A Nameless Witch

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.

13

My curse restored mewith such potent efficiency that I was whole by the dawn. Even my stump of a leg grew back as strong and whole as if it'd never been lost. For a while at least, I looked witchly without having to work at it. It made tending the wounded easier.

And there were a great many wounded and remarkably few dead. Men had fallen, but their teamwork had kept the goblings from finishing the job in most cases. Of Fort Stalwart's five hundred soldiers, only a hundred numbered among the dead. Over three hundred were injured. Some had only been nibbled on, able to patch themselves up without my help. Many more had been devoured to various extents. There was an epidemic of missing parts. Men were made of so many bite-sized pieces: ears, fingers, lips, noses, hands, feet. Though men preferred having all their parts, their loss wasn't truly life-threatening with some rudimentary treatment.

There were far fewer men needing more from me. Those more seriously wounded were usually dead. Though men were delicate creatures, they might survive grievous harm that surprised even me. Perhaps survive was too strong a word. Rather, they managed to put off their death for a few hours. I did what I could for those fading heroes, but even a witch's magic can't stave off death when it must come. I accepted this with the wisdom that all men must perish eventually.

Just an hour after dawn, after I'd treated the rest of the men, I reported to the Captain's quarters. Like most of the soldiers, he hadn't survived the battle unscathed. He'd lost his right hand down a gobling's snapping jaws. Strangely, this didn't bother him in the least. He was too glad to be alive and considered himself fortunate. Justly so. Other men had lost much more.

Newt shuffled in behind me, covered in dried gobling goo. The Captain and Wyst of the West looked me up and down.

'You're looking better, witch,' the Captain remarked.

'That which does not kill me rarely bothers me for very long. It is my curse.'

He glanced at his bandaged stump. 'Doesn't seem like much of a curse to me.'

I smiled. 'As all good curses should seem.'

Of all the men, only Wyst of the West remained unharmed. His enchantment had prevented a single gobling bite, even after he'd been swallowed whole. This wasn't to say he was invincible. I was certain if I hadn't unbelieved the horde, he would have suffocated in its gruesome folds.

'How are the men faring?' Wyst asked.

'Well enough. Most will live, but many will never fight again.'

Wyst nodded solemnly. 'Their brave sacrifice will be re­membered.'

The Captain chuckled. 'I don't think so. When people speak of this battle, they won't talk of the soldiers. They never do. No, they'll remember the courageous White Knight who led the fight.' He nodded my way 'Perhaps the witch who finished the horde. History remembers its heroes and villains. Everything else is lost to time.

'It's as it should be. To fight and die is expected of every good soldier. And honestly, without your help, we'd have been slaughtered. The victory is yours, not ours.'

This was only half true. Certainly the men would have perished alone against the horde, but neither Wyst nor I could have defeated the goblings without the army's support. But heroes are carried on the backs of a thousand forgotten faces.

Wyst of the West almost argued the point. Right or wrong, that was the way of the world's memory.

'It doesn't matter,' the Captain said. 'Right here, right now, we're alive. The horde is beaten. The realm is saved. That's why I called you here, witch. To offer you a taste of my favorite wine.' He held up an hourglass- shaped bottle. 'I save it for special occasions. I think this qualifies.'

He poured three glasses. The deep red liquid looked like blood but smelled of sweet grapes that had grown in a patch near Ghastly Edna's cabin.

Wyst politely refused his glass. 'I don't drink wine.'

The Captain grinned. 'Very well. More for the witch and I then.'

'I don't drink wine either,' I replied, 'but I will take a glass.'

I held it under my nose. The scent reminded me of home.

'I could use a drink,' said Newt. His quiet act had finally lost its appeal.

Neither man seemed surprised by Newt's sudden speech. He was a witch's duck after all. If he wasn't going to be midnight black or fanged, then talking seemed only appropriate. He hopped on the table, and the Captain cheerfully poured my familiar a drink.

'To victory,' the Captain toasted. He tapped his glass on my own and Newt's. He gulped down his drink while Newt lapped at his and I inhaled pleasant remembrances. I allowed the Captain his moment, all too brief alas. Then I ended it.

'The horde has been defeated, but its shadow remains.'

The Captain set his wine aside, a quizzical expression on his face, but Wyst of the West knew what I meant.

'The goblings are dead, aren't they?' the Captain asked.

'As they were never truly alive,' I replied, 'they could never truly be killed. But they are as dead as phantoms can ever be. No, the horde is finished, but it was never the true threat.'

The Captain drew in a deep breath. 'More riddles, witch?'

'No riddle.' Wyst clasped his hands behind his back. He looked me in the eye, and I didn't look away. 'The goblings were a product of sorcery. Whatever power created them sent the horde here for a purpose. Just because the horde was defeated, doesn't mean they won't try again.'

The Captain paled. 'Another horde?'

'A possibility,' I said, 'but I think not. The horde was beaten. Whatever comes next, and something will come, will not be so easily defeated.'