Wit'ch Fire: Book One of The Banned and the Banished, Page 2

  “Skirmishes at the valley ridges,” Er’ril explained.

  Shorkan merely nodded, but a deeper frown buried his lips. He gently nudged Er’ril up the stairs faster.

  Once in the room, Er’ril found Greshym where he had left him—still warming his backside by the fire.

  Shorkan stalked into the room. “I’m surprised to find you still here, Greshym.”

  The older man stepped aside to allow room for Shorkan by the fire. “Where else would I be?” Greshym said. “You’ve boxed us into this valley, trapped us.”

  “You’ve followed me this far, Greshym, on blind faith of my word. Trust me a little farther.”

  “So you keep saying.” The old man pointed with his chin. “Let’s see your hand, Shorkan.”

  “If you must.” He shoved his right hand toward the old man. It had a slightly ruddy hue to it, like a fresh sunburn.

  The old man shook his head. “Your Rose fades, Shorkan.” Greshym eyed the boy who was sneaking closer to the warmth of the fire. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder once he was within reach. “So you found one of the students?” He reached down and lifted the sleeve of the mansized overcoat to expose the child’s right hand. It was as pale and white as the boy’s frightened face. “What’s this? You failed?”

  Shorkan gently freed the boy from Greshym and placed an arm around the child’s shoulders. He positioned the boy closer to the fire and patted him on the head. “He’s left-handed.” Shorkan scooted the left sleeve of the coat up to expose the child’s other hand. It glowed bright red, as if the boy had dipped his hand, wrist-deep, into a pool of blood. Whorls and eddies of various red hues swam across his tiny palm and the back of his hand. “Being left handed saved his life. One of the dog soldiers made the same mistake and let him slip through the initial slaughter. He hid in an apple barrel. The rest of the academy is a slaughterhouse.”

  “So there are no others?” Greshym asked. “Of what use is one child’s power against an army of the Gul’gotha? I was hoping you would have found a teacher still bloodied and fresh to the Rose, someone with knowledge.”

  “None. Even the headmaster fled.”

  “That sounds like Master Re’alto,” Er’ril said sourly. “I never trusted the weasel.”

  Shorkan turned away from the fire. He nodded toward the window, where the drums could still be heard. “It is of no matter. We will all be slaughtered by the morning.”

  “What?” Er’ril stepped up to his brother. “What of your vision?”

  Greshym snorted. “What did I tell you?” he mumbled.

  “Trust me, Brother. Tonight doesn’t concern our mere survival here. It concerns the fate of our future.”

  “What future?” Greshym said. “This child is probably the last full-bloodied mage in all the lands of Alasea.”

  “You speak the truth, Greshym. With this child ends the reign of Chi. The world is heading into a black age, a grim time where men will be forged in blood and tears. It was foretold by the sect of Hi’fai, those of the Order who trace the paths of the future.”

  “Doomsayers!” Er’ril said. “Heretics. They were cast out.”

  “Bad news was never well received, least of all by those in power. But they spoke the truth.” Shorkan pointed out the window. “The drums announce the clarity of their visions.”

  “But we are still a strong people,” Er’ril said. “We can survive.”

  Shorkan smiled thinly at his older brother. “You also speak the truth, Er’ril. But Alasea will still fall, and her people will be subjugated by the Gul’gotha. It is the time of darkness for the land. Like the cycles of the sun and moon, night must follow day. But with our actions here, we may create a future sunrise. We will not see it, nor will our great-grandchildren, but someday, a new sun will have a chance of rising. To ignite that future dawn, a piece of this sunlight must be passed down to our descendants, from us.”

  “But how?” Er’ril said, eying the small child. “How?”

  “The Hi’fai sect foretold a book.”

  Greshym retreated to the lone bed in the room. “The Book? Shorkan, you are a fool. Is this why you brought me along?”

  “They were your words, Greshym—when you once belonged to the Hi’fai.”

  Er’ril paled and took a step away from the old man.

  “It was a long time ago,” Greshym said. “When I was still new to the gifts. I dismissed the sect ages ago.”

