A Nameless Witch

13

My curse restored mewith 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?"

"Quite certain."

He was far too zealous to be bothered by this either.

Gwurm was still fussing with his red nose. He'd twist it one way, then another. Nothing looked right, especially since I sensed a streak of vanity in the troll. Men might find it strange that such an unsightly creature cared so much about one misshapen nose. Though Gwurm was the only troll I'd known, I felt positive he was quite handsome by trollish standards. Even if I was wrong, one didn't have to be beautiful to be vain.

I held out a hand. "Can I see it a moment?"

He plucked off the offensive crescent and gave it to me. I clasped it in both hands, pressed my palms together, and rolled them in four small circles. Then I held up a new nose. It was his exact shade of gray and rounded, less hookish.

He twisted it onto his face. "Eye dinkyu furgud sumdin."

I took back the nose long enough to poke out two nostrils. He held it between fingers and thumb and studied it with one squinted eye. "Not bad. Strong without being overbearing. Excellent symmetry. And I think it will add some character to my profile." He plugged it into place and pretended to gaze thoughtfully in the distance. "What do you think?"

"Quite handsome," I replied. "Perhaps even a touch dis­tinguished."

"Do you really think so?"

"Certainly."

I started toward my tent.

"I couldn't help notice you're whole again," Gwurm said.

I held up a hand that only hours ago was a few threads of bloody flesh clinging to bone. Now there wasn't even a scar. I wiggled the fingers and didn't feel a stitch of pain. My new leg was as strong and reliable as the old. I'd known myself practically immortal, but I'd never been hurt so badly before. I'd hoped the damage would at least last the day.

"I didn't want to make you feel self-conscious," Gwurm said. "I just wanted to tell you that when I first saw you dragging yourself across the field, just after you'd defeated the horde, that I thought to myself that you were the most dreadfully appalling sight I had ever laid eyes upon, a corpse mocking death and all the natural world." He adjusted his nose a little to the left and smiled. "Just something I thought you'd like to know."

I kept my back to him to hide the blush upon my cheek. As men and trolls, even witches had their vanity.