The Witch's Daughter - Laken Cane Page 0,101
that Rune had never seen. Hideous, horrible things. Trolls. Hairy two legged beasts. Winged beasts.
Vampires, wolves.
“The end of times,” someone screamed, and Rune couldn’t have agreed more.
The witch might die. Rune might destroy her. But her death wasn’t going to change what came before.
Madness swirled in the air along with the blood.
Chaotic magic licked the ground and flew through the sky.
It was an impossible war.
They were all going to die.
They struggled like desperate animals, no longer thinking.
Just killing.
All of them.
Rune shook her head, dazed.
She’d leave the bloody battle to the maddened fighters.
Damascus was her responsibility.
And as she felt Mother Skyll’s approval, warm and heavy, she saw that the witch’s fighters had begun killing each other.
They’d gone crazy.
Even the crawlers had gone mad—they were biting each other, themselves, even the sharp rocks on the ground.
Rune could not worry about anything else.
Her only concern was the witch.
Killing the witch.
Freeing the world, freeing herself.
But that thought caused her to stumble.
Who am I?
She wasn’t Rune, not really, not then.
A series of images shot through her mind. Memories, emotions, realizations.
She was Skyll.
She was the ground that had soaked up rivers of blood and gallons of tears, the sky that had sheltered broken bodies and shimmerless wanderers. She was the blackened, gnarled trees that had canopied shocking secrets and tremendous bravery. She was the currents of air that had carried countless souls, wavering hopes and unspoken dreams.
She was the mysterious moon that cloaked and shadowed and watched over the sleeping land, and the glorious sun that burned through darkness and warmed cold hearts. She was the rain that washed away the stains of a hard, bloody day.
She was the one who’d gone on, the one who remained, and the time that had passed.
She was Mother Skyll.
Or, more precisely, she was the host of Mother Skyll.
“This is my world,” she yelled, “and I’ve come to claim it.”
Damascus shrieked, not from rage or frustration, but from terror and sudden comprehension.
She’d discovered she couldn’t leave the invisible walls of magic Snow and Rune had built. She was going to have to face Rune, and she was going to have to face her destiny.
Rune lapped up that scream like a crawler sucking in fear—lapped it up and wanted more.
For the witch had scorned the Mother. She’d scarred her, mistreated her, laughed at her. She’d done everything she could to destroy the Mother, and the Mother was going to make her pay.
Finally.
“I am magic,” Damascus screamed, jerking her beast in frantic circles as she sought an escape that did not exist. At last she leapt off him and with a single push, sent him tumbling over the edge of the bone hill to smash into the crowd below.
Then she bent her knees and jumped, rising twenty feet above the hill before she stopped to stare down at Rune. Her hair spread around her, black and long and waving gently, and the ends of the thick strands glowed red like banked coals.
More dead rose from the ground to offer their skills to the Army of Death and Darkness, and the witch’s dungeon keepers released shimmer prisoners to heed the call of the princess.
From all over Skyll, its people marched to battle.
Rune knew, because they walked upon her. They walked under her, through her, with her.
Each minute, each second she grew in power.
She had to.
“For my people,” Rune whispered, and she jumped.
There was nothing she couldn’t do.
She flew like a missile at the witch. The air lifted her with the strength and ferocity of a million arms, with the speed of a thousand master vampires.
No fear.
She rammed the witch so hard she nearly went through her, and for a moment she saw, and felt, the swirling mass of screaming, trapped souls.
She saw herself in there.
Her monster.
Her monster bit the invisible force that held her, clawing with her vicious claws, screaming in rage, her eyes wide and bloody.
Rune lost her mind for a second as she witnessed her monster—herself—trapped and full of murder and blackness inside the witch.
She saw that there was nothing…good in her monster.
She didn’t care. She wanted that part of herself back, because without it, she was incomplete. She was less.
“You cannot win,” Damascus screamed. “You cannot!”
“I can’t lose,” Rune said. “I have the fates on my side and the world herself guiding me.”
The witch released a stream of fire that Rune was too slow to dodge, and she felt her skin burn and melt before she shrugged off the pain and absorbed the terrible magic.
The witch’s eyes widened and she