A Nameless Witch

11

I didn't want tobother enchanting every sword in the fort when we'd be fortunate to find ten men of the correct nature. I had better uses for my time. I devised a simple but effective test for the soldiers and began administering it the next morning. The Captain lent me the kitchen for that purpose.

Gwurm helped by managing the line, and Penelope busied herself by sweeping dust from one side of the kitchen to the other. Newt sat and watched. He found each test most amusing.

Gwurm let the two hundred and fourteenth soldier leave and let in the two hundred and fifteenth, a man of undistinguished features. They were all beginning to look alike. He stood before me. I held up a stone and spoke without looking at him.

"This rock is not real. It has only the substance your perceptions give it. Do you understand?"

There was a pause when I imagined he was nodding, but I couldn't say as I wasn't looking at him.

"Yes. I believe so," he said.

"Good." I tossed the stone between my hands. "Now I will throw this imaginary rock at you, and as you understand it is not real, it will not hurt you."

I cocked my arm and hurled the rock. He didn't flinch. It struck him in the stomach, and he doubled over, gasping. This was expected as the rock was quite real.

Newt fell over in a fit of quacking hysterics. "Oh, that's great." He panted breathlessly. "That never gets old."

The soldier straightened. His face reddened and scowled. I understood his anger, but he'd passed the test. The first to not recoil from my "imaginary" stone. It was perhaps cruel to pelt a man with a real rock but conjuring a phantom stone was a waste of magic when the genuine item worked as well.

"Your name, soldier?"

"Pyutr, ma'am."

I wrote it on my list of potential unbelievers. The list consisted solely of his name at the moment.

"You may go now"

Newt chuckled. "That was almost as good as the one you tagged in the groin." He collected the stone and returned it to me. "But my favorite was the soldier you hit in the shin who did all the swearing and the little dance." He hopped about in a reenactment, remarkably accurate given the differences between a man and a duck.

The next soldier appeared, and Newt sat eagerly.

"This rock is not real..." I began once again.

My familiar stifled a chortle. Tears ran down his watering eyes.

So it went the remainder of the morning. Soldiers came in. I gave my speech. I threw my rock. Newt heaved with laughter. The Captain was my last test. He failed. He sat and rubbed his bruised knee while checking the list.

He couldn't read it. My parents had neglected such education, and Ghastly Edna had never learned herself. The lore of witches is taught through doing, not reading. But writing was a useful skill, so I'd developed my own script of squiggles and symbols I found both lovely and practical. Though it always seemed to be evolving, growing more sophisticated over the years, I never had any trouble reading it. I think there was magic involved. I wasn't so much creating a new script as discovering an old one that never was.

The Captain handed over the list. "Will there be enough to do the job?"

"Thirteen," I said. "You'll be lucky if six are possessed of the skepticism required."

"And will six be enough?"

"I couldn't say."

"Damn it! I thought witches knew the future."

"Knowing what will be is not the same as knowing how it will come to pass."

The Captain sighed. He was a man very near the breaking point, and I pitied him. I was tempted to give him an answer and tell him I knew the future. Somewhere in my tomorrows lies either vengeance or death or both. But, of the brave men of Fort Stalwart, Ghastly Edna hadn't made mention.

"No one can catch tomorrow."

The Captain grinned. "Very true. And almost wise. Tell me, did they teach you such nearly enlightened yet vaguely mysterious phrases in witch's school or do you make them up as you go?"

"I little of both," I admitted.

"It must be tiring, speaking in riddles and circles."

"Sometimes."

Newt quacked, warning to be wary of sharing too much with the Captain. Part of the witchly ways is to maintain a veil of mystery. Witches should never be thought of as human, even if they usually are. Once I'd asked Ghastly Edna the reason for this tradition. "Because that is the way it has always been" had been her answer.

I'd admitted too much to the Captain already, but I couldn't see the harm. He'd likely be dead in a few days. This saddened me. He was a good man. Not handsome or dashing or especially competent, but good. I had no desire to see a good man wasted.

My mouth watered. He wouldn't have triggered such a response normally, but I was under tremendous stress. It made holding to a strict diet all the more difficult.

If the Captain noticed my grumbling stomach, he was polite enough not to mention it. I excused myself to begin my enchanting. Thirteen swords would require a few hours of work.

Newt once again spoke up without prompting. "If you're not going to eat the White Knight, you should pick someone else. One soldier won't be missed, and even if it didn't solve the problem, it should tide you over until the goblings get here."

My familiar made sense as he so often did. The demon in him knew how to make evil seem practical and necessary. It was true that one soldier would not be missed, that if his sacrifice served to give me strength to concentrate on more important matters, then it could be worth it.

This was assuming that consuming a man I didn't truly desire would satisfy me. It seemed just as conceivable that it would only serve as an appetizer. Once I gave in to the impulse, I might find myself incapable of eating just one.

