The Banned And The Banished - Witch Fire Part 1

Wit'ch Fire.

James Clemens.

The Banned and the Banished.

This is the way the world ended, and like grains of sand cast into the winds at Winter's Eyrie, this is the way all other worlds began.

Words, written in black ink on parchment, are a fool's paradise, and I, as a writer, know this only too well. p.r.o.nunciations change; meanings mutate; nothing survives intact the ravages of blind time.

So why am I writing this? Why pursue this folly? This is not the first time I have told her d.a.m.ned story. I have written of her many times, in many incarnations. One time, virginal in her honor. Another time, evil without soul or conscience. I have portrayed her as a buffoon, a prophet, a clown, a savior, a hero, and a villain. But in reality, she was all these and none. She was simply a woman.

And for the first time, I will tell her true story. A truth that may, with luck, finally destroy me. I still remember her promise, as if only a single heartbeat has pa.s.sed. "Curse or blessing, little man? Do with itwhat you want. But when the marching of years weighs too heavy, tell my story... Tell my true story and you will find your end."

But can I? So much time has pa.s.sed.

A thousand tongues, mine included, have distorted the events with each telling, twisting them detail by detail, word by word, each storyteller embellishing his favorite parts. Like starving curs on a meat bone, we tear at its substance, dragging it through the grime, fouling it with saliva and blood, until nothing but a ragged remnant of the original survives.

As I put ink to paper, my hand shakes. I sit here in this rented room and scrawl each word with a sore wrist. Around me are piled stacks of crumbling parchments and dusty books, bits and pieces of the puzzle. I collect them to me, like dear old friends, keeping them close at hand and heart, something I can rub with my fingertips and smell with my nose, some tangible evidence of my distant past.

As I hold a pen poised, I remember her final words, each a knife that cuts jaggedly. Her sweet face, the sunlight off her shorn red hair, the bruise under her right eye, the b.l.o.o.d.y lip that her tongue kept touching as she fought out her final words to me... and I remember the sadness in her eyes as I laughed at her folly. d.a.m.n her eyes!

But that was later, much later. To understand the end, you must first know the beginning. And to understand even the beginning, you must understand the past, the past that had disappeared into myth long before she was born.

Let me show you, if I can find it: a parchment that tells of the creation of the Book itself, the tome that would destroy a girl and a world.

Ah, here it is...

PROLOGUE.

[Text note: The following has been determined to be an excerpt from L'orda Rosi-The Order of the Rose-written in the high Alasean tongue almost five centuries before the birth of she who will be known as the Wit'ch of Winter's Eyrie.]

MIDNIGHT AT THE VALLEY OF THE MOON.

Drums beat back the stillness of the winter's valley, snow etching the landscape in silver. A hawk screeched a protest at the interruption of its nighttime nesting.

Er'ril leaned his knuckles on the crumbling sill and craned his neck out the inn's third-story window. The valley floor was dotted with the fires of the men who still followed the way of the Order. So few campfires, he thought. He watched the black shadows bustling around the firelight, arming themselves.

They, too, knew the meaning of the drums.

The night breeze carried s.n.a.t.c.hes of shouted orders and the scent of oiled armor. Smoke from the fires reached toward the heavens, carrying the prayers of the soldiers down below.

And beyond the fires, at the edge of the valley, ma.s.sed a darkness that ate the stars.

The hawk screeched again. Er'ril's lips thinned to a frown. "Silence, small hunter," he whispered into the moonless night. "By morning you and the scavengers will be feastingyour bellies full. But for now, leave me in peace."Greshym, the old mage, spoke behind him. "They hold the heights. What chance have we?"

Er'ril closed his eyes and let his head hang lower, a sick tightness clamping his belly. "We'll give him a bit longer, sir. He may yet find a weakness in their lines."

"But the dreadlords ma.s.s at the entrance to the valley. Listen to the drums. The Black Legions march."

Er'ril turned from the window to face Greshym with a sigh and sat on the sill, eying the old man.

Greshym's red robes hung in tatters on his thin frame as he paced before the feeble fire. The old mage, his dusty hair just wisps around his ears, walked with a bent back, his eyes red from the fumes of the hearth.

"Then pray for him," Er'ril said. "Pray for all of us."

Greshym stopped and warmed his backside by the fire while frowning back at him. "I know what's working behind your gray eyes, Er'ril of Standi: hope. But both you and your Standi clansmen are clutching empty air."

"What would you have us do? Bow our heads to the dreadlords' axes?"

" It will come to that soon enough." Greshym rubbed the stump of his right wrist, almost accusingly.

Er'ril remained silent, his eyes caught by the sight of that smooth stump. He should not have pressed the old man some six moons ago. Er'ril remembered the Gul'-gothal dog that had trapped the two of them and a handful of refugees in the Field of Elysia.

Greshym seemed to notice his stare. He raised his stump toward the flickering flame. "Listen, Boy, we both knew the risks."

"I panicked."

"You were frightened for the children, what with your niece among the townspeople."

"I shouldn't have pushed you. You told me what would happen if you tried to renew." Er'ril bowed his head, picturing the late afternoon sunlight slanting across the fields of tallac. He again saw Greshym raise his right fist to the heavens, begging for the gift of Chi, his hand vanishing in the fading sunlight as the ritual began. But this time, when the old mage pulled his arm back down, instead of his hand reappearing richly coated in red Chyric power, Greshym pulled back only a stump.

