A Nameless Witch

At the fort proper, I informed a soldier that I would need to speak with the Captain and would be waiting in his office. I unlocked the door with magic and found a seat. Newt sat at my feet, and we waited. Penelope entertained herself by sweeping the dusty floor. She'd collected most of it in a corner when the Captain finally arrived. He was not alone. Wyst of the West entered after him.

Newt gurgled, but he didn't vomit. His tolerance for the White Knight's purity was growing.

I lowered my head, pressing my chin to my chest and keeping my eyes low.

Penelope kept joyfully sweeping.

'I trust this is important,' the Captain said.

I raised my head and glimpsed Wyst of the West. In a brief moment of fantasy, I imagined myself pouncing upon him to nuzzle and gnaw his face. I smiled slightly, despite myself. He smiled back, and I averted my eyes to the Captain.

I reached into a loose sleeve and removed a small clay vial. 'A tonic of ill-taste. Pour it into the men's stew, and they'll taste horrible for days. Horrible enough to deter even a gob-ling's appetite.'

'Thank you. Is that it?'

'No. I've made a discovery about the horde. A discovery that could be of great help.'

The Captain looked skeptical, but he almost always did.

Wyst of the West finally spoke. 'Something involving magic, I presume.'

'Sorcery, to be exact,' I replied while very deliberately not looking at him.

Ghastly Edna had taught me as much as she could about the other schools of magic. There were many, and all had their province. Wizards practiced the art of incantation, manipulating the world through words. Thaumaturgists mastered magic through science while shamans viewed it as a primeval force to be called upon through blood offerings and fireside dances. Witches held no solid opinion of magic but were wise enough to know that this in itself was an opinion. And sorcerers pursued the art of crafting illusions. There were countless other followers of the secret ways, and they were all right in their philosophy because magic generally acts as expected.

'I've dealt with sorcerers before,' said Wyst of the West. 'They're not dangerous. All smoke and bluster.'

'Mostly,' I agreed, 'but even smoke has substance.'

I reached into my sleeve and removed a small lizard. I dangled the reptile by its tail. Its skin shifted from yellow to black to green to other random colors.

'I've never seen a lizard like that,' the Captain said.

'That's because it does not exist save through my will and magic.' I placed it on the table, where it skittered in small aimless circles.

The Captain tried to touch it, but it passed through his hand. 'Incredible. It looks so real.'

'It's nothing. Any sorcerer's apprentice could do better, but it took a master to create a phantasmal horde of goblings.'

I allowed the Captain and Wyst of the West a moment to absorb the information.

'The goblings aren't real?' the Captain asked.

'That's impossible. I've seen the damage they've done myself. Their rampage hasn't been illusion. Just ask the good people they've terrorized. Look at the land they're ravaged.'

Wyst frowned. His lower lip stuck out, and I wanted so very badly to run my forked tongue across it.

'How can something not real cause any damage?' said the Captain.

This would be the most difficult part, to teach these men that real and unreal, just as dead and undead, were merely a matter of degrees. Organizing my thoughts was difficult with Wyst of the West so close. Fortunately, I'd prepared in advance.

'I didn't say their rampage was imaginary. Merely that they are, in essence, no more real than this lizard I have made. Which I shall now unmake.' I snapped my fingers, and the lizard vanished.

The Captain's eyes lit up. 'You can unmake the horde?'

'This lizard was a weak illusion. The goblings are much stronger. So strong that even reality has been fooled into accepting them as true.'

'So they are real.'

'As real as a dream.'

The Captain sighed. 'I'm getting a headache.'

'They are a dream,' I explained, 'but it is a dream shared by the world. And when every man, every beast, every tree, and every rock shares in the same illusion, then a dream can become reality. To a point.'

'Well, if they're real enough to kill and ravage I fail to see how knowing any of this will help.'

Wyst of the West agreed. 'Yes, witch. You said this would be of help, didn't you?'

He looked into my eyes, and I didn't turn away this time. I had to smile, but I hoped it came across as vague and mysterious rather than beguiled by his dark eyes.

'Yes, the magic of the horde is potent, but there is a flaw. Even a shared dream is still just a dream. And dreams, like any illusion, can be dispelled by strong enough doubt and, in this case, a little magic. I can place just a drop of enchantment on your men's weapons. Enough that the slightest cut will unmake the dream.'

Again, the Captain's eyes lit up, but he was ready to be disappointed this time. 'But?'

'The men must know in their hearts, without any doubt, that what they find is but an army of phantoms to call upon the magic.'

'An army of phantoms that are nonetheless real enough to devour them alive,' the Captain said.

'There will be men. Those lacking enough imagination to even truly believe a shared dream. Others with too much that they suspect the whole world just a dream. Such men, properly armed, will be the horde's undoing. If there are enough of them.'

'And exactly how many will be enough?' the Captain dared ask.

'More than you will have,' I replied honestly, 'but as the goblings are as close to real as phantoms can be, they can also be fought and killed without magic. Those few capable of unbelieving the horde will simply be more efficient. If you're fortunate, the unbelievers shall be enough to turn the tide.'

'You don't sound very confident.'

I could make no promises, and I let the men know it with a somber face. The Captain was not as enlightened as I'd hoped, but now was a good time to make a traditional witchly exit without saying another word, leaving my audience both a little wiser and a little more befuddled.

Wyst of the West stood between me and the door. He stepped aside as I passed close. I thought him repulsed by my mask of ugliness, but he kept looking me in the eye. Repelled people never did that. Then again, rarely did I look in someone's eyes, but I couldn't stop myself. Sunrise had been right. Those eyes, those ears, those shoulders, that dark, delicious flesh, and that pure, brave soul. Those were my reasons for being here.

Those reasons nearly spoiled my departure, but I found the will to turn from that pleasing face. I walked out the door, very proud of myself for making it with my witchly dignity intact. I paused outside to gasp and shudder free of the tingles left within me.

Only then did I realize I'd forgotten my limp and my hunch. Such mistakes were unforgivable, but they paled beside the absence of my familiar and my broom. They were supposed to follow me out of the office. Now I faced a dilemma. Either go back and retrieve them, thus destroying whatever shreds remained of my dramatic exit, or return to my tent without them. The door opened while I debated. Newt walked out. Penelope floated behind him.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I was so busy holding down my dinner, I didn't notice you leave.'

Penelope jiggled an apology of her own. The Captain's dusty floors were certainly a terrible distraction for the poor dear. It was her broomly nature.

I forgave them. I'd suffered my own diversions in Wyst's presence. Penelope drifted into my hand, and Newt took his place at my side. I hunched deeper and dragged my leg as if raising it off the ground would cause it to snap off.

I made it only eight sluggish steps before the White Knight's voice called to me. 'Hold, witch.'

A desire to run seized me. I didn't know which direction. Away seemed wrong. Toward him seemed wrong too.