Wyst of the West could probably satisfy me for a long time. The Captain might appease my stomach for a month or two. I doubted an ordinary man could keep me full for three days. The only way to find out was to actually devour a man. Regardless of any moral dilemmas, now was not the time to study my cannibalistic urges.

On our way to the armory, Newt whispered temptations. "Oh, there's a nice, fat one. Bet he'd fill you up. Or how about that handsome, young specimen. Lots of lean muscle."

He shut up while I asked the weaponmaster for his thirteen finest swords. While he retrieved them, Newt murmured, "A tasty morsel, don't you think?"

I waved my broom in small circles over him while mumbling.

"What are you doing?"

I touched him lightly on the head, and all his feathers fell off in one instant molt. He was still gaping at the pile of white fluff when the weaponmaster returned. Gwurm took the bundled swords from the weaponmaster, who ogled bald Newt but didn't say anything.

Other soldiers lacked his control. They pointed and laughed at the featherless fowl. Gwurm merely smiled while Newt threw annoyed glances. It was a hard lesson for a duck that wanted to be terrifying, but it kept him quiet.

Gwurm dropped the bundle on the bench outside my tent. "If you won't be needing me for anything, I should be drilling with the men."

I wished him well and granted him leave. He cast one last amused smile in Newt's direction.

"That's a good look for you," said Gwurm. "Nothing scarier than an angry plucked duck. If you cut off your head, you'd be every cook's worst nightmare."

Rage flashed in Newt's eyes. He looked about to pounce upon the troll. I didn't know who would kill who in a fight, and I had no desire to find out just now.

"Newt, inside."

Muttering, he did as told.

Gwurm left for drills, and Penelope decided to go with him, merely looking for an excuse to visit the fort's dusty floors again. I had no objections. She just wanted to be helpful. I doubted the soldiers would appreciate their dust-free fort, but in times of trouble, we all must contribute what we can.

Newt poked his head out of the tent. "This isn't permanent, is it?"

The spell would only last until dusk, but I didn't tell him. I even suggested that perhaps Gwurm had a good point, and I was thinking of magically removing his head. Not only would it make him a more proper witch's duck, but his cast aside skull sounded like a tasty snack. He disappeared back inside with a disgruntled quack.

I laid out the swords on the ground before me. Thirteen was a nice witchly number. It was a quirk of magic that enchanting thirteen swords was easier than one or twelve or fourteen. Only the magic knew why this was, and it kept these reasons to itself. But magic, by its very nature, defies true understanding. It follows its own rules, and often ignores those rules when it feels like it.

I arranged the swords in a circle, blades outward. Then I sat in the ring's center and spent the next four hours with my head down, mumbling, and enchanting. Technically, witches do not enchant. We curse. It's a slight difference. I endowed the swords with the power to dispel illusions in the right hands, but as they were cursed, any man who called upon the magic would age a day for every phantom destroyed.

Cursing is tedious, uninteresting work. Most witch magic is not particularly flashy. It gets the job done without making a big show. Wizards love throwing up their hands, bellowing, and shooting sparks in the air. Or so Ghastly Edna had taught. It was their stock and trade. But witchly showmanship was mostly in the feigned madness, pointed hat, unflattering frocks, and raspy crackles.

Several hours of uninterrupted cursing later, I took a break. I opened my eyes. The swords shimmered with half-finished magic. It was coming along nicely, and I stood with a slight smile.

I turned and saw Wyst of the West sitting on the bench beside my tent. I had no idea how long he'd been there. It could've been hours. It was an old witch's trick to pay him no mind and act as if I'd known he was there all along and merely had yet to address him. I hobbled into the tent, right past him, and poured myself a bowl of boar's blood, kept warm and salty by magic. Newt glared but wasn't speaking to me. I didn't ask if he'd noticed how long the White Knight had been waiting.

I took a sip of blood, wiped my mouth, thought better of it, and took another drink without wiping it away. I let the red cover my upper lip and dribble down my chin. Just enough I reckoned to be unappealing without overdoing it. Then I stepped out of the tent, walked past Wyst of the West once again, and paced a slow circle around the thirteen half-cursed swords.

He had yet to say anything or even make a noise. I decided I'd been witchly enough.

"Do you plan on sitting there all day?" I tried to sound as if I didn't care, but truth be told, his presence unnerved me. Only Ghastly Edna's superior schooling prevented me from showing it.

"I've come for the test," he replied.

"There's no need."

He stood, looking very insulted. "You tested every man in the fort. I see no reason I should be an exception."

I chuckled. "I saw no reason to bother with a test that I'd already know you'd fail."

"What makes you think I'd fail? I understand well what you've told me about these goblings."

"Understand perhaps. But to understand is not always enough."

