the pair crouched beside the tiled mouth of a small well. Around them, flowering bushes dotted the small garden amid bits of sandstone statuary.

  Atop the red paving stones, Shaman Parthus tossed a set of bleached bones: tiny vertebrae, knobbed knuckles, lizard skulls, and other bits of bird bones. The bones danced and clattered, then settled to a scattered pattern. The shaman’s head cocked as he studied the bits of white bone against the red stone.

  Belgan brushed back his white hair and tried to peer at the bones himself, but they made no sense. He did not have the gift. “What does it show?”

  Parthus held up a hand that was just withered bones itself, wrapped in sun-cured leather. The old shaman leaned and sniffed at the scrying bones, eyeing the pattern with one eye then the other, like a bird studying an intriguing beetle. His long nose and sharp features added to the hawkish image.

  Belgan sat back on his heels, waiting impatiently. Both men were wrapped in red desert cloaks, their hoods tossed back—but it was their only common feature. Where the shaman was bald, all bones and leather, Belgan was large boned, pale of skin, with long, flowing white hair. Belgan had been nicknamed the “Ghost of Alcazar,” both for his skill at moving unseen and for his pale form.

  Though so dissimilar in appearance, the two men shared a common purpose. For the past two moons, the pair had come each morning to toss the bones, to search for some sign of hope. In only ten days, the next tithing would be demanded. More children would be led to their doom.

  As the master of the Assassins’ Guild, Belgan had accepted the charge to free the Wastes of the corruption that now roosted in Tular.
He, in turn, had put the fates of the desert people into the small hands of a young girl, an assassin trained in the arts of stealth—one of his best students. Before she left, her blood had been dribbled on the bones, allowing them to track her progress. For the past two moons, the shaman had discerned vague clues to her whereabouts. Then, half a moon ago, the bones went silent, no sign nor clue, as if the girl had vanished completely from the lands.

  Belgan wrung his hands together. As each morning passed with no further word, his hopes for success dimmed. If there were no answers by tomorrow, Belgan would have to send word to the tribes to gather their children, to again choose who would live and who would die. They had no other option. The demand for blood would have to be answered.

  Across the tossed bones, the shaman’s eyes narrowed. His head jerked up. “I see her.”

  Belgan froze, afraid he had heard him wrong.

  Parthus growled. “She is near. Already in the sands.”

  “Kesla? Are you sure?”

  He nodded.

  Belgan gasped with relief. The girl had made it back to the Wastes! “Thank the Sweet Mother. I knew she was a strong one.”

  The shaman held up a hand of warning. “Before you rejoice. The bones also warn of a danger surrounding her.”

  “What danger?”

  “The bones are not clear. Blood and smoke . . . teeth and torn flesh.”

  “Will she survive? Will she make it back here?”

  Parthus frowned. He reached and shifted the slivered jawbone of a desert rat. “Not even the bones can answer that.”

  UNDER THE MAKESHIFT awning, Kesla held up a rumpled blanket as a scream echoed over the sands. It was a child’s cry of terror, coming from the far side of the smoldering wreck.

  Hunt, a few steps away, called out, “Sheeshon!”

  Kesla dropped the blanket and ran toward the ship. “I left the child there, napping.”

  Hunt followed. Even with his longer legs, she kept well ahead of him, moving swiftly across the sand. The pair raced around the broken stern of the wreck. Others were converging from all around.