"It was my choice, Er'ril. Put this aside. It was you who saved all our hides that day."

Er'ril fingered the scar on his forearm. "Perhaps..." After Greshym's maiming, he had lunged at the Gul'gothal beast, tearing the creature to b.l.o.o.d.y ribbons. Even now, he was unsure if rage or guilt had driven his wild stabs. Afterward, he had been covered in steaming blood and gore; the children had shied from him in fear-even his niece-as if he were the monster.

Greshym snorted. "I knew it would happen. The same fate befell the other mages of the Order." He shoved the sleeve over his stump, hiding it away. "Chi has abandoned us."

Er'ril raised his eyes. "Not everyone has suffered the same fate."

"Only because they have held off renewing." Greshym sighed. "But they will. They will be forced to try.

Eventually even the hand of your brother, Shorkan, will fade. When I last saw him, the Rose had already waned to a feeble pink. Barely enough power for one decent spell. Once that is gone, he will be forcedto reach into Chi himself, to try to renew; then he, too, will lose his hand."

"Shorkan knows this. The academy in the neighboring valley-"

"Foolish hope! Even if he should find a student who is still bloodred, of what use is one child's fist? It would take a dozen mages fresh to the Rose to drive off the force out there. And what of the other hundred battles going on across our lands? We're besieged by the Gul'gothal dreadlords from all fronts."

"He has a vision."

"Posh!" By now, Greshym had returned to face the fire. He held silent for several breaths; then he spoke to the embers. "How could three centuries of civilization vanish so quickly? Our spell-cast spires that once reached to the very clouds have toppled to dust. Our people rage against us, blaming us for the loss of Chi's support and protection. Cities lie in ruin. The feasting roar of the Gul'gotha echoes across the countryside."

Er'ril remained silent. He had squeezed his eyes closed when a horn suddenly trumpeted across the valley-a Standi horn! Could it be?

Er'ril swung to the window and almost fell through as he leaned out into the night, one ear c.o.c.ked to listen. The horn blared again, and even the distant drums of the Black Legion seemed to falter a beat.

Er'ril spotted a commotion by the northern campfires. He squinted, trying to pierce the night's blanket. A roiling of activity disturbed the fire pits; then for just a heartbeat, outlined by the camp's cooking fire, he saw the rearing of a chestnut stallion. It was Shorkan's steed!

The dark swallowed away the sight before Er'ril could tell if the horse was mounted by one or two riders. Er'ril struck the sill with his gloved fist.

Greshym was already at Er'ril's shoulder. "Is it Shorkan?"

"I believe so!" Er'ril pushed away from the window. "Hurry below! He may need a.s.sistance."

Er'ril did not wait to see if Greshym followed as he rushed from the room and pounded down the wooden steps of the inn, leaping from the last landing to the main floor. Once his feet hit the planks, he charged across the common room. Makeshift beds lined the wall, with bandaged men occupying nearly all of them. Normally, he would stop beside a bed and place a hand on a knee or exchange jokes with one of the injured, but not now. Healers stepped aside as he burst across the room, and a posted guardsman swung the door wide to allow him outside.

The frigid night air burned his lungs as he flew through the portal and across the inn's porch. As he reached the icy mud at the foot of the porch, he heard the thundering of heavy-shod hooves approaching fast. Flickering torches around the entrance did little to illuminate the horse's approach; no sooner had he sighted the flaring nostrils and wild eyes of the stallion than it was upon him. The rider yanked back the reins. The steed buried its forelimbs to the pasterns in mud as it heaved to a halt. Foamy spittle flew from its lips as it shook its mane, and huge plumes of white blew into the black night from its feverish nose.

But Er'ril gave no more than pa.s.sing notice to the savagely exhausted horse. Where he might ordinarily blast the foul rider who would so poorly treat such a beautiful beast, tonight he knew the rider's urgency.

He raised a hand to his brother.

Shorkan shook his head and slid off the horse, landing with a groan but keeping his feet under him. He clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Well met, Brother. Give me a hand with my friend."

For the first time Er'ril noticed the small second rider who had been mounted behind his brother. Thesmall figure shivered in a borrowed coat over a set of nightclothes. Blue lipped and pale faced, the towheaded boy could be no older than ten. Er'ril helped the boy off the sweating horse and half carried the trembling child up the steps to the porch.

"We've a warm room and hot ko'koa on the third floor,"

' Er'ril said over his shoulder to his brother. Shorkan was pa.s.sing the reins of his stallion over to a groomsman. Er'ril saw the pain in his brother's eyes as the horse limped away.

Both brothers bore the gray eyes and thick black hair of their Standi heritage, but Shorkan's face, even though he was the younger of the two, wore deep-etched lines of I worry at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Er'ril wished he could shoulder more of his brother's burden, but he was not the one chosen by Chi to bear the gift of the Rose. Er'ril could only offer the strength of his arm and the edge of his blade to aid their cause.

"Quick then. Up to the room." Shorkan tipped his head, listening to the drums from the heights. "We've a long night ahead of us still." Er'ril led the way inside and to the stairs, the boy stumbling beside him. At least some color was returning to the child's face as the heat from the fireplaces warmed him. His pale thin lips reddened, and his cheeks bloomed with a rosy warmth. From under straw-colored hair, his blue eyes, rare for these parts, stared back at Er'ril.

Shorkan studied the number of beds as they pa.s.sed through the common room. "More injured?"

"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 man-sized 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 pa.s.sed 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?"