Wand of the Witch

by Daniel Arenson

  "Something's going on," he said, panting. "There are usually hundreds of swords and pieces of armor in this place."

  Neev and Cobweb emerged into the armory behind him. They stared around, eyes narrowed. Shouts echoed above them. Swords clanged and boots thumped. Creatures grunted and a woman shrieked.

  "Madrila is here," Neev said softly. Scruff shuddered.

  "Wook, Scwuff! Ouw awmow and weapons." Cobweb pointed to a shadowy, dusty corner. Her bow and arrows lay there upon a table. Scruff's mace, helmet, and breastplate lay beside them. They grabbed the weapons and armor, and soon Scruff felt like a warrior again.

  "We're two Bullies short," he said, heart hammering. "But we're ready to fight. Let's go face the witch."

  As he ran upstairs, he wondered where Romy and Jamie were. Would they return to defend the town? Did they still hide in the forest? Did Madrila meet them there? But soon there was no time for questions. When he raced into Fort Rosethorn's courtyard, he beheld a battle of blood, screams, steel, and spells.

  A hundred soldiers fought in the night, clad in chain mail and wielding swords. A dozen or more lay dead already, blood seeping into the dust. Countless grunters were lashing their claws and biting, grunting as they fought. Some carried torches, their light flickering red across the courtyard.

  A grunter leaped at Scruff, snapping its teeth. Scruff swung Norman into its head. The grunter fell dead, but two more replaced it. He swung Norman left and right, slamming the mace into grunter heads.

  Neev began tossing fireballs and lightning bolts. His cat whiskers vanished, replaced with rabbit ears, then a monkey tail, walrus tusks, and finally a giraffe's neck (which made his head bobble like Romy after a night in the pub). Cobweb was firing arrows and lashing her knife. But the grunters kept attacking, and Scruff saw no end of them. One bit his leg, and he screamed and kicked it off. A second clawed his shoulder. Their torches burned around him, and smoke entered his lungs. He coughed and howled as he fought.

  "Where's Madrila?" he shouted. "Is she here?"

  Neev coughed too. He cast another fireball, and his giraffe neck shrank. Ram's horns grew from his head.

  "I haven't seen her, but it's her we have to kill. Let's find her."

  The Bullies ran across the courtyard between battling soldiers and grunters. Scruff's mace swung, Cobweb's arrows flew, and Neev's fireballs rolled. They managed driving a path through the battle and burst outside the fort. They stood atop Rosethorn hill, looking down upon the town.

  Burrfield burned in the night.

  Grunters ran through the streets, torching houses and swinging swords at fleeing townfolk. Memories pounded through Scruff, spinning his head. It looks so much like that night... the night Dry Bones killed our parents.

  "Look!" Neev said. "Friar Hill!"

  Scruff stared. The hill rose across town, alight with green, red, and blue lightning. It seemed to Scruff like a dark figure stood within the light, controlling it, lashing it forward. Lightning rose from the figure, twisted, and rained down onto the streets. Wherever the bolts struck, houses broke, cobblestones shattered, and trees split.

  "Madrila," he said. He tightened his grip around his mace and ran.

  He plowed through the streets, knocking grunters aside. Townfolk fled around him, screaming and weeping. Soldiers fought and died. Neev and Cobweb ran beside him, firing fireballs and arrows.

  I wish Jamie and Romy were here, Scruff thought. Had they met Madrila's monsters in the forest? Were they dead? Worry for them twisted his gut and shook his knees.

  Lightning came crashing down. Scruff leaped back, and the bolt hit the street. Cobblestones cracked and smoke rose. Scruff leaped over the smoldering hole and kept running. A grunter leaped from behind a house, roaring. Scruff shattered its teeth with his mace, kicked it down, and ran.

  A figure leaped from behind a house, and Scruff raised his mace, prepared to strike... but paused. It was John Quill, his clothes ashy, his eyes wide with terror.

  "Scruff!" the printmaker said and grabbed Scruff's collar. "You have to do something! Stop them!"

  Rage bubbling, Scruff shoved the man back. "Get lost, Quill. How dare you touch me?"

  Neev ran toward them, a fireball in his hands. He raised the crackling comet, prepared to toss it.

  "Give me one reason not to burn you with the rest of them, Quill," the young wizard said.

