Witch Wraith

Two

The company set out again at dawn, rising to greet a sun hung low and red against the horizon, its rays like tendrils of blood stretched out across the waking land. The intensity of the crimson light against the fading night was unsettling, and the passengers and crew of Quickening ate their breakfast in silence, with uneasy looks toward the east. The haze that caused the light to take on that color was unfamiliar even to the Rovers, and superstition hovered in all their minds.

They set sail nevertheless, and by midmorning the last of the sunrise and its aftermath had vanished into a pale silvery mist, clouds screening all but streaks of the blue sky beyond. The threat of rain loomed north and west in a massing of thunderheads. Storm coming, one or two muttered to the others, just to say the words aloud. Bad one, from the looks of it.

To Railing, sitting with his back to the pilot box—distancing himself from the others—the gathering storm felt emblematic. Once again, he was keeping everything to himself, choosing not to speak of his meeting with the Grimpond, hiding away what had transpired. Now he was keeping two secrets of great import rather than one, both of which he knew he should have shared with the other members of the company. But he still could not bring himself to reveal a thing that might spell the end to their journey. Because no matter what else happened, he could not allow them to turn back.

It was a terrible place to be. He knew the decision was not his alone to make. He knew, as well, that his actions were both selfish and dangerous. He even knew that he was probably not the best one to decide what should happen in light of his brother’s plight. But nothing he had been told by either the King of the Silver River or the Grimpond had changed his commitment or eroded his determination. He was set on finding Grianne Ohmsford and using her to save his brother. The very fact that the Grimpond had told him she lived and he would reach her was enough to cement whatever cracks might have surfaced in the wall of his resolve. It did not matter that there had been an equivocation in the creature’s words, or that they were, perhaps, meant to taunt and tease. It did not matter that he had been warned twice—once by each of his unearthly visitors—that things might not turn out as he expected.

What mattered—the only thing that mattered—was that he would be given a chance at saving Redden.

He understood the risk he was taking. He knew Grianne might turn him away, might even dismiss him out of hand. But he believed he was strong enough that he could overcome such obstacles. He believed he could find a way to achieve what he had long ago decided must happen—even in the face of resistance.

His was a faith that was deep and burning. He had come this far riding its dark wings, and he would fly on its slippery back and steer it on its uncertain course until this business was over and he had gotten Redden back, safe and well once more.

That it might cost him his life did not matter. It was not even a possibility he dwelled on. That it might cost the lives of his companions troubled him more, but not enough to give him pause. They had come with him because they believed in what they were doing. He saw it as his mission to keep them believing.

They flew west and north into the Upper Anar, following the twisting line of the Rabb River where it wound its angular way through the forests and mountains below—a course that would take them close to where they would sheer off north in search of the town of Rampling Steep. Farshaun told him this at one point, coming over to sit beside him, worried perhaps that he was keeping himself too isolated from the rest of the company. They sat together in silence save for when the old man made the effort to engage him in conversation. But Railing had already distanced himself from discussions of this sort, finding it the easiest way to deal with the emotional fallout of his choice. Better to say nothing than to break down and spill it all.

“You do not seem yourself, boy,” Farshaun said at one point. “As if maybe you’ve left us and gone somewhere else. Is that so? What’s happening with you?”

“Nothing,” Railing answered at once. He tried a smile that didn’t work. “I just can’t stop thinking about Redden and what he’s going through. It’s very hard.”

“We know this. But you shouldn’t shut us out.”

There was nothing to say to that, and after a while the Rover got up and walked away.

Mirai didn’t come by at all that day, although she waved to him in passing once or twice. Mostly, she spent her time with Austrum—an irritation that Railing couldn’t do anything about without starting an argument. And he was determined to avoid fighting with the one true north in his life. He watched her in silence, remembering what she had told him earlier about the big Rover: that there was nothing between them.

But then Austrum reached for her hand and took it in his own and she did not pull away.

