A Nameless Witch

12

The days before the gobling horde's arrival were busy. The soldiers drilled relentlessly with the aid of the White Knight's inspirational presence. The goblings were certain to rely on sheer crushing numbers. The men of Fort Stalwart, in turn, would have to rely on superior teamwork. They were arranged in groups of three who were to stand back-to-back-to-back. In theory, this allowed every man to concentrate on the dangers at his face. In practice, I suspected it would not go so smoothly Men would surely break when confronted with dozens of gnashing teeth despite the Knight's presence. Once a soldier of a trio fell, the other two were presumably close to follow. But there was no denying the transformation of clumsy, inept soldiers into a determined, if not especially skilled, fighting force.

I was very busy myself. Each day, I borrowed Newt's body and checked the goblings' advance. They progressed directly for the fort. This was no coincidence. Just as the phantasmal men had been sent to kill Ghastly Edna, so this horde had been made to destroy this outpost. I was certain of that. For what larger purpose, I couldn't say. My mistress and this fort had nothing in common, save their isolated and harmless nature. Yet they weren't random targets.

I thought much on this conclusion. Ghastly Edna had never mentioned any sorcerers with grudges against her, and this imaginary horde was powerful magic for such an insignificant fort. I couldn't see the reason for either attack, but there was time enough for such mysteries after the gobling horde was destroyed.

Newt's spirits rose as the horde neared. Giddiness replaced his sour disposition. Every day meant his chance to kill drew closer. The demon in him looked forward to bloodshed. Any bloodshed. The trees near my tent bore deep gashes and slices from hours of his own restless practice. Opportunities for outright slaughter were rare, and he wanted to be in top form when the time came. Sometimes I'd watch him rehearse. During an especially zealous session, he felled a pair of trees with a single swipe of each wing. He hacked them into kindling amid satisfied quacks.

Gwurm and Wyst became good friends. My troll developed a great respect for the White Knight. It was not exactly hero worship, but it came close. I saw no harm in it. There were worse men to admire, and Wyst of the West clearly came to value Gwurm's friendship. He saw Gwurm as more than merely a valuable addition to the fort's barely competent fighting ranks. More than once, I glimpsed the troll and the Knight conversing on breaks between drilling. Gwurm, being of good humor, could even bring a smile to Wyst's perpetually somber face on occasion.

Such smiles were all too brief. Wyst was an attractive man, but he was undeniably handsome when he smiled. It was a crooked grin, and a dimple showed on his left cheek. Every time I glimpsed it, I couldn't help but smile myself. And fantasize about things unwitchly.

As for my broom, she grew more anxious every passing day. She started sweeping everything in sight with a nervous fever. Getting her to sit still was next to impossible. I had to hold her tight on those times I needed her at my side. Penelope twitched even then. Had I not been strong as I was, I wouldn't have been able to keep hold. But at least it looked properly witchly to see me wrestle and scold my broom on occasion.

I myself was so busy that my cannibalistic urges fell to the wayside where I easily ignored them. After cursing the swords, I spent a day recruiting beasts to the cause. I spent another mixing medicines for after the battle, assuming there would be survivors. A dubious assumption, but it was always best to be prepared. Another two days went in the pursuit of collecting and bottling various spirits found deeper in the forest. I found some rot nymphs nesting in a dead log, and a slumbering earth lord in an apple seed. Nothing that would be of much help in the conflict, but some wonderful finds still.

Finally I performed a ritual of good fortune on Fort Stalwart and its men. I walked through the fort mumbling, occasionally screeching, sometimes merely shouting, dipping my fingers in a bowl of water, and sprinkling it about to ward away evil spirits. None of it was true magic, but made the men feel better knowing their witch was hard at work, and they'd need every last scrap of confidence when the time came. Ghastly Edna had always said that in most cases, false magic was just as good as the real thing. Sometimes even better.

Then came the day when I met with the Captain and told him that this would be the night. Fie took me at my word and didn't even bother to send out scouts to double-check. I was pleased to have earned his trust. He took the news well, but he'd had time to prepare himself.

