Witch Bane (16 page)

Darius stared at Victor a moment, his face
devoid of expression.

“
Come, general, do not let your
animosity for me weigh upon Emerald. She carries within her a boy,
a warlock, just as your beloved Alise did those many years back. If
this world is ever to be free of the Council’s rule, we must
protect them in the hopes they will one day rise up against the
masters and send the cruel witches to the pyre. Is that not what
you want?”

The general said nothing. He stood rigid,
drawing slow and steady breaths. At last, he gave a curt nod.

Victor smiled. “Then we are agreed?”

“
We are, but only for her sake, and
for the child’s.” He gestured to Emerald. “I do nothing for you,
Victor.”

“
Your reasons matter little to me,
Darius, only your actions. Guard her with your life, and if I can
do the same for your son, you have my word it will be so.” He met
the general’s eyes. “And so you might understand what you face, the
White Witch knows you live. She also knows of your son, grown into
his power. It is no longer just the resistance scalps they seek,
but yours, as well.”

The general said nothing, but Emerald could
see the worry etched across his face and knew it was for his son,
not for himself.

Victor turned away from the man and held his
arms out to Emerald. She stepped in close and kissed him. He
returned it with a smile, brushing the hair from her face. He
planted another upon her brow and wiped a tear from her cheek with
his thumb. “Be safe. I will see you soon.”

He pulled away and strode alongside the
general, leaning in to whisper at his ear. The man nodded after a
moment, repeating his oath to guard her. Victor nodded and gave her
one last smile, his lips forming the word ‘soon’ before he turned
and strode into the woods. She watched him go, the general moving
to stand beside her.

After the forest swallowed Victor, she
turned to face Darius, her eyes on his. “For all the barbs between
you, he trusts you.”

The general sighed. “We were born of the
same womb, of sorts; warriors from the moment we both opened our
eyes. I have his word, and he mine. There is faith in such
proclamations among us, no matter our creed. If a soldier cannot
trust another soldier’s word, we might as well let the witches have
the world.”

Emerald lowered her chin, her gaze dropping
to her feet. “You hate witches?”

Without hesitation, he shook his head.
Emerald looked up at him as he spoke.

“
Certainly not all of them, child, but
I have no love for the Council and its tyranny.” He gestured for
her to walk with him. “There were once many good women in Corilea,
my Alise but one of them, but there was also a poison. Power is a
corruption that wears on a person, devouring them from the inside
until there is nothing left but an empty husk, all the goodness and
propriety eaten away. That is what has happened to the Council
since they murdered my beloved. Honor is lost, and only the selfish
desire for eternal life remains.”

She turned away once more as they walked,
unable to face him for fear he might see the truth of what lay
inside her. She didn’t believe Darius could know who she was and
still be willing to aid her, but she knew she must watch her words.
“Would you kill them, given the chance?”

A feral smile colored his lips. “I would…I
will.”

A chill of fear prickled her skin and
Emerald wrapped her arms about her chest to ward it off. Darius,
apparently seeing her shudder, slipped his cloak over her shoulders
with gentle hands, perhaps thinking she was cold. She forced a
smile for his kindness, wondering how gracious he would be were he
to learn she was the daughter of the woman who had slain his love.
She didn’t have to imagine what he’d do, the look he’d given Victor
a clear indication of the depth of his rage.

He put his arm protectively about her
shoulder and urged her on. “Come, child, we had best move faster.
We must reach the resistance camp before Elizabeth finds cause to
move on.”

She nodded, doing her best to keep her
thoughts calm while she matched his pace, her dagger still clutched
in her hand, hidden beneath the general’s borrowed cloak. He had
sworn to protect her, and she believed he would. She thought it
best, though, that she find Elizabeth before something happened to
bring the truth to light. The wrong words could turn her protector
into a foe, in an instant. She’d already betrayed her mother and
fled Corilea. She could afford to make no more enemies.

