Nomadin

by Cormier, Shawn P.

  Ilien shook his head and yawned, wrapping his heavy riding cloak more tightly around himself. Secreted beneath it lay his bow and quiver. Gallund nearly made him leave that behind too. 'You won't be shooting anything where you're going,' he'd said. 'Best you leave it in your room where it'll be safe.' Safe? Right. He still couldn't believe he was going to miss out on all the adventure. Typical, really. Like that time he went to the county fair last year, when all the other boys his age were riding box racers down Parson's Hill and he was stuck on the kiddie rides. So what if he was small for his age. Did it always mean having to watch the fun from the back of a pony?

  Just then Gallund emerged from the house, his ever present cane hung in the crook of one arm. "I hope for your sake your mother doesn't get back early. Your room's a disaster. Here, this is yours." He handed Ilien the house key. "And this." He pushed a leather bound flask into Ilien's hands.

  Ilien could feel its warmth. He hoped it wasn't what Thessien had been drinking last night. He didn't at all like hot mead, not that he'd ever tried it. He removed the cap and stuck his nose in the rising steam. He could smell the earthy aroma. Coffee! His mother never let him drink coffee! He looked appreciatively at the wizard and took a careful sip.

  "And let's not forget this," Gallund said, handing Ilien his pencil. "You'll be a few days in Evernden. I wouldn't want you getting bored."

  Ilien eyed the mischievous pencil with disdain. It wasn't bad enough that he was being left behind. Now he had to study as well. He jammed it into his back pocket.

  Gallund hauled himself into his saddle. "Now let's get going." Smiling, and tipping his own flask of coffee, he led them away from the house and across the field, using his cane as a riding crop.

  They traveled in silence, Gallund in the lead, choosing the way in the gloom. Ilien brought up the rear, sipping his coffee while his horse jogged along to keep up with the longer strides of the others. They kept to the fields, avoiding the road and skirting the few houses they stole upon. They trudged forth blindly for fear of drawing attention by lighting a lantern, and Ilien couldn't help thinking about the amber-eyed men Thessien had seen. Wierwulvs, he had called them. Could these amber-eyed men see in the dark—like real wolves? If so, they could be watching from a distance even then. Ilien touched his bow beneath his cloak and looked around nervously. Gallund and Thessien rode on unfazed. Still, Ilien felt relieved to see that they drew near the forest. At least the trees would afford them protection from prying amber eyes. But then again, it surely opened up the possibility of ambush.

  "Ilien!" Gallund hissed. "Do try to keep up. We've only just started and you're falling behind!"

  Near sunrise, they came to a stream that marked the boundary of the land Ilien knew. He had fished its deep pools often but had never ventured beyond. Now he crossed it with an unexpected feeling of excitement in his stomach. The splash of water in the darkness made his heart race for the want of mountains and unknown lands. But as they passed quietly through the slow current, he thought again of having to turn back at Evernden. With a kick, he spurred his horse forward.

  At noon, they halted for lunch by a rocky brook where the water slowed into a large, sluggish pool. The sun shined down through the tangle of branches above and danced in the warm shallows, flashing brown and silver off the sandy bottom. The grey ghosts of fish spied on them from the cooler shadows of the pool's deep end. They had been riding up and down wooded hills all morning, and Ilien was glad to be off his horse, sitting on a mossy rock and eating a bit of bread and cheese. Gallund sat by his apprentice while he ate. Thessien had disappeared into the forest.

  "Where did Thessien go?" Ilien asked.

  Gallund finished his bread and followed it with some water from a skin. "He's scouting ahead."

  "Why? The trail is plain to see and these woods aren't dangerous." Ilien took the skin from the wizard. "Are they?"

  A squirrel began to bicker at them from a nearby tree. A crow cawed in the distance.

  "No. True enough. But dangerous or not, Thessien is an Eastland soldier. It's his nature to be untrusting."

  "A soldier?" Ilien peered into the trees where Thessien had gone. "You mean he's in the army?"

  "Of course he's in the army," laughed Gallund. "What do you think I mean, a soldier in the air force? He rides a horse, Ilien, not a dragon."