  “Yet I am sure you still remember the prophecy. Others in later years confirmed your visions.”

  “It is madness.”

  “It is the truth. What were your words?”

  “I don’t remember. They were foolish words.”

  “What were they?”

  Greshym covered his eyes with his one good hand. His voice seemed to come from far away.

  “‘Three will come.

  One injured,

  One whole,

  One new to the blood.

  There,

  Forged in the blood of an innocent

  At midnight in the Valley of the Moon,

  The Book will be made.

  Three will become one

  And the Book will be bound.’”

  Shorkan sat on the bed next to Greshym. “We have studied your words. Now is the time.”

  Greshym groaned. “There’s much you don’t know. You’re young to the blood. I have studied other scrolls, texts since burned when the Hi’fai were cast out. Not all was committed to parchment.”

  Shorkan gripped the old mage’s shoulder. “Speak, Greshym. Free your tongue. Time runs short.”

  Greshym lowered his head and mumbled quietly,

  “‘Blood will call her,

  Book will bind her.

  Bound in blood,

  She will rise.

  Heart of stone.

  Heart of spirit.

  She will rise again.’”

  Silence blanketed the room. Only the crackling of the fire intruded.

  Er’ril’s hand drifted to the pommel of his sword. “I thought her myth.”

  “Sisa’kofa,” Shorkan said, releasing his grip on Greshym’s shoulder, his eyes narrow with worry. “The wit’ch of spirit and stone.”

  Er’ril began pacing the threadbare rug. “Legend has her destroyed by Chi for daring to wield the blood magick. All women are cursed to bleed with each moon as punishment for her atrocities. How could this abomination rise again?”

  Greshym shrugged. “That’s why we held our tongue. Not all visions surrounding the Book are bright.”

  “A grim vision indeed,” Shorkan said. “Maybe with time, we could discern other prophetic visions to shed some light on your words. But midnight closes in on us. It must be now, or we will lose the chance forever.”

  Greshym sighed. “Yet dare we risk it?”

  “Even with visions, the future is blind to us.” Shorkan stood up from the bed, the wood of the frame creaking in protest. “We must work with the tools at hand. Our order is at its end. By creating this book, a small piece of our magick can be preserved. I say we still proceed.”

  “I’ll follow your lead, Shorkan. What else can I do?” the old man said, exposing his stump.

  “Come then.” Shorkan helped Greshym to his feet. “By the fire.”

  Er’ril watched as his brother gathered the boy to him, and the three mages set up a warding circle of candle drippings before the fire: strong warding for strong magick. Er’ril stepped back.

  Shorkan twisted his neck to acknowledge Er’ril. “You, too, will play a role in this venture, Brother, a vital role. When we are finished, a bright flash of white light will burst forth, and wild magick will still be loose in the room. You must quickly close the Book to end the spell.”

  “I will not fail you,” Er’ril said, frowning, a sick emptiness worming into his chest. “But magick is your heart, Brother. Why not close the Book yourself?”

  “You know why, or at least suspect it. I can see it in your eyes,” Shorkan said quietly. “The
forging of this text will destroy the three of us. We must become the Book.”

  Er’ril tensed, his suspicions realized. “But—”

  “Midnight fast approaches, Brother.”

  “I know the hour is late! But … but what of this child?” Er’ril nodded toward the boy. “You will sacrifice him. Does he not have a say?”

  “I was born to this, armsman,” the boy said, speaking for the first time, his words calm and sure. Er’ril realized he still did not know the boy’s name, though his accent suggested he was raised in one of the coastal townships. “Chi guided me to the apple barrel to hide when the dreadlords attacked. This is meant to be.”

  “The boy and I have already spoken of such matters,” Shorkan said, stepping from the circle and putting his arms around Er’ril. He squeezed him tight. “Fear not, big brother. It must be done.”

  Er’ril tightened his own arms around his brother and remained silent, afraid his voice would betray the depth of his despair.

  After too short a time, Greshym cleared his throat, placing his spent candle on the mantel. Er’ril released his brother after a final firm hug.

