A warmth spread through Ilien, a mesmerizing giddiness, as if he stood on the edge of a sun-lit chasm. He no longer felt the ravishing of his body or the fire that surged through his veins. His mind filled with calming images, visions of his mother, the winding stream behind his house, his bedroom bathed with morning light. Happy voices called, "Ilien! Ilien!" He was running through Farmer Parson's fields. The air smelled of sun-baked earth and fresh-cut grass. The images swirled and changed. He walked beneath towering trees, Anselm at his side. Hemlock loomed in the distance, its wide windows thrown wide, lit with cheery light.
The feathery face of the Swan passed before his eyes. "Why is it that your wounds healed so quickly in Evernden?" he heard her say.
Ilien smiled. He remembered now. "I drank from a magical cup," he answered.
"Did you? If it was a healing cup then why didn't it work on Thessien's wounds?"
"Windy said the wolfsbane worked better."
"Yes. And do you know why? Because that silver cup held no more power than her magical feather."
A spasm of pain ripped through Ilien. His body convulsed in the snake's jaws.
"Yes, Ilien. You stopped the arrow that was meant to kill you, just as you flew from the towers of Evernden. You passed the test that Gallund could never bring himself to give you. Do not be afraid of what you are, for only when you accept your fate is it possible to do something about it. Then and only then will you control your own destiny."
The images in Ilien's mind flashed violently. Another spasm reeled through him. He saw the Groll's ruined body smoking on the ground. Philion appeared, his eyes wide, sitting on the edge of his desk. "Forgive Master! It's you! You're him. You've been free all along. Reborn. Reborn as a Nomadin child."
No! It's not true!
Windy!
Her face hovered over him, her emerald green eyes peering into his.
Windy!
He reached out to touch her, but she pulled away. His vision darkened. His thoughts bled away with his sight. At the last, he saw Pedustil, his luminescent eyes shining in the gloom, his voice a whisper. "The Nomadin believe you will fulfill the prophesy and release Reknamarken. They'll kill you to prevent that. Bulcrist believes you are Reknamarken, and all the proof he needs is for someone to try to kill you. If you are Reknamarken, then it should be impossible to do so."
Darkness closed firmly around Ilien, and he knew no more.
Chapter XV
Sword's Power
How much farther?" asked Windy as her horse picked its way carefully along the rocky riverbank. To her left, the sun teetered on the mountaintops, casting its bright beams eastward, lighting the land beyond the river in myriad shades of brilliant yellow. A cold breeze churned between the boulders and bracken beside the river. A chill mist swirled off the tumbling water, slicking the rocky ground. Her horse stumbled and protested loudly.
"The bridge is close," answered Bulcrist. He pulled his black robe tightly around his lean frame and cast a disconcerting look behind him.
Fifty yards back rode Fikus, flanked by the other old men on horseback. Behind them, a procession of men on foot trailed into the distance—a thousand weary men in disarray, each carrying an armload of wood gleaned along the way.
Bulcrist shook his head and glanced northward. Fikus had sent the two young soldiers to scout ahead. By his calculations, the bridge was less than a mile away. They would soon be parting company with Fikus and his men.
"Tell me about the Witch Queen," said Windy. Her hand rested upon the hilt of her sword, and her face held a fierce determination. "How powerful is she?"
Bulcrist pulled his cowl up to fend off the blustery wind. "Not powerful enough," he replied. "She cannot stand before you and the sword. But she will not be alone."
"Spirits," surmised Windy. "How many?"
"Their number is less important than their kind. It would be better to meet a hundred Drits than a single Nephalim."
Windy squeezed the pommel of her sword. Power emanated from it, filling her with resolve. "I've killed a Nephalim." She didn't know what a Drit was, and didn't care.
Bulcrist laughed. "You've killed nothing yet. The Nephalim was defeated, but it still lives. It will be there with the Witch Queen. Let's hope it hasn't regained its form."
Windy stared at her reflection in the blade's polished surface. "Then I will kill it this time."
