Willow (24 page)

She staggered up a flight of stairs as the dragon died, and came face-to-face with her father. She knew him at once, although he was encased in the crystal cast by her mother’s curse. His hair was hers. His frank and broad-spaced eyes were hers. And in his voice, very faint and distant though it was, the princess heard her own.

“Sorsha . . .”

“Father . . .” She laid her hand on the stone, beside his cheek.

“I’m alive, Sorsha. Help me. Help m . . .”

“Oh, Father!” Her knees went soft. Memories came flooding back that she had not dared to recall all her life—her father laughing, running beside her while she rode her first white pony through the orchard; her father holding her hand while he accepted the acclamation of the multitudes in the broad flowered valley of Tir Asleen; her father teaching her to row her own little boat in the upper reaches of the Freen, so quietly that she disturbed neither the water birds, nor the frogs drowsing on their lily pads, nor the speckled trout suspended in their dark pools. She remembered her father’s compassion, his generosity. She remembered his laughter and his love. In one great rush of emotion she remembered all that had been, and might have been, and might still be . . .

She wept.

“Sorsha, only you . . .”

She turned back to the slaughter. She saw the little Nelwyn clinging to the burning and collapsing bridge. She saw Kael striding across the charred bodies of men toward the gate-tower where the cries of a terrified infant rang clear. And she saw Madmartigan in her father’s golden armor, hard pressed by a knot of troopers flailing at him with swords and spiked maces. Even as she looked, he went down.

Suddenly, things clarified and changed for Princess Sorsha, as a troubled sky might clear at evening, or a lake grow calm after a storm.

She hefted her sword. She strode forward. She loosed a high-pitched battle cry to warn the troopers assailing Madmartigan of her intent. And then she gave no quarter.

Two of the troopers ran away from her immediately. Two others offered token resistance before fleeing. Two more turned to confront her, and as they turned, Madmartigan twisted catlike and cut their legs from under them. His sword and Sorsha’s sliced across their throats together.

She offered her hand to lift him; silently, Madmartigan took it.

Three things happened at once.

First, the bridge burned through and collapsed, dropping Willow hard against the wall of the tower and to the ground. Nockmaar troopers converged on him. They had time for only one glancing blow at Willow’s head before Madmartigan was among them and they were dying, gripping stabbed bellies, gurgling through slit throats. The quick sword flashed—nine slashes, nine men dropped in their tracks or staggered off to die. Then Madmartigan was beside Willow, wiping the blood off his forehead.

“I—I’m sorry,” Willow said. “There were too many. Elora . . .”

“Hang on, Peck.” Madmartigan scooped him up in his right arm like a child.

At the same moment Kael’s roar of triumph echoed out of the tower and through the courtyard. He appeared in the doorway with the tiny figure of Elora Danan lifted high in a mailed fist. Out of the death’s-head helmet he roared again, in fury this time, seeing Sorsha at Madmartigan’s side. He waved his great sword at them, and at Willow. “We have the child! Kill them! Ride with me to Nockmaar!”

Spearmen and swordsmen drew back from Madmartigan’s blade. Archers notched arrows to do Kael’s bidding.

But the shafts were never shot. At that moment the last event in that extraordinary battle occurred. In the silence after Kael’s command sounded the clear note from a stout ram’s horn; then, the rumble of horses charging.

Willow wiped the blood from his eyes. Through the open gates of Tir Asleen, past the Nockmaar troops scurrying for their horses, he saw the fluttering banner of Galladoorn, with chargers spreading into the meadows as they came on, gaining speed, and in the center a huge, red-bearded figure, sword pointed straight at the gates of the castle.

“Airk Thaughbaer!” Madmartigan whirled his sword and whooped ecstatically.

Faced with that grim charge, the Nockmaar troops broke and fled for any horses they could grab. After what they had been through, they had no stomach to meet Airk’s men.

Kael’s horse was the first through the gates, trampling a knot of fugitives too slow to scramble aside. The general had wrapped Elora in his cape. He rode furiously, bent low over his horse’s neck. Four officers followed hard behind him.