"Can I ask you something, witch?"

I nodded.

"Why are you still here?"

I'd already asked myself that question sometime during those days. The answer was an easy one. I cared about this town-to-be, these people. My vengeance motivated me as well. The defeated horde would lead me to its creator, but revenge was not my true purpose. I wanted to destroy this threat and restore Fort Stalwart to all her bustling status. She was but a ghost now, a memory of what she'd been. I missed her, what she was and what she might become provided she wasn't devoured by goblings.

Part of me wanted to share this with the Captain, but another part knew better. I'd already become too familiar with him. He regarded me too much as a person and not nearly enough as a witch. So instead of answering the question, I did what any good witch would do and offered a cryptic reply that could mean as much or as little as he wanted to make of it.

"Everyone must be somewhere, and this is as good as anyplace else."

He laughed. "One day, you'll give me a straight answer."

"One day." I pulled my hat low. "Perhaps."

THE EVENING BEFORE THE battle, I borrowed Newt's body for one last scouting flight. I drifted low over the trees, not really thinking much on the goblings. At this point, the horde occupied little of my thoughts. While the men of the fort clearly grew more preoccupied at the prospect of this fight, I hadn't been taught to think like that.

"Worrying is a fine thing, dear," Ghastly Edna had said. "To worry is to acknowledge that the world is unpredictable, and there is power in understanding one's own powerlessness at times. But too often, worry takes on a life of its own. Men are quite prone to this. They'll plague themselves with so many 'what if's and 'if only's that they soon forget to ponder the true possibilities before them. Which inevitably leads to poor decisions. Whatever happens will happen. Sometimes we have say over the future. Sometimes we do not. Either way, worrying alone never accomplishes anything."

So I didn't. I'd done all I could, and when the time came, I would do more. For now, it was all just waiting.

The sun had nearly surrendered all its light to dusk as I settled in the middle of the gobling horde burrows. The creatures stirred restlessly in their holes, readying for the night.

The gray fox stepped from the bushes to greet me. "Good eve to you, witch."

"Good eve to you, fox. Still alive, I see."

"Yes." She grinned slyly "I'm afraid these goblings haven't proven nearly the challenge I'd hoped. I'm just far too clever."

"There are worse faults," I said.

"Very true."

"Your game may well end tonight."

The fox nibbled at her fluffy tail. "I was growing bored with it anyway"

Braver goblings crept from their burrows. They kept to the shadows. Their eyes glittered all around us.

I spread my wings. "I must be off then. Good game to you, fox."

"Good battle to you, witch."

I took flight as the goblings closed in on the gray fox from every direction. She scratched lazily behind her ear.

Several more ambitious goblings scampered up a tree and tried to fly after me. Three immediately tumbled from the sky. Imaginary goblings flew no better than the genuine beasts. Two others managed to reach me though one kept spinning around with each flap of its wings. That one, I simply dodged without bother. The other tried to bite off my foot. I crushed its skull with a single demon-infused kick and kept on my way, leaving the chattering shrieks of the horde behind. As expected, they were going the same direction as I, toward Fort Stalwart.

The fight wouldn't take place in the fort proper but in a clearing to the south. It was here that the goblings would emerge from the denser woods at their present course. The soldiers would meet them there within sight of Fort Stalwart.

I'd summoned a touch of magic to push away the clouds and coax the moon full and bright. It was nearly as clear as day. The battle would be dangerous enough without men stumbling about in the dark. The soldiers were most impressed with this feat of magic that in truth was the easiest task I'd done of late. But men think of the heavens as vast and uncontrollable along with anything else they cannot touch.

Word had spread that tonight was the night. Every man had known it was coming, and a grim anticipation had been hovering over Fort Stalwart. It ceased hovering and pounced upon the soldiers' hearts. Wyst of the West's magical aura of gallantry kept outright terror from claiming most, but even the White Knight's impressive enchantments could only dull the fear, diminishing it to a grim trepidation, a quiet frightfulness.

