Willow (21 page)

Ahead, Willow saw the child-borne shield with Elora Danan on it vanish into what appeared to be another ramshackle barn. As he drew closer, however, he saw that it was a large meeting hall at one side of a village common. Up and in they went, hurried along by the crowd. A white-bearded elder scuffed aside thick straw and heaved open a trapdoor in one corner of the floor, while the other villagers and the children began an impromptu meeting. One man proclaimed loudly as if in mid-speech, and the rest listened, shuffling, mumbling agreement or dissent. All kept glancing at the road.

The last Willow saw was General Kael in his terrible skull helmet, rounding the bend and driving toward the village at full gallop. Sorsha rode close behind, her red hair free and the bow still in her hand. After her, well spread out, came thirty or forty Nockmaar troopers.

“Down!” someone hissed. A hand pushed hard on the top of Willow’s head, and he skidded down steep steps into darkness. The trapdoor thumped shut, and boots hastily scuffed straw into place on top of it.

Willow found himself in a large, cool cellar, a storageroom for perishables. It smelled of cheese, fresh milk, and vegetables. At first he could see nothing at all, but then as he struggled to find Elora in the gloom, his eyes adjusted, and by the dusty light filtering through the cracks in the floor he saw that they were not alone. The cellar was crowded with men. Weary men. Hurt men. Beaten men. Sitting on barrels, lying on straw pallets, they looked warily at the new arrivals. Some had drawn swords and daggers and were gazing up toward the thunder of hoofbeats and the unmistakable roaring of Kael.

Only one was standing. A large man with an auburn beard. Willow blinked, squinting into the darkness and into the tumultuous jumble of memories since his journey had begun. He
knew
this man. He remembered a proud army with banners aloft. He remembered . . .

“Airk Thaughbaer!”
Madmartigan whispered, stepping forward and laying his hands on the big man’s shoulders, shaking him gently.
“You left me in that rat trap to die!”

“I knew you’d get out. You’re a cat with nine lives.”

“What happened to you, Airk?”

“Slaughtered. Too many of them, too few of us.”

“You see! You should have given me . . .”

“Quiet down there!” someone hissed from above. “They’re here!”

The shouting and hooting of the sham meeting died away. The shuffling stopped. The crowd fell silent.

Heavy boots crunched across the floor of the hall. “You have a choice, you scum!” Kael’s voice rang out. “Tell us where you’ve hidden that Nelwyn and the child, or have your Prefect killed and your village burned!”

The crowd gasped.

“You wouldn’t
dare
!” the Prefect declared, thumping his staff of office on the floor so hard that dust swirled down onto Willow’s face. He was the elder with the flowing white beard who had held the door for Willow to scramble down the steps—a Daikini version of the High Aldwin. He was shorter than most Daikinis, and Kael towered over him. He tipped back his head and jutted out his jaw as he spoke, his face flushed. “Enough! For years you’ve kept us in fear, you Nockmaars. You’ve taken what you wanted from our valley. You’ve done what you wanted with our people. You’ve forced us to pay fines and taxes. You’ve kept us poor. And now you interrupt our meeting with threats of burning and murder! And I say to you you can’t! You won’t!” He advanced on Kael as he spoke, thumping his staff. “You wouldn’t dare, Kael. I tell you . . .”

No one would ever know what the agitated little man intended to say, because he never said it.

He died.

Kael swung his sword.

The blow sliced off the Prefect’s head as a birch switch might take the bud from a flower stalk. It dropped into the straw, eyes still blazing at the general. The body twitched convulsively where it fell, arms and legs striking out. Blood trickled through the cracks in the floor onto Airk’s men underneath, who cursed softly, fingering their weapons. A moan like wind through tall pines rose from the crowd, and in the midst of it came a cry shriller and higher than any other: Elora Danan. The baby’s gaze was fixed at the place above her where Kael stood, and her cry was a shriek of outrage.

“Whaaat?” Kael said. He looked around. He looked down. The hiding men drew their weapons and prepared to die fighting. Even the most sorely wounded struggled to their feet.