  “What will act as the totem for the Book?” Greshym asked, wiping wax from his fingers on his robe. Er’ril noticed the old man stood taller, less stooped—almost his old self. It had been many months since the elder mage had wielded magick. “The totem, too, must be warded by the heart of a forger.”

  Shorkan pulled out a battered book from a pocket of his riding vest. Er’ril recognized the rose etched in gold-lined burgundy on its cover, the edges of the paint flecking away in places from age and tired use. It was Shorkan’s diary. “I have carried this at my breast for three years.”

  He rested the book in the center of the circle and reached to his waist and removed a gilt-edged dagger, a sculpted rose prominent on the butt of the hilt. Greshym slipped a matching dagger from a fold in his robe. Then the older mages looked to the boy.

  “I don’t have mine,” he answered their stares, eyes wide. “It’s back at the school.”

  “It’s of no matter,” Shorkan consoled. “Any knife will do. These fancy blades are just ceremonial.”

  “Still, it would be prudent to maintain proper form,” Greshym said. “This is a powerful spell we weave.”

  “We have no choice. The night wears thin.” Shorkan turned to his brother and held out his hand. “I’ll need your dagger—the one Father gave you.”

  With an emptiness still aching in his chest, Er’ril snapped the buckling and freed his dagger. He laid the ironwood hilt in his brother’s palm.

  Shorkan gripped the knife, seeming to weigh its balance, then spoke firmly. “Er’ril, step three paces back from us. Do not approach, no matter what you see, until the burst of white light.”

  Er’ril did as instructed, stumbling back as the three knelt within the protective circle of wax. Shorkan passed his rose-handled knife to the boy, keeping his father’s dagger for himself.

  “Let us prepare,” Shorkan said.

  Er’ril watched his brother slice a thin bloody line across his right palm. Greshym did the same to his left palm, holding the hilt in his teeth. Only the boy held his dagger still poised, unbloodied.

  Shorkan noticed his hesitation. “The knife is honed fine. Cut fast, and only the smallest sting will be felt.”

  The boy still held the dagger frozen.

  Greshym spat his own knife from between his teeth into his bleeding palm. “This must be done by your own will, Boy. We can not take this burden from you.”

  “I know. This is my first time.”

  “Quick and clean,” Shorkan said.

  The boy squeezed his eyes tight, face tensed in a wince, and drew the blade across his palm. Blood welled into his cupped palm. Eyes bright with moisture, the boy turned to Shorkan.

  Shorkan nodded. “Good. Now let it begin.”

  All three reached and placed bloodied palms upon the book, fingers touching each other, entwined like tentative lovers. Shorkan intoned, “As our blood mingles, so do our powers. Let the three become one.”

  Er’ril watched as the intense redness of the boy’s hand spread to the other two mages, until all hands glowed a deep rose. A slight breeze began swirling through the room, stirring a few strands of Er’ril’s black hair. At first, Er’ril thought it simply a wind from the open window. But this breeze was warm, like a whisper of spring.

  All three mages had heads lowered in prayer, lips moving silently. As they prayed, the breeze began whirling faster and faster, hotter and hotter. And as the wind swept through the room, it drained color from the circle, drawing substance from the wax ring. Er’ril could now see the sweeping wind buffeting him, swirls of hues mixing and gyrating. As the wind gained a richness of texture, the contents of the wax circle became duller, bled of their substance.

  In the fading ring, only the book itself remained substantial, still crisp with color as it rested in the center of the circle. Even the mages, crouching by the book, had become crystalline statues, translucent and vague.

  The wind grew fiercer. His eyes stinging, Er’ril had trouble standing before the gale as its hot breath attacked him in swirls of color. He leaned into the storm.

  Suddenly Er’ril saw his brother, still only a translucent figure, burst to his feet within the circle.

  “No!” Shorkan screamed at the ceiling. With his yell, the diary flew open, and a blinding light fountained upward from the pages, bright as a sun for a heartbeat, then collapsing back to nothing, swallowed into the pages of the book.

  Er’ril rubbed away the afterimages of the burning light from his eyes.

  The boy, who like the others was just a translucent outline, scrabbled away from the book, backing toward Er’ril.