  Thessien called out from further down the trail, and Ilien followed Gallund, still thinking about what it would be like to ride a dragon. They found the soldier leaning against an oak tree on the crest of a small hill. On the ground before him were the ashes of an old campfire surrounded by stones.

  Gallund approached and stooped low. He spread his hands over the ashes as if warming himself over an unseen fire. "Interesting," he said. "Very interesting."

  The chattering squirrel had followed them. It swayed on a limb above, shaking the branches in warning. Gallund rose and searched the tiny knoll, prodding the ground with his cane. When he returned to the fire pit, he looked troubled.

  "What is it?" asked Ilien.

  "Witches," said the wizard with a sideways glance.

  Thessien eyes hardened. "Here?"

  "Witches? How can you tell?" Ilien looked around, half-expecting to see a hag hiding behind a tree trying to cast a spell over them at that very moment.

  "At first I couldn't," Gallund explained, "but then I noticed these stones surrounding the fire pit and how they were arranged." He passed a lean hand over the ground. "Five shaped like axe heads, set equally apart. It is the sign of witches."

  He poked one with his cane. When he did, it crackled with sparks. He pulled the cane away in surprise. "Very, very interesting." He bent down and carefully brushed away the leaves from around it. He gave Thessien a sharp look. "Runestones."

  Carved into the side of the stone was a strange symbol Ilien had never seen before. He couldn't help but notice that the forest had turned silent. "What are Runestones?" he asked, eyeing the trees and wondering where all the squirrels had suddenly gone.

  "Not what," answered Gallund, "but who."

  "You mean they're alive?"

  Gallund looked up. "Not exactly, but they were. Runestones were once people—people foolish enough to bargain with witches."

  Ilien stepped back from the fire pit. "The witches turned them into stones?"

  "Yes." Gallund straightened. "But not ordinary stones. Ordinary stones are dead and unfeeling. Runestones are not. They contain imprisoned souls. There's a heavy price to pay for bargaining with a witch. Lying naked in the woods, frozen in stone, is just one of them. Remember that should you ever meet one."

  "We won't, right?" asked Ilien, shivering suddenly. "Meet one, I mean. It looks like they haven't camped here in a while."

  "It's not the way of witches to leave any sign at all," remarked Thessien, casting a watchful eye on the trees all about. "These must have been young witches."

  Gallund followed Thessien's gaze. "Or witches too old and powerful to care." He slid the leaves back into place with the tip of his cane. "From the look of things I can't say when they were here last. But from the feel of it, I'd say they camped here just last night."

  Ilien felt a chill climb his spine. A cold breeze moved across the knoll, rattling the branches above. The squirrel resumed its taunting.

  "You may get some adventure after all," Thessien mused with a grim smile.

  "Can you release them?" Ilien wondered aloud, watching the stones as if they might jump at him at any moment.

  "No." Gallund answered a bit too quickly. "They'll stay imprisoned forever until the stones are broken—and there's a heavy price to pay for breaking a Runestone."

  "Your life," said Thessien in answer to Ilien's gaze.

  Gallund slipped his cane into his belt like a sword. "We'd better march on. We should put as many miles as we can between this place and our camp tonight." He pressed Ilien a dark look. "We don't want to end up like these poor travelers."

  They quickly returned to their horses, mou
nted up and rode on. But when they reached the witches' knoll the horses shied in fright and wouldn't pass by. They had to dismount and lead them by their reins until they were well past the campsite.

  They traveled on even after the sun had set and the woods grew dark, moving silently through the thickening shadows. The bleat of bullfrogs from a nearby swamp rose up to drown out the whistles and chirps of the neighboring crickets and tree frogs. To Ilien their grunts and groans sounded like ominous warnings. Goaway, goaway, goaway. The darkness deepened around them as the forest thickened, concealing even the most obvious of trails.

  They finally set camp in a tiny clearing where the fallen trunk of an old oak gave them a place to sit before the fire they had built. Dinner was a hot meal of broth and cured venison. Afterwards, Gallund and Thessien withdrew to the outer edge of the fire and drank ale from a skin the wizard carried. They talked in hush tones while Ilien watched the moths fly reckless from the shadows and throw themselves into the dying flames.