By midafternoon they were well into the Upper Anar, the Quickening benefiting from a following wind as they tacked north toward the Charnals. They had made good time all day, and their luck continued with their new heading. The approaching storm seemed to have cleared the Dragon’s Teeth and rumbled on to the western edge of the Wolfsktaag Mountains, but there it had stalled out. Farshaun had stopped long enough to let him know that they would reach Rampling Steep that day, shortly after sunset.

Railing spent the remaining hours working the rigging with the crew, suddenly in need of something to do. He tried not to look about for Mirai, unwilling to find her in the company of Austrum, but when he finally did see her she was standing not six feet away, working the lines with him. She grinned knowingly, as if able to read his thoughts and divine his intentions. Blushing, he grinned back, feeling good for no other reason than an unmistakable relief in finding her close and alone.

Darkness had set in when they spied the lights of their destination, torches and lamps in large numbers burning through the inky black, the clouds massing over the mountaintops to shadow the land about them. The first few drops of rain were beginning to fall as they descended, heralding the approach of the storm and warning of a need to secure the airship with haste.

They descended smoothly, Mirai at the helm and Farshaun and Skint acting as navigators, aiming for a small airfield that sat just outside the town. There was a handful of aircraft moored on the field—none of them ships-of-the-line or even vessels the size of Quickening. Most were dilapidated and poorly tended, and had the look of ships that hadn’t flown recently and might never fly again. No one moved about on the field as they settled down; no one appeared to greet them or aid them in their mooring.

None of this mattered to the Rovers, who were used to handling everything on their own. They scurried about the decking, hauling down the light sheaths, securing the radian draws and lowering anchors and ropes for moorage. Railing watched for the first few moments, then his gaze shifted to Rampling Steep. It was too dark to see very far, but if the numbers of lamps and torches were any indication, this wasn’t much of a town. For one thing, it was situated far up in the foothills that shadowed the mountains, and the only reason for its existence seemed to be its location—all of the passes leading into the Charnals from the west began here. Farshaun had told him that the town’s only value was as a way station for trappers, hunters, and travelers seeking guides. No one would come this way otherwise.

Looking at it now, catching glimpses of the closest buildings at the edge of the airfield, he could tell that upkeep and repairs were not a high priority for the town’s residents. Sideboards were cracked and splintered, roofs were sagging or collapsed, windows were broken out, and every other building appeared to have given up the fight years before. A few had been maintained so that they seemed able to weather a storm and keep their inhabitants warm and dry, but even those lacked pretense at being anything more than basic shelter.

Farther on, the lights were thicker and brighter, suggesting that the town center might be slightly less decrepit. When he listened closely, the boy could hear the sounds of singing and laughter.

“Morgan Leah came this way a long time ago,” Mirai said. She was standing at his elbow, looking out at the town with him. Her hair was tied back, and strands caught the distant lights in golden glints. “He was traveling with Walker Boh and the girl Quickening, among others. The company had come in search of the city of Eldwist and the Stone King, Uhl Belk, seeking the Black Elfstone.”

“I remember the story.” Railing tried not to look at her, afraid of what she would see in his eyes. “We heard it from our father when he was telling us the family history. That was in the time of Par and Coll Ohmsford. The Shadowen were abroad and hunting them.”

She said nothing for a moment, her eyes focused on the town. “You be careful when you go in there.”

He glanced over then, catching a hint of something like regret in her words. “You won’t be coming?”

She shook her head. “Skint doesn’t think it’s a good idea. He thinks I’ll attract too much attention. Farshaun agrees. Women in towns like these serve only one purpose.”

Railing nodded. “They’re probably right. It’s too risky.”

But he was still surprised. Somehow he had believed she would be going simply because they always stayed close whenever they were together. It felt odd knowing she wouldn’t be with him.

