A Nameless Witch (12 page)

Newt ruffled. The demon rose up in his flesh. The only sign of this was a bloodthirsty burn in his eyes.

"Not yet," I said.

The army and the horde collided. Despite all the rigorous training and my own contributions, I half expected the goblings to gush over the soldiers, reducing them to a field of bloodred grass and gnawed bones. This was how most of the men in the front of the charge fared. An avalanche of goblings buried many Others ran about with the beasts clamped to their throats and limbs. There were screams, certainly, but nothing could be heard save the hungry shrieks of the horde. It looked as if the army would only serve as the horde's next meal. Then the miraculous happened. The soldiers started fighting back. Even more miraculously, they actually did so with some effect.

Of course, a soldier couldn't swing a sword in this battle without striking a gobling or three. Yet the horde mingled with the army without overwhelming it. It was impossible to see much in the chaos. Goblings died in the groves. Men fell. It was too early to guess as to who would be the victor, but as nearly all the army remained unconsumed, I could only take this as a good omen. And reading omens is a witch's trade.

Goblings spread from the orderly jumble of the battlefield and, naturally, many scrambled my way. I let them approach close enough that I might glimpse the wrinkles under their shining orange eyes.

I threw up my arm, thrusting my broom high. A needlessly dramatic gesture, more worthy of a wizard than a witch, but even witches are allowed to indulge themselves on occasion.

Newt bellowed with all his demonic might. His ferocious quack was the first sound I'd heard over the goblings' cries. He bound forward, wings spread, head low, drooling just a bit. The bats and owls flew after and over him. The beasts had drank my blood, taken on my will, and were instruments of my own unbelief. The contingency of goblings disintegrated with every slashing claw and biting fang. Some popped like bubbles. Others deflated into empty skins. Others only partially disappeared, losing limb, wing, or even head to glancing slices. My flying beasts kept on. There weren't enough to face the true horde, but they could circle the battle, striking down any goblings trying to slip from the field.

As for Newt, his job was to keep the goblings from pestering me. He was a gobling-slaying whirlwind. His fervor manifested in an artful variety of slaughter. Disemboweling. Beheading. Dismembering. Chopping. Mincing. De-boning. No two goblings died exactly the same way Truly, Newt was an artist, and I felt bad he didn't get to exercise his talent more often.

While the men, bats, owls, troll, and demon duck fought in the defense of the realm, I found a stump to sit on and watch. There was nothing else to do. I could pick up a sword and slay goblings, but this would've been unwitchly and wouldn't make much difference. One more sword wouldn't turn the battle. Until some difficulty of a more sorcerous kind appeared, my part was done.

Newt took his place at my side. Yellow gobling ichor covered him bill to webbed toe. He grinned widely. "Well, that's that. Seems none of the little beasts want anything more to do with us anymore."

The piles of goblings slain by Newt's razor-sharp bill and serrated feathers lay close by, and the rest decided that was enough. I expected Newt to ask permission to rejoin the battle, but he hopped on the stump. He curled up beside me, looking happier than I'd ever seen. If nothing else, at least he'd gained something from this. I stroked along his slime-drenched neck.

"They're doing better than I expected," he remarked. "The men, I mean."

I reckoned the volume of gobling shrieks to have lessened by half, but I also guessed half the army to have fallen. The army and the horde were too evenly matched. Wyst of the West's training and my contributions had prevented a slaughter. But if the army stopped the horde at the cost of every man's life, then victory would belong to the goblings. Sorcerous illusions could be remade. Dead soldiers stayed dead.

I searched the madness of the battle for familiar faces. Wyst of the West, Gwurm at his side, appeared among the throng. The Captain wasn't with them. Wyst and Gwurm struck down dozens of goblings before being swallowed into the chaos. I glimpsed soldiers carrying my enchanted swords and found them to be every bit as effective as I'd hoped. Goblings dissolved beneath the cursed blades, but for every one slain, ten rose to take its place. It was a contest of tactics against numbers. After a while, I stopped watching and studied the stars, only barely hearing the cries of goblings, the wet slice of blades cutting into flesh, and the ripping of teeth and claws. It was a lovely night, and the undead in me enjoyed the stench of sweat, blood, and ugly death rising from the field.

