Wit''ch Gate (v5)

  Joach stared around at the dream landscape. Though the dunes in the distance glowed brightly, the sands under his feet were stained dark. He turned, and with his vision split between the real and the dream, he saw the basilisk statue perched atop the silver river, its talons dug deep into its substance.

  In the dream desert, he watched the Land’s energies slowly churn, sucked away into the whirling pit known as the Weir, the darkness feeding on this vein of power like some monstrous black leech. But that was not all he saw. He watched as the dark stain spread out from here into the desert, corrupting all it touched.

  Joach suddenly understood the Dark Lord’s goal here. The Gul’gothal monster must have grown tired of twisting the little bits of elemental power found in the Land’s people. In the past, the Black Heart had used shards of ebon’stone as a focus in which to twist an elemental’s energy, forging each one into an ill’guard. Now he plied the same dark magick on a much larger scale. Using the giant statues, he sought to corrupt the world’s energy directly, to forge the very Land into an ill’guard creation—and he was close to succeeding!

  A cry drew Joach’s attention back to the real world. Kesla was waist-deep in the sand, fighting to hold herself up with her hands. But new pincers had risen from the sand, clamping on her wrists. Kesla writhed in their grip.

  Again, with the two worlds merged, Joach was able to see the dark strands of power that linked Ashmara’s sculpted creations to the dream desert: a tangled black web. Instead of a link by blood, Joach realized the power came from the Weir itself, arising from the black stain.

  Joach cringed from the power here but knew their only chance to fight it lay in his own elemental blood. He concentrated on the spilled pool at his feet, touching the dreaming magick there. He lashed out with his own energy, slashing at the threads of power, severing them instantly.

  In the real world, Joach watched with satisfaction as the sandy fists created by Ashmara fell away to plain sand. Kesla broke free and pushed from the sands. Ashmara grabbed for her, but his fingers had no substance. She rolled away from him.

  Kast also broke free, rushing up to Sy-wen, who immediately placed her palm on his cheek. “I have need of you!”

  Ashmara, initially startled by Joach’s assault, was quick to realize the source of the new magick. His red eyes flared with anger as he swung to face Joach. “A sculptor!” The ghoul’s arm shot up, and new sandy creations grew into existence—not only clawed hands, but also monstrous beasts, climbing right out of the sands.

  Joach gasped at the play of power in the dream desert. Black threads twined and raced, feeding the new creations. Joach slashed at these, too, but he no longer had the advantage of surprise. Threads re-formed as quickly as he hacked at them. Still, Joach continued his assault. He had no choice.

  In the chamber, Kesla dodged the sculpted creatures, moving across the sandy floor with the skill of an assassin.

  Behind the basilisk, Ragnar’k had appeared with Sy-wen perched on his shoulder. The dragon ripped into the sandy beasts and hopped about the sand, making a difficult target.

  Ashmara, his eyes glowing like two coals, crouched atop his black pool and cast out his attacks. He pointed to Joach. “Kill him!” he directed his new creations.

  A beast, a muscled cross of a lion and a bear, scrabbled across the sands toward him.

  Joach stepped back, but he had no way to defend himself, not while concentrating on fighting in the dream plane. He attempted to raise his own sculpted creature to battle the beast, but Ashmara’s beast tore through his creation with no more effort than Sheeshon had used on his tiny rose. He was too untrained, his efforts too divided.

  Kesla appeared at his side. “Give me the dagger,” she said breathlessly.

  “What?” he managed to squeak out.

  She took the broken nightglass dagger from his fingers and swung around just as the lion creature leaped with a silent snarl. Kesla sliced through its throat as it lunged past. Its form dissolved back to sand, washing harmlessly over Joach.

  Half crouched, Kesla lifted the nightglass dagger. “It might not work against the basilisk, but as in the past, it can slay dream beasts.”

  Understanding dawned in Joach. The basilisk of old had been a dream-sculpted creature, slain by the same dagger. So the dagger must, of course, work against any dream creation. It did not matter its shape.

  Kesla slashed through a hand that tried to grab her. The sandy fingers crumbled away as she straightened.