"Are you going to test me or not?" It was the first time I'd heard him sound even remotely cross.

Rather than argue the point, I agreed. I found a flat stone, explained its "imaginary" nature, and threw it right at his face. He didn't flinch. The stone stopped an inch from his nose. It hung there a moment, held by his protective aura, before falling to the ground.

"Now do you see? There's no way to know if you held your ground because you believed me or because you knew your magic would protect you."

He nudged the stone with his boot. "I see, but I also know that I believed you."

"Yes, I think you did, but sometimes understanding and belief aren't enough. You've spent too long hunting this horde. No matter how much you think you understand, no matter what your strength of will, some part of you will always think the goblings real."

He looked as if he might argue but thought better of it.

I asked, "And what do you need an enchanted sword for when you already possess a fine magic sword yourself?"

He adjusted the weapon on his hip. "The enchantments on my weapon only serve to give courage to the men who fight by my side and keep the blade ever sharp and rust-free. But for phantom goblings, it has no special powers."

"I'm certain it will serve you well enough when the time comes."

Wyst drew his enchanted weapon. Sensitive as I was to light and capable of perceiving the powerful magic blazing on the blade, I winced. Such potent enchantments were the stuff of legend, the product of years of master enchanters. Anyone who looked upon the unsheathed weapon would feel either invincible by the White Knight's side or stricken with sickly fear if standing against him. My eyes adjusted to the brightness just as he returned the weapon to its scabbard.

"That is a great power you carry," I remarked.

"A great power for great good."

"Or great tragedy," I whispered.

He heard anyway. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing."

There was no hiding the anger in his voice this time. "Stop talking riddles, and speak plainly!"

I allowed myself a long glance at his pleasing face. His eyebrows were furrowed, and he glared. I should have thrown a half-wise, half-mad chuckle at him and gone back to my sword cursing. It would have been the witchly thing to do. As I so often did in the White Knight's presence, I fumbled my witchfulness.

I limped close to him, keeping my head stooped and one squinted eye aimed at his chin. "Without your magic, you couldn't convince a handful of men to stand against the gob­ling horde. When the time comes, many will die."

"They are soldiers. It is their duty."

I allowed myself a chuckle. He was trying to convince himself more than me.

"True, that is," I agreed. "But that does not change the fact that most would have abandoned their duty without your influence."

"Those without honor."

"True, that is too, but the common man would trade his honor for his life any day. And precious few would throw it away on a lost cause."

"This is not a lost cause."

I hobbled away and whirled my hands in a peculiar way. "Perhaps not. Perhaps it is merely a nearly lost cause, an almost fool's crusade. But these soldiers would care little for such distinctions."

Wyst of the West stood rigid. He gripped the hilt of his sword with white knuckles. "These men fight, and yes, some will die, to prevent greater disaster."

"Again, this is true. But in the end, no matter how right the fight, no matter how necessary the sacrifice, you will ultimately be responsible for whatever happens." I lowered into a deep crouch and spoke with a rasp. "That is a burden I wouldn't care for myself."

His form went slack, and I glimpsed a terrible weariness in his eyes, if only for a moment. I knew then I'd struck a nerve. It was the witch's way to help men face such hard truths, but Wyst of the West needed no help. His was a virtuous soul, and every death must have weighed heavy on that soul.

He stood straight again. His sadness disappeared behind a mask of sobriety. "The order teaches that evil and injustice must be fought, that they cannot be ignored and wished away by good intentions. That sometimes, sacrifices must be made for the greater good."

"Yet another undeniable truth."

I sat in the circle of swords, making it seem as if getting to the ground was a great effort for weak knees. I lowered my head and waited for him to go away.

He didn't.

I sat there with my eyes closed and thought distracting thoughts. I mentally recited remedies and secret witchly lore and anything else to keep me from thinking of him. Underneath all that strength and virtue, Wyst of the West was still a man. As vulnerable to guilt and regret and the pain gathered simply through living. I wanted to comfort him, to clutch him to me and push away his pain if only for a little while. Such compassion was forbidden by my trade. And my curse.

"One last thing, witch," he said.

I kept my head down and my eyes closed. "Yes?"

"How is your duck?"

I called for Newt. He emerged from the tent in all his embarrassed baldness.

"Oh, my. That isn't my fault, is it?" Wyst asked.

"It's his own doing," I replied. "Nothing serious. He'll be fine in a day or two."

"Glad to hear it."

The White Knight and I exchanged brief glances. I couldn't offer him a comforting hug, but his burdened soul was lightened by my plucked familiar. Wyst of the West smiled, and I smiled back. Then he bid us good day and left. I didn't watch him go.

Newt waddled to my side. "If you're not going to eat him, can I at least kill him?"

"I very much doubt you could."

He shrugged. "Just the same, I'd be willing to give it a go."

He strolled back into the tent, and I went back to work.