Wisely, I'd eaten a big meal before the fight to keep my curse from distracting me. Dark thoughts still whispered. I was so busy ignoring them that when my opportunity finally came, I almost didn't notice.

It started as a ripple in the ether, the ambient magic in the air. Powers were being invoked. The horde's shrieks lowered in pitch. Goblings stopped fighting and burrowed, kicking up clouds of dust. They disappeared into the earth, leaving a field of confused soldiers and gobling corpses.

"Are they giving up?" Newt asked.

I knelt down and put a palm to the ground. The world below throbbed with raw magic. Whatever, whoever, was behind the horde was changing the rules. Victory through defeat wasn't enough.

Slimy flesh bubbled from the holes. What had once been ten thousand goblings was now one hideous amalgamation, a creature of nightmares that could only exist through darkest sorcery. The soldiers didn't know what to do with this new foe. They stood confounded as mounds of eyes, mouths, limbs, and wings grew in the field. The countless little faces growled.

Finally, Wyst of the West attacked. His enchanted sword sank into the mass of gobling flesh up to his wrist. Wyst struggled as the blob sucked him up to his shoulder. Then, with a satisfied bellow, the horde swallowed the White Knight whole.

My heart stopped. Its beating wasn't strictly necessary, but this was the first time it had ever just ceased its reliable rhythms.

The field exploded, and the beast revealed itself in all its terrifying power. The horde towered one hundred feet high. Tendrils shot out and dragged men to gruesome deaths. The air filled with screams and crunching bones.

Wyst had been the army's courage. Faced with this horrible foe, the men broke. They scrambled for their lives. It was the wisest course of action. The horde could no longer be defeated by enchanted blades or heroic determination.

"Stay here, Newt. You too, Penelope."

"What are you—"

I strode forward through the rush of fleeing soldiers. They were too panicked to notice my lack of limp. When my hat fell off, I doubted anyone gave it much thought. The horde swept forward, a ravenous tower of phantom flesh. Too powerful for an army but wholly vulnerable to one witch willing to do what she must.

What once had been ten thousand illusions was now one. Tremendous in size. Awesome in might. Terrifying in its endless devouring hunger. But while I couldn't destroy ten thousand phantoms, one—even one of such sorcerous might—was far more vulnerable.

Perhaps I was walking into the horrible death Ghastly Edna had prophesied. Even stranger, perhaps this was my vengeance. Not for my mistress, but for Wyst of the West. Even if I couldn't love him, I could avenge him. He'd given his life to stop the horde. I could do no less.

The horde paused before me. Its countless eyes studied this morsel standing before them. For a moment, I thought it might have sensed my trap, but I was too tempting a snack. With a hungry snarl, the horde rushed forward and engulfed me.

It was dark and hot inside the beast. I couldn't see. I could barely breathe. The horde's insides smelled of rotting meat and pungent decay. Things brushed against me. Tortured screams reached my ears. There was death in the darkness, a death terrible enough to repulse even my own accursed nature. Dozens of sharp fangs tore away bloody chunks of my tempting alabaster flesh. Acrid saliva burned my nostrils and my skin. I ignored the agony as best I could. I thought of Wyst and how his lips might have tasted had I ever gotten the chance.

How long I remained in the belly of the beast I couldn't say, but suddenly the horde stopped eating me. It uttered a low, queasy grumble, and I found myself vomited into the cool night air. I hit the ground a bloody mess. Had I truly been alive, I most surely would have been dead. My curse wasn't bothered by such trivialities as being half devoured. My right leg was tattered, red flesh ending at the knee. The skin and muscle of my hands and fingers were stripped to the bone. When I drew in deep breaths, air slipped away through gashes in my throat.