“Maybe you should go anyway,” he said, wanting her to agree. “A cloak and hood would hide …”

She gave him a quick look and walked away, not waiting to hear more. He stood looking after her, the rest of what he was going to say forgotten, the unspoken words a bitter taste in his mouth.

Moments later the company gathered on the main deck, summoned by Farshaun, who seemed to have assumed command in the absence of any involvement on Railing’s part.

“Everyone stays aboard but Skint, Railing, and myself. The three of us will go into the town and try to find the man we need. It might take us a while, so you will have to be patient. But no one,” he continued, looking specifically at Austrum and the other Rovers, “leaves the airship while we are away.”

“Not much of anywhere to go,” Austrum allowed with a grin. “I don’t think you need worry, Old Man.”

He said it affectionately, and Farshaun took it that way, giving him a grin in reply before adding, “You’ll find out just how old I am if you disobey me.”

So while the others set about finding something to do in the interim, Skint, Railing and Farshaun descended the rope ladder and set off.

They crossed the airfield through the darkness, heading for the lights of the town, picking their way over humps and ruts and clusters of rocks as they went. They reached the first of the lights—a lamp attached to what appeared to be an equipment shed but looked like little more than another ruin. They found a path there and followed it through a scattering of buildings—some of them homes, some sheds, some barns—moving steadily toward the laughter and singing. Debris was scattered everywhere, and no one was about. A few of the better-maintained houses were dark, the shutters barred and the curtains drawn. No one else moved on the path, not until it turned into a weather-eroded roadway. Even then, the men they passed walked with their heads down and their eyes averted. Some stumbled drunkenly. Some turned aside to slip from view between the buildings. No one spoke to them. No one evinced the least interest in who they were or what they were doing.

By the time they were finally approaching the town center, the storm had caught up to them and it had begun to rain. The rain increased in intensity while they plodded up the roadway, the ground beneath their boots turning soft with mud and standing water. Ahead, the lamps burned dimly through the gloom, and the torches sizzled and sputtered.

At the first inn they reached, Skint paused. “Wait here.”

He disappeared inside and came out only moments later, beckoning them on. Railing was hungry by now, along with being cold and wet, and was impatient to reach their destination. But they slogged on past several other taverns without slowing and had almost reached the far side of the town when the Gnome Tracker motioned them through the door of a dilapidated building whose sign read PAINTED LADY. Smoky air and dim lighting greeted them; the haze was nearly as bad inside as out. The room in which they stood was big by any standard. The floor space was filled with tables and benches, and most of them were occupied. A bar against which a clutch of men leaned, drinking and joking, took up one long wall. A few heads turned, but most of the tavern’s customers ignored them. Skint stopped just inside the doorway, glanced around, then directed them to a table near the far wall. They threaded their way through the tables and bodies and arrived at their destination unchallenged. They were close to a huge fireplace with a fire blazing in the open hearth. They removed their cloaks and felt the heat begin to chase off the chill that had settled into their bones.

“Better now, eh?” Farshaun said to Railing, who nodded absently.

Skint left them without a word, moving over to the bar. A few minutes later, he was back with tankards of ale. “Get a little of this inside you. Our man will be over in a moment.”

They sat drinking the ale, waiting. Railing wanted to ask something more about the man they were supposed to be meeting—Challa Nand—so that he would have some idea of what he was like. But Skint had said nothing about the prospective guide earlier and he offered nothing now. So at this point, it seemed better to hold his tongue and let matters unfold.

Suddenly Skint straightened in his seat. “Here he comes. Let me do the talking,” he said, the words so soft that Railing almost didn’t hear.

A huge Troll was coming toward them, winding his way through the closely bunched tables as if unconcerned whether he avoided them or knocked them over. The occupants of the tables he passed were quick to move aside, either out of courtesy or to avoid being crushed; it was hard to tell which. Challa Nand wasn’t just big. At three hundred pounds or more, and topping out at just under seven feet, he was huge. The bark-like skin and blunted features were a familiar sight, but it was the man’s build that was more impressive. Railing was willing to bet that there wasn’t an ounce of fat amid all that muscle. Challa Nand looked as if he could pick up any table in the room—occupants and all—and fling it out the door.

