by Bill Fawcett
It was nearly midday, and the army’s vanguard had already passed, when the would-be looters the wizard was expecting finally broke ranks and strode across the half-plowed fields toward the village. There were thirty of them, their laughing voices and the bell- like clanking of their armor in stark contrast to the cruel anticipation on their faces.
Some townspeople, the wizard knew, would welcome such invaders through their gates in the forlorn hope that cooperation would lead to mercy. Others would take the riskier path of pretending cooperation and then try to deal with the soldiers quietly, out of sight and hearing of their comrades passing by outside the walls.
The wizard knew better than to try either. There would be no mercy from these men; and while the witch king’s army was vast, his officers made a point of keeping track of even the lowliest soldiers, if only to make sure that the families of deserters paid for the runaway’s crime. Someone in the ranks would have made careful note of where these particular soldiers were going, and even the wizard couldn’t simply make them disappear without inviting terrible consequences.
There was no way that the wizard and the village could avoid attracting attention. The question thus became whose attention they would attract.
The approaching soldiers were halfway across the field when they spotted the two men waiting on either side of the village gate. The crossbowman in the lead said something to the others and shrugged his weapon off his shoulder. He loaded a bolt, aimed at the wizard, and let fly.
Fifty yards from the village wall, the bolt burst into flame.
It was probably the last thing the soldiers expected, and all thirty stopped dead in their tracks. But the shock didn’t last long. They had fought armies, sorcerers, wild animals, and probably a whole range of woodland sprites, and they weren’t about to let a simple country mage stand in their way. Even as the burning bolt disintegrated into a cloud of ash, the soldiers were moving into combat formation, the ten crossbowmen forming up into standing and kneeling lines as they loaded their weapons, the spearmen and swordsmen spread into flank-guard positions on either side. At a sharp command from one of the swordsmen, all ten crossbow bolts fired together.
All ten exploded into smoking shards at the same distance as the first bolt.
The swordsman snarled another order, and the crossbowmen recocked their weapons. Behind them, the marching army began to come to a somewhat haphazard halt as individual soldiers and squads paused to watch the drama taking place at the edge of the forest. As the crossbowmen loaded their bolts, the spearmen spread out to both sides, their spearheads gleaming too brightly to be simply reflecting the sunlight. One of the witch king’s mages had probably encircled them with hardness or penetration spells.
Unfortunately for them, those spells required a certain minimum amount of metal to work with, which was the same amount necessary for other, more subtle spells.
At the swordsman’s command, the spearmen strode forward in a curved line, lowering their spears toward the wizard and the tanner like the jagged teeth of a half-invisible woodland sprite. At the same time, the crossbowmen lifted their weapons to their shoulders. The wizard smiled tightly and continued weaving his spell. . . .
Abruptly, the spearmen leaped ahead into a charge. The swordsman barked an order and the crossbowmen let fly their bolts.
But this time, instead of bursting into flame, the bolts curved sharply to the sides, each bearing down on one of the spearheads like a hawk pursuing a rabbit.
The spearmen saw the bolts coming and tried their best to dodge them. But it was no use. The bolts slammed unerringly into their chosen spearheads, and as each hit there was a burst of fire and blueedged lightning as the encircling hardness spells were broken. Eight of the ten spear shafts splintered, while the other two exploded violently enough to send their owners pitching backward, stunned, onto the ground. Without waiting for orders, the freshly disarmed men scrambled back to the rest of the group, dragging their two twitching comrades with them.
“Very nice,” the tanner murmured. “I wonder what they’ll try next.”
“Next will be the mages’ turn,” the wizard said, eyeing the two elaborately decorated horse-drawn carriages hurrying forward along the edges of the now all but stopped army.
The horses trotted to a halt, and from each carriage emerged a middle- aged man wearing a silver-leaf tunic and a dark red cloak. For a moment they conferred quietly between themselves. Then, flipping the edge of his cloak back over his shoulder, the older of the two strode forward. He passed the clump of soldiers without a glance and stopped a pace from the spot where the crossbow bolts had caught fire.
“Your name, old man?” he demanded.
“My name is not to be given to underlings,” the wizard called back. “I wish to speak directly with your master.”
“My master wouldn’t deign to soil his hands with you,” the mage bit out. He danced his hands in a complicated pattern, and something like a large invisible pane of glass in front of him shattered into dazzling white stars.
Beside the wizard, the tanner stirred. But he said nothing. “An ignition surface,” the mage commented, his voice still arrogant but now with a hint of grudging respect. “Very clever.” He murmured under his breath and lifted his hands again.
Abruptly, the ground in front of him rippled violently and something unseen tore across the land, driving through the half- sized stalks of grain as it raced toward the wizard.
The wizard had expected something like that. Before the groundtearer was even halfway to the wall there was a sudden flurry of dirt and torn grass, and the field was abruptly quiet again.
The mage snarled something and a second and third groundtearer erupted in front of him. The wizard wove his counterspell, and again the attackers vanished in clouds of dust.
