Winter Witch

by Elaine Cunningham

  After several years of eschewing the skills he had learned at the Theumanexus, it had felt strange to cast spells so freely. They came to him much more easily than they had in his student days. He was not sure whether that meant he had learned them better than he realized or that fear of death had inspired a certain excellence. Much as he regretted the need to cast them, he was glad he had listened to Ellasif.

  While he could not bring himself to trust her fully, the little Ulfen woman had given him good counsel. If only he knew more about her and why she was guiding him toward Whitethrone, perhaps they could be...what? Friends? Trusted colleagues at the least, he hoped. He had to admit that he liked her, despite—or perhaps because of—her refusal to tell him much about her past. With her skill at arms, not to mention her cunning, Ellasif would be a valuable ally in ransoming or rescuing Silvana and Majeed Nores.

  That was assuming, of course, that Ellasif meant to be helpful. The closer they came to Irrisen, the more Declan needed to understand what motivated her. After fighting and running for his life, and watching good folk die, Declan felt a keener appreciation for his own life. If Ellasif’s scheme included putting him in danger—more danger than he intended to put himself in, anyway—he wanted to know. He was far from his home in Korvosa, and with every step they moved closer to Ellasif’s homeland, which he understood poorly at best.

  Before approaching Ellasif, Declan consulted Skywing. During the battle with the Nolanders, the feisty drake had disabled two of the attackers with his narcotic stinger. He had not, now that Declan thought about it, cast any spells. Declan sent Skywing a telepathic question. It was becoming easier to send his thoughts as they communicated more and more often since leaving Korvosa.

  Spells to protect you, the little dragon explained. Was expecting you to fall off your horse again.

  Very funny, thought Declan. Despite the badinage, Skywing’s telepathic message included a strong sense of chagrin, so Declan believed him. It occurred to him then that he had never asked Skywing how it was he could cast spells at all. Was Skywing the familiar of some other wizard? Before he could ask, the little dragon interrupted his thought.

  I know only a few spells, Skywing sent. Not a wizard like you.

  I am not—! Declan thought before giving up. If he had proven nothing else in the flight from the Nolanders, it was that he was undeniably a wizard.

  And possibly something more. The incident with the Shoanti monolith and then the vanishing bridge had confirmed that fact. Somehow, his powers of magic were mingling with his knack for art. Whatever it was, it was not a power he evoked consciously—although to be honest, he had the notion of an easy river crossing at the back of his mind when he first sketched the map of the Nolands from Balev’s descriptions. The question was whether it was a power he could use intentionally.

  Do you trust Ellasif? Declan asked Skywing.

  There was a long pause before Skywing replied, Maybe she is not a bad person.

  Maybe?

  Usually I am right the first time, the dragon said. Takes time to adjust.

  Declan’s laugh attracted the attention of the nearest Varisians, but when they saw Skywing circling above, they shook their heads and looked away. The ways of wizards were strange.

  Declan spent the better part of a day devising conversational strategies to coax Ellasif into revealing more of her past and plans. The Ulfen city of Jol lay just south of the Grungir Forest, another day’s travel to the north. It was there the caravan would end its journey, trading the remainder of its southern goods for fine northern pelts and ivory.

  Despite her return to the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, Ellasif did not behave as though she were looking forward to the homecoming. Declan had overheard her conversing with Viland Balev. The caravan captain had tried to persuade her to accompany the Varisians back south after he had finished his business in Jol, but Ellasif remained adamant that she would continue her journey north with Declan.

  It irritated Declan to hear her speak for him, as though they had come to an understanding. He had never agreed to travel with her beyond the caravan’s route, despite her assumption that she was here to protect him. And he would not agree, not so long as she failed to explain why she had surreptitiously guided him along this path.

  The prospect of traveling from Jol to Whitethrone alone or in the company of a hired guard, however, was not exactly appealing. The truth was that Declan could think of no one else he’d prefer to accompany him on a dangerous trek, if only he knew that he could trust her.

  After Ellasif left Viland Balev, Declan rode up beside her. She greeted him with a curt nod, and they rode in silence for a time while he mustered the nerve to start an innocuous query that would gradually wind around to his real question. Yet he found himself unable to begin. It all seemed so deceitful that at last he blurted out, “Exactly what are you leading me into?”

  Ellasif opened her mouth, her pointed chin jutted as if to deliver a defiant retort, but nothing came out. Declan seemed to have caught her flat-footed, so he pressed the unexpected advantage.

  “I mean, we’ve fought side by side now,” he said. “We’ve seen people we both care about die on this journey, and you still haven’t told me why you cleared my path to join this caravan.”

  Ellasif shut her mouth and stared steadily ahead. To the north, a distant forest cast a thick blue line on the northern horizon. The caravan passed more and more stands of fir trees as they followed a network of ox trails and fields so full of stones that a romantic might have mistaken them for ruined plazas.

  “So that’s the way it is,” said Declan. “I’d just hoped I’d earned a little more of your trust after all the time we’ve spent together.”

  “You can spend your whole life with someone and still have your trust betrayed,” Ellasif said.