But Fin Raziel saved them. Squawking in a perfect imitation of Elora’s cry, the raven came swooping in through one window and out another, narrowly missing Kael’s head.

The general laughed gutturally. “Next!” he thundered, waving his sword at the silenced crowd. “Who else wishes to defy the power of Nockmaar?”

No one spoke.

“Where do you hide these fugitives?”

Still no one spoke.

“Very well! Princess, you and your men search and burn this miserable place. Start here, with this barn. You men come with me. Spread out through the woods. Remember, I want them all alive!”

His boots ground across the floor, and a moment later the hiding men heard the jingle of harness and the clatter of hooves galloping away.

“What I wouldn’t give for a score of those mounts!”
Airk Thaughbaer hissed.

“Shh!”
Madmartigan said.
“The princess
!”

In the turmoil that followed Kael’s departure and the rounding-up of the village councillors, Sorsha dismounted and came up into the building with her lieutenant.

“Torches!” the lieutenant shouted to his men. “There, and there!”

“Wait,” Sorsha said.

She crossed the floor and then back again, her bow tapping her thigh, her footsteps echoing. “There’s something odd. There’s something . . .” She kicked aside the straw and found the trapdoor. “I thought so! Open it!”

The lieutenant leaped to do her bidding. He flung the door back. Then, sword drawn, he descended into the cellar where Airk’s men crouched. Sorsha came close behind him with her dagger in her hand.

Airk struck first, looming soundlessly out of the shadows. In two quick blows he had knocked the lieutenant’s feet from under him and slit his throat. He was raising his sword to strike at Sorsha when Madmartigan prevented him, pinning the princess as she started back up the steps.

“Down here!” she cried.

The stairway swarmed with Nockmaar troops.

“Drop your weapons,” Madmartigan snarled, his knife to Sorsha’s throat. “Drop them, or I kill this redheaded witch!”

“Don’t believe him!” Sorsha said, pointing at Elora, who was howling in Willow’s arms. “Get the baby!”

But seeing Sorsha captured, seeing themselves surrounded by desperate fugitives with swords drawn, the Nockmaars suddenly lost their fight. They did as Airk told them. Moments later, they were in the cellar with a heavy wagon overturned on the trapdoor, and Airk’s men were upstairs in control of the meeting hall. Madmartigan had dragged Sorsha up with him, his arm across her throat.

“One word,” he said softly, peering out at the contingent of troopers who were holding back the villagers in the square, unaware of events inside. “One word and I kill you!”

“You’ll never . . .”

He clamped a hand over her mouth.

Beyond the village, they could see Kael’s men scouring the woods, appearing and disappearing among the trees.

Willow scrambled into the hay in one corner of the building and attended to Elora, changing her and calming her as much as possible, given his own terror. Nothing frightened him more than the Nockmaar troops, and now here they were again, right here on the other side of the barn wall! Soon they’d know something was wrong. Soon they’d come looking for their comrades. So intent was he on them, and on keeping Elora quiet, that he did not notice Airk Thaughbaer approaching until the big man laid a hand on his shoulder.

“What does Bavmorda want with this child?”

“She’s Elora Danan,” Willow told him. “She’s the Empress who’ll defeat Nockmaar. We’re her guardians.”

“We?”

“Madmartigan and I.”

“Where are you taking her?”

“To Tir Asleen,” Willow said, without even thinking.

“Tir Asleen! Impossible! Nobody’s been there in years. Besides, even if you could find the way, you’d never get past the Nockmaar army. Never.”

“Airk,” Madmartigan bent down, whispering, his hand still clamped over Sorsha’s mouth. “We should move for those horses. Otherwise those Nockmaars . . .”

“I know. Listen, what’s going on here, Madmartigan? Since when did you become a crusader? I’ve had half an army slaughtered fighting Bavmorda, and now you and this Peck plan to take her on?
You?
I don’t believe it.”

“Well then, come along and see.”