"Yes, you will. And the Witch Queen."
Windy smiled in satisfaction, and looked up at Bulcrist. The NiDemon met her gaze. Windy's red eyes bore into his, and he looked away.
"Tell me more about Amandalia," said Windy.
"What is there to tell?" said Bulcrist. "She is the queen of the witches."
"Queen of how many?"
"Scores." The NiDemon adjusted his long, thin sword at his side.
The glow in Windy's eyes faded. She clutched once more at the hilt of her sword and asked, "Can I defeat them all?"
"The others will be elsewhere," answered Bulcrist, "commanding the spirits under Amandalia's control. None of her cohorts will be there with her."
Windy pondered the NiDemon's words. "What does she look like? Is she as ugly as the tales tell?"
Bulcrist looked sidelong at Windy. "She is a spirit creature and takes on many guises. Most often she appears as that which frightens one most."
"If she's a spirit creature, then why wasn't she banished behind the Crossing with all the others after the Nihilic wars?"
"Because witches are smarter than most other spirits. They are masters at the art of deception and disguise. The Nomadin tried to find her but couldn't."
"Have you ever seen her?"
The NiDemon minded the terrain before him. "No."
"Then how will you know it's her? What if we can't find her?"
"She will be at the Crossing," answered Bulcrist.
"What if she's not?"
"Her power lies in controlling the spirits she frees from the Crossing. She must be there so she can master them as they emerge. The lesser spirits, the Drits, the goblins, the sprites, she can easily control, and can release them in droves. The greater spirits like the Nephalim require more effort, and must be summoned one at a time if she is to gain mastery over them. It is these, and others, that she releases now."
"Spirits greater than even the Nephalim?" Windy felt her determination falter. She recalled her fight with the shadow and the pain it had inflicted upon her. She rubbed at her right arm, very much a little girl all of a sudden.
"Don't worry," said Bulcrist. "As she frees them, they will be sent to serve under the other witches. There will be few, if any, in the cellars of the castle."
Windy ran her hand over the blade of her sword. "When we kill Amandalia, will they all die with her?"
Bulcrist nodded. "It is the way of witches. Kill the binder and the bound also perish."
"And her followers?" asked Windy. "The other witches? Are they bound to Amandalia?"
"No."
Bulcrist stood in his saddle and shielded his eyes. "The scouts are returning."
Two men rode wildly toward them. Their swords were drawn. They looked over their shoulders as they approached. Bulcrist motioned for Windy to halt as Fikus and the others reined in beside them.
"What is it?" asked Fikus.
"Your men have spotted something," said Bulcrist.
A gust of wind rose from the river's edge. A blanket of mist obscured the two scouts. Fikus exchanged nervous glances with the others around him.
Windy's sword grew hot in her grasp. The edge of the blade shimmered a fiery red, and a rush of energy surged through her, kindling her eyes and driving her own thoughts away.
The shroud of mist parted.
The fleeing men were gone.
Cries of panic arose behind them. Windy turned, and two horses fell from the sky among the line of men in the rear, crushing several where they stood. The bodies of the two scouts crashed onto the rocky riverbank. The man looked skyward, dropping their arm-l
oads of wood and shouting, "It has come! It has come!"
Like a falling net, a shadow descended upon them. A screeching cry rent the air. The men fell to the ground, clutching their heads and screaming in pain. Like a bird of prey, the monster swooped upon them. A dozen talons snapped up men in their grasp. Pincered black wings fell on those who stood in its way as it skimmed along the ground. It swooped into the sky, dropping its gory payload of the slain into the river.
Fikus drew his sword, his face stricken with terror. "By Loehs Sedah! What is it?"
Bulcrist's hands moved rapidly through the air as he drew a rune of power. The winged monster sailed out over the river, and turned.
Fikus gasped. The creature's body was covered with row upon row of razor sharp appendages. Like a volley of flying daggers, it sailed toward them. Its shear-like jaws gaped wide. Its pincered wings spewed venom on those below. Men clawed at their skin where the poison struck.
