Willow

by Wayland Drew

  He shut his eyes and turned away, hugging the child close. “I don’t want to go there, Vohnkar,” he whispered. “I can’t. I can’t.”

  The warrior laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “You must,” he said. “You have a duty.”

  Down they went together. With Burglekutt keeping to the rear, they descended the last slope and approached the Daikini crossroads.

  The sun had just set. Reflecting off low clouds, the afterglow drenched the place in red. Close up, it was even more horrible than it had been from the hilltop. The contorted remains of horses and men lay everywhere, some mere skeletons, some dried black, some fresh and putrefying. Corpses on gibbet ropes swayed as if still caught in the currents of violence that had swept that place. Carrion birds circled, stretching scrawny necks.

  “I don’t like it,” Burglekutt said. “I want to go home.”

  “Quiet!” Vohnkar muttered, his narrow eyes sweeping the crossroads and the hills. “We all want to go home. We’re staying until we’ve done what we came to do.”

  “Well, can we at least get away from them!” Burglekutt pointed toward a high wooden scaffolding directly across the road. Two iron cages hung there from stout chains. A grinning skeleton sat in the closer, draped in rotted rags. One hand gripped the bars and the other dangled through, a finger pointing at them. As the cage swung, the finger swept over them, and back.

  One of the warriors cursed softly.

  “Poor devil!” Vohnkar said. “I wonder what his crime was.”

  “M-maybe just being here?” Willow suggested.

  Vohnkar shook his head. “Not even Daikinis do that to ordinary folk,” he said. “Only to the really bad ones.”

  Willow squinted at the other cage, but it hung farther back in the gloom, and he could see nothing but a pile of rags in the bottom.

  “Let’s move away from them,” Meegosh said in a small voice. “For once I agree with Burglekutt. Those things make me shiver!”

  Vohnkar beckoned. They moved across the road to a little thicket that had somehow escaped ravaging. Here, in the last of the light, they stood in a huddle, looking up and down the highway. The baby began to whimper, and Willow took her out of the basket. “She’s cold,” he said. “We should have a fire.”

  “Fool! Idiot!” Burglekutt hissed. “You want to bring all Nockmaar down on us?”

  Vohnkar shrugged. “Not much danger. Fires are common along here. People stop for the night, camp. Look, there’s one now, down to the east, at the base of that hill. There’s another. Besides, it’s a quiet night and a flat road. We can hear anyone coming from miles away. Willow’s right. The child needs warmth and rest.” He looked around. “Willow, Meegosh, Burglekutt, gather up some firewood before it gets too dark. We’ll keep watch.” He took the child from Willow.

  While the three warriors took up positions, the others spread out and began to gather sticks.

  “Not too far,” Vohnkar called after them. “Keep close enough so we can hear you call. Hurry!”

  “No wood. No wood,” Burglekutt complained, trotting behind Willow.

  “Of course there’s no wood! I’ve picked it all up! Go over there. See? There’s lots there.”

  “It’s dark over there!”

  “No darker than here, Burglekutt! Go on!”

  So exasperated was Willow, so preoccupied with hurrying to gather enough fuel, that he did not notice he was going under the low-sweeping arms of the scaffolding where the iron cages hung. He saw only a sudden richness of good hardwood—wood that would burn down to warm embers. He did not realize when he passed beneath the first of the cages, the one with the leering skeleton. He did not know that he was under the second cage until a puff of wind moved it and rusty iron squeaked.

  Then he knew.

  Perhaps he would have escaped if he had dropped flat on his belly and wriggled away snakelike. He made the mistake of straightening up slowly, horrified, seeing the shadows closing him off from Vohnkar.

  Creaking, the cage swung directly overhead.

  Willow took one step toward safety.

  With a clang and a rattle and a terrible hoarse cry, the mound of rags in the cage exploded into human shape. Or almost human shape. A claw on the end of a cadaverous arm dropped through the bars and snatched Willow up by the scruff of the neck. Wood went flying.

  “Gotcha!”

  Willow hung, strangling.

  “Water, Peck! Tell your friends I want water, or I’ll strip the meat from your scrawny bones!” The voice rasped like a dry hinge.