  In the dream desert, Joach watched the dark connection that linked the sculpture explode away with a flash of bright light. Joach remembered a similar sight, long ago, when Elena had tried to grab his poi’wood staff aboard Flint’s ship. She had been thrown back with a similar blinding flash of light. The two magicks were deadly to each other: dark and light.

  Kesla spun and planted the dagger into the eye of a monstrous snake. It fell away to sand. “Your sister’s blood has proven as potent as Sisa’kofa’s.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll protect you. Do what you can to fight Ashmara.”

  He nodded.

  Before she turned away, her eyes met his. “You should have told me.”

  He swallowed, knowing what she meant. “I . . . I couldn’t.”

  “Why?” She stared hard at him, not allowing him to turn away from this question a second time.

  He faced her and spoke rapidly lest he lose heart. “We’re all just dust and ashes. What difference does it make if you come from sand? To me, you’ll always be a woman.” He turned away. “A woman I love.”

  Joach looked back to her, his heart in his throat. Tears welled in Kesla’s eyes. Without a word, she whirled away and slashed the head off some twisted beast.

  Joach returned to his own battle, leaving her to defend him. What had finally been admitted between them could never be acted upon unless they first won here. From the dream plane, Joach slashed the ghoul’s cords of power. But even aided by Kesla’s attacks, no real gains were made.

  Ragnar’k tried to attack Ashmara, but the dragon had no more luck than Kesla’s dagger. How could you kill a ghost?

  As Joach continued his attack, he knew that this stalemate would end in their defeat. Even now, he felt himself weakening. His spirit was not endless. The nightglass dagger would also eventually exhaust its small supply of wit’ch blood. So while Ashmara tapped the bottomless well of the Weir, their energies were limited.

  Unless some change tilted the balance, they would be defeated.

  A voice spoke at Joach’s shoulder—not in the real world but in the dream. “Maybe I can help.”

  Joach glanced behind him in surprise. The figure seemed to float within the stone of the Southwall, as the real world overlapped the dreamscape. His features were vague as Joach stood twixt the two planes, but he would know the thin man anywhere. “Shaman Parthus!”

  Leaning on his old crutch, the elder smiled at Joach. “It seems you could use an extra hand.”

  GRESHYM ALLOWED A true smile to shine. Joach showed no sign of suspecting the darkmage hidden behind the sun-bronzed face of the old shaman. He had hurried here once he’d felt the boy pierce the veil between the two planes. Timing was critical. He could not risk the ghoul killing the boy, at least not until he was done with Joach.

  While crossing here, Greshym had used his dark arts to spy upon the first skirmishes of the two sculptors. Joach had some innate skill, but he was no match for a fiend with Ashmara’s cunning. He now wished Shorkan had not been so skilled at drawing the shade here. Ashmara was a deadly warden, and one who might vanquish Greshym’s one chance at regaining his youth.

  “How can you help me?” the boy asked. “I thought you had no skill at sculpting.”

  Joach’s form was misty and insubstantial, like the shimmers of heat seen floating above the desert at a distance.

  “You are most correct,” Greshym said, speaking with the voice of the shaman. “You hover between the dream desert and the world of substance and life. Only
a true sculptor can travel that path.”

  “Then how can you help?”

  “I can lend you my strength. Two are stronger than one.”

  Joach hesitated. “I’m not sure strength is the problem when fighting the shade of a dead man.”

  Greshym shook his head. “Ashmara can be defeated.” He coaxed. “There are secrets I can teach you, from the old texts. Ways to defeat the ghoul.”

  Joach’s form became more substantial as his interest grew, drawing nearer to Greshym in the dream desert. “What old ways?”

  Greshym took a step back. For his spell to work, he needed the boy’s spirit to enter the dream plane fully. Being no sculptor himself, even he could not reach Joach where he was now. Greshym beckoned with a wave. “It is not something that can be spoken in words. I must teach you, show you.”

  Joach’s form grew crisper. “Then show me.”

  “I need you to pull yourself fully into the dream plane, where I can share with you.” Greshym took another step back, invitingly.

  Joach began to step toward him, then paused, almost taunting.