He reached them and sat down at the end of the bench next to Skint, who quickly made room for him. He dark gaze passed over all three men before settling on the Gnome Tracker. “What do you need of me?”

He spoke the Southland dialect that had become commonplace during the last century, his voice a deep rumble, harsh and jagged about the edges. Railing tried to stop staring at him and failed.

“We need a guide into the Charnals,” Skint replied. He seemed calm enough sitting next to the Troll, who looked to be three times his size. “Into country not many know or dare to go.”

“Where, exactly?”

“The ruins of Stridegate.”

A rough chuckle. “Urda country. Why would you go there? Never mind, don’t tell me that. I don’t need to know. Stridegate. That’s inside the Inkrim.” He glanced at Railing and Farshaun. “Just the three of you?”

“We have a ship. A crew of Rovers. Two other passengers.”

“A warship?”

“No, but she’s well protected.”

“She’ll need to be. That’s dangerous country even for men who know it, which I’m guessing you don’t. Deep inside the Klu, which are deep inside the Charnals.” He shook his massive head. “An old man, a skinny Gnome, and a boy. Are the rest any better suited to this than you?”

Without waiting for a response, he took Skint’s tankard of ale and drained it. “You should get us another round, don’t you think?”

Skint glared at him but complied. The Troll watched him go, then turned to Railing. “There’s something about you—I sensed it right away—and it troubles me. I can’t put my finger on it, though. You don’t look very impressive, but there’s something there, right enough. Where do you come from, boy? What’s your name?”

Railing flushed at the assessment, his irritation at being addressed so bluntly almost getting the better of him. “Railing Ohmsford. From the village of Patch Run on the Rainbow Lake.”

The Troll studied him. “Never heard of Patch Run, but your name is familiar. Why do I know it?”

Railing met his dark gaze without flinching but said nothing. Why should he tell this creature anything?

Skint returned with the tankards of ale. Challa Nand took all four from him, pushed one at Farshaun, one at the Gnome, and kept the other two for himself. Railing’s face darkened further.

“You think me bold?” Challa Nand shrugged. “Let me tell you something, Railing Ohmsford. I am a big, strong man. You can see as much. I get what I want most of the time because of my size and strength. There’s not much reason for me to worry. But every now and then, something or someone comes along who, for one reason or another, is my match. Early on, I didn’t sense it the way I do now. I’ve learned to look for it, though. I’ve learned not to rely too strongly on size and strength, not to take it for granted that my physical gifts will see me through. Knowing your limitations is important in this world.”

He drank from his tankard of ale. Then he pushed the second tankard toward Railing. “I sense those limitations now, with you. You have magic, don’t you? Magic strong enough that you don’t see any real need to be afraid of me. What form does it take?”

Railing hesitated, then reached out and accepted the tankard. “It’s called a wishsong. I can use my voice to reshape and manipulate physical things. It runs in my family.”

The Troll glanced at Skint for confirmation and got a nod in reply. “Ohmsford,” he repeated, and suddenly his face changed. “Grianne Ohmsford?”

“My great-aunt.”

He nodded slowly. “The Ilse Witch. What’s going on here? Why are you making this journey?”

“You said you didn’t need to know,” Railing shot back.

“I didn’t need to then. I do now. Your name changes everything. If you want my services, you’d better tell me the truth.”

Railing and Skint exchanged glances. “Up to you,” the Tracker said to him.

Railing thought about it a moment. If Skint thought they needed this man as their guide, there wasn’t much choice. Certainly, the Troll looked able enough. Besides, if he were in the other’s shoes, he would want to know, too.

But that didn’t mean he needed to know everything.