  Helpless, Willow swung. Through bulging eyes, he saw a small human pyramid appear below him.“Ufgood? Is that you?”

  “Water!” The claw shook Willow like a sock.

  Willow fumbled at his collar. He gasped. “Burglekutt! Get Vohnkar!”

  V

  MADMARTIGAN

  “A Daikini!” Burglekutt shouted, waving his arms and scampering back toward the warriors. “Ufgood’s found a Daikini! Now we can go home!”

  Vohnkar sprang up. He had been comforting the child and starting a small fire from the sticks close at hand. “Where is he?”

  “There.” Burglekutt pointed toward the scaffold. “He’s, uh, talking to him. Actually, there’s a bit of a problem. You’d better come.”

  Vohnkar beckoned his men. “Bring torches!” And in a moment they had all gathered below the arms of the scaffold.

  Torchlight glimmered on a weird scene. In the one cage, the skeleton leered and pointed, revolving uncannily, always facing them, no matter where they moved. In the other cage, a scarecrow figure dangled the hapless Willow from one long arm.

  “You are a Daikini, aren’t you?” Burglekutt asked.

  The man’s parched, cracked lips parted in a kind of smile. Teeth gleamed. He wiped the filthy back of his free hand across his mouth. “Water, little Pecks, or your friend’s crows’ meat!”

  He was a frightening specter. His eyes glinted in the torchlight out of a tangled mass of long black hair. Stubble covered his chin and cheeks. His clothes were such filthy rags that it was hard to tell what they might once have been—perhaps a cotton shirt, a leather vest and high boots, a neckerchief, a sash.

  “Water!”

  His big hand tightened on the scruff of Willow’s neck.

  Willow’s tongue stuck out. He nodded frantically.

  Vohnkar was still cradling the baby in one arm. He took a firmer grip on his lance and motioned his men around the cage.

  “Burglekutt,” Meegosh said, “give him water.”

  “My water?” Burglekutt clutched the leather flask slung around his neck.

  “It’s not your water! It’s everybody’s. And there’s lots more where that came from. Give the Daikini some!”

  Grumbling, Burglekutt crept close and tossed the flask up through the bars. The prisoner dropped Willow and grabbed it with both hands, almost letting it fall in his eagerness to uncork it. Water splashed over his head and face. He drank and drank, smacking parched lips and uttering groans of pleasure. Little by little, he revived. “Thank you, Burglekutt,” he croaked, winking. “You’re a good little Peck, I can see that. Now hack off this chain and we’ll be friends for life.” He rattled the lock on the cage.

  “Don’t do it!” Meegosh had run in and dragged the half-conscious Willow back to the edge of the torchlight. “Keep back till we’ve decided what to do!”

  “Do?” Groaning, the man in the cage struggled to his knees. “Do? Why, you’re going to let old Madmartigan out of this rat trap, aren’t you, little friends? You’re going to set him free so he can thank you with all his heart and walk away.” He splashed more water on his face and beard. He squinted against the glare of the torches. His teeth gleamed in an innocent smile. “After all, didn’t I let your friend go?”

  “A Daikini! Definitely a Daikini!” Burglekutt exclaimed. “He’s all we need. We can leave the child with him.”

  “What? Child? Of course, you can leave the child with me! I love children!” He eyed
the lances of Vohnkar and his men. “But you have to let me out first. How else can I look after him?”

  “Her!” Willow croaked, rubbing his throat.

  “Her. Of course. Hello there, my dear! Hello!” A long arm waved out of the cage.

  Vohnkar handed the child to Willow and shifted his lance into his left hand. “How do we know . . .”

  “Look!” Meegosh shouted.

  Torches suddenly appeared a short distance down the road. They heard the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels coming fast, accompanied by raucous singing and laughter.

  “Take cover!” Vohnkar hissed.

  “They’re Pohas!” the caged man shouted as the Nelwyns scurried into the bushes. “Don’t leave me here! They’re a bunch of scurvy Pohas! They’ll roast me alive!”