Only this time, instead of simply vanishing, both erupted again directly behind the enemy mage. Before he could even turn around, they tore through the ground beneath him, sending him toppling over to slam onto his back. He scrambled to his feet, already spitting out a curse and weaving a fresh spell—
“Hold.”
The word came from the sky, deep and resonant, like the voice of some distant mountain power. The mage glared at the wizard, his eyes burning, his hands still halfway into his next attack. But he knew an order when he heard it, and with a final glower he turned away, letting the half-woven spell dissipate. The wizard peered toward the motionless army, wondering where the witch king was hiding.
And then, from behind one of the rolling sentry towers on the vanguard’s left flank, a figure appeared, his high- backed, throne- like chair carried atop a dozen black oxen. As he came closer, the wizard could see that the man was dressed in silk- armor of gold and blue. The eyes of the lumbering oxen beneath him flickered with red fire, while tongues of the same fire danced and dripped from their horns. The wizard watched the man and beasts approach, his heart sinking.
Because the witch king was young. Far younger than the wizard had expected for a man with such an impressive list of conquests. Though his hair had gone pure gray, the smoothness of his face placed him no older than his late thirties, perhaps even younger.
And that was bad. Perspective came with years, the wizard knew, and as strength and stamina faded, men usually found themselves settling into some form of contentment.
But ambitious young men were never content. The witch king would conquer and kill and destroy, always seeking something to slake his never-ending appetite, and never getting his fill.
The wizard had hoped it might not come to this. But as he gazed into that young, cruel face, those last hopes finally faded. The man had to be stopped, for the sake of thousands living and thousands yet to be born.
The oxen lurched their way past the glowering enemy mage to a spot twenty yards from the wizard. For a moment the witch king eyed the wizard in silence, and then rose leisurely from the chair. He murmured a spell, stepped off the edge of the platform, and floated gently to the ground. The
two mages started to move up behind him; without looking, he waved them back. “So it’s true,” he said, looking the wizard up and down. “The long-famed weaver of words, singer of songs, and writer on the wind. You’re still alive.”
“So it would seem,” the wizard said.
The witch king raised his eyes to the village wall. “And this is where you’ve chosen to end your days?”
“It’s an extraordinary place,” the wizard said. “I hope you’ll allow me to show it to you. I also hope that after you’ve seen it you’ll permit us to live unmolested by your army.”
The witch king smiled knowingly. “A village walled by unnaturally long logs and backed against a dark forest. Who wouldn’t feel privileged to accept such a gracious invitation?”
“I’ve lived here for thirty years without harm,” the wizard pointed out. “You’re welcome to bring your soldiers or mages along if you wish.”
The witch king’s smile vanished. “Have a care, wizard,” he warned. “No one mocks me and lives.”
“I mean no mockery,” the wizard said. “Nor do I suggest that you fear to travel into the unknown alone. I merely point out that midday approaches, and some of your men might also enjoy the food the village tavern has to offer.”
The witch king frowned. “The food?”
“The reason this village is so special,” the wizard said. “If you’ll permit me, I would be honored to show it to you.”
The witch king’s eyes again flicked to the wall, then to the tanner, then back to the wizard. “I’ve eaten food from a thousand different places, prepared by a thousand different chefs from a hundred different peoples and tribes,” he said. “I’ve eaten at the tops of mountains, beside a roaring ocean, and from the table of a king whose body still lay bleeding on the floor beside me. Do you genuinely expect me to find something of interest in an insignificant country tavern?”
“I do,” the wizard said.
The witch king’s eyes narrowed. “Were it not for your reputation, I would kill you and your silent friend for your audacity, then burn the village with fire that would still be sending smoke skyward ten years hence.” He considered. “I may do so yet.”
The wizard felt his stomach tighten. The other was perfectly capable of doing both, he knew. “Yet I maintain you’ll find it worth your time,” he said.
The witch king smiled. He lifted his hand, spoke a few quickwoven words—
Behind the wizard and the tanner, the village gate exploded into a cloud of dust and splinters. Amid the thunder of the blast, the wizard heard the faintest hint of a scream. “Very well,” the witch king said. He raised his head.
“One hour,” his voice echoed again from the sky. “The men will eat, and be ready then to continue their march.”
He lowered his head and gestured the wizard forward. “Lead the way,” he said, his voice normal again. “Show me this remarkable tavern you’re willing to die for.”
With the army in the valley outside no longer filling the air with the rumble of marching feet, the only sounds as the three men walked through the village were their own footsteps on the flagstone path and the rustling of the trees beyond the wall. The crackling of the branches grew louder as they approached the tavern, and the wizard wondered if the witch king would notice.
He did. “No wind,” he commented, nodding toward the trees visible above the barrier. “You have a serious woodland sprite problem here, wizard.”
“That wood is very old and deep,” the wizard said. “There are many colonies within its borders.”
“And beyond them, as well,” the witch king countered. “Or did you think I wouldn’t hear their screams when I destroyed the gate they were occupying?”
“The wall has become home to some,” the wizard acknowledged. “They don’t bother anyone. Here we are.”
The muted clanking of cookware could be heard as they entered the tavern.