There had yet to be any last-minute deserters, proving how powerful Wyst's magic was. Even without it, he was a presence of heroic determination. Everyone knew the White Knights capable of great deeds. Legends of such circulated through the fort as the men clung to their fading courage. It helped calm the fear because none realized that for every valiant, impossible triumph against impossible odds, there were thousands of forgotten foolhardy slaughters. But Wyst of the West was so certain of victory, even I couldn't deny it as an almost forgone conclusion at times. Glorious feats might be accomplished when men gathered their will together, and Wyst had enough will for all the fort's soldiers. And then some.

Wyst of the West stood at the forefront. The Captain and Gwurm took their places at his side. I landed before the Knight and called upon a small magic to speak in my own voice and not Newt's.

"They'll be here within the hour."

The Captain sighed heavily. Gwurm kept to sharpening his sword with a stone. Wyst of the West kept staring sullenly into the woods. Though I knew worry lay in his heart, he kept it from his face.

There was one small preparation left me. I flew to the back of the battlefield where Newt waited in my body along with a small assembly of thirty-nine bats and thirteen owls. They stirred as restlessly as the men. I returned Newt and my souls to their proper flesh and held up a bowl of thick, dark red liquid.

"You must drink this."

The first bat crawled forward and lapped at the contents. He twisted his already twisted face. "This blood has gone bad."

"It has always been bad. It is the blood of the undead, my blood. I sprinkled in some spices to make it more palatable."

The beasts each took their sip, complaining in turn.

Time fell away while we waited. It didn't stop. Nor did it drag or pass very quickly. It just ceased to be. One moment claimed the field. A moment of waiting that saw soldiers milling about both anxiously and fearfully. Some wanted to get it over with. Others wanted it to last as long as possible. And finally, mercifully, the waiting ended.

Orange pinpoints shimmered at the forest's edge. First dozens. Then hundreds. Then thousands. Countless pairs of beady, shining gobling eyes gazed upon the army they'd come to slaughter. The shadowy creatures kept in the darkness, and it was easy to imagine the horde as a single, enormous beast with ten thousand eyes and slavering jaws.

As it turned out, there was a bit more waiting to do as the horde took silent measure of the army. I found it hard to believe the horde knew fear, but there was no mistaking its hesitation. It had come expecting the element of surprise, to devour half the soldiers before they were even awake. Now it faced a prepared foe.

"What are they waiting for?" Newt asked, his voice dry with bloodlust.

"Death comes in its own time," I replied.

He threw a glare. He wasn't in the mood for one of my witchly phrases.

Pair by pair, the orange eyes slipped back into the darkness of the wood. The army murmured in confusion. Some no doubt even entertained the notion that the horde had retreated. I knew better.

The earsplitting shriek of ten thousand gobling voices shattered the air. Goblings poured from the forest in a great cloud. Truly, more of a hopping tide as most goblings in the air crashed to earth within seconds. There were so many. So many more than even I'd conceived of. And they just kept coming.

The army took several steps backward. The men were seconds from breaking into chaos when Wyst of the West drew his enchanted sword. Its gleaming power washed over the soldiers and gave them the courage they needed. He shouted the charge. I don't think anyone could have heard over all the horde's shrieking, but the White Knight dashed forward, sword held high, and the men followed him into battle.

Newt ruffled. The demon rose up in his flesh. The only sign of this was a bloodthirsty burn in his eyes.

"Not yet," I said.

The army and the horde collided. Despite all the rigorous training and my own contributions, I half expected the gob­lings to gush over the soldiers, reducing them to a field of bloodred grass and gnawed bones. This was how most of the men in the front of the charge fared. An avalanche of gob­lings buried many Others ran about with the beasts clamped to their throats and limbs. There were screams, certainly, but nothing could be heard save the hungry shrieks of the horde. It looked as if the army would only serve as the horde's next meal. Then the miraculous happened. The soldiers started fighting back. Even more miraculously, they actually did so with some effect.