  The fire had burned itself down to a pile of glowing coals and a thin ribbon of smoke slithered away into the night. The steady thrum of the forest was lulling Ilien to sleep when the horses began to fidget. At first they only stamped their feet, but soon they were tugging at their tethers and snorting loudly.

  Suddenly, a shriek from the edge of the clearing sent the horses bolting into the forest, their broken tethers dancing madly behind them.

  Gallund shot to his feet, his cane raised high. A bright flash lit the air. The fire, once but coals, leaped up blazing with rage. Ilien clutched his hunting bow, trying to blink away the spots before his eyes, forgetting to put an arrow to the string. Thessien stood in the firelight with his longsword drawn. Gallund stood beside him, and Ilien blinked again. The wizard's cane had vanished. In its place he held a long silver wand.

  There, huddled together by a large oak tree, stood four of the most hideous old women Ilien had ever seen. Short and fat, they wore stained grey robes and pointy grey hats with their tips bent back as if they'd been caught in a wind storm. Eyes like black marbles peered past long, crooked noses. Their chins looked like knobby little knees and upon them grew thick, coarse hair.

  Their leader stepped forward from behind them. Clothed in black, she was the fattest and ugliest of the hags. Her beard was the longest. Tufts of tangled hair poked out from under her pointed black hat. A yellow light gleamed in her eyes, like the light of a distant campfire seen through trees on a cold autumn night. She looked directly at Ilien.

  "Who dares to camp in my hall?" She hid her hands in her long black robe, but when she spoke she raised one, pointing at Ilien in accusation. Upon her bony forefinger she wore a tarnished silver ring with the center stone missing. Ilien felt the blood drain from his arms, and his bow nearly slipped from his grasp.

  The wizard stepped forward, pointing his silver wand at the witch in return. "I am Gallund, Nomadin, and teacher of the True Language! Who are you to accuse me of daring?"

  The witch pulled her gaze from Ilien to eye Gallund's silver wand. Her angry sneer showed yellowed teeth, but her voice betrayed her apprehension. "I serve a power deeper than yours, Nomadin. I am not bound by Law or Legend. You have trespassed and I demand my due."

  Thessien brandished his sword. "We will pay no toll."

  Gallund's smile revealed teeth of his own, bright white in the raging firelight, like a warning flash of lightening before the thunder. "You bargain with little and risk much." He leveled his wand at her warted nose. "But I will hear your price."

  The witch cleared her throat, a strange gurgling sound like the trickle of muddy water over slime-slickened stones. "Law and Legend," she reminded the wizard, eyeing her four companions uneasily. "There is no need for violence."

  The hag grinned a ruined grin at Thessien. "Toll is the wrong word, Eastlander. I am no teacher of language like your wizard, but game might be a better word. You will play a game with us. A witch's game. A game of luck. If you win, we shall forgive."

  The four witches behind her shuffled their bare feet and moaned their disapproval. "We shall!" she screamed, standing straight as a broomstick. Her sisters fell silent. "But if we win," she continued, smoothing her robe with a smile, "we shall choose a prize of our own." The glow in her eyes went out, and two black holes fixed firmly on Ilien. "We shall choose your wand and your lives."

  The other witches shrieked in assent, filling the clearing with their laughter. Ilien stood ready for another blinding flash as Gallund swept his wand toward the small band of witches. There would be no bargaining, that he knew.

  "I will play," said Gallund suddenly, signaling the others to put away their weapons. Ilien's protest hung in his throat. "But if I win, I want more than just your pardon," the wizard continued. "I also want a prize."

  "As you wish," granted the black-robed witch, stepping closer to the fire. Ilien could swear that smoke poured from her hat like smoke from a chimney stack.

  The wizard lowered his wand. "If I win, my prize will be your hat, and your promise of our safety tonight in this clearing."

  Again the other witches lamented this new turn of events with moans and cries of "No! No!" Their leader remained silent. Yet she clutched at her mangy head where her hat rested. From the look on her face, it was obvious to Ilien that the hat was precious to her—most likely magical. She clearly did not want to lose it. But a moment later, as if suddenly remembering something she'd forgotten, she smiled.

  "Let's begin!" she hissed, showing her rotten teeth.