Airk dispatched a squad to give chase, but with a sinking heart Willow could see that Kael had already gained too much distance. He would outflank his pursuers to the east and be clear to Nockmaar before anyone could catch him.

In the next few minutes, the remainder of the Nockmaar force fell under the charge of the Galladoorns.

Willow slipped out of Madmartigan’s embrace and turned away, leaning against a pillar. He could not watch. He did not want to see them slaughtered. He felt too sick, and he had seen too much of senseless death and horror. He wished fervently to go home, back to the tranquility of Ufgood Reach, where he could sit on the banks of the Freen and let the gentle river cleanse this memory of horror. He wanted only to protect Kiaya and his little ones from all knowledge of this mad Daikini world. Forever. Yet, through all the beautiful thoughts of Nelwyn Valley burst the searing image of Kael in his death’s-head, astride that black horse, holding Elora Danan aloft like a prize in his great mailed fist. Willow knew that he could never protect his dear ones so long as such men drew breath, so long as the forces remained that made them what they were.

So, when Airk Thaughbaer’s bay mare galloped into that scene of carnage, Willow Ufgood wiped the blood off his face and cried, “Airk! We must ride on Nockmaar!”

Madmartigan sat down and pulled off the golden helmet. He grinned wearily up at his old friend. “Out for a little ride in the country, Airk?”

“Thought you might be lonely, but I see you’re not.” Airk gestured at Sorsha with his sword. “What’s this?”

“She saved my life, Airk. She rides with us, now.”

Airk grunted.

“But we must hurry!” Willow said. “Now. To Nockmaar! There’s no time to lose! Bavmorda will destroy the child!”

A shrill clamor of agreement rose out of Airk’s saddlebag: “Right! Absolutely right! The Peck knows what he’s saying! Must ride! Attack! Charge!”

Franjean and Rool popped out.

“Greetings. Willow!”

“Never fear, Willow! We’re here to take care of you, just like always!”

A white goat trotted up. “No delay!” Fin Raziel said, “To Nockmaar!”

X I I
BAVMORDA

A
irk’s scouts, riders of the East, pushed Kael hard. They rode light, unarmored and free to use their bows. Six of them pursued the five Nockmaars closely through the valley of Tir Asleen and out through the labyrinth of canyons. One Nockmaar officer fell to their shafts before they had cleared the canyons, and a second on the slopes of the mountain of the crystal caves. By the time they galloped out onto the black shale and ash of Nockmaar Valley, only Kael and two of his guard were left, and the mounts of the two henchmen had begun to flag.

Kael abandoned them. Roaring at the sentries to lower the drawbridge, he dug his spurs into the already bloody flanks of his stallion, and whipped the creature savagely with his crop. At the limits of his endurance, the horse hurtled down the last stretch of road and thundered across the moat, with Kael bellowing to the keepers to raise the drawbridge behind him. They obeyed, heaving on the ironwood windlass, and the dark bridge rose, dangling tentacles of slime.

It was most foul, the moat of Nockmaar, fuming with the noxious gasses of the volcano and laden with the relics of Bavmorda’s flawed charms. It stank of sulphur and rot, of excrement and acid. Nothing could live in it. Sometimes bored sentries on the parapets amused themselves by dropping living things into it and listening to their howls as their flesh dissolved.

Screaming desperately for Kael to wait, to hold the drawbridge, the first of the Nockmaar riders flew over the stiff forelegs of his horse and under the edge of the rising bridge, headfirst into this moat. He vanished without a sound. The scum closed over him. The other rider had a few seconds more of life, although he did not enjoy them. He sprang off his mount on the moat’s edge, leaped for the drawbridge, and grabbed it with one hand. So he dangled as the bridge rose, struggling to get a grip with his other hand but unable in his exhaustion to do that, kicking desperately as the angle of the bridge grew steeper and his hand slipped in the slime, until at last he fell.

The drawbridge clanged shut.

Loosing shafts at the battlements, loosing exotic war cries that Bavmorda heard even in the recesses of her tower, Airk’s riders fanned out in both directions along the walls before breaking off and galloping a safe distance back up the valley. Here, a short time later they met Willow, Sorsha, Madmartigan, and the rest of Airk’s force.

