A Nameless Witch

'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.

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