protests mattered little to me (not at all, in truth), I allowed him his moment.
He hopped about and flapped his wings. We were a good distance from the camp, but still within easy view. If anyone should notice me arguing with the duck, I wouldn't have minded. It could only enhance my peculiarity and credibility as a good witch.
'But we're on the road to vengeance!' he cried. 'Have you forgotten your dead mistress?'
'I haven't forgotten anything, but vengeance can wait. Or perhaps my vengeance is already here, waiting for me?'
He danced around in an angry circle. 'No, it isn't!'
I smiled despite my best efforts. 'I was unaware you had a sense of these things.'
'Well, I do! And I can tell you that there's nothing here but people and tents and garbage. By everything festering in the bowels of Hades, it's not even a real village!' He turned to Gwurm for help. 'Tell her I'm right.'
'About what?'
'About this! What we're talking about.'
'Sorry Wasn't paying attention.'
Newt uttered an exasperated quack. He paused long enough to collect his thoughts.
'I'm sure that wherever your vengeance waits is farther away.'
I nodded slowly as if I understood his reasoning, and he continued, sounding almost calm.
'It just makes sense. No worthwhile vengeance is just a day-and-a-half 's walk away.'
'I see,' I said. 'And how far away is one's vengeance generally? In your experience.'
His head bobbed while he considered the question. 'It isn't an exact science, but I figure it has to be farther than a journey of self-discovery, but shorter than an epic quest. Hundreds, even thousands, of miles.'
'That seems very far,' Gwurm chimed in.
Newt threw him a nasty glare. 'It can be considerably less if the journey is especially perilous. A terrible monster here or a raging river of death there can trim off a few hundred.'
'What do you guess a dragon to be worth?' Gwurm asked.
'Oh, I don't know' Newt sighed. 'At least two or three hundred.'
'And a sphinx?'
'Who knows? A lot, I guess, as that's mostly what sphinxes are for.'
'What about a gnome?'
'A what?'
'A gnome.'
'A what?'
I stifled a chuckle. Gwurm, very impressively, kept a perfectly straight face.
Newt rolled his eyes. 'A gnome wouldn't be worth anything.'
'I'm speaking of a very unpleasant gnome. A vicious, terribly irritated gnome. Perhaps with a very pointed pebble in his shoes. Digging right into the soft spot of his heel.'
'What are you ...'
'I knew a gnome like that once. Horribly rude little bugger. Mean too. Not truly dangerous, but an annoyance nonetheless. An encounter with him on the road to vengeance would have to cut at least ten or twenty miles, I would imagine.'
Newt gaped.
Gwurm remained quite sincere-looking.
'Fine, fine,' Newt consented. 'I guess if the gnome were an especially foul-tempered little bastard he'd be worth ten or twenty.'
'Not thirty?' Gwurm said.
'No. Not thirty. Even the rottenest, most vile, most terribly furious gnome in this world wouldn't be worth more than twenty miles.'
'I guess not.'
Gwurm hesitated long enough that Newt might think this portion of the conversation ended.
'What about a vast wasteland filled with packs of bloodthirsty mollusks?'
Something in Newt's enchanted mind popped. He lowered his head and wandered away, trying to remember what this had originally been about.
'Big ones!' Gwurm called after the duck. 'Carnivorous snails the size of hounds!'
I finally allowed myself a polite chuckle. 'Thank you.'
His wide mouth turned up in a toothy grin. 'You're very welcome.'
I would never admit such to Newt, but I felt he was correct. Roads to vengeance are never that short, but my quest for revenge was measured in more than miles. It was also a journey of time, and that journey could be a very long one. Decades or centuries. Possibly even millennia. As I was ageless and very difficult to kill, I could afford patience. I didn't share this observation with Newt because though his enchanted nature granted him a long life, he still suffered the passage of time and would eventually die of old age someday. A day that might come long before my chances for revenge. This speculation would only upset him, and Newt was upset enough as it was.
In any case, I was the witch and he, only the familiar. He had no choice.
IT DIDN'T TAKE LONG to adjust to our new way of life. By the Captain's order, I was given a spare tent, torn and shoddily patched. I put it up away from the camp but close enough that I wouldn't be forgotten. It was a witchly tradition to live apart from men and all those other menlike creatures that so enjoy clustering in crushing herds. As the herd instinct in most men is so strong, they cannot help but think one who chooses solitude to be a little off. An image of strangeness is part of the witch's trade. It also made my charade of ugliness easier to maintain, and I didn't trust myself among the camp. The smells and sounds of mortals called to my curse, and I didn't want to eat anyone. Rather, I found myself very much wanting to at times, and having a place to retreat was a wise precaution.
The people were wary of Gwurm at first, but his strength and willingness to work made him a welcome addition. The soldiers were only too happy for his assistance in constructing the fort. Eventually, the camp's suspicion of the troll ebbed into acceptance and even a cautious affection. The children adored him. He'd spend hours rearranging himself for their amusement, juggling his toes, and standing on his head. The mothers would always watch him with a touch of nervousness. As if he might suddenly transform into some terrible fiend and glut himself on their offspring in a moment of hunger.
Newt did not adjust so well. He spent most of his time sulking in my tent. On those few occasions he followed me on my daily rounds, he never spoke a word among the camp. The children, sensing things the way young minds can, avoided him. The mothers were too busy watching Gwurm to pay Newt much mind. I kept a close eye on my familiar though, and there were no incidents of waterfowl blood rages.
Another interesting turn came when my broom took on a life of its own. Magic, especially witch magic, doesn't just come when called and then go away quietly. It is constantly about, curdling milk, stopping clocks, and cracking mirrors on occasion. My broom was always by my side, and it soaked up enough to gain will and animation. There were ways to cleanse this residue, but as long as it behaved itself, I saw no reason. It was nice having someone to do the sweeping.
I quickly settled into a routine. I'd wake late in the afternoon and tour the camp, treating the ailing. Blisters, aching muscles, and minor infections were the bulk of my duties. All were easily treated with herbs and simple magic. Those rare maladies of greater severity weren't much more difficult. After tending to the sick, I'd report to the Captain, detailing the general health of the camp. Then I'd return to my tent and mix medicines. The Captain was so happy with my service that I was offered a new tent within a week. I declined the offer as the tattered one better fit my image.
At nights, I'd sit and watch the camp. I could do so for hours on end. Even after everyone but the night watch had gone to sleep. Though I was born of a mortal woman, I was not mortal. I couldn't be one of them. I didn't want to be one of them. Yet they were fascinating creatures, and I'd often think of what my life might have been like had I not been accursed.
And sometimes, I'd indulge my darker half in flights of fantasy. Daydreams in the early morning hours where I'd slide through the camp and snatch away a vulnerable morsel for my dinner. Such thoughts were part of me and to deny them would only grant them greater strength. But my appetite was easy to hold back, like a sweet tooth I
