Willow (8 page)

“Sir? I don’t . . .”

“Yesterday, when I asked you which finger contained the power to enter the bloodstream of the universe, what was your first response?”

Willow laughed. “Sir, it was so silly . . .”

The High Aldwin cuffed him lightly on the ear. “Just tell me what it was!”

“Well, it was to choose my own finger.”

“Exactly! Exactly, you idiot!” He swatted Willow several times, his blows as light as birds’ wings. “Oh Willow, Willow, if only you could have faith in your
self,
in what you
feel
! More than anyone else, you have the power to be a great sorcerer, but you must
trust
that power! Listen to your own heart.” He fumbled in the folds of his robe and drew out three round objects. “Here. I’d go with you if I could, but I’m bound to this valley. Take these. You’ll need them.”

“Acorns?”

“Magical! Anything you hurl them at will turn to stone. But remember, there’re only three.”

“I’d like to throw one at Burglekutt!”

“No, no. If you use sorcery for evil, you will become Evil. You have much to learn, Willow. Learn well. Farewell!” The High Aldwin lifted his arms and vanished. Where he had been the mist swirled away from the sun.

Willow tucked the acorns safely into his pocket beside the braid of Kiaya’s hair. When he got to the path, the rest of the expedition had gone ahead except for Meegosh, who waited to help carry the baggage pole. For the last time, Willow Ufgood embraced his wife and children. He settled his end of the pole on his shoulder. And then, in the sun of the new day, he and Meegosh set off through the meadow, to the place where the forest opened like the mouth of a dark tunnel.

From the slopes behind them the Nelwyns called good-bye—a long, sorrowful sigh.

Many wept.

So began the long journey of Willow Ufgood, a journey destined to end even more strangely than it began.

I V
DAIKINI CROSSROADS

F
or several leagues northward through Nelwyn Valley the road was broad and level. It led straight through the forest along the old flood plain on the east bank of the river, where the trees grew tall and open. Through them, the travelers could see the Freen and often the forest creatures that went down to the bank to drink.

Vohnkar sent his two men to scout ahead while he led the little procession, lance at the ready. Burglekutt followed next, carrying only his staff of office and his heavy self, sweating copiously and complaining at every inconvenience—a muddy quagmire, a toe stubbed on a projecting root, a horsefly nipping his fat neck. Behind him struggled Meegosh and Willow, bearing the baggage of the expedition slung on the sagging pole between them.

As it approached the northern end of the valley, the road curved away from the river and narrowed, becoming a cart track, and then a trail, and finally a footpath so overgrown that even Vohnkar sometimes lost it.

Burglekutt kept falling back so that Meegosh frequently trod on his heels. He was frightened by every sound—even the squawk of a raven, even the sudden scolding of a squirrel—and his cries were so loud that they often brought Vohnkar gliding back, hissing for silence.

They were entering a region where few Nelwyns ever ventured. Only hunters in close pursuit of game dared come this far north, and they never lingered, for beyond the end of the valley the Daikini world began. Vohnkar moved slowly here, taking all precautions, often scouting far ahead before he beckoned them on.

On the second night they camped in a small cave at the very end of Nelwyn Valley, a considerable distance away from the path. It was a secure campsite. They built a small fire and ate well, and Burglekutt was soon asleep and snoring. The warriors took turns keeping watch, and there came a time late in the evening when Meegosh and Willow were alone with Vohnkar beside the fire.

They were old friends. They had known each other well when they were boys, but their ways had parted years earlier. Vohnkar had left the valley for a time, while Willow and Meegosh had taken on the jobs and homes of their fathers. They had seen little of each other since.

Now they sat together as they had when they were boys, beside the river, or among the boughs of a great oak, or in some cave like this one.

“It’s a good place, Vohnkar.”

The warrior nodded. “The last. Beyond here we’ll be in the open. Many nights.”

Meegosh leaned forward. “Have you . . . have you
been
to the Daikini crossroads, Vohnkar?”

“Oh yes.”

“And beyond?”

Vohnkar nodded. “Once.” He looked at them through the smoke. He looked into the watching eyes of the child in Willow’s arms. “When I began my quest.”

“A quest? What for?”

“Tir Asleen.”

“Tir Asleen! But that’s just . . .”

“Just a legend? Just a myth?” Vohnkar peered at Meegosh, his eyes narrowing in the drifting smoke.

“Well . . . yes. Isn’t it?”

Vohnkar smiled.

“But it
is
just a myth, isn’t it, Vohnkar? You didn’t
find
Tir Asleen.”

“No.”

“Then your quest failed.”

“Oh no!” Vohnkar laughed softly, shaking his head. “If my quest had failed, my friends, we would not be here now.”

Then, looking often at the child, he told them a strange story.

Vohnkar’s Tale

Legends say that in the olden times all the land was open, all the land was free. They say that in those days, the broad road led north out of Nelwyn Valley all the way to the Far Mountains and the High Kingdom of Tir Asleen. They say that all Daikinis once lived in harmony under the good king, and there was little to fear on that highway through his domains. Some brigands prowled, of course, so that a prudent man would carry a good blade, and from time to time marauding bands of trolls would swarm out of the swamps in such numbers that they would have to be beaten back by Asleen cavalry. But such events were rare.

In those days, many travelers passed along the road. Messengers and administrators used it to reach all the domains. Merchants used it to peddle their wares from the backs of horses and from lumbering caravans. Strolling players, minstrels, and acrobats used it to make festive the many fairs and carnivals. Adventurers used it to travel to strange lands. And, because there were two splendid festivals a year at Tir Asleen, ordinary folk used it to journey to that great castle each spring and fall.