  Shorkan spotted him. “Halt!” he yelled.

  The boy ignored him and continued, pushing to the edge of the wax ring. There, he met resistance, having to lean and shove against an invisible barrier. But he was stronger than the barrier, and as he pushed past the wax ring boundary, parts of his body became substantial again.

  But what was coming through wasn’t human!

  As the boy crossed the warding, his body changed from a translucent figure of a boy to a hulking, shaggy-limbed beast.

  Shorkan called to his brother, “Stop him, Er’ril, or all is lost! We are deceived.”

  Before Er’ril could react, a fiery gale exploded from the circle, flipping him across the room and onto the bed. The room plunged into darkness as the candles and fire were snuffed out by the force of the wind.

  After the burst, the wind instantly died away, as if someone had slammed a door shut on a winter’s storm. Er’ril searched the darkened room. He was alone.

  Suddenly the fireplace flamed back to life, a still-glowing ember reigniting the blaze. Blinking in the sudden light, Er’ril spotted his brother’s diary, open on the rug. No light emanated from its pages.

  Where was the beast? Where was his brother? Er’ril scrambled up from the bed and cautiously surveyed the wind-ravaged room, clothes and traveling bags flung to all corners, chairs overturned,

  As he stepped from the edge of the bed toward the open book, something grabbed his ankle from behind and yanked, toppling him to the rug. Rolling onto his back, he blindly kicked at his assailant, a heel striking flesh with a satisfying thud. The grip weakened on his ankle, and Er’ril ripped his leg free. Leaping away from the hidden assailant, Er’ril rolled on his shoulder to face his opponent, pulling to a crouch as he swept out his sword.

  From under the bed, it crawled free, pursuing him—the beast that had once been a boy. Amber eyes, slitted black, spat hate toward him as the were-creature hissed. Straightening from a lumbering crouch to its full shaggy height, it stood easily as tall as Er’ril, but massed at least twice what he did. Mats of black fur hung from it like drapes of hoary moss. But its daggered claws and razor teeth drew most of Er’ril’s attention. It lumbered toward him, its foul stench preceding it.

  Er’ril backe
d, raising the tip of his sword. As if his motion were a signal, the creature leaped at him. Er’ril dodged to the right, under one of its sweeping arms, and dragged the edge of his long blade across the beast’s flank as he passed.

  Ignoring its howl, Er’ril leaped atop the bed, seeking a better position to attack. Whirling to face the monster, his sword readied to parry a second attack, Er’ril froze. No attack came. The beast lumbered away from him.

  It was going toward the book!

  No! Er’ril leaped toward the beast, sword aloft in both hands. He used the force of his plummeting weight to plunge the sword deep through the center of its wide back, driving the sword through to the wooden planks beneath the creature. The beast spasmed, its neck snapped back, and its mouth opened in a silent scream. The creature collapsed forward, Er’ril landing on top of it.

  Er’ril rolled clear and grabbed for his dagger. His hand froze on the empty scabbard. He had given Shorkan his knife! But the beast remained limp on the floor, dead.

  Breathing heavily, one eye on the monster, Er’ril crept around its limp bulk and stepped to the open diary. Shorkan had told him he needed to close the book to complete the spell. But after all that had occurred, had something gone wrong? Had the transformation failed?

  Er’ril knelt by the diary. He saw that his brother’s scrabbly handwriting filled the exposed pages. The book had not changed.

  Er’ril felt fresh tears well up in his reddened eyes. Had his brother lost his life for nothing? Gently he reached down and touched the cover’s edge—the only token of his lost brother, his lost family, his lost land. Closing his eyes, he flipped the book closed, completing his dead brother’s wish.

  As the book clapped shut, a cold shock jerked through Er’ril’s body and sprawled him across the floor. Lights danced across his vision for several heartbeats, and the room spun and tilted cockeyed. Finally, his vision focused again. The first sight was of the beast now transformed back into a boy. Er’ril’s sword thrust up from the child’s back as he lay in a widening pool of blood that reached to the diary itself.

  My gods, what have I done? Er’ril felt an icy claw around his heart. What trickery is this? Did I slay an innocent child?