The mountain of goblings quivered. Its thousands of mouths grimaced. It swayed to and fro and came crashing down in a groaning mound of slime. The illusion had eaten my flesh, and in my flesh was the power of my unbelief. And unbelief, along with witchly magic, was a most virulent poison to a phantom.

The horde convulsed as it dissolved. It blackened and shriveled. It whined and hissed. Within minutes, it was nothing more than a pool of greenish goo. Eyes and teeth and soldiers' corpses were strewn about, covered in yellow muck. In the middle of it all lay Wyst of the West.

He stirred and groaned. He was covered in slime. Uneaten. Alive.

And my heart started beating again.

13

M
y curse restored me
with such potent efficiency that I was whole by the dawn. Even my stump of a leg grew back as strong and whole as if it'd never been lost. For a while at least, I looked witchly without having to work at it. It made tending the wounded easier.

And there were a great many wounded and remarkably few dead. Men had fallen, but their teamwork had kept the goblings from finishing the job in most cases. Of Fort Stalwart's five hundred soldiers, only a hundred numbered among the dead. Over three hundred were injured. Some had only been nibbled on, able to patch themselves up without my help. Many more had been devoured to various extents. There was an epidemic of missing parts. Men were made of so many bite-sized pieces: ears, fingers, lips, noses, hands, feet. Though men preferred having all their parts, their loss wasn't truly life-threatening with some rudimentary treatment.

There were far fewer men needing more from me. Those more seriously wounded were usually dead. Though men were delicate creatures, they might survive grievous harm that surprised even me. Perhaps survive was too strong a word. Rather, they managed to put off their death for a few hours. I did what I could for those fading heroes, but even a witch's magic can't stave off death when it must come. I accepted this with the wisdom that all men must perish eventually.

Just an hour after dawn, after I'd treated the rest of the men, I reported to the Captain's quarters. Like most of the soldiers, he hadn't survived the battle unscathed. He'd lost his right hand down a gobling's snapping jaws. Strangely, this didn't bother him in the least. He was too glad to be alive and considered himself fortunate. Justly so. Other men had lost much more.

Newt shuffled in behind me, covered in dried gobling goo. The Captain and Wyst of the West looked me up and down.

"You're looking better, witch," the Captain remarked.

"That which does not kill me rarely bothers me for very long. It is my curse."

He glanced at his bandaged stump. "Doesn't seem like much of a curse to me."

I smiled. "As all good curses should seem."

Of all the men, only Wyst of the West remained unharmed. His enchantment had prevented a single gobling bite, even after he'd been swallowed whole. This wasn't to say he was invincible. I was certain if I hadn't unbelieved the horde, he would have suffocated in its gruesome folds.

"How are the men faring?" Wyst asked.

"Well enough. Most will live, but many will never fight again."

Wyst nodded solemnly. "Their brave sacrifice will be remembered."

The Captain chuckled. "I don't think so. When people speak of this battle, they won't talk of the soldiers. They never do. No, they'll remember the courageous White Knight who led the fight." He nodded my way "Perhaps the witch who finished the horde. History remembers its heroes and villains. Everything else
is
lost to time.

"It's as it should be. To fight and die is expected of every good soldier. And honestly, without your help, we'd have been slaughtered. The victory is yours, not ours."

This was only half true. Certainly the men would have perished alone against the horde, but neither Wyst nor I could have defeated the goblings without the army's support. But heroes are carried on the backs of a thousand forgotten faces.

Wyst of the West almost argued the point. Right or wrong, that was the way of the world's memory.

"It doesn't matter," the Captain said. "Right here, right now, we're alive. The horde is beaten. The realm is saved. That's why I called you here, witch. To offer you a taste of my favorite wine." He held up an hourglass-shaped bottle. "I save it for special occasions. I think this qualifies."

He poured three glasses. The deep red liquid looked like blood but smelled of sweet grapes that had grown in a patch near Ghastly Edna's cabin.

Wyst politely refused his glass. "I don't drink wine."

The Captain grinned. "Very well. More for the witch and I then."

"I don't drink wine either," I replied, "but I will take a glass."