  Her tone was so bitter than Declan could almost taste it. He sensed she wasn’t talking about him or anyone else in the caravan. Whatever she was talking about, it still tormented her. Unfortunately, he had no better course to follow, so he asked, “Who hurt you so badly?”

  Ellasif’s eyes moved from the north to the east. “My closest friends,” she said.

  “Could it have been some sort of misunder—?”

  “No.”

  Declan sucked air through his teeth. It would have been easier to let it drop and try again later, but he was running out of time.

  “I have to think that in my position, you wouldn’t trust you,” he said.

  Ellasif said nothing to that.

  “And perhaps it would be better for me to strike off on my own,” he said. At an empathic protest from Skywing, he added, “With only a sarcastic house drake to protect me.”

  “You would be eaten by trolls within two days,” Ellasif predicted.

  “Making me of no use to you.”

  “You don’t know how to reach Whitethrone,” she said. “You wouldn’t even make it past the dancing huts.”

  “The what?”

  “One of them nearly destroyed my village when I was a girl. Hundreds of them stand sentinel around the borders of Irrisen, ready to tear apart any intruders in their gigantic talons.”

  “How did you get past them?”

  “Stay with me,” she said, “and I will show you.”

  “Not until you explain why you need me,” he said firmly.

  She frowned as if considering his ultimatum. Declan wasn’t sure how convincing he had sounded, and Ellasif made some good points about why he needed her help. Skywing was an excellent scout, but Declan doubted the dragon and he could fend off a band of goblins, much less a pack of wolves. And, anyway, what the hell was a dancing hut?

  “You are not the only one who wishes to rescue someone from the winter witches,” Ellasif said. “I need your help as much as you need mine.”

  “But why—”

  “You do wish to rescue
your Silvana, do you not?”

  “Well, of course, but—”

  “Then it is settled,” she said. “When the caravan stops in Jol, the two of us go to the rescue together.”

  Skywing chirped a protest.

  “The three of us,” said Declan.

  Their conversation did little to help Declan understand the shield maiden, but he let it go for a while as they marched ever northward. The path they followed led through stands of woods no bigger than a Varisian village, and the dark outline of the Grungir Forest still lay thick and blue on the horizon. There was at least another day to discuss the matter further, depending on whether they waited for the Varisians to finish their business in Jol. If Declan and Ellasif had not come to a full understanding by then, he would have to spend a little more of his small fortune to hire one of the full-sized Ulfen bodyguards that southern nobles favored.

  He prayed it would be just a little more of the money, because he still was not sure how much it would take to ransom Silvana and Majeed Nores. If his purse was too light, would he have the courage and skill to rescue his “fair maiden” and his astronomer master like a hero from a story? Alone, he certainly would not. But perhaps with the help of Skywing and Ellasif ...

  The fanciful notion brought a smile to his lips, and he immediately regretted it. This was the sort of arrogance that had led his brother down a path of self-destruction. And worse, Declan reminded himself, thinking of Isadora and Rose. He hated the cliché of the evil wizard most of all because he knew how much truth there was to the idea. The fear and admiration he’d received from the Varisians ever since using his spells to fight the Nolanders was exactly the sort of thing that put a man’s foot on the wrong path. He’d enjoyed it, both the respect afterward and, to be honest, the thrill of the fight itself. And that was exactly why he had to be careful how and why he used his magic.

  There was still the matter of the mystery bridge. He was certain now that he had created it himself when drawing the map, and equally sure his drawings had created both the seemingly ancient Shoanti monument and the incongruous Osirian treasure trove on the ostensibly phony treasure map Basha had sold for him. The implications of such a power were staggering. Already he thought of ways to make himself a fortune, become a lord of his own domain. And yet he had no illusions as to what would become of him if someone else learned of his ability. In a moment he could fall from noble to slave when one more crafty and powerful than he decided to bend that power to his own designs.

  Such thoughts made it more difficult than ever to place his full trust in Ellasif. She had seen him erase the map at the Steam River. The Varisians had not, although they all credited his magic with the disappearance of the bridge. Ellasif was the one who was most dangerous to him. Declan let out a little roar of frustration.

  An instant later, from the shadows in the woods, a huge beast echoed his roar. The sound lifted the boughs and shook the needles from the pines. The guards started and cast astonished glances at Declan. Even Skywing sent a wordless inquiry.

  “It wasn’t me,” Declan stage-whispered.

  Ellasif and the other guards strung their bows. Gisanto and Camillor were in the lead, with Ellasif and Declan ten paces behind them. Declan made a quick mental inventory of the magic he had prepared. Thinking of the woman he had seen carried off by the Nolanders, he had replaced a few of the spells for slowing pursuit with a deadly invocation and a couple of useful enchantments. He doubted any of them would be potent against something large enough to make that sound.

  Balev gave commands in a low voice, and the guards passed them along the line. They increased their pace but did not yet break into a full run. Declan wondered how much strength they had left since the flight from the Nolands.

  Another roar sounded in the woods, this time from the opposite side of the road.

  As the company turned together toward the new sound, Declan saw something drop from the trees ahead of them. It looked like a man.