  Cobweb pointed an arrow at Quill. Her cheeks flushed. "We shouwd j-j-just kiww you, you wiaw."

  Quill fell to his knees. He grabbed Scruff's boots and began kissing them.

  "Please," he begged between kisses, "stop the witch. She's burning everything, her and her monsters...."

  "You mean her innocent wood elves?" Scruff said and kicked the snivelling man aside. "Get out of our way. We'll deal with you later."

  Neev growled and tossed his fireball at Quill's feet. Quill screamed, leaped back, and vanished into the shadows. He blubbered in the darkness.

  The three Bullies kept running. When they reached Friar Hill, they found several soldiers dead at its feet. Tears stung Scruff's eyes. They're dead... because of us. Because we killed Dry Bones and drew his daughter here.

  He tightened his lips. There would be time for guilt later. Right now, he had to kill Madrila. He raised his mace.

  "You with me?" he asked.

  Cobweb nodded and nocked an arrow. "Awways, Scwuff. I wuve you."

  Neev raised his hands; the fingers sparkled with electricity. "I'm right here, brother."

  Scruff nodded. "Good. Let's go kill the witch."

  They ran uphill.

  Chapter Nine

  A Long Time Ago...

  Amabel trudged through the snow, crying, her newborn clutched in her arms.

  Wind screamed around her, freezing her tears. Her babe squealed, such a frail, pink thing of wrinkles and grasping fingers. Amabel tried to tighten her cloak around her and the babe, but snow still found its way to their skin, fast and stinging.

  She kept moving, though the wind bit, and the snow tugged her ankles. She could see nothing but flurries. Just keep moving, she told herself. To stop is death.

  "Shhh shh, it's okay," Amabel whispered to her daughter, but the babe kept crying. She was only a day old.

  And I myself am still a child, Amabel thought. She was only fifteen, and alone, and scared. She had never been so scared.

  "I miss you, Father," she whispered, trudging down an alley between towering, icy walls. Her father would shout, shiver, and curse that his daughter had whelped a bastard; he had been so angry since Mother had died. But he would also know what to do. After shouting, he would help her, comfort her. He would speak of building cribs, dealing with curious neighbors, assuaging the priests, and Amabel would not be trudging through the snow with a mewling, frail, pink baby. Yet Father was gone to the Crusades, like most of the town's men; he had been away for two years now.

  "And I miss you, Jan," she whispered as she walked through the icy town square, snow swirling around her. Jan Rasmussen. A tall, gaunt youth with dark eyes. Her childhood friend. Her baby's father. He too was gone—not to the Crusades, but to Batwog Coven, a council of wizards many miles away. He's a wizard's apprentice now; he won't be home for years.

  Amabel trembled. She had never felt so alone. Where could she go? She could visit Sam Thistle's house, perhaps. Sam had been her friend since childhood, but he too now fought in the Holy Land, and his mother frightened Amabel. She always wanted me to marry Sam. What would she say, if she saw me carrying Jan's babe?

  She looked up to a tall, narrow house beside her. Icicles covered it. I could go to the Quills, she thought; they were an old family of scribes. But they are also the town's worst gossips. They will speak of my babe, of my bastard. All the town would know my shame.

  She sobbed and shuddered. Where can I turn? The ice and wind slammed against her. Snow filled her cloak. Bundled in cloth, her babe wailed. Amabel raised stinging eyes. In the distance, behind swirling snow, she saw the steeple of the
church. It was but a thin, grey pillar in a white world, but it called to her. She had never been a pious girl, but now the church seemed like a beacon of hope, of warmth, of aid. She trudged toward it.

  Ages of ice and snow passed before she reached the church. It loomed above her, a monolith of stone glimmering with frost. Gargoyles crouched atop the steeple, glaring down at her, and suddenly more fear than ever filled Amabel. She was sure that those gargoyles were mocking her. Their tongues hung and their eyes leered.

  Harlot! they seemed to tell her. Bastard's mother! How dared you forget your Sam Thistle? How dared your whelp this illborn daughter of Jan, a shabby peasant?

  Amabel gulped. She wanted to flee. She looked behind her and saw only swirls of snow, and her baby mewled. My daughter needs warmth. Those gargoyles can go to hell.

