A Nameless Witch

shovels and sharpest swords could've spent weeks trying with nothing to show but blistered palms and a handful of gobling corpses out of thousands.

I glanced down into a dark hole. Goblings were about duck-size, and I would have to squeeze down into the depths if I were to learn anything more. Newt's body was a match for a gobling or two, but there was still a danger. If I should get his borrowed body killed, my soul would simply snap back into my own flesh, push out Newt, and he'd expire. Familiars were made to serve, but I had gotten attached to my demon duck, disrespectful as he might be. Sentimentality aside, a good witch takes care with her familiar.

I deemed it worth the risk and stepped into the darkened burrow. Though my own eyes would have worked better, Newt's could see reasonably well. I moved slowly, carefully, and soon came across a slumbering gobling. It was a noisy little creature. Its body twitched as it snored, grumbled, and snorted in a fitful sleep.

I didn't get too close as I studied it. It looked as I'd been taught goblings should. Two arms. Two legs. A square head with a large mouth, small eyes, and giant ears. Small leather wings grew from its shoulders, but goblings were notoriously bad fliers. Worse even than Newt. I sensed no magic in this creature, but just because I didn't see enchantment didn't rule out the involvement of magic. Magic can be concealed even from a witch's eye. It usually wasn't considered worth the effort.

If I was to learn any more, I'd have to take this gobling back for more in-depth inspection. It wouldn't be much trouble to kill it in its sleep, drag it to the surface, and fly it back to the fort. Getting it back alive would have been preferable but unfeasible.

The gobling sniffed and stirred. A shiny, orange pinpoint lit the tunnel. By the time I'd realized it was one of the gob-ling's eyes, it had already scrambled to its feet and came at me, screeching.

The demon in Newt's flesh reacted without a thought from me. It thrust my bill into the creature's throat. Blood spurted from the gash. It splattered on my face and bill. I swallowed some of it and discovered gobling blood tasted not bad at all, the tang of rabbit with the sweetness of deer, though I disliked the aftertaste. The gobling writhed a minute, hissing and spitting, before expiring.

I took a solid bite of an ear (not easy without teeth) and I began hauling it from the burrow. Newt's body was strong, especially for a duck, and the gobling would be easy enough to carry back in flight with a rest here and there.

I was so pleased with my catch that I almost didn't notice the grunts coming from deeper in the tunnel. From the depths, shapes were rising. Each of them sported two pinpoints of orange eyes. They growled in ravenous fashion.

I counted five of the creatures. There were probably even more waiting, crowding forward. They were cautious, which was fortunate. I couldn't fight them all. I dragged my prize toward the surface, and they followed along, getting ever closer. I'd gotten halfway out the burrow when one finally latched on to the corpse's foot and, with a growl, yanked it from my bill.

Hands would have made this easier. I guess Newt was used to his lack of them, but they truly were practical tools. I lunged at the gobling and nipped off a bit of finger. The creature let go and retreated. I hastily swallowed the finger, gripped the corpse by its arm, and hauled it out of the dark and into the light, where the goblings would not follow.

Then I sat and caught my breath. Goblings tasted very good. It was no mystery why they devoured each other. I was tempted to go back and grab another for a snack. Instead, I bit off the big toe of the one I had and chewed it slowly. I wondered how humans tasted in comparison. An instinct told me they were even better. And Wyst of the West would surely have a flavor beyond lesser men, but this was perhaps an assumption of my growing affection.

A voice interrupted my musings. 'A duck eating a gobling. There's a sight I'd never thought to see.'

A gray fox sat on a flat stone. She smiled. Foxes usually did.

'I have demon in my flesh,' I replied.

'Yes, and a witch in your mind.'

I didn't know I looked surprised, but I must have.

She smiled wider. 'Oh, I've seen one or two witches in borrowed bodies before. One even borrowed mine once.'

'You're very observant, I can see.'

'Well, I am a fox. A very clever fox at that, if I say so my­self.'

I sat on my gobling. 'Not that I doubt you, but what would a very clever fox be doing around here when every other living thing has the good sense to be elsewhere?'

'I never said I had good sense. I merely claimed to be clever, but the problem with being clever is that I get bored easily. So when the goblings came along, I began a game. Every night, they rise from their burrows and scour the woods for every morsel, and I do my best to avoid finding myself in their stom­achs.'

'A dangerous game.'

'As all the very best games are. And why, I must ask, should a witch's mind in a demon duck's body dare risk herself for a gobling corpse. Surely, they aren't that delicious.'

'You're very curious,' I replied.

The fox smiled again. Rather, she smiled differently than before. 'A hazard of being too clever, I'm afraid.'

I explained how I needed a specimen to study that I might discover if magic was indeed involved in this horde of gob­lings.

She stopped smiling and playfully swished her tail. 'I am no witch, merely a fox, and I can tell there is magic in this.' She walked over and sniffed the corpse. 'For one, this is not a true gobling. None of them are.'

'How so?'

'I couldn't say. I'm not that clever, but they are not genuine flesh and blood. Can't you tell?'

'No, but I'm no fox, just a witch.' I kicked the corpse. It felt solid. Yet it was already stiffening and stone cold but minutes after its death. These were surely signs something was amiss.

I remembered the wolf's remark on Ghastly Edna's killers. They had been men who were not men. Was there a connection, or were creatures of false flesh more common than my sheltered existence had led me to believe? I didn't know, but it was certainly noteworthy. Perhaps my vengeance was not so far away as Newt suspected.

I thanked the fox for her help. She wandered off to get some sleep before the evening games began, and I flew back to the fort, my dead gobling clamped in my bill.

10

After returning Newt and myself to our proper bodies, I examined my dead gobling inside my tent. A cursory inspection showed something unnatural at work. The corpse was decaying remarkably quickly only hours after death, and my sensitive nose detected none of the stench of rot the undead in me so relished. In fact, the corpse smelled hardly at all. I leaned close and sniffed it up and down. There was an odor of dirt, moss, and a dozen faint aromas this gobling would have collected from the forest. Of the gobling itself, there was nothing. Though it looked real and felt real and tasted real enough, it didn't seem to exist at all in smell. Such an anomaly could only be magic.

Newt watched but had other interests. 'What's it like to fly?'

'It's nice,' I answered while running my fingers across the goblings square face.

'Nice?'

'As a form of travel, it is very convenient. Although I think I prefer walking.'

'You're not just saying that, are you? Just to make me not feel bad about not being able to.'

'Not at all.'

'Because I've always been led to believe that flying is wonderful.'

I flipped the gobling on its stomach and prodded it along its spine. 'Flying is like most talents. Everyone who can't do it assumes it must be greater than it is, and everyone who can knows it for what it is.'

'You're talking in circles,' he said.

'I know.'

'I wish you wouldn't. It's confusing sometimes.'

'It's meant to be.'