“The aroma is pleasant,” the witch king conceded as the wizard led them to his usual table. “What threat did you use to keep the cook here instead of allowing her to flee with the rest of the villagers?”
“No threat was needed,” the wizard said, handing the tanner his pouch of spices and gesturing the witch king to the chair facing the wall and forest. “If you please?”
“What’s that?” the witch king asked, nodding toward the pouch as the tanner headed toward the kitchen door.
“A selection of spices,” the wizard said. “The payment for our meal.”
“Spices for our meal?”
“She’ll use them in future meals,” the wizard explained. “Our meal has already been prepared.”
The witch king’s eyes narrowed. “You were so certain you could entice me here?”
The wizard shook his head. “I didn’t know. She did.”
“So your cook is also a seer?”
“No,” the wizard said. “Or possibly yes. It’s . . . complicated.”
“But there is magic involved,” the witch king said, his voice heavy with suspicion.
“Again, no and yes,” the wizard said. “It will be easier to show than to explain.”
The tanner reappeared through the doorway, holding two plates of a gently steaming roast. “I asked for two portions each,” he said as he came to the table.
“Thank you,” the wizard said. “Would you care to choose?”
The witch king smiled and pointed to one of the plates. The tanner set it in front of him, and then set the other in front of the wizard. The witch king held his hands above his food, his lips moving wordlessly as he wove the poison- and magic-detection spells the wizard had known he would use. Satisfied, he picked up the knife from beside the plate, sliced off a piece of the roast, and ate it.
“Well?” the wizard asked, watching him closely.
“It’s good,” the witch king said off- handedly. “The king I mentioned earlier set a finer table.” He started to get up.
And paused, frowning down at the plate, his jaw still working on the last of the bite. He shot the wizard an unreadable look, then resumed his seat and carved off another piece of the roast. He ate it, chewing carefully and thoughtfully. He cut another bite, and another, and another. “What’s in this?” he asked around one of the mouthfuls.
“The cook’s special touch,” the wizard said, cutting off a piece from his own roast and slipping it into his mouth. “Plus a mixture of spices that only she can blend in this way,” he added as he savored the delicate taste. “I don’t know the full list, but I do know there’s tarragon, basil, and sage. And a touch of rosemary.”
The witch king grunted and carved off another bite.
For a few minutes they ate in silence. There was a small curve of carrots and potatoes arranged around the edge of the roast, which the witch king ignored until he’d finished his first portion of meat. Then, clearly with disdain, he ate half a carrot.
He finished all the vegetables before starting on his second portion of meat.
He was midway through it when he abruptly threw down his knife. “You spawn of rat eggs,” he snarled, curling his hands into claws. “You’ve inflicted me with a craving!”
“No,” the wizard said quickly.
But too late. The witch king’s hands were already weaving a death spell, and the wizard could feel the invisible chains wrapping around his throat. He lifted his own hands, trying to ward it off, but with his voice stifled he knew he could never weave the counterspell in time. A haze of white blobs began to fill his vision.
And then, abruptly, the pressure eased. He blinked, to see the witch king standing upright, glaring across the tavern, his hands glowing with fire and smoke.
“It’s not a craving,” the wizard croaked, picking up the counterspell again with his hands. The pressure vanished as the death spell dissipated. “Give me a chance to prove it.”
The witch king turned his glare back to the wizard. “How?” he demanded.
“Is your hunger satisfied yet?”
The witc
h king looked down at his plate, then back at the wizard. “Almost,” he said.
“Take two more bites,” the wizard said. “If it’s a craving, two bites will make no difference. If it’s not, then your hunger will be gone.”
For a long moment the witch king stared at him. Then, still standing, he picked up the knife and cut off a double- sized piece and crammed it into his mouth. “There,” he mumbled around the food. “Satisfied?”
“Are you?” the wizard countered.
The witch king frowned, his chewing jaw coming slowly to a halt. “Yes,” he said, sounding confused. “I am.”
“With a craving you’d never be satisfied,” the wizard reminded him. “As I said, this is not such a spell.”
Slowly, the witch king sat again. “Then what is it?”
The wizard spread his hands. “It’s food,” he said simply. “That’s all. Food for the body. Food for the soul. Something with its own brand of woven magic that no one else can duplicate.”
“Every spell can be duplicated,” the witch king said. Standing again, he strode across the tavern to the kitchen door.
The wizard slipped out of his own seat and hurried over to the limp form stretched out across the floor. The tanner was still alive, but the entire left-hand side of his face had become wrinkled and leathery and nearly black. The undamaged side of his face was twisted in pain.
“What ever you did, it was foolish,” the wizard chided, weaving a quick healing spell. It had no effect.
“It kept him from killing you, didn’t it?” the tanner managed.
“I could have kept him from killing me,” the wizard countered, switching to a spell for the easing of pain. This one did seem to help. “What did he do to you?”
“I threw my best tanning spell at him,” the tanner said ruefully. “Just to get his attention. He turned it back at me, that’s all.”
The wizard shook his head. “You could have been killed.”
The tanner closed his eyes. “I just wanted to distract him.”