  She pushed the church's doors. They creaked open, and Amabel stumbled in with flurries of snow.

  Braziers crackled, and the stone walls spun. Amabel felt faint. The room swayed around her. Her baby cried. Her eyes rolled back.

  "Father in heaven!" cried a voice.

  A figure raced toward her, robes swooshing. Hands grabbed her and held her up.

  "Who is it?" asked a second voice from further ahead, this one softer and deeper.

  Amabel rested her head against a broad shoulder.

  "Father," she whispered.

  She blinked, and her eyes cleared enough to see Father Michael, a tall man with a brown beard. He held her in his arms.

  "Come, help me bring her to my chambers," Father Michael said over his shoulder.

  A gaunt man emerged from shadows, as cold as the icy wind outside. His eyes were chips of ice. His lips were thin, his nose long, his robes shabby. Amabel gasped, for an instant sure that Lucifer himself had invaded the church, but no... this man wore brown robes clasped with a rope. A friar, Amabel told herself. Only a travelling monk. A man of God.

  The friar approached and held her shoulder. His fingers were long and cold; she could feel their chill even through her cloak. He helped Father Michael lead Amabel through the hallway and into a cozy, warm chamber. A fire crackled in the hearth. Ice began melting off Amabel's boots, cloak, and hair. Her babe finally stopped crying and slept.

  The men removed her soaking cloak and boots, and helped her into an armchair by the fire, and soon Amabel was warm, dry, and drinking hot mulled wine. Her babe slept in her arms.

  "Now speak to me, Amabel," Father Michael said. "Tell me everything."

  Amabel gulped and looked up at the strange friar. She had grown up with Father Michael, but had never seen this stranger before. The friar stared back, eyes small, black, and cold. Calculating eyes.

  "Father, who... who is your guest?" Amabel asked. The friar was still staring at her, saying nothing.

  "This is Friar Robert," said her priest. "He's a traveller from the east, passing through Burrfield as he preaches to farmers across the kingdom. He's staying in Burrfield tonight."

  "But only for the night," the friar said. His voice was cold, dripping scorn. "I do not care much for towns of comfort, roaring fires, and sloth. I am a simple traveller. I preach to the poor farmer, the outlaw, the downtrodden. I shall be on my way once this storm subsides."

  He's calling us pampered, Amabel realized. He's calling us weak. If Father Michael noticed, however, he gave no sign. The kindly priest placed a hand on her shoulder.

  "You can speak freely around the friar, my dear. He is a man of God. Speak to me."

  She hesitated. Those dark eyes bore into her. But when she looked into Father Michael's eyes, she saw only warmth and love, so she gulped, and she spoke. She spoke of her father, and of her dear Sam Thistle, leaving to the Crusades. Face hot, she spoke of finding comfort in the arms of Jan Rasmussen, a dark youth who planted her baby inside her, then left to the Coven to become a warlock. She spoke of Mary, a serving girl from her father's tavern, helping her deliver her child.

  "I don't know what to do, Father," she said. "My daughter has no man here to protect her, to care for her. What will become of us?" Suddenly she was sobbing. Her body trembled. "I'm so scared! I'm scared what people will say. I'm scared what my father will think when he returns... if he returns. Help me, Father Michael." She clutched his robes. "Please."

  As Father Michael patted her hand, whispering comforting nothings, the gaunt friar cleared his throat.

  "Perhaps," he said, eyes boring into the babe, "I can offer some assistance."

  Amabel stared up at him. His eyes met hers, frozen. His mouth was a thin line. He looks like one of the gargoyles, she realized.

  Father Michael turned toward him. "What are you thinking, Friar Robert? Speak your mind."

  The friar's eyes never left Amabel as he spoke. "I travel west from here, heading to the monastery of St. Barnabas by the river. It lies a two day walk from here. I will preach there for several days, then continue my journey." His eyes narrowed, two slits in stone. "St. Barnabas is renowned for its orphanage, my lady Amabel. I will be glad to take your babe there; she will receive a pious upbringing. She will be raised with walls around her, warm meals to eat, a soft bed to sleep on. I have visited there often to preach to the orphans."

  Amabel clutched her daughter closer to her breast. She stared down at the pink, sleeping face. My beautiful daughter. She looked up at Father Michael, eyes pleading. Surely there was another way, another solution....