  From a pocket in her robes she produced a tiny skull, probably that of a mouse or a shrew. She put it in her left palm and placed her hands behind her back. When she withdrew them from behind her robes she held them before Gallund, her eyes flicking hungrily toward the wand. "Which hand is it in?"

  Why, that's ridiculous, thought Ilien. A game of luck? It's probably in neither hand, but in her back pocket!

  Gallund pretended to think hard on the answer. Then he chose her right hand, the one covered with warts.

  "Wrong!" she shrieked in triumph, and the others shrieked with her. "Now give us the wand!" She reached out for it, her long, bony fingers grasping the air.

  "Not fair! Show us the other hand!" came a muffled cry from Ilien's back pocket. Ilien grabbed his back end with both hands, nearly dropping his hunting bow in the process. He knew he should've left that idiot pencil behind. What good would it do to study if he was turned into stone, lying naked in the woods for all eternity?

  The witch glared openly at Ilien from under her pointy, black hat. "What did you say?"

  "I said show us your other hand!" repeated the pencil, mimicking Ilien's voice perfectly.

  The black-robed witch screamed in fury—a gurgling, high-pitched peal of hatred. "You dare question one such as me! You will be my slave for a thousand years! You will pay for your insolence, little boy!"

  Thessien rested his hand upon the pommel of his longsword, but remained silent.

  "He means no offense," Gallund offered, a thin smile barely concealing his anger as he furtively plucked the pencil from Ilien's back pocket. "Law and Legend, my boy. We must trust these fine ladies. We have played and have lost, and now we must pay up."

  To Ilien's astonishment, and to the surprise of the witches, Gallund held out his silver wand.

  The black-robed witch snatched it away. The others gathered around her, murmuring to themselves and admiring the magical talisman. "Now your lives!" she screeched, throwing the other witches back and raising the wand up high.

  Ilien cringed and held his bow before his eyes. A rock! Eternity as a rock! He heard the rumble of distant thunder, then the sudden hiss of wind through tall grass. The witch had vanished. A column of roiling smoke rose up like a sinuous, black snake where the hag had stood. It plumed upward and billowed out into a spreading hood, darker than the surrounding night. In its midst hovered a single yellow eye, reflecting the glow of the mounting fire, but in its center a burning red star gleamed. Within the wr
ithing smoke, Ilien caught the glint of Gallund's wand. The snake poised itself to strike.

  "No, now your lives," Gallund whispered. "Mitra mitari mitara miru!" the wizard shouted. The power of his incantation resounded around the small clearing.

  Up from his wand, from within the black witch's shadow, leaped shooting stars of green and gold. The gleaming missiles sped to the tangle of branches above and burst into silver dust. The yellow eye peered upward, wide and bright. The other witches stared in awe as the glimmering dust hovered in the air. When it sprinkled down upon them they clung to each other in panic. The hood of the black witch flew out in warning, but it was too late. A loud crack split the air, a dazzling flash, and the witches, smoke and all, sprang into toads.

  Ilien stood with his mouth wide open. He'd never seen such magic from Gallund before.

  The fire died back down and Gallund walked over to the four grey toads, and one black one. His wand, disguised once more as his cane, lay on the forest floor amidst the little throng. He scooped it up and the toads hopped away as fast as they could into the darkened woods. There also upon the ground was the witch's pointed black hat. Gallund picked it up and brought it over to the fire.

  "You knew all along," said Ilien, still eyeing the woods where the toads had fled. "You knew she would win. But how did you know she wouldn't use the wand on you before you could use it on her?"

  "Lucky, I guess," the wizard replied, smiling. Ilien frowned. "If you really must know," Gallund sighed, "it had nothing to do with luck. After all, luck is for witches, not wizards. She couldn't use the wand even if she had all year to do so. My wand has no power, except perhaps to hold me up after chasing you all day." He leaned on his cane with a crooked smile. Ilien still frowned.

  Gallund changed tactics. "Take your bow for instance. As you probably know, without an arrow it's about as useful as a tree-branch."

  Ilien glanced red-faced at the bow in his hands.

  "My wand is my bow," Gallund continued. "The arrows lie within me. Without my knowledge of the True Language, my wand is no better than a riding crop, or a cane."