  A mud-caked wagon clattered up at full gallop, scattering dust and sparks from several torches. The driver hauled the sweating horses to a halt and four half-naked drunks tumbled out, carrying torches. All were bald. All wore sleeveless jerkins. All were wildly tattooed with bizarre signs and creatures. They lumbered around the crossroads, scavenging debris, looting fresh bodies. One of them soon discovered the cage, and his shouts brought the others. Roaring and hooting, they smashed the skeleton apart and played a reeling game of football with the skull.

  The man in the second cage had vanished under the heap of rags, but the Pohas discovered him, prodded him out with torches, and set him and his cage on fire. Lurching and roaring in glee, they left him wreathed in smoke and piled back into their wagon, galloping off to other places, other random brutalities.

  When they had gone, the Nelwyns scrambled out of hiding and flung dirt on the flames. The Daikini was prancing on the hot rags, yelping, beating at his smoldering clothes. Even Willow felt sorry for him. “What’d you do?” he asked, cradling the baby while the others beat out the last embers. “Why are you in there?”

  “Why? Why?” The Daikini rubbed his singed arms and spat out dirt. “Who knows? Who has to do anything? Might as well ask why those Pohas came just now. Argh! How I hate them! Give me one good Sword and I’d tattoo them right through their fat bellies!”

  “That settles it!” Burglekutt said, peering down the road where the Pohas’s torches had dwindled to a dot. “We’re not staying here! We’ll let him out and give him the baby.”

  “Bravo, Burglekutt! Good fellow! Open this door!”

  Willow backed up, holding the child close. “No. I don’t trust him. He nearly strangled me.”

  Burglekutt tapped his chest. “I’m the leader of this expedition. I say we follow orders. The High Aldwin told us to bring the child here and give her to the first Daikini.” He pointed to the cage. “He’s it!”

  “Follow orders!” Meegosh said disgustedly. “Now there’s real leadership!”

  Vohnkar smiled. “Still, Burglekutt’s right. Those were the High Aldwin’s orders. We should follow them.”

  “Absolutely!” said the Daikini, who had been listening closely. “The High Aldwin knows what’s best. Don’t delay!” He rattled his cage.

  Vohnkar came close and looked steadily into Willow’s eyes. “Is that not enough, Willow? Do you want to know why, also?”

  “Oh no, I don’t expect to know everything, Vohnkar, but the High Aldwin told me to trust myself. And I don’t feel right about this. The man is a scoundrel! A ruffian! Look at him!”

  “Hurry up, Vohnkar!” Burglekutt called from the edge of the road. “We’re going back. As far as I’m concerned, the job’s done.”

  Vohnkar sighed. He shouldered his lance. “I must look after him. We’ll go slowly at first. You’ll have time to catch up. How about you, Meegosh?”

  Meegosh swallowed. “I’ll stay with Willow.”

  Vohnkar pointed to the grinning skull, lying where the Pohas had kicked it. “Think carefully, my friends. This is no place for Nelwyns. For the last time, are you sure?”

  They nodded together.

  “Very well, then. Farewell.” And he raised his hand in salute.

  “Farewell,” the other warriors called, also saluting. “Until we meet again.” Then they turned and followed Vohnkar into the darkness.

  The man in the cage watched them all depart. He shrugged skeptically. “I don’t know, Peck. If I were you I’d just follow orders too. Don’t even think about it. Just let me out and head home.”

  “Don’t call me Peck. My name’s Willow.”

  “Believe me, Peck, I’ll look after that darling child. Just hand her over.”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “Don’t trust me! Me? Don’t judge by my present unhappy circumstances, little friend. Didn’t you hear Burglekutt say I was chosen? After all, I’m the first Daikini you’ve met.”

  “Burglekutt’s troll dung!”

  “He does look a little like troll dung. Well, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to think,” Willow said. “We’ll stay here tonight. In the morning I’ll decide. All right with you, Meegosh?”

  Meegosh nodded and went for their baggage.

  Willow spent a long, bad night. He fed the child and cradled her as she slept, huddling close to their little fire. He was afraid of every sound in that awful place—the creaking of the cages in the wind, the grumbling of enormous frogs in the swamp beyond the crossroads, the howling of wolves or dogs far away. All night the Daikini shifted restlessly in his charred cage, muttering snatches of obscene soldiers’ songs, chuckling at strange happenings in his dreams.