"It's coming this way!" cried Fikus, his mail shirt glinting in the slanting sunlight.
"Behind me, Windy!" shouted Bulcrist, his fingers still weaving their spell.
A chorus of voices rang in Windy's head, shouting for her to spur her horse and ride to battle. Her horse reared. She held fast to its mane and fought for control.
The creature sped toward them, accelerating at an unearthly speed.
"Duil di emil!" cried Bulcrist, releasing the power of his spell.
The stones at their feet flew from the ground and launched into the air. They hurtled into the monster with a sickening crunch, and fell among the fleeing men. The creature veered with a piercing cry, venting its rage on those below it, talons ripping and tearing, pincers flinging deadly venom in a vile, acid rainstorm.
They're being torn to pieces!
Windy spurred her horse forward, shouting words she did not understand, in a voice not her own. It was a battle cry riven from her lips by the sword in her hand.
"Thorak Nomadi! Thorak Nomadi!"
"No!" shouted Bulcrist. Fikus's horse reared and collided with his, throwing him from the saddle.
The monster spun and swooped toward Windy. Windy raised the Nihilic sword in challenge.
"Thorak! Thorak!" she called, as her horse charged forward.
The creature released an ear-shattering howl of fury. Windy's horse rolled its eyes and skidded to a stop. Windy jettisoned from the saddle and crashed to the rocky ground. She rolled quickly to her feet, her sword ready for battle.
Bulcrist ran forward, his hands working feverishly. The monster bore down on Windy, its talons poised like deadly swords. Its shear-like jaws opened to snap its prey in two.
Windy swayed on her feet. Her mind raced with foreign thoughts. Her sword thrummed with fatal energy. The monster attacked in a blur of slashing claws and beating wings.
Windy swung her sword with blinding speed. She danced to the side and dealt a staccato of powerful blows. The creature screeched past her. Four of its taloned legs tumbled to earth, severed from its body. It wailed in agony and circled away.
Bulcrist ran on, his spell forgotten. The winged monster wheeled abruptly and sped toward Windy. Windy's sword blazed with bloody light. Her body tensed for another onslaught. The monster surged toward her, four bloody stumps dangling where clawed talons had been, eight others quivering with deadly intent. It screamed in rage as it crashed down upon her.
Windy thrust her sword with all of her strength. She drove it to the hilt into the monster's broad forehead, the impact of blade against bone almost tearing the weapon from her grip. The monster's wings shot out and beat at the air as it skidded along the rocky bank, dragging Windy with it. Wrenching hard, Windy pulled her blade from the creature's head. With two powerful strokes, she hewed off its wings and leapt clear of the thrashing body. It came to rest beside the water. Windy looked upon the ruined creature, her eyes blood-red. Like a cat, she sprang upon it, and with a single blow, chopped off its head.
Bulcrist raced over, his black cloak billowing behind him in the dusty air. Wounded men lay scattered along the riverbank. Those unscathed stood in shock, staring with blank expressions at the burning-eyed girl before them. Bulcrist shouldered his way forward and stood in awe with the gaping men.
"I killed it," said Windy. The glow in her eyes began to fade.
Cheers erupted from the men all around. Bulcrist looked uncertainly at the princess.
"Windy?" he asked.
"I killed it," she said louder. She looked at the monster, and its body began to shimmer. It dissolved into smoke and dissipated in the gusty wind.
Windy swooned, and fell to her knees, dropping her sword to the ground. Bulcrist rushed over to catch her.
"I killed it," she repeated. She shuddered at what she'd done. She had never killed anything before. It seemed unreal, like a waking dream. Beside her, the sword glowed like a fiery brand. She shut her eyes and turned away. It was deadly beyond compare, and she wanted nothing to do with its frightful power anymore. Its power frightened her. It possessed her, made her do things she never would have done.
Her eyes flew open. Her hand had closed around its pommel. The sword thrummed with energy, purring like a lion after a kill. Her fears melted away. Yes, the sword was powerful beyond reckoning. With it, she now knew that she could slay whatever, or whomever, she chose. She was ready to face the Witch Queen.
