Witchbreaker (Dragon Apocalypse) (28 page)

As the light disappeared, so did the road. It came to an end with a row of pilings stretching off into black water, looking like the foundation of a bridge or a dock that had never been finished. Across the water, there was a thick forest of tangled trees. The air was cacophonous with frogs.

“I’m guessing this is where Walker will meet us,” said Sorrow.

Jetsam jumped from the wagon and swam into the air. “What do we need him for? From what I know, Avaris lives in a walking castle taller than these trees. It seems like she should be easy enough to spot. At least, if the light was better.”

“If her castle only walked this world, that would be true.” They all turned toward the voice and found Walker sitting on the bench where Jetsam had just been.

“You seem to know a thing or two about walking between worlds,” said Sorrow. “When I saw you on the Isle of Fire, I thought you were a ghost. Now you look solid enough. Are you a spirit, or a living man?”

Walker grinned. “Aren’t we all ghosts?”

“I’m reasonably sure I’m not,” said Jetsam, hovering above.

“Living men are merely bewildered ghosts, oblivious to their true nature,” Walker said. “Were you not dead before you were born?”

Bigsby smiled. “I like having him around. It means I’m no longer the craziest person here.”

Sorrow studied Walker. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I’ve been to the Sea of Wine and the Great Sea Above. I know that our reality is like the heart of an onion, surrounded by other layers. How is it that you move between them so easily?”

Walker’s face suddenly turned serious. “I’ve paid a great price. Nothing of my existence is easy.”

“What price?” asked Sorrow. “Who exactly are you? Why are you helping us? For that matter, the first thing you said to me was that you’d come from hell where you’d been chatting with demons. Why should we trust you at all?”

Walker shook his head. “I speak to demons for the same reason I speak to men. Infinity is a lonesome burden. Conversation offers a moment of relief. As for who I am, I was once called—” He suddenly let out a string of whistles that sounded like a bird call. “I was the shaman of the Spike Bark tribe. I was taught by my father to grind roots into a paste that I rubbed in my eyes. This allowed me to see the true nature of the world. For a long time, I served my tribe, helping guide the spirits of my dead brethren to the Realm of Roots.”

“That’s another afterlife?” asked Sorrow.

“I would not use the word ‘after,’” said Walker. “Though even I made the mistake in assuming there was a distinction between the material world and the spirit world. I did not learn the truth until my wife died. In my grief, I tried to follow her spirit. But she was already tangled in the roots, being sucked back into what I thought of as the living realms. When I tried to follow her back, to discover how she would be reborn, I found myself... elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

Walker looked wistful. “It looked the same, my village in the trees, my children, my brothers, my sisters. But all was changed. I saw the truth for the first time. What I thought of as the ‘real’ world was only a waking dream, neither more nor less substantial than the Realm of Roots. The treasure I thought of as life was only a facet of the larger jewel of death. I was certain that I misunderstood what I saw, so I left my village to seek the wisdom of others. Eventually, as I was led through more and more abstract realms by my guides, all barriers between the worlds became visible to me. They’re thin as tissue, and easily torn.”

Sorrow had more questions, but Brand interrupted. “I’m sure that this would be a fascinating conversation under other circumstances, but I’m having a little trouble focusing while I’m being devoured by mosquitoes. Why don’t we set up camp and get a fire going?”

“You didn’t come here to camp,” said Walker. “You came seeking Avaris.”

“Any chance we’ll find her while I still have some blood left?” Brand asked, slapping a bug that had alighted on the side of his neck.

“Her castle is near,” said Walker. “I came here last night and sang for it. It enjoys music. It will return to listen once more for my serenade.”

“Start singing. That sounds a hell of a lot easier than human sacrifice. I’m not sure why you thought that required a lot of boldness, however.”

“Sacrifice will be required. The castle will listen to my song, but it will not leave the Black Bog unless it can feed.”

“The Black Bog is the swamp?” asked Jetsam.