  But Father Michael only nodded. "Friar Robert speaks wisdom, my child. I have myself visited the orphanage of St. Barnabas. The children there are well fed and well taught; a child can receive a fair, pious upbringing there."

  Amabel's eyes stung. She held her baby close. How can I give you up? You are my daughter, my love....

  "It is only two days away," Friar Robert said. "You could visit her when she grows older. None need know your shame in Burrfield. None need know of your unholy acts with the peasant boy. You will remain a fine lady in this town... not an outcast. I will take the bastard child there myself."

  Her daughter woke up. Her mouth opened and closed. Her hands reached out to Amabel.

  "Please," Amabel whispered, her voice so soft, she wasn't sure they could hear. "Please, I... I cannot, please...."

  Yet Father Michael only patted her head, and spoke of piousness and righteousness, and Friar Robert only stared with cold eyes, and spoke of her shame and sins. The wine spun her head. Sobs and tears claimed her. Before she knew what was happening, she had let Father Michael hold the babe, for only a moment...

  ...and found herself outside, standing upon a hill, wrapped in her cloak. She felt so cold. She felt so empty without her child at her breast. Shivering, she watched the dark figure of Friar Robert walk downhill, across the streets, and out the gates of Burrfield. He was but a thin, black sliver in a world of storming white.

  "No!" she shouted, tears claiming her. "No, please! This isn't what I want. I changed my mind. Please!"

  She ran. She ran down snowy cobblestones, the houses spinning around her. She ran out the gates, and through the forest, shouting for Friar Robert to return, shouting for her baby. She ran through the night, until dawn rose cold and pale, and finally she fell to her knees. Teasel Forest stretched around her, towering, taunting, glimmering with ice.

  Just keep moving, she told herself. She pushed herself to her feet. They went to St. Barnabas by the river. Just keep moving.

  She walked for three days.

  She drank melted snow, and she ate nothing.

  Just keep moving.

  Half dead, she stumbled through the gates of St. Barnabas. Famished and trembling, she reached the orphanage and collapsed upon its doorstep. She pushed herself up and ran between the children, seeking her baby, seeking her love.

  "Where are you, my daughter?" she cried, voice hoarse.

  But they had never heard of Friar Robert. They had never seen her baby girl.

  Amabel's life shattered. No more tears fell from her. No more pain could fill her. She stood among the orphans,
cold, frozen, dead inside.

  "Goodbye, my daughter," she whispered, staring at nothing. "Goodbye, my beloved, my Madrila."

  She never spoke to anyone of that winter... not to her friends, not to her father when he returned from the Crusades, not to Sam Thistle who returned to Burrfield knighted and proud. She did not speak of it even when she married Sam, even when she gave birth to his children.

  "I love you," she whispered to her son of shaggy hair. She laughed when she touched his curls. "He's scruffy."

  She loved her Scruff, her first born son... but when she played with him, she still thought of Madrila.

  "I love you, Neev," she said, crying and laughing, when she gave birth to her second son.

  "I love you, Jamie," she said when a third child blessed their family. A girl. A beautiful girl. As beautiful as my Madrila, the child I lost.

  Her pain lived within her every day, and every night she prayed to God. She prayed for her lost, secret child to someday come home.

  * * * * *

  Robert grabbed his cane. His eyes blazed and Madrila froze. Fear flooded her like a bucket of ice dumped over her head. She wanted to flee, to fight, to do something... but the terror froze her.

  "This stew is rubbish," Robert said. He tossed the bowl at her. She ducked, and the bowl smashed against the wall behind her. Stew oozed across the floor. That seemed to infuriate Robert further. His cane shot out, whacking Madrila across the arm.

  "Clean it, you piece of garbage!" he shouted. His cane lashed again, hitting her shoulder. Pain bloomed. "Clean the damn floor, and then make a proper stew!"

  Tears filled her eyes. Madrila grabbed a rag, knelt, and began cleaning the floor. Friar Robert's cane slammed against her back, knocking her down. He was shouting above her, but she couldn't hear him. Pain and rage pumped through her.

  When his cane landed again, she spun to face him. She snarled. Such rage filled her, that she thought it would consume her. In all her ten years, she had never felt such rage.