"We should turn back," said Fikus. His face streamed sweat, though he had never raised his sword. He steadied his horse beside Bulcrist.
"Do not be a fool," said Bulcrist. "If we turn back, there will be no end to such attacks! This spirit creature was a scout sent to watch the bridge. We are going on. Our only hope is to stick to the plan."
Fikus fingered his shining mail in silence, his face ashen.
"Round up your men, and gather the wounded," commanded Bulcrist.
Fikus did as he was told. But many of his men were reluctant to travel on. In the end, nearly a hundred men refused his orders. They were forced to march on without them.
"I cannot blame them," said Fikus, as they left the men behind. "They are not soldiers. They are simply men who have lost their families. They have nothing, and all we promise is more death."
Windy felt pity swell up inside her. None of the women or children had made it out of Asheverry. Wives and mothers, sons and daughters, all slain by the Witch Queen and her despicable army. Windy sliced at the air with her sword. She would seek retribution. She would avenge the innocent!
The sun set behind the eastern peaks of the mountains, and the air grew colder. The bridge across the Midland River appeared up ahead as a dark smudge on the flat, grey landscape. Bulcrist brightened at the sight of it. He and Windy rode ahead to assure Fikus that all was safe.
The river ran deep and narrow between high earthen banks, sluggish and silent beneath the wide stone ford. A packed dirt road approached the bridge from the west. The rocky ground gave way to sparse pine trees that flanked the road.
"To the west lies Oakholm," said Bulcrist, "a small town under the shadow of the mountains. Across the bridge is the road to Asheverry in the south."
"How much farther?" asked Windy, her voice an empty whisper.
"A few hours," said Bulcrist. He looked back at the column of men in the distance, a winding black snake in the gloom of early night. "Fill your water skin," he said. "Have something to eat. The end is near."
It took an hour for Fikus's men to cross the river. They were weary and disheartened. Many had dropped the wood they had carried. Fikus cursed under his breath, but said little as they filed over the bridge. He allowed them a brief respite for water and food, though the latter was sorely lacking.
"We part ways here," said Bulcrist, extending a lean hand. "In a few hours, you and your men will come to the plains where you will build your fires. By then, Windy and I will be entering the Long Dark Road. If all goes well, we will meet again under better circumstances."
Fikus shook Bulcrist's hand. "If all goes badly, no one will ever kno
w." He turned and strode away, barking for one of his men to bring him some food.
Bulcrist and Windy mounted their horses, and trotted south along the darkened road toward Asheverry.
The night closed around them as they rode quickly along. Bulcrist led the way, a black shadow up ahead. The stars appeared in the east and spread across the sky in a thick, white band, casting ghostly pale shadows beneath the silent trees.
Windy's eyes glowered red with the power of the sword. Her thoughts turned in circles. Phantom voices whispered in her mind. Murder. Vengeance. Death. Her hands trembled upon the reins as she fought to hold tight to the last shreds of herself. Tears blurred her vision. She blinked them away, but the glow in her eyes remained. The voices grew louder, drowning out her thoughts. Murder. Vengeance. Death. She was losing herself completely, fading before the inexorable power of the sword. The landscape sailed past her unseeing eyes like dark clouds on a cold wind. Voices rose and fell, clamoring to be heard. She tried to block them out, shut her mind to their irresistible urges.
Murder! Vengeance! Death!
It was no use. She was too weak and could resist no longer. Thoughts of her home flashed through her mind: how her father's stern face softened when she entered the room, the garden in bloom beside the castle, her cozy bedroom, her collection of talismans.
The pictures in her mind turned to childhood images: her first trip from home, her wonder at the wide world outside of Evernden, a painted wooden doll, solitude, loneliness.
Back her mind sailed, back to times only half-remembered in dreams she wasn't sure were real: her father laughing, his face filled with delight as he looked into her eyes, soothing hands, a comforting song sung by a soft, woman's voice.
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