Airk glowered down the valley, peering into the deepening shadows. There it lay, bleak and smoke-swept: Nockmaar. Spears crowded its battlements. Guttural commands and creaks drifted up the valley to them as the mighty war engines were winched into place. Iron braziers guttered and flamed on the parapet and in Bavmorda’s dark tower, flickering on the queen’s flag, with its lightning bolt piercing the curve of life.

Franjean and Rool moaned as they looked at Nockmaar, and slid back into the depths of Airk’s saddlebag.

“Make camp!” Airk ordered. “We’ll need battering rams. Assault towers. Ready them tonight!” His commands were confident, but he shook his head when he looked at those looming walls.

Madmartigan nodded grimly. “I know what you’re thinking. We’ll need more than good equipment for this job. We’ll need good fortune, too.”

“Even more!” said Fin Raziel in her bleating goat’s voice. “We’ll need strong sorcery. Willow, you must ready all your powers, all your faith, and all your concentration. You must go deep, deep within yourself, Willow. To the very source. This time you
cannot
fail!” Raziel’s large and glowing eyes turned away from the dark battlements of her ancient rival and looked at Willow. “Forget all you know, all you think you know. You must prepare
now
! Quickly!”

“Fin Raziel,” Madmartigan said, seeing Willow’s exhaustion, “it’s getting dark. Surely he can rest a bit. In the morning . . .”

“No! There’s no time!” The goat jumped up and down on stiff legs. “Do you think that Bavmorda is not preparing even now? Do you not see Kael striding in triumph to her tower, placing Elora Danan in her hands? Do you not see her, hear her laughter? Do you not see her priests hurrying to begin the Ritual of Obliteration? See them! Scouring the bowl! Purifying the altar! Readying their chants! Oh no, she will not wait for dawn. Bavmorda will act
now
, Madmartigan!”

As if to confirm what Raziel had said, all the window slits of Bavmorda’s tower lit up like fiery fangs. Exultant lightning cracked out over the balcony and smashed into the distant hills, rolling in fireballs down the slate slopes.

“Hide!” Fin Raziel cried suddenly, butting Willow into the cover of a large rock. “Quick! Say the Shelter Chant for yourself!”

“But why . . . ?”

“Say
it!”

Willow clasped the magic wand, closed his eyes, and concentrated.
“Helgafel swathben, helgafel claideb, danu locktwarr!”

“Good! Now the others!” Raziel pointed her snout at Airk and Madmartigan, who were listening attentively to Sorsha as she drew a plan of the castle. “Quick, Willow!”

But Bavmorda was too fast. With her three priests, she had already appeared on the battlement. Her mocking laughter stabbed out at them across the darkening space. The horns of her crown loomed large in the glare of the flambeaux borne by lackeys along the parapet. In that weird light, she undulated and grew huge, blending with her shadows. She was awful, and Willow shrank back at the sight of her. Yet there was a splendor about her, too, a grave and malefic aura.

“Army?”
Bavmorda shrieked derisively. “They told me there was an
army
laying siege to Nockmaar. But
this
,” she flung her arm and lightning cracked and stabbed above their heads, “
this
is no army!”

Only Airk and Madmartigan stood their ground, feet braced. “We’ve come for Elora Danan!” Madmartigan called up. “Give her back to us!”

The queen’s laughter echoed through the valley. “Fool! Impertinent fool! You are not a man, you are a pig!” She flung out her hand again, this time with level fingers pointed at Madmartigan.

“Mother! No!”

“Pigs! You are all pigs!
Kothon lockdar bahkdt
!”

Willow Ufgood had seen many dreadful things since he had ventured among Daikinis, but what happened next was the most horrible. Airk’s troops, and Airk himself, and Madmartigan, all turned into the pigs that Bavmorda commanded them to be. Nor was their transformation a swift and painless thing, as in some fairy tale. It was agonizing. Men screamed and writhed as their bones changed—contracting, joints cracking and twisting into new shapes, skulls flattening, toes and fingers fusing into small hooves. Men howled as their skin peeled off and tightened around new rib cages. Men screamed and snuffled as invisible hands gripped and reshaped their faces, twisting them into long snouts.