  Willow shivered to hear him. He could not bear to give him the child. He felt as much love for that sleeping infant as he felt for Mims or Ranon. He held her close. He rocked her. He hummed the little Nelwyn lullabies that he had heard from his mother and from Kiaya beside the fire at home. He leaned forward to drop twigs into the fire. And at last, undecided still, he dozed.

  He dreamed.

  In his dream, a white bird lifted him far above that place of death and carried him back to Nelwyn Valley. The sun rose as they flew, bathing the countryside in warmth and light. People stood in doorways, waving as they passed. There were no Death Dogs, no battles, no tattooed Pohas. When they arrived at Ufgood Reach, the bird descended gently until Willow stood in his own garden, and Kiaya and his children were running toward him in the slowness of dreams, their arms stretched in welcome. Then the bird was leaving, rising, and when he turned to give thanks, the bird became the child . . .

  Hoofbeats woke him, coming fast along the road in the first light. A single horseman raced past before Willow had time to take cover. It didn’t matter; the man was dying. He stared at Willow dully, clasping the reins and the pommel of his saddle with one hand while the other arm swung limp, a slack doll’s arm. He wore no helmet, bore no weapons. Blood streamed from a terrible gash on his head. Wild-eyed and squealing, gleaming with sweat and blood, his horse had taken the bit in her foaming teeth.

  Willow stared in horror. In no time the man had cantered past and vanished in dust and distance.

  “Wha-what was that?” Meegosh asked.

  The cage creaked. “Fugitive. Messenger, maybe. Galladoorn. Smells like trouble. Let me out, Pecks.”

  No sooner had he spoken than another horseman came tearing toward them. Meegosh ran down to the road. “Hey!” he shouted. “Stop! What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  This rider bent low over his mount’s neck, lashing the creature hard. He kept looking back as if winged devils were after him, and he did not notice Meegosh until his horse shied at full gallop, lurching sideways so violently that they almost fell. The man cursed and swiped at Meegosh with his whip, narrowly missing him. “Off the road, wretch! Out of my way!”

  Shaking, Meegosh hurried back. “Willow, this is terrible! We have to get away from here.”

  “I agree,” the man in the cage said grimly. “We should all get away. There’s a battle coming. I can smell it.”

  “You’re a warrior?”

  “Best swordsman that ever lived!”
>
  “Willow! A swordsman! He could help us. He could protect . . .”

  “Don’t listen to him, Meegosh.”

  “Help you? Of course I could help you. Let me out and you’ll see. In times like these, honest men need all the help they can get, and I can tell you’re both honest men. Woodcutters, right?”

  “I’m a miner. And my friend’s a farmer.”

  “I knew it! Miners, farmers: victims of a rotten world, just like me!” He shook his head dolefully. “Depraved. Corrupt.”

  “Drink?” Meegosh asked, handing up a cup of water.

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  “Shh,” Willow said. “Listen.”

  A distant rumbling came, like thunder. It grew louder, drew closer.

  “What’s that?”

  “An army.” The caged man drank. “A few thousand fools on their way to death.”

  “Friends of yours?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll see.” He peered through the bars at the banners of the approaching vanguard.

  “If they are, they’ll need you,” Willow said. “They’ll let you out.”

  The man grunted. “We’ll see.”

  The column snaked down toward the crossroads. It was an impressive sight. A mounted troop rode ahead under drifting pennants. They were as large and purposeful as the Nockmaar troopers Willow had seen earlier, but far less sinister. They seemed more like hunters than warriors, lightly armed and clad in the skins of the forest, and there was a wild freedom in the grace with which they rode.

  The man in the cage laughed quietly. “Airk’s men!” he said.

  “Wh-who are they?”

  “Galladoorn scouts. Best horsemen in the world.”

  “Will they hurt us?”

  “Not unless you’re from Nockmaar, Peck. Then . . .” He made a rattling sound and drew his thumb across his throat.