Of course, a soldier couldn't swing a sword in this battle without striking a gobling or three. Yet the horde mingled with the army without overwhelming it. It was impossible to see much in the chaos. Goblings died in the groves. Men fell. It was too early to guess as to who would be the victor, but as nearly all the army remained unconsumed, I could only take this as a good omen. And reading omens is a witch's trade.

Goblings spread from the orderly jumble of the battlefield and, naturally, many scrambled my way. I let them approach close enough that I might glimpse the wrinkles under their shining orange eyes.

I threw up my arm, thrusting my broom high. A needlessly dramatic gesture, more worthy of a wizard than a witch, but even witches are allowed to indulge themselves on occasion.

Newt bellowed with all his demonic might. His ferocious quack was the first sound I'd heard over the goblings' cries. He bound forward, wings spread, head low, drooling just a bit. The bats and owls flew after and over him. The beasts had drank my blood, taken on my will, and were instruments of my own unbelief. The contingency of goblings disintegrated with every slashing claw and biting fang. Some popped like bubbles. Others deflated into empty skins. Others only partially disappeared, losing limb, wing, or even head to glancing slices. My flying beasts kept on. There weren't enough to face the true horde, but they could circle the battle, striking down any goblings trying to slip from the field.

As for Newt, his job was to keep the goblings from pestering me. He was a gobling-slaying whirlwind. His fervor manifested in an artful variety of slaughter. Disemboweling. Beheading. Dismembering. Chopping. Mincing. De-boning. No two goblings died exactly the same way Truly, Newt was an artist, and I felt bad he didn't get to exercise his talent more often.

While the men, bats, owls, troll, and demon duck fought in the defense of the realm, I found a stump to sit on and watch. There was nothing else to do. I could pick up a sword and slay goblings, but this would've been unwitchly and wouldn't make much difference. One more sword wouldn't turn the battle. Until some difficulty of a more sorcerous kind appeared, my part was done.

Newt took his place at my side. Yellow gobling ichor covered him bill to webbed toe. He grinned widely. "Well, that's that. Seems none of the little beasts want anything more to do with us anymore."

The piles of goblings slain by Newt's razor-sharp bill and serrated feathers lay close by, and the rest decided that was enough. I expected Newt to ask permission to rejoin the battle, but he hopped on the stump. He curled up beside me, looking happier than I'd ever seen. If nothing else, at least he'd gained something from this. I stroked along his slime-drenched neck.

"They're doing better than I expected," he remarked. "The men, I mean."

I reckoned the volume of gobling shrieks to have lessened by half, but I also guessed half the army to have fallen. The army and the horde were too evenly matched. Wyst of the West's training and my contributions had prevented a slaughter. But if the army stopped the horde at the cost of every man's life, then victory would belong to the goblings. Sorcerous illusions could be remade. Dead soldiers stayed dead.

I searched the madness of the battle for familiar faces. Wyst of the West, Gwurm at his side, appeared among the throng. The Captain wasn't with them. Wyst and Gwurm struck down dozens of goblings before being swallowed into the chaos. I glimpsed soldiers carrying my enchanted swords and found them to be every bit as effective as I'd hoped. Goblings dissolved beneath the cursed blades, but for every one slain, ten rose to take its place. It was a contest of tactics against numbers. After a while, I stopped watching and studied the stars, only barely hearing the cries of goblings, the wet slice of blades cutting into flesh, and the ripping of teeth and claws. It was a lovely night, and the undead in me enjoyed the stench of sweat, blood, and ugly death rising from the field.

Wisely, I'd eaten a big meal before the fight to keep my curse from distracting me. Dark thoughts still whispered. I was so busy ignoring them that when my opportunity finally came, I almost didn't notice.

It started as a ripple in the ether, the ambient magic in the air. Powers were being invoked. The horde's shrieks lowered in pitch. Goblings stopped fighting and burrowed, kicking up clouds of dust. They disappeared into the earth, leaving a field of confused soldiers and gobling corpses.