  “What are you waiting for? Come to me, boy.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Greshym?” Joach’s mask of naïve openness fell away. Under it was a face hard with suspicion.

  Greshym frowned in surprise. He opened his mouth to argue, but the boy’s eyes shone slyly. Joach would not be so easily tricked.

  “Show yourself,” Joach said. “Enough with these false faces. You tricked me once with Elena’s form and now think to do so again?”

  With an exasperated sigh, Greshym cast away the illusion of Shaman Parthus, returning to his own age-worn body. The small brown cane transformed into his gray stone staff. “Is this better?”

  Joach scowled. “What did you do to Shaman Parthus?”

  “I needed a new cloak to wear.”

  “So you killed him?”

  Greshym shrugged. “But how did you know it was me?”

  “You mentioned Ashmara. Shaman Parthus knew nothing of the ghoul’s shade. He could not even see into the dream-sculpting plane. Your knowledge gave you away.” Joach began to grow more insubstantial. “Now that you’ve been caught, begone with your tricks.”

  “Wait!”

  Joach turned away. “We have nothing else to discuss.”

  Greshym knew he was about to lose the boy completely. If Joach returned to his battle, he was surely doomed. Ashmara would eventually wear the boy down and slay him. That must not happen. “I can tell you how to defeat him.”

  Joach glanced back, eyes narrowed. “And trust you?”

  “It is not my trust that will matter, but yours.”

  Joach turned around. “How is that?”

  “I offer you a trade. I’ll give you the secret to defeating Ashmara, in exchange for your promise to return here to the dream desert.”

  “Why do you want me there?”

  Greshym smiled slyly. “I’m only selling one secret here. But I promise you this: if you honor your word, I will not kill you, trap you, or darken your spirit in any manner. This I swear.”

  “As if your word has any value,” Joach mumbled, but he did not turn away.

  “Take my offer or leave it.” Greshym gripped his staff tighter. “Save your friends . . . or die here. It’s no matter to me.”

  Joach hesitated. His one hand formed a fist. “Tell me,” he said with a tight voice.

  “First swear on your sister’s life that you’ll return here to me.”

  Joach bit his lip, then reluctantly nodded. “I so swear. But only if your secret truly helps us in defeating Ashmara.”

  Greshym grinned, relaxing. “Oh, don’t worry. If I’m wrong, Ashmara will kill you all.”

  “Tell me,” Joach snapped. “What’s the ghoul’s secret?”

  Shrugging, Greshym used his staff to draw a circle in the dark sand around his feet. “Have you not noticed how Ashmara never steps from his little black glass island?”

  Joach’s eyes glinted. “What of it?”

  “It is his physical link to this plane.” Greshym smudged out the scrawled line with the staff’s butt end. “Shatter it, and the shade will again be imprisoned with his bones under Aii’shan.”

  Joach’s surprise dissolved the veil between them. He almost snapped fully into the dreamscape, but at the last moment, he drew away again. “It is that simple?”

  “Most magick is,” Greshym said with a disappointed sneer.

  “You’d better not be lying.” Joach turned and grew misty again.

  Greshym leaned heavily on his staff and called out to Joach. “Be careful, boy. Don’t get yourself killed.”

  SPINNING, KESLA JABBED the jagged end of the nightglass dagger into the back of a sand-sculpted scorpion, then whirled on her heel to slice the throat of a clawed salamander. Forms blew away into puffs of sand around her. She leaped and rolled as a spike of sandstone shot upward under her.

  Gasping, she crouched. She had been trained to run for leagues through a midday desert, but this constant assault wore on her. She had to protect both herself and Joach.

  Her only allies were Sy-wen and her dragon. Ragnar’k roared through the chamber, keeping Ashmara busy. Its wings shattered creatures on all sides, while silver-clawed talons ripped through the sand.

  But still, the pale ghoul stood on his little pool of nightglass, wrapped in his cloak of dark mists. He seemed little worn by the battle here. In fact, his amusement had grown and he laughed often as he forced Kesla through her paces.