Eighteen

Sebastian’s eyes sprung open, the world
before them blurred tides of light, which distorted his vision.
Insects chirped in the distance, their noises mingling with the
sounds of bells ringing in his skull. As his vision began to clear,
he moved to get up. Pain rattled his frame, a snowstorm of
flickering lights nearly blinding him once more. He bit back a
groan and used a tree to leverage himself into a seated position.
The rough bark tore at his back and every touch was its own tiny
hell. After a few moments, the world seeming to sway around him, he
managed to sit erect.

He heard a hiss in the foliage a ways before
him, the sound followed by cursing. He didn’t need to recognize her
voice to realize it was the Red Witch, still alive. Adrenaline
sparked alive inside his veins at the memory of where he was. He
looked down and stifled a groan when he saw a dark stain spreading
along the side his tunic. The wound at his ribs likely torn open,
he had clearly lost a lot of blood while he lay there
unconscious.

The witch growled and cursed again, her
voice even closer now. He could hear the snap of twigs and the
flutter of leaves as she moved through the woods toward him, not
bothering to hide her approach. She would be upon him soon.

Sebastian rolled to his side and was glad to
see he’d held onto his sword. It sat heavy in his aching hand, but
it was still there. He got to his knees and bit his tongue as a
burning agony exploded at his side, the flesh tearing at the wound.
Only his fear kept him moving, the Red Witch closing, her voice
becoming clearer, her words sharper. Sebastian could barely lift
his arms. There was no way he could fight.

His heart threatened to burst from his ribs
as he desperately looked about, searching for some place to hide.
Just a few yards away, he spied the crushed corpse of the Red Guard
captain he’d dropped the tree on, her cloak splayed out amongst the
branches beside her. Somehow or another, he’d gotten turned around.
He cursed, realizing there would be soldiers nearby to help the
witch; not that she needed it. He could hear her coming, foliage
rustling behind him. He needed to move, or he would die on his
knees.

He swore that wouldn’t happen.

Despite his body’s resistance, Sebastian got
to his feet, pulling himself up with his left arm, barely noticing
the skin he tore from his blistered palm doing so. His breath cold
and stale in his chest, he staggered forward, circling past the
trunk that had had laid him low. He hurried as best he could toward
the fallen tree, certain any moment a blast of fire would strike
him from behind and end his flight.

Unable to properly control his legs, sharp
tingles running their lengths as though they’d been asleep for
years, his feet dragged, every scrape echoing loudly in the woods.
The witch had to know what direction he fled, and would find him
soon. Even that couldn’t spur his feet on.

As he neared the fallen tree, he could feel
his endurance fading. Were she to catch him now, there would be
little fight left in him. It would be a slaughter. The blade of his
sword dragged in the humus, carving a snake’s trail in his wake to
lead her right to him. He summoned the last of his strength and
lifted the sword as he stumbled into the branches of the downed
tree. They tore at him and tugged at his tunic while he forced his
way to its trunk. He could hear the witch calling to him, her words
weighted with her fury.

Wedged between its neighbors, and propped
upon the body of the captain, the fallen tree sat about a foot off
the ground. Sebastian could smell the tangy scent of blood as he
dropped to his knees, the leaves around the body stained red where
the earth had yet to drink it in. He felt the cold wetness of it on
his hands, and he glanced beneath the trunk. He had hoped to slip
under its bulk but upon closer examination, he could see there was
little room. He would never fit.

His eyes darted about and his mind seized on
an idea. He tore a piece of his ravaged tunic and hung it openly
upon the branches near the trunk, then kicked at the muddy dirt to
pile it against the trunk to give it the appearance of him hiding
behind it. He then scrambled as best he could over the body of the
dead captain, worming under her cloak, which hung amongst the
branches. He held his breath as the Red Witch burst from the trees,
no more than ten feet from where he lay. Through a narrow tear in
the sheltering cloak, he could see her.