"Are they giving up?" Newt asked.

I knelt down and put a palm to the ground. The world below throbbed with raw magic. Whatever, whoever, was behind the horde was changing the rules. Victory through defeat wasn't enough.

Slimy flesh bubbled from the holes. What had once been ten thousand goblings was now one hideous amalgamation, a creature of nightmares that could only exist through darkest sorcery. The soldiers didn't know what to do with this new foe. They stood confounded as mounds of eyes, mouths, limbs, and wings grew in the field. The countless little faces growled.

Finally, Wyst of the West attacked. His enchanted sword sank into the mass of gobling flesh up to his wrist. Wyst struggled as the blob sucked him up to his shoulder. Then, with a satisfied bellow, the horde swallowed the White Knight whole.

My heart stopped. Its beating wasn't strictly necessary, but this was the first time it had ever just ceased its reliable rhythms.

The field exploded, and the beast revealed itself in all its terrifying power. The horde towered one hundred feet high. Tendrils shot out and dragged men to gruesome deaths. The air filled with screams and crunching bones.

Wyst had been the army's courage. Faced with this horrible foe, the men broke. They scrambled for their lives. It was the wisest course of action. The horde could no longer be defeated by enchanted blades or heroic determination.

"Stay here, Newt. You too, Penelope."

"What are you—"

I strode forward through the rush of fleeing soldiers. They were too panicked to notice my lack of limp. When my hat fell off, I doubted anyone gave it much thought. The horde swept forward, a ravenous tower of phantom flesh. Too powerful for an army but wholly vulnerable to one witch willing to do what she must.

What once had been ten thousand illusions was now one. Tremendous in size. Awesome in might. Terrifying in its endless devouring hunger. But while I couldn't destroy ten thousand phantoms, one—even one of such sorcerous might—was far more vulnerable.

Perhaps I was walking into the horrible death Ghastly Edna had prophesied. Even stranger, perhaps this was my vengeance. Not for my mistress, but for Wyst of the West. Even if I couldn't love him, I could avenge him. He'd given his life to stop the horde. I could do no less.

The horde paused before me. Its countless eyes studied this morsel standing before them. For a moment, I thought it might have sensed my trap, but I was too tempting a snack. With a hungry snarl, the horde rushed forward and engulfed me.

It was dark and hot inside the beast. I couldn't see. I could barely breathe. The horde's insides smelled of rotting meat and pungent decay. Things brushed against me. Tortured screams reached my ears. There was death in the darkness, a death terrible enough to repulse even my own accursed nature. Dozens of sharp fangs tore away bloody chunks of my tempting alabaster flesh. Acrid saliva burned my nostrils and my skin. I ignored the agony as best I could. I thought of Wyst and how his lips might have tasted had I ever gotten the chance.

How long I remained in the belly of the beast I couldn't say, but suddenly the horde stopped eating me. It uttered a low, queasy grumble, and I found myself vomited into the cool night air. I hit the ground a bloody mess. Had I truly been alive, I most surely would have been dead. My curse wasn't bothered by such trivialities as being half devoured. My right leg was tattered, red flesh ending at the knee. The skin and muscle of my hands and fingers were stripped to the bone. When I drew in deep breaths, air slipped away through gashes in my throat.

The mountain of goblings quivered. Its thousands of mouths grimaced. It swayed to and fro and came crashing down in a groaning mound of slime. The illusion had eaten my flesh, and in my flesh was the power of my unbelief. And unbelief, along with witchly magic, was a most virulent poison to a phantom.

The horde convulsed as it dissolved. It blackened and shriveled. It whined and hissed. Within minutes, it was nothing more than a pool of greenish goo. Eyes and teeth and soldiers' corpses were strewn about, covered in yellow muck. In the middle of it all lay Wyst of the West.

He stirred and groaned. He was covered in slime. Uneaten. Alive.

And my heart started beating again.