I held it under my nose. The scent reminded me of home.

"I could use a drink," said Newt. His quiet act had finally lost its appeal.

Neither man seemed surprised by Newt's sudden speech. He was a witch's duck after all. If he wasn't going to be midnight black or fanged, then talking seemed only appropriate. He hopped on the table, and the Captain cheerfully poured my familiar a drink.

"To victory," the Captain toasted. He tapped his glass on my own and Newt's. He gulped down his drink while Newt lapped at his and I inhaled pleasant remembrances. I allowed the Captain his moment, all too brief alas. Then I ended it.

"The horde has been defeated, but its shadow remains."

The Captain set his wine aside, a quizzical expression on his face, but Wyst of the West knew what I meant.

"The goblings are dead, aren't they?" the Captain asked.

"As they were never truly alive," I replied, "they could never truly be killed. But they are as dead as phantoms can ever be. No, the horde is finished, but it was never the true threat."

The Captain drew in a deep breath. "More riddles, witch?"

"No riddle." Wyst clasped his hands behind his back. He looked me in the eye, and I didn't look away. "The goblings were a product of sorcery. Whatever power created them sent the horde here for a purpose. Just because the horde was defeated, doesn't mean they won't try again."

The Captain paled. "Another horde?"

"A possibility," I said, "but I think not. The horde was beaten. Whatever comes next, and something will come, will not be so easily defeated."

The Captain lowered his head. This was news he didn't want to hear. "Easily? Are you saying we could be facing something worse?"

"I'm not. Because I will find the sorcerer responsible. And I will kill him."

Newt quacked for more wine, which the Captain poured. "How?"

"His own magic shall lead me to him. I leave tomorrow."

"And I'll go with you," said Wyst.

I looked deep into his eyes and he into mine. "As you wish."

I'd already known he would be coming along. As a White Knight, it was his obligation. I welcomed the company. Not only because he was an able champion, a worthy ally on a dangerous journey. But because after thinking him dead, I'd realized just how much he'd come to mean to me. My limited experience told me I was no longer smitten. This was something more. And I sensed it, or perhaps merely hoped it, within Wyst of the West as well. I couldn't deny it any longer.

I tapped my broom twice on the floor. "Come, Newt. We must prepare for our journey."

Newt slurped down the last of his wine and followed me out the door. I cast one last glance over my shoulder at Wyst.

He smiled, but it was a slight smile. I tried not to make it more than it was. What could a handsome, chaste White Knight want with a hideous, undead witch?

Not two steps out the door, Newt had to contribute his opinion. "Why are we taking him along? He'll just distract you."

He expected me to argue, but he was quite correct. Even now, my mind was a splintered fragment of properly witchly thoughts and fleshly desires. Such diversions could only hinder me on my destiny, perhaps even lead me to my horrible death.

And honestly, I didn't care a whit.

GWURM ADDED A FEW more imaginary, dead goblings to the small pile outside my tent. "Is that enough?"

I nodded, standing before the mound.

"They're already starting to turn," Gwurm observed. "I don't think they'll last more than a few hours."

"I don't need the corpses. Only the raw magic within them."

I grabbed a gobling from the pile and held it over a bowl. I stared into its crossed eyes and mumbled. The green corpse dissolved, melting between my fingers. Most of it evaporated into the true nothing that it was, but a few silver drops fell into the bowl. Newt and Gwurm leaned closer to watch the shimmering fluid slide like a living thing up one side of the bowl and down the other. I quickly snatched another gobling and repeated the procedure. My companions watched for a while, but the distillation of phantoms quickly grew boring.

"What happened to your nose?" Newt asked.

The troll felt the hooked, red protrusion on his face. "You don't like it?"

"The old one looked better. This one's the wrong color. And it's far too big for your face."

Gwurm sighed. "I know. Unfortunately, my old one was eaten by a gobling." He sniffed and snorted and flared his nostrils. "I was hoping it might look distinguished."

"No. Just big. But the purple eye looks good. Old one get eaten too?"