Anger wasn’t the only thing visible upon her
face. At some point before she had cast him aside, Sebastian
realized he must have struck a clean blow. Her left arm hung limp
at her side, the shoulder of her crimson robes torn away and
stained dark with her blood. The flesh underneath was gray, the
wound blackened and bubbling. Reddened tendrils crept like vines up
her neck to disappear in the wild curls of her bright hair. Her
lips were peeled back into a snarl, her clenched teeth visible as
she marched forward, smoke curling up from the ball of fire
clutched in her right hand.

Sebastian saw her glance to his cover and
his heart stilled in his chest. He stayed silent, daring not even
to think as he peered at her through the tiny rip. She glared as
though she were looking straight at him, then her eyes swung away
toward the trunk. He heard her muted laugh and caught sight of a
flash as she hurled the fire at the tree. The fireball crashed into
the trunk right above where he had piled the mud, the bark catching
fire instantly. She drew closer, snapping the branches into
kindling and scattering them with a wave of her hand, kinetic
energy sweeping them from her path. Another ball built in her hand,
and she crouched before the trunk, peering beneath it

Though he’d only hoped to misdirect the
witch, leading her away from where he lay curled beneath the dead
woman’s cloak, Sebastian couldn’t help but recognize the
opportunity her exposed back presented. The inner voice of reason
protested, but he brushed it aside. All she needed to do was turn
and he would be spotted, the cloak doing nothing to hide him from
where she crouched. He had to make a decision: risk all and die
with his sword in his hand, or cower in the mud and hope she didn’t
notice him.

He was too much his father’s son for it to
be a choice.

Sebastian tightened his grip on his sword,
realizing he would not be able to get his feet underneath him
quickly, or quietly, enough to surprise her. He grinned as he
contemplated his only option, and was glad his father wasn’t there
to see his last act. If he survived, he could tell whatever story
he wanted to salvage the glory of the moment; it could just never
be the truth.

Like a log, his sword held out over his
head, he rolled from his hiding place and barreled toward the
witch. She spun as he broke through the branches, falling onto her
backside, her eyes going wide at the sight of him. He was on her
before she could get up.

He swung his sword in an arc, the blade
crashing into her side. Its edge cut deep, slipping between her
ribs. She screeched as she fell to her side. Blood spilled from her
wound. Sebastian gave her no time to recover. His momentum slowed
by his sword wedged into her flesh, he got to his knees and ripped
the blade free. She let loose another shriek, its piercing grate
ending as he thrust the tip of his sword through her mouth. The
witch spasmed once and went rigid, crumpling to the ground. The
quicksilver sword pulled free as she fell back, blackened blood
gushing up to swallow her tongue.

Sebastian stared at her, unable to believe
she was truly dead. With a tentative touch, he reached out and set
his hand upon her breast. He felt nothing against his palm.

He had slain the Red Witch.

The glorious thought echoing in his head, he
knew he couldn’t remain there. The Red Guard would swarm the forest
to find him, and he knew the rest of the Council would be close
behind. He’d gotten lucky with the witch, their battle turning them
around the flank of her forces, but fate would never cast such dice
again.

As sick and weak as he felt, he knew he had
to go. Once more he got to his feet, the adrenaline of the kill
muting his pain, somewhat. It was just enough to allow him to set
his boots on the path to flight. Each step was like dragging a
headstone, but he swore he wouldn’t falter. He blew a soft kiss to
the wind at the memory of his mother, amused that he thought of
Athuul right then, and staggered on. No matter what stood in his
way, he was determined to live until he could reach his father.

He could curl up and die after he’d seen the
look on the old man’s face when he told him the Red Witch was
dead.

Nineteen

Emerald clutched to her stomach as she
walked, her dagger long since slipped into her waistband. Weeks on
horseback had done little to prepare her for trudging through the
woods on foot. Her back ached and her legs had gone nearly numb,
sharpened tingles extending their length. Every step stirred them
to agitated life. The general helped her along, but outside of him
carrying her, there was nothing he could do to alleviate her
discomfort, and she would never bring herself to ask that of him.
She sighed. For all the horse’s jarring gait and the inevitable
sickness it brought on, as well as the bruises the saddle had left
purpled on her behind, Emerald wished for her mount now.