  He’s playing with us, Kesla realized, like a cat with a mouse. She was sure the ghoul could call all manner of real beasts to harry them: the skal’tum, the burrowing black scorpions, sand sharks. But he didn’t. He continued to chase them with his dream-sculpted creations, enjoying the challenge, amused by their efforts, immune to any direct assault himself.

  “Kesla,” Joach said behind her.

  She spun and raked a sand serpent’s belly. “What?”

  He spoke rapidly, while motioning her closer. “I know a way to destroy Ashmara.”

  “How?”

  “The pool of glass under his feet. Destroy it, and his shade will be drawn back to Aii’shan.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He hesitated, then spoke. “No, but it’s worth attempting.”

  “How do we destroy it?”

  “I don’t know.” Joach frowned. “Try using the nightglass dagger.”

  She nodded. It made a certain sense. The ghoul had remained atop the circle of dark glass. He seemed unable to leave it. “I’ll try. But you’ll have to defend yourself from here.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve sent a message to Ragnar’k. He and Sy-wen will keep guard. Just shatter the pool.”

  Kesla glanced to his face. Their eyes met briefly. So much was still unspoken between them. She spun away before anything else could be said. She slashed and hacked her way through the sand beasts, dropping, rolling, whirling on hand or foot.

  She noted Ashmara’s attention turn toward her. His red eyes glowed in his pale face. The attacks on her grew fiercer. Her momentum forward slowed. She was fought to a standstill. Did the ghoul sense her new knowledge?

  “You move well,” Ashmara said from a few paces away. “Much better than that sallow-limbed thing that met me in Ka’aloo.”

  Kesla kicked out, bouncing off one sand-sculpted creature and impaling another. The creatures attacked from all sides, a blur of claws and teeth. “It was Shiron that killed you last time, ghoul!” Kesla called back at him.

  “No,” he answered, his voice bitter. “It was my own foolishness and desire that doomed me. Shiron claimed his blood could cleanse Tular—and I believed him. I could not let the boy escape. I cast out my magick recklessly, drawing off the shared energy of the other sculptors in Tular. But the desert protected the boy. Instead of harming Shiron, our magicks washed over and through him, burning the desert around us, melting it to glass. Only when it was too late did I realiz
e my mistake. I had cast my magick so far and wide that I could not escape the molten desert. My physical form sank into the glass, while my spirit was held tight by Shiron in the dream desert. I could not escape.”

  Kesla continued to slash and jab with her broken dagger.

  All amusement had seeped out of the ghoul with the telling of his tale. “But I will have my victory, my revenge.” He glanced over his shoulder at the looming basilisk. “I will see the entire Southern Wastes destroyed.”

  With the attention of the ghoul momentarily distracted, Kesla leaped atop the back of a scorpion, dodged its sandstone tail, and dove at Ashmara.

  He swung around, instinctively lifting an arm in warning, but Kesla flew through his form as if it were air and crashed to the hard nightglass surface.

  Ashmara laughed, lowering his arm with a shake of his head. “Still trying to slay the dead?”

  Reaching out, Kesla lifted her arm and slammed her dagger into the center of the black pool. Glass fractured in a loud tinkling shatter. Pain flared in her hand. She stared down. The nightglass dagger had shattered completely away. The black pool beneath remained unharmed, not even scratched.

  A sinking feeling of despair welled in her chest. “No.” She moaned. Not only had she failed, but she had destroyed their only means of slaying the ghoul’s dream beasts.

  Laughter wafted down from atop her.

  Kesla lifted her hand. A chunk of broken nightglass was pierced through her right palm. She yanked it out, and blood flowed freely from the wound. Though hopeless, she pushed off the hard glass surface, ready to fight with the last breath in her body.

  The ghoul’s taunting voice seemed to whisper at her ear. “I’ve enough of this game-playing. It is time to end this.” Triumphant laughter flowed.

  Kesla shoved up, ready to spring away, but her balance was thrown off as her left hand sank into the loose sand.

  The ghoul’s laughter cut off abruptly with a sharp cry.

  Staring down, Kesla saw that her left hand had melted through the black glass to the soft sand beneath. She lifted and studied her wounded palm. Blood flowed thickly down her wrist. She remembered Ashmara’s story: Shiron claimed his blood could cleanse Tular.