So he told Challa Nand that they were searching for Grianne Ohmsford’s remains—that when she left the Druid order she went into the Charnals, carrying with her a powerful talisman the Druids would pay well for if it were recovered and brought to them. He told it all with a straight face, trying to avoid embellishments, knowing that reticence would serve him better in persuading the Troll to their cause. He said nothing of the collapse of the Forbidding or the threat to the Four Lands from the creatures imprisoned within. He said nothing of his brother’s imprisonment. He knew that if he did there would be no stopping, no place where he could cut it off without telling it all. A story based on the promise of money for services rendered would fly better with a man like this.

Except that when he was finished, Challa Nand just laughed, his booming voice causing heads everywhere to turn in surprise. “If even half of that is the truth, I’m a Spider Gnome’s twin!” He shook his head. “But maybe in your place I wouldn’t want to be too open about things, either. Not even to your guide—even though your guide could choose to abandon you somewhere you could never find your way out of if he became displeased.” He paused meaningfully. “So where does that leave us, huh?” He looked at Skint. “What’s my pay for this fool’s errand?”

“A hundred gold pieces and anything you find along the way that catches your fancy save what we are looking for.” The Tracker eyed him. “You get the gold now.”

“A carrot on a stick? I like you, Skint, but I know you too well to trust you. Still, the offer is a good one, even not knowing what I am letting myself in for. So. We can fly in—get through the Charnals, the Klu, the Inkrim, and right up to Stridegate. It won’t be easy and won’t be safe, but you must know that already. There are Urdas and Gnome raiders. There are worse things, too—and if they bring down your ship, that’s probably the end of us. Well, not necessarily for me, but almost certainly for you.”

“You would abandon us if that happened?” Railing demanded.

The big Troll leaned forward. “I might if you fail to tell me the truth somewhere along the way. I’ll risk myself up to a certain point, but not for people who don’t trust me. Are we clear about this?”

Railing took a deep breath and nodded. “If I tell you the truth at some point, will you stick with us to the end?”

“If I decide the truth merits it? Yes. If not, I will ask you to set down and let me off and you will be on your own. Of course, you can ride the back of that particular current as long as you choose. You are master of your own fate in this business, Railing Ohmsford, scion of the Ilse Witch. Just know that I am big and strong but not stupid.”

He brought his tankard to his lips and drained it. “We’re done for now. Come back for me in the morning. Right here. Bring the gold. As soon as I’ve seen to its safety, we’ll set out.”

He set down the tankard and got to his feet. “I hope you know what you’re getting yourselves into, but I doubt it.” He gave a Railing a look. “You’d better be good at using that magic of yours.” He stretched. “I’m off to bed.”

He lumbered across the room and out the door. Railing, still feeling combative from the confrontation, was surprised to find that, in spite of everything, he rather liked Challa Nand.

Though it was hard to explain exactly why.

They were on their way back to the Quickening when the boy remembered the offer Skint had made. “Where did you get a hundred gold pieces?”

Skint’s wizened face tightened further. “From him.”

He pointed at Farshaun, who shrugged. “It’s only coin, and coin can always be replaced. We can’t replace Redden, though.” He put a hand on Railing’s shoulder. “He’s worth it, isn’t he? Your brother? He’s worth more than that to me. You’re family, after all, and we Rovers look out for one another.”

Railing was momentarily speechless. A hundred pieces of gold was a lot of coin. “Thank you, Farshaun. I never even thought about having to pay.”

The old man nodded. “Good thing I’m here, then.” He glanced over at Skint. “That Troll had better be worth it, though.”

The Gnome hunched his shoulders against the rain. “More than worth it. You’ll see.”

Railing kept silent. He was back to thinking about the secrets he was keeping and the deceptions and manipulations he had employed as a result. He felt ashamed of himself, that he could not make himself trust his closest friends. But not ashamed enough that he was persuaded to change his mind and tell them the truth.

Not when it might mean turning back.

They walked the rest of the way with their heads lowered and the rain sheeting down.