Airk shook his head. “Look at us. We’ve been in the field for months since Bavmorda tricked us away from Galladoorn. We’re tired, Madmartigan. We’ll go with you as far as those horses. After that . . .”

“After that what, Airk? Will you keep running?”

Airk seized Madmartigan’s free arm. “By the gods . . . ! Someday, Madmartigan, one of us will stand on the other’s grave!”

“Think, Airk! There’s no Galladoorn to defend anymore. You have a force of men. What
good
will you do with them?”

Willow had stood up, holding Elora. The child gripped one of Airk’s large fingers with both hands, laughing softly.

“Think!”
Madmartigan said again, nodding. “Ready, Willow?”

“Ready.”

“Then we go!” He hauled Sorsha out through the door toward the horses. She managed to twist her face and scream a warning to the lieutenant in the square. He whirled, saw what was happening, and ordered his men forward. They charged. Madmartigan boosted Willow and Elora up into the saddle of a big bay mare and slung Sorsha over the neck of another horse. “Ride!” he shouted to Willow. “Get out!” And he slapped the mare’s rump just as the first troopers reached him. “Closer,” he said, the dagger pressed against Sorsha’s throat, “and she dies.”

They hesitated long enough for him to swing into the saddle and back the horse through the square until he was clear. Then he wheeled and dashed after Willow, who had already reached the outskirts of the village.

“Ride! Ride!” Fin Raziel shrieked overhead. “This way!”

Fleeing at full gallop, aware only of the open road in front of them and of the shouts of Kael’s outriders from the edge of the wood, Madmartigan and Willow would never know what happened behind, in the village.

The lieutenant ordered his men in pursuit, and some reached their horses. Some actually mounted them. But none rode out. Their way was blocked by people, the same people whose village they had been preparing to burn, whose Prefect Kael had just beheaded. Their Prefect had spoken their sentiments exactly: they had had enough Nockmaar oppression. More than enough. It was going to end—not later, when they might be better organized, or might have better leadership or weapons. It was going to end then. Right then. They had only the crude implements of the field—picks and hoes, sickles, scythes and shovels—but they knew those tools well.

Still, determined though they were, these farmers and craftsmen would have been no match for a charge of Nockmaar cavalry and, seeing that, the lieutenant laughed. “Mount up!” he commanded. “Line abreast!” He was still laughing as he wheeled to face these bumpkins with their tools.

But they were no longer alone. A rank of staunch soldiers had appeared in front of them—Airk Thaughbaer’s men. Some were sorely hurt. All were tired. But they were an army still. An army of men who had also had too much of Nockmaar. An army that needed horses.

Airk signaled them forward. Behind him, his ensign unfurled his standard.

The Nockmaar lieutenant’s laughter died with him.

X I
TIR ASLEEN

“A
ncient path!” Raziel cried. “This way!” She led them east away from the village, away from the encampment near the crossroads above.

“But that’s the way to Nockmaar!” Madmartigan shouted.

“Ride!” screeched the bird. “Trust Raziel!”

They rode. Willow wrapped his arm around the pommel of the saddle and held on to it and to Elora for all he was worth while the great warhorse surged under him. He was terrified lest the child be thrown off and crushed on the rocks or under the hooves of Madmartigan’s horse, coming hard behind. Madmartigan held Sorsha on the saddle in front of him. She laughed when she saw the direction they were taking, and Kael in hot pursuit less than half a league behind. “Straight to Nockmaar! There’s no other way!”

But there was another way, known only to Fin Raziel. It led up into the snow of the mountains, and through the ice caves of the elves. Many years had passed since she had visited those caves, and so cunningly had the elves concealed their entrance that now, after a cold and anxious ride, Raziel had trouble finding it. She flapped back and forth across a precipice of sheer ice, muttering and squawking.

The clatter of iron-shod hooves echoed up the canyon behind them.

“Hurry!” Madmartigan said. “Another minute and they’ll be here!”

Suddenly Raziel disappeared into the ice, only to emerge a second later. “Here!” she hissed, and vanished again. The tip of a black wing beckoned.