Like all Nelwyn lads, Vohnkar had heard these fables. Unlike most, however, he longed to see the world beyond the valley. Perhaps because he was an orphan who had grown used to long solitudes while hunting in the hills, it was easier for him to leave. Early one morning he put his few belongings into a sack and set off northward to find the fabled castle of Tir Asleen. He traveled out of the valley northward, finding his way without much difficulty until he reached a woods beyond the Daikini crossroads. There he lost the road and never found it again. Far afield he wandered, and farther still. For three years he journeyed in strange lands. He reached the Western Sea and voyaged with men whose dragon-vessels slid through drifting fields of ice. He went north to the lands of the white bear and saw herds of strange deer so vast that their antlers shimmered in his dreams like a moving forest. He journeyed east, welcomed among the tents of nomads who urged him to stay forever, for the coming of a small man had been foretold by their seers, and Vohnkar’s courage in the hunt fulfilled all their prophecies. Long he lingered there . . . But still he was restless, still the castle of Tir Asleen glimmered like a jewel in his memory, drawing him onward in his quest. Regretfully at last he turned west again, taking with him a ruby earring and a golden necklace, mementos from a lady of those silken tents . . .

Many months he journeyed westward, home. He had much time to think about Tir Asleen, to imagine how it must appear, and it grew ever more fabulous in his imagination. He had time to consider the strange way in which he had been led around it in his adventures, until he had encircled the place where it was said to be. He had time to muse on how he had been changed since his departure from Nelwyn Valley, for he had learned the skills of the field from all the peoples among whom he had lived. In those years he had served an apprenticeship. Now, he was a warrior.

At last, famished and exhausted, he found his way back to the lands north of Nelwyn Valley. There in the mountains, in the midst of a fierce blizzard, he huddled alone in a cave and prepared for death. There was no warmth left in his small body. Cold had turned his feet clumsy and his fingers stiff. He embraced his weapons and curled into a ball, so that he might be found like a warrior, like those northern swordsmen he had seen frozen so perfectly that it seemed they must spring magically to life at a touch.

So, he lost consciousness.

Elves found him before he died. They bore him down into their deep caverns, warmed him, and fed him well until his strength returned. He told them of his long quest for Tir Asleen, and when he asked them if the castle really existed, they stroked their beards, and nodded, and looked away. But when he asked if they would take him there, they sadly shook their heads. That was beyond their power, they told him. Not even they, with all their craft and stealth, with all their caves and passages through the mountains, could go to Tir Asleen.

A hundred questions flooded out of Vohnkar, but the elves would say no more. Steadfastly they closed their wise eyes and bowed their small and bearded heads. However, they told him, because of his devotion to Tir Asleen, he should wear forever this gift, this silver elfin ring, cunningly crafted and engraved. Then they wrapped him well in furs, and took him through their passages and high passes to a place where, far in the distance, he could see the looming mass—not of Tir Asleen—of Nockmaar.

When he saw that dark and smoking castle, when he heard for the first time the distant howls of Death Dogs and felt the dread of Bavmorda’s power in his stomach, Vohnkar knew that his adventure had ended and his duty had begun. He understood why he had become a warrior in the long years of that circling quest. He must give up his own freedom for the safety of Nelwyn Valley. He must dedicate his skill to his people and, with all his heart and strength, fight to protect them from the savagery of Nockmaar.

And that is what Vohnkar did . . .

The fire had burned low. The baby had fallen asleep, smiling, during Vohnkar’s tale. “And now, my friends,” the warrior said as he rose, “I believe there was another reason for that quest, although I do not understand it, or know what Fate we are moving in, Willow Ufgood, you and I.”

Vohnkar gently unbent the child’s arm to reveal the Sign on the inside of her elbow. Beside it he held the mark engraved on his silver elf-ring.

They were the same.

As they traveled the next day, Willow often felt traces of the old road under his feet—the earth packed firm by generations of boots or hooves and trundling wheels. Occasionally there was even a stretch of cobblestones. Where the Freen meandered, the abutments of old bridges still lay among the rushes at the fords.

North of Nelwyn Valley, however, they left the last vestiges of the road behind, and they began to encounter many difficulties. The path wound away from the river into thick forest. Uprooted trees and jumbled rocks had fallen across it, and the travelers often had to make long and exhausting detours. Several times they stumbled on the sites of ancient battles or ambuscades, where rusting weapons and armor poked out of the roots and where yellowing bones lay strewn like sticks. Once Burglekutt kicked aside what he thought was a boulder and shrieked when a helmeted skull rolled face-up, leering at him. Once in the wind they heard a strange creaking, and came upon thirteen skeletons swaying in a macabre dance on rope so rotten that even as they watched one of the gibbets broke, dropping its grisly load clattering to the ground. Farther on, Vohnkar pointed grimly at a place where a horse and rider had died together against a tree, and creepers had bound their bones together. Many times they came upon the corpses of trolls, sitting or lying, years dead, their skin dried tough as oak, their agate eyes still blazing hatefully.

Evil and death, death and Evil; the two mingled as palpable as smoke in that foul forest, and they were glad to leave it behind.

The region they entered, however, was even more terrible. Some blight had stunted all vegetation there. The forest grew in its usual profusion and variety, but to only a fraction of its height. Oak trees that should have risen a hundred feet and cast a huge umbrella were now only a little taller than the Nelwyns. Birch groves were even shorter. There was no friendly cover in that region, and on the slopes on the far side, they could see dark horsemen passing.

“We’ll wait for night,” Vohnkar grunted.

They made a little camp at the edge of the woods and rested and ate. Frightened, hot, pestered by flies, the baby had begun to fret. Willow had trouble keeping her quiet. Several times Burglekutt had cursed at him, and once he even threatened to strike the child. “Don’t you dare!” Willow said, clenching his fist.