“The Black Bog is another realm of the dead,” said Sorrow. “It’s part of the local mythology.”

“What kind of sacrifice?” Brand asked Walker.

“You must die, of course,” the pygmy said. “But not for long. I’ll guide your spirit back into your body once the castle crosses into this world to feed.”

“So... what? I just slit my wrists and trust you to handle the rest?”

“The castle dislikes the taste of suicide,” said Walker. “It prefers the flavor of murder.”

“If we kill Brand, what guarantee do we have that the castle will notice?” asked Sorrow.

“It’s here right now, watching us.”

Everyone craned their necks toward the forest, searching the shadowy treetops.

“Come here,” Walker said, motioning for Sorrow. “I’ll help you see past the veil.”

Sorrow leaned toward the pygmy. Without warning, he grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her forward. A shard of obsidian appeared in his hand, seemingly from nowhere. She cried in pain as he sliced the sharp stone across her eyebrows.

She punched him in the chest and jerked away. She grabbed her face with both hands. The wound across her brow didn’t feel deep, but it hurt like hell. She wiped at the blood dripping into her eyes.

“Why did you do that?” she grumbled.

“Look to the trees,” he said.

She did so. She grew still. Looming above the forest was a huge shadow, oval in shape, like a turtle shell large enough to encompass a village. Unlike a turtle, it was held aloft by four spindly insect legs, at least a hundred yards tall. At the front of the oval was a second, smaller oval, almost like a head. On that head were two narrow slits, glowing pale red, like eyes formed of embers.

She swallowed hard as she realized the eyes were looking directly at her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

DARK MIRROR

“W
HAT IS IT
you see?” Slate asked, hopping down from the wagon.

Sorrow said softly, “It’s here. Her walking palace. I see it.”

“Cut me,” Slate said to Walker.

The pygmy stood on the seat of the wagon to comply.

Slate sucked in air through his teeth as he pressed his hands against the wound. He shook off his pain and looked up. His jaw went slack.

“Is it... a structure? Or a living thing?” he asked.

“Whatever it is, it’s staring at me,” Sorrow whispered. “I feel... I feel the way a mouse must feel when there’s an owl on the branch above.”

“I guess someone needs to kill me,” said Brand. He looked at Walker. “Should they stab me?”

“Strangling would be best,” said Walker. “Your body remains mostly undamaged, making it easier to return.”

“Slate, you’ve got good strangling hands,” said Brand.

“I’ll not kill an innocent man, even if asked,” said Slate.

“Me neither,” said Jetsam.

Brand looked surprised. “You kill people all the time, Jetsam! I’ve heard you sing while you’re doing it!”

“Yeah, but only to defend my family. Killing for any other reason means that when you make that final trip to the Sea of Wine, the Joyful Isles will forever retreat on the horizon.”

“How about you, Bigsby?” asked Brand. “Do you have an appetite for fratricide?”

“No,” said the dwarf. “How can you be so flippant about this? I know this is important to Sorrow, but why would you do something so stupid?”

Brand raised an eyebrow. “Stupid? I’m being offered a chance to experience death with the promise it won’t be permanent. How can anyone with a healthy level of curiosity not be intrigued at the thought?” He turned to Sorrow and said, “Since you’re the one wanting to see Avaris, I guess it’s up to you to do the deed.”

Sorrow heard a crashing, splashing noise as Brand spoke. She looked to the shadows and saw that the walking castle had turned tail and was running away.

“There’s no point in anyone dying now,” said Walker, shaking his head. “The castle has been spooked. It will not return, even if we offered it a dozen souls.”

“No!” Sorrow screamed, slithering forward into the murky water of the swamp.

Slate splashed into the water beside her.

“There’s no point in chasing it,” said Walker. “It retreats further into the Black Bog.”

“You can cross between worlds,” said Sorrow. “You’ve taught Zetetic! Lead us!”

