James Clemens - Witch Storm: The Banned and the Banished Book Two

======================Notes:Scanned by JASC If you correct any minor errors, please change the version number below (and in the file name) to aslightly higher one e.g. from .9 to .95 or if major revisions, to v. 1.0/2.0 etc..Current e-book version is .9 (most formatting errors have been correctedbut OCR errors still occur inthe text, especially the first word in every chapter.)Comments, Questions, Requests (no promises): daytonascan4911@hotmail.comDO NOT READ THIS BOOK OF YOU DO NOT OWN/POSSES THE PHYSICAL COPY.THAT IS STEALING FROM THE AUTHOR.--------------------------------------------Book Information:Genre: Epic FantasyAuthor: James Clemens Name: Witch StormSeries: Banned and the Banished 2 ====================== Witch StormBook 2 of the Banned and the Banished-James Clemens FOREWORD TO WITCH STORMby Salazar Mat, novelist and playwright(NOTE: Here follow the exact words written on the eve of Salazar Muts execution for crimesagainst the Commonwealth)First and foremost, I am a writer.As a writer, I have come to believe that words should always be written in ones own blood. Then onewould be careful what he or she chooses to write. Who would dare waste their limited quantity of vitalfluid on mere flippancy and fictions? If words were pumped forth from ones heart, would they notalways speak with the truth of that persons soul?So though I write this with a cheap ink that clots upon my paper like the spittle from a dying mans throat,let me imagine it to be my lifes blood that inks this parchment. And in some ways, it truly is for frommy cell, I can hear the executioner sharpening his knives upon his stone, a noise that slices as sharp as theedge he grinds. When I am done with these words, he will open up my belly so all can read what thegods have written inside me. I will become an open book. So let these words be both a foreword to thisnext translation of the Kelvish Scrolls and a foreword to the open volume my corpse will become whenthe sun next rises.I am forced this night to write my story so that my dear wife, Delli, may die quickly under the axmansblade, rather than suffer and writhe upon the Stone of Justice. I write so she might die in peace. But as Itold you before, I must be truthful with my final words. And the truth is that whether or not the quality ofmy wifes death hung on my actions, I would still write this foreword. For you see, writing is not only my

craft but my life. True, writing earned bread for my children and a roof over my familys heads, but italso nourished my soul. Words sustained me. Words were my heart. So how could I refuse one last timeto tell a storyeven if its the story of my own damnation, a story to be used to frighten you away fromthe wonders inherent in the Scrolls.I know I am to be an example to you students who hope to become Scholars of the Commonwealth. Mydeath is to be a testimonial to the perversity and damnation that can lie within the text of the Scrolls. Sobe it.Here is my tale:Among the dank alleys of Gelph, I chanced upon a black market dealer in items arcane who offered thatwhich was forbidden. He stank of spiced sweetmeats and sour ale, and I was apt to shove him aside. Butthe scoundrel must have spied into my soul, for he whispered an offer I could not refuse: a chance toperuse words forbidden from ages past. He offered me a copy of the Scrolls, preserved on the flayedskin of a dead zealot. As a writer, I had heard rumors of such a text and suspected I would pay any pricefor the chance to read its words. And I was rightit cost me dearly to wrangle the copy from thefoul-toothed alley man.By candlelight, I read the entire text over the course of four sleepless days and nights. I feared someoneinterrupting and snatching the copy from before my eyes, so I read without stopping. My beard grewstubbled upon my cheek, but I did not cease until the last word reached my tired eyes.The first of the Scrolls seemed so innocuous I could not understand why it was banned. I raved that sucha benign work should be kept from the people, but by the end of the last Scroll, I knew I knew whythe Scrolls were kept locked away from the eyes of the populace. This made me more than just raveI raged against the injustice! And with the words of the Scrolls giving me power, I sought to bring thestory to the people. So I devised a plan.I thought I could convert the Scrolls into a playchange a few names and places, twist the story abitand still bring its hiddenmagick to the people. But a cast member betrayed me. On the opening night of my play, I was arrestedalong with my troupe and the entire audience in attendance.Of the two hundred people hauled away that rainy night, except for my wife, I am the last stillbreathing but their wails yet echo in my head. Over the five winters of my imprisonment, I have shedso many tears that thirst is always on my tongue. Even as I write these words, tears smear the wet ink inblack trails across the tan parchment.Yet as much sorrow as the perusal of the Scrolls has cost my family and many others, in my heart I stillcannot regret reading them. The Scrolls changed me with their words. I now know the truth! And thatknowledge cant be cut from me by the executioners knives. I will die with the final words of the Scrollson my lips and die content.As a writer, I always suspected that words held a certain magick. But upon reading the Scrolls, I nowunderstand just how powerful the written word can be.Words can be the blood of a people.POSTSCRIPT TO THE FOREWORDby Jirrob Sordun, profeddor of University Studied

(U.D.B.)Welcome back to the Scrolls.Why, you might wonder, do we waste the first few pages with the dying words of a blaspheming man?Salazar Mut was executed by public torture and slow decapitation at New Welk Prison in Sant Sibaroon the morning after he wrote the preceding foreword.His death, dear students, is the first lesson to be pondered before one should continue through theScrolls.Did you believe Muts words? Did you believe that words can be the blood of a people? That words canhave some arcane power? Do not be ashamed if you did, for Salazar Mut was a skilled writer.But let this be a lesson to you Do not trust words.Mut was under a delusion, a weakness of the mind caused by the untutored reading of the Scrolls.Let his death be the lesson herenot his words. Words did not save his life.So, before you open the first page of this second book, you must know the following truth and hardenyour heart by reciting it one hundred times before the sun sets today:Words do riot have power.The Scrolls do not have power.Only the Council has power.Assignation of Responsibility for the second ScrollThis copy is being assigned to you and is your sole responsibility. Its loss, alteration, or destructionwilt result in severe penalties (as stated in your local ordinances). Any transmission, copying, oreven oral reading in the presence of a nonclassmate is strictly forbidden. By signing below andplacing your fingerprint, you accept all responsibility and release the university from any damageit may cause you (or those aroundyou) by its perusal.SignatureDatePlace inked print of your right index finger here:*** WARNING ***If you should-perchance come, upon this text outside of properuniversity channels, please close this book now and alert the proper authorities for soft retrieval. Failure to do so can. lead to yourimmediate arrest and incarceration.TOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.WITCH STOR

Birthed in fire and shadowed by the wings of dragon Outside my window, a winters sun prepares to set into the blue of the Great Western Ocean. The skyabove is not the rosy glow of spring, but a bruised jumble of purples, reds, and yellows. I sit at my deskand wait, as I have done every night since finishing the first part of her story last year. For the pasthundred nights, I have watched the moon wax full and wane to a sliver several times from this very seat, apen poised above parchment, unable to write.Why? Why do I delay in continuing her tale? I know it is the only way to free me of the witchs wickedspell. Only by writing her entire tale in truthful words can I lift her curse and finally die. So am I draggingmy feet in a secret attempt to extend my interminable existence? Perhaps to live another century, or two,or maybe three?No. Time destroys all illusions about oneself. Like water flowing through a chasm, digging an ever deeperchannel, the passing of years has worn away the layers of my self-deception. This is the only reward herdamnable curse has granted me: a heart that can now see clearly.These days and nights of empty pages are not sprung from a desire to continue with my life, but simplyfrom dread, a paralyzing fear for what I must write next. Some things even the tincture of time cannotsoothe.I know next I must tell the tale of her dark journey, a road blackened by the long shadow of the witch.Yet I fear to put this story on paper. Not only will writing this account require unlocking and star-mg fullin the face again the horrors that lay along the road, but alsoyli UJHby placing ink to paper, it will make the legend more real, give substance and form to what is now onlymemory.Still I mustSo, as the bright days and rosy sunsets of spring and summer fade behind me, I find within the icybreezes and bruised skies of winter the will once again to write. This is the season in which I can tell hertale.It is not, however, the same season in which her story begins.Listen Can you hear the ice breaking in the mountain passes as spring finally releases winters holdupon the peaks of the Teeth, opening the way to the valleys below? Listen as the ice moans and crackslike thunder heralding the beginning of her travels.And like all journeys, foul or fair, it starts with a single stepDARK ROADSElena stepped from the cave, pushing aside the leather hanging that kept the warmth of the mountainfolks morning fires snug within the cavern. Even though spring was already a moon old, here among thepeaks the early morning hours were still laced with whispers of ice from the mountaintops. Free of thecaves, the air smelled crisp, scented with pine and highland poppy, and this morning, a breath of warmth