"Sucked right out of the socket by one of the little bastards."

"Where'd you get the parts?"

Gwurm patted the pouch on his belt. "It pays to be prepared."

"What else have you got in there?"

Gwurm opened the pouch and glanced inside. "A tongue, some teeth, a terrific big toe I save for special occasions." He tied it closed. "And of course, my unmentionables."

"What unmentionables?"

"Well, if I could mention them, they wouldn't be unmentionables, would they?"

"Oh. So that's where you keep them."

"Certainly," Gwurm replied. "Where else would you expect? Wouldn't be polite to walk about with them dangling for all the world to see, would it? Not to mention I prefer them wrapped up nice and warm. Promotes reliability when I need them."

"I guess." Newt grinned. "But it seems an awful small pouch to be carrying all that."

Gwurm twisted his new red nose with a displeased frown. "I'll have you know it's not the size of your unmentionables, it's how you use them." He popped off the nose, snarled at it, and snapped it back on, upside down.

"That looks better, but you might drown if it rains."

The troll spun it into its proper position and shrugged.

"You know what you should have done. You should have put on the bad nose before the battle. That way, you'd still have your old one."

"That's a very good idea. I'll have to remember that next time." He crossed his one yellow eye and one purple eye to glare at the nose. "Are you certain it doesn't look even a little bit distinguished."

"No. Just big and red."

Gwurm growled.

Newt chuckled.

It took but an hour to distill the goblings into their raw magic. The tall mound was reduced to a small bowl of fluid silver. It throbbed, ebbing and expanding as if breathing. Newt and Gwurm watched as I coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it into the pure sorcery. The yellow and red lump lay atop the liquid. I waved a hand, grunted, and the spittle sank slowly into the silver with a bubbling hiss. The ooze darkened and gurgled.

"What are you doing?" Newt asked.

It was a pointless question. I couldn't explain it to him. In many ways, I didn't know myself. Witch magic is not an exact craft, and Ghastly Edna's tutelage had never been rote study. Rather, it was more of an art, an intuition. My mistress couldn't have taught me magic for every situation. Life was far too unpredictable. But I knew this would work. I knew without knowing.

I poured the bowl's contents onto the dirt. The dull gray liquid swirled, broke apart into a dozen tiny puddles, and rejoined. I bent down and broke the surface with two fingers. It rippled, and in its depth, images formed. The art of divining is nothing more than clearing your mind and trusting the magic to show you what it wished. So I watched, and I learned.

Newt stared into the depths by my side. He didn't see anything beyond the slipping gray and black patterns. Certainly they looked pretty to his eyes, but he couldn't glimpse the shapes within shapes. There were fields of grass, a forgotten road, a bridge, bothersome half faeries, a river, and a place of memories forgotten. A land that didn't exist waited at the end. It wasn't an exact map but a journey of images that would make sense in its own time.

The silver pool burned away in a slow yellow flame. The scent of seared moss and wet wolf hair was left behind. A patch of grass spontaneously sprouted, uprooted itself, and scampered away as a random aftereffect of the universe reabsorbing the raw magic.

"Did it work?" Newt asked.

"Yes."

"You saw the way to our vengeance?"

It was technically my vengeance, not his. But demons have a great passion for revenge, and I was willing to share. I was less concerned with avenging my mistress. Preventing Fort Stalwart any more woe was more my true goal. Motive was irrelevant, and if by doing one I accomplished the other, then this would be a stroke of good fortune.

"When do we leave?" Newt asked with a grin.

"Soon."

"How far is it?"

"As far as it is."

"Will there be perils?"

"Most certainly."

"What sort of perils?"

"Oh, the usual sort, I expect," I replied.

The grin faded from his bill. "You don't have to talk in circles with me. I'm your familiar."

"Yes, but it's good to keep in practice. Now, go clean yourself up."

Newt was far too excited to get upset. He dashed into the tent to wash the gobling slime from his feathers. He stuck his head outside the flap. "Are you certain we have to take the White Knight along?"