Walker laughed. “Zetetic practices seven disciplines of insanity each morning before breakfast. His mind is hardened against the blending of the real and the unreal. Untrained minds fall prey to nightmares and never escape.”

Sorrow whipped back to the shore with the speed of a rattlesnake striking. She grabbed Walker by his shoulders and shook him. “Don’t talk to me about falling prey to nightmares! I’ve seen things that would frighten your damned demon friends and come out stronger for it! Take me over!”

“If she goes, I go,” said Slate.

Sorrow’s hands suddenly lost their grip on Walker as his body turned to fog.

As he faded away, his laughter lingered in the air, along with his final words, “How can you go when you’re already there?”

Sorrow drew back. To her horror, Brand, Jetsam, and Bigsby were dead, reduced to skeletons fallen across the ox-wagon. The ox, too, had become a pile of jumbled bones.

“We’ve crossed the veil,” Slate said softly as he turned slowly to study the landscape. The swamp, once abundant with life, was reduced to dead trees and rotting marsh grass. Not a single frog chirp disturbed the still air.

Sorrow glanced back toward the walking palace. It was a mile away by now, only a gray silhouette against a starless night sky black as ink. Slate started to jump into the water once more, but Sorrow caught him.

“Careful,” she said. “If the legends are correct, once you swim in these dark channels, you lose all memories of your mortal life.”

“That would mean I would forget that I don’t remember who I am,” said Slate. “It sounds almost like a fate I’d welcome. If we don’t enter the water, how are we to give chase?”

Sorrow sighed. “I wish I’d grown some damned dragon wings instead of this dumb tail.”

As the words left her lips, she cried out in agony. It felt as if someone had just driven a sword into her back. She fell to the dusty ground, her body trembling.

“Sorrow!” Slate cried, kneeling beside her. “What’s wrong?”

“Can’t... breathe,” she said through clenched teeth. It felt as if her armor was shrinking, crushing her torso. In desperation, she willed her glass armor to fall away, returning it to the sand from which it came.

Sorrow sucked in air as she sat up. She covered her bare breasts as she looked at Slate, who was staring at her with wide eyes. She nearly fell backwards. A terrible weight had settled on her shoulders. Throwing modesty to the wind, she reached both hands over her shoulders and discovered a giant bulge on her back, like a watermelon between her shoulder blades. The skin was so taut it felt as if it would tear open any second.

And then it did, with a sickening wet rip. She screamed, but the pain was followed instantly by relief. She looked over her shoulders and found black, bat-like wings spreading from her spine, large as sails. They were wet and slimy, like a newborn baby, and as they moved the cool air felt soothing.

She stood up, stretching her wings, wondering if they would be as simple to master as her tail had been. Then she realized she’d just stood up. She stared down at her bare legs, now restored to full humanity.

“You wished it,” said Slate, “and it came true.”

“So it would seem,” said Sorrow, once again having the presence of mind to drape an arm across her breasts.

“I wish I could remember who I was,” said Slate.

He stood silently for a moment, his face devoid of emotion.

“Did it... did it work?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Maybe you have no memories to restore,” she said. “I don’t think my wings came out of nowhere. Instead, it’s like I have a certain amount of dragon in me, and I was able to move it around, thanks to the dream-like nature of this place.”

“Can you fly?” Slate asked.

“That’s kind of the obvious question, isn’t it?” Sorrow said, managing to muster a feeble grin.

She turned her head toward the skies, spread her wings, and, in a sensation that filled her with indescribable pleasure, she bent her knees and ankles to crouch. It felt good to have legs again. The muscles in her thighs and calves felt warm and powerful. She tested their strength as she jumped with all her might.

Her wings beat down, striking the earth, lifting her higher. She flapped again and shot up a dozen yards, leveling off, feeling the wind beneath her wings as she glided in a wide circle around Slate, who was gawking. It was an unwelcome sensation to have a man stare so openly at her nude body. On the other hand, if Slate had suddenly shed his clothes and grown dragon wings, would she have been able to turn her eyes away?