  He appeared an inch or two shorter than Ellasif. As his feet struck the path he crouched, steadying himself with one long-fingered hand. His ragged cloak slapped against his back with a clatter of bone fetishes tied along its hem. He looked up and gazed straight at Ellasif, his bulging eyes dominating a face that retreated down to a vanishing chin. He grinned, displaying teeth that had been filed to sharp points.

  “Sweet child,” he said. “How I have hungered for you.”

  Ellasif cursed and raised her bow. Her arrow flew swiftly, but he was already gone. In his place, a wall of thick white webs blocked the path. Ellasif’s arrow shot deep within them to hang trembling where the man’s face had been.

  Declan knew a charm to dispel conjurations like this one, but he had not prepared it. The curse of the wizard’s life was the need to predict the future, with or without benefit of divinations. Declan was definitely without divinations. He considered casting a minor fire invocation, but before he could decide, a terrible sound exploded behind him.

  He turned to see an enormous troll bursting through the ruins of one of the wagons. The Varisians scattered, panicked by the sight of the ten-foot-tall brute. Its green-gray flesh glimmered with sweat, and bits of wood, honey, flour, and other detritus from the demolished wagon stuck to its skin. The monster snatched up a cask rolling past its clawed feet. It sniffed once before hurling the container at the nearest pair of Varisian guards. The barrel knocked one man from his horse and crushed the other to the ground, bursting open over his corpse. Golden ale mingled with blood in an expanding puddle.

  Camillor screamed bloody vengeance and charged the troll. At the last moment, his horse balked, sending him hurtling toward the monster. Camillor gripped his sword in both hands and let the momentum of his flying body drive the weapon deep into the troll’s arm. The beast bellowed its pain and grabbed the Varisian with its uninjured hand. It squeezed, and Camillor’s death rattle was followed by a fountain of blood.

  Two more guards and the survivors of the destroyed wagon fell upon the beast, but Declan watched the other side of the road for the proverbial second shoe. He saw the trees bending and heard the thunder of the second troll’s footsteps before he saw the thing.

  It was even bigger than the first, as tall as a cottage. Fearful of the consequences, Declan conjured a patch of slick grease in the troll’s path. The brute’s first step onto the slippery field took its leg out to the side. The troll plummeted forward, sliding toward Declan as fast as it had been running.

  Frantic, Declan shaped the figure of a large globe in the air before him, intoning the words to evoke a channel from one of the elemental planes. A moment later, he hurled the ball of fire toward the troll, which was only just standing up. The flame engulfed the monster and climbed up its massive body, evoking howls of terror and pain.

  Ellasif appeared beside him, saw what he was doing, and gave him a surprised, “Good! More fire.” She ran to help the other defenders, but the enemy reinforcements had also arrived.

  From the rear, a horde of jabbering goblins ran out from their hiding places in the trees. Emboldened by the troll’s assault, they rushed the wagons, howling and singing insipid rhyming profanities. Despite their disorder, they concentrated their attacks on their most hated foes, the horses.

  The first of the little terrors ran toward Gisanto’s steed, only to die a second later under the horse’s hooves. The second leaped up to slash the man with a crudely forged sword whose blade was drilled in several places to lighten the weapon for its tiny wielder. Gisanto beat the weapon aside with his own blade and grasped the goblin by its scrawny throat. He throttled the creature to death in three hard shakes and dropped the twitching body to the ground.

  Declan chased the second troll with his flaming ball, directing the conjured fire with a simple gesture while searching his surroundings for any sign of the wild man who had begun the assault. Clearly he was a wizard or warlock of some sort, and it was o
nly a matter of time before he revealed himself with another spell.

  Ellasif interposed herself between the first troll and his target, another wagon on which Nadej and Gisanto’s mother defended themselves with a cooking cauldron and a sharp iron spit. Ellasif hacked at the troll’s thigh, and her third blow staggered the monster as the blade cut its hamstring. The monster reeled away from the wagon, and Nadej grabbed the reins to urge the panicked horses away from their attacker.

  Ellasif pressed the attack, hacking at the troll as it crawled away to buy time. Dark blood oozed from half a dozen shallow wounds on its legs, hip, and shoulder. With a deafening roar, the troll stopped and lashed out at its tormenter, slamming Ellasif with a wide backhanded blow. The impact lifted her from her feet and threw her back against the retreating wagon.

  A trio of goblins saw Ellasif fall and ran to swarm over her.

  Declan let go of his ball of flame and flung another spray of glaring magical colors at the goblins. All three went down, knocked unconscious by the blazing illusion. Sparing only a glance to ensure the troll was not approaching for its revenge, Declan rushed past Ellasif and stabbed each senseless goblin through the throat. Then he turned back to her, but she was already rising, shaking the stars and comets from her vision. She looked toward the spot where her foe had fallen and shouted, “No!”

  Declan braced for an attack, but instead he saw an immense Ulfen warrior raising a warhammer for a second strike at the troll’s crushed skull. The man screamed in such controlled fury that Declan knew without being told it was not an expression of emotion but a war cry. The man was some sort of berserker, more dangerous than any common raider.

  The man looked at Ellasif, and a shadow of pain crossed his face. He turned away from her and barked